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“Hi, it’s me. Can you call me back?” Then I add in a smaller voice: “I know you’re busy, but do you think you could come home early?” I pause, about to tell him about Alex—Remember Alex? He’s dead—but instead I just say, “I miss you.”
I start the car, but let it sit idle for a moment. I shouldn’t go home to my kids in this state. I will Luis to call me back, then I think,Why don’t I go to him?I could watch him work while I tell him about Alex and why it’s all my fault. Not the real ‘all my fault’, obviously. I mean the bit about pushing him too hard, having high expectations. No. Don’t tell him about Alex. I will tell him later. Instead I will say, “Let’s go away after the exhibition, just the two of us. The kids will be fine without us. They can stay with your dad for a week or two. They’d love that. I’ll take time off work. We wouldn’t tell anyone where we were. Let’s rememberus, the way we were. I miss you.” That’s what I’ll tell him.
I text Carla.
Working late, eat without me, there’s a lasagna in the fridge you can microwave. Make sure Matti does his homework, please. I’ll see you later, honey. Love you xox
She replies immediately.
K x
I stop by the liquor store on the way, because one thing I need right now is a drink. I’ve been needing a drink for hours. I pick up the first bottle I see, a Napa Valley cabernet, when I catch sight of the box wine further along the shelf. A wave of nostalgia rolls over me and for a moment I am back at college. Luis and I, seated crossed-legged on the floor of his room, Cher or Celine Dion on the CD player. We’d drink Franzia wine out of jam jars and kiss till my lips hurt. We’d talk of our plans for our future, how many kids we wanted (two: a boy and a girl), we’d talk over each other, our hands flying around as we constructed a life where Luis was a famous artist and I would be a famous mathematician.
I put the bottle back on the shelf and grab the box wine instead. The guy at the till recoils slightly at the sight of me. I glance at my reflection in the mirror behind him and see that my cheeks are streaked with dried-up rivulets of tears stained with mascara. I find a scrunched-up Kleenex in the bottom of my purse and check it. It’s stained with something vaguely oily, vaguely yellow. Chicken korma from the other night, I bet. I use the least stained corner of it to wipe my cheeks clean and add a small packet of tissues from the counter to my purchase.
Luis’s studio is in an old industrial warehouse on the west side of the city. He occupies half of the third floor, which is huge. It’s perfect for him, with massive windows, exposed red bricks and high ceilings.
I park outside and automatically look up, expecting the light to be on, but his windows are dark. Could I have missed him? I check the time on the dashboard—ten to six. I pull out my phone and try his number again but still get voicemail. I text Carla.
Hi honey, is Dad home?
No. When r u coming home?
I don’t know. Late probably. Love you xox
I wait a moment for a reply but none comes, so I slip the phone back in my bag and grab the box wine from the passenger seat. I know where the key is kept, and with a bit of luck it will still be there. There’s a code to get in downstairs which I have to look up in my notes on my phone. I punch in the numbers and the heavy door opens with a click. I take the elevator—one of those enormous cargo lifts—to Luis’s studio.
I find the spare key in its usual place, between two bricks where the mortar has crumbled away. It’s small and flat, round at the top, and looks completely wrong for the big metal door. It feels gritty in my hand, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. It catches in the lock and looks like it might not work after all, and suddenly I feel desperate to get in, to wait for him. I give it one more twist and it gets past the snaggy bit, and suddenly, I am in.
I haven’t been in Luis’s studio in months, but the smell is the same: a mix of turpentine and glue, or something like that. I flick the switch by the door and the fluorescent tubes flicker into life, and I gasp.
In the center of the room is a giant bird’s nest made of twigs and feathers and bits of hay, and suspended by cabling so thin as to be invisible. I run my fingertips over a small part of it and realize it’s not twigs and feathers but bits of recycled plastic made to look like them. Inside are two small, strange creatures emerging from their giant eggshells, their eyes pleading, and I have to look away.
Other than bits of materials on a trestle table, the place is surprisingly tidy. But Luis is always tidy. Very organized.
I take my box wine to the kitchenette at the far end of the room. It’s just a sink set into a white tiled bench, one cupboard hanging on the wall above, and a small one below. I put the box on the bench and reach up to get a glass, then notice two of them lying in the drying rack. Wine glasses, too. I don’t remember Luis’s studio being stocked up in wine glasses. I check the cupboards and find two pretty blue and white bowls, the kind you’d serve olives or nuts in. The chipped, mismatched china plates he used to use have been replaced by a set of six ceramic dishes, sand colored on the outside, and handmade by the looks of it. Next to them on the shelf sits a set of matching cups, shaped like goblets. What on earth is this stuff doing here? It sure doesn’t look like the kind of thing Luis would buy for himself. He doesn’t care what he drinks out of when he’s working. I search around for the battered old campfire mug with the Cleveland Browns logo on it that he’s always holding and spot it on top of a milk crate, along with empty pickle jars and old newspapers.
My skin feels clammy. It’s too stuffy in here. The windows in this studio are sealed shut except for the ones at the top. Luis has welded a hook to one end of a long steel rod to open and close them, and I find it leaning against the wall. I manage to hook it around the latch and tug a top pane open. A light breeze makes the long white feathers on the sculpture flutter.
I pick up a wine glass, admire its elegant design and pour myself a generous serve of wine just as the goods lift rattles into life outside. The knowledge he is here is like a warm wave of relief and I immediately pour the second glass for him, lean back against the counter, already smiling at the thought of surprising him. But after a few moments, the elevator clanks to a stop one floor above, followed by the sound of a door closing, then footsteps somewhere above my head, then nothing. I gulp the wine down and start on the second glass.
There’s a small round marble table next to the sofa, reminiscent of a Parisian café. On it is a fat candle in a saucer and a box of matches. I light the candle, the match almost burning down to my fingers, then turn off the harsh overhead lighting and sit on the sofa. The giant nest casts a strange shadow onto the wall opposite. I lean back and close my eyes, empty my mind. I pretend I am in a bubble where nothing can touch me, let the sounds of the city wash over me, and wait for Luis to return.
When I open my eyes again, I am shivering. My heart is beating too fast. I was dreaming of Alex and for a confused moment I thought he was here, too. I sit up, feeling groggy and disoriented. The candle has gone out and the room is dark except for the streetlight seeping in through the windows. I pad my way over to where I left my bag and scramble for my phone. No messages from Luis. And it’s 9:23 p.m. I try him one more time, but again am directed to his voicemail so I don’t bother leaving another message. I turn on the lights once more to tidy up. I’ve had three glasses of wine which probably put me over the limit, even though I’ve slept some of it off. I rinse the glasses and return them to the rack, wipe the tiled counter and pick up my box of wine.
Then I put the key back in its hiding place and go home.
The kids have left all the lights on, even though they’ve both gone to their rooms. I check in on Mateo first and find him at his desk, playing some kind of computer game, wearing a pair of headphones almost as big as his head. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Mom, please?” he whines.
“It’s almost ten o’clock…” But obviously he doesn’t hear me. I tug at the headphones and he pushes me away. I grab a pen and piece of paper and scribble,15 minutes then bed!I put it on the desk right under his nose. He nods and grunts something that might have been “Okay.”
Carla is already asleep. She’s like me in that way. She goes to bed early and wakes up early. She has the blanket all the way up to her chin but when I kiss her cheek softly, she stirs.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Nothing. Go to sleep.”
I sit at the kitchen table waiting for Luis, my phone in front of me. I keep wondering,What’s the first thing that would happen if someone suspected I was there when Alex died?The cops would call me, surely. But there are no calls like that yet. No messages, no emails. I know, I’ve checked.
