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“Yes, mother.”
“And I love you.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Okay, go away.”
She giggles, quickly disentangles herself from me, plants a kiss on my cheek and runs back up the stairs.
I’m so happy tonight. For Luis, and for me. It’s the kind of thing I live for, this feeling that we are joined at the hip, meeting the world together, showing it what we’re capable of. Tonight feels like we’re about to embark on a great journey together. Luis’s first major exhibition at one of the most prestigious private art galleries in the country, and me by his side.
But then, as Isabelle, the pretty, millennial-type curator, keeps bringing people over to Luis whoabsolutely have to meet you, Luisand Perry, the gallery owner, a small, bald man with thick-rimmed glasses, gives a speech that tells ofthe exceptionally beautiful works that have become Luis Sanchez’s signature, never failing to bring to our attention the urgent issues we confront today, something shifts in my world.
At first, it’s not even a shift, more like a hairline crack quietly creeping up in my line of vision. Maybe it’s because red dots begin to appear next to every artwork, too quickly to keep count. It dawns on me just how many people are here, and who they are: not just art buyers, but serious collectors. They represent institutions and private collections and they have traveled from all over the country to admire—and acquire—Luis’s art works. This has never happened before, and I experience something so unexpected that it takes me a while to recognize it: fear.
Of being left behind.
I used to think that the reason I held the family together was because I was indispensable. I work, I pay the bills, I support my husband in his career. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that my own prospects of success have passed me by. Suddenly, I am just an ordinary math teacher and Luis has chiseled his way into a bigger future while I wasn’t paying attention. Could that be because I work long hours in a small, airless office then come home and put on a load of laundry? I make lunches for the kids to take to school and keep everyone to a regimented schedule of ballet lessons and soccer practice. And now, Luis has met his destiny and he doesn’t need me anymore. My husband doesn’t. need. me. anymore.
If only I’d been better at forging a career, become someone he could be proud to be seen with in public. Suddenly I feel like I never reached my potential, and now it’s too late. That I am a disappointment to everyone.Don’t be silly, says absolutely no one, especially not my mother.
I was looking away, nowhere in particular, lost in that hairline crack that has turned into a chasm by now, when I hear his voice. He is giving his speech, delivering his lines with boyish charm and self-deprecating jokes. It’s a brilliant speech: short and sweet, funny, very interesting and completely different from what I’d expected, had I bothered to think about it. And, most importantly, it holds everyone’s attention. You could have heard a pin drop right until the end.
He’s glowing, my husband, like there’s a halo around him. His eyes are upon me, filled with pride and love and I smile back at him, my eyes similarly sparkling with joy, my cheeks flushed with pleasure in the glow of his love.
But then it dawns on me. It’s not me they’re looking at, those eyes filled with pride and love. I see now that they’re focused on a point just to my left, and I slowly turn around to look over my shoulder, until I locate the object of his adoring gaze.
Thirteen
Isabelle. Beautiful, ethereal Isabelle. Even her name rolls off the tongue like a promise.Isabelle. Young, Isabelle. Very young. I can’t peel my eyes off her. I stare at her shiny blonde hair styled in an elaborate updo, her perfect, porcelain skin, her sparkly blue eyes, and all I can think is,Give up now, Anna. It’s over. Just pick up your bat and go home.
I’ve been slowly edged towards the back of the crowd as people elbowed their way closer to Luis. My outfit, which I was convinced up until now was stylish and professional, suddenly seems all wrong. Like I’ve made an effort, but not the right one. I am dressed for an important meeting while every other woman in the room is elegant, wealthy, sexy. Isabelle is dazzling in a slate-gray flowing layered ensemble that cascades in ripples of silk down her front, showing off her perfect breasts—at least I was right about that part—whereas I look like a life-insurance salesperson on her way to a seminar.
You can feel the sexual tension between them even standing as they are at opposite ends of the room. My chest is rising and falling with the effort of breathing. Were they together that night, while I waited alone in Luis’s studio? Of course they were. That’s what he’s been doing these past few weeks, when I thought he was working hard on his exhibition.
I’m under the gun, babe.An image of myself holding a shotgun to his head pops into my mind and I leave it there for a moment because it makes me feel better.
What about all the nights I worked late on my application so I could get a better job, better paid, work harder for my family? All the healthy meals I prepared while he made love to her? The instructions I left peppered with exclamation marks and tips when I couldn’t be home?
Salmon Teriyaki. Just fry the salmon (already dusted with flour, in the fridge) in the wok with lemon juice—1 min or so each side, make sure the wok is super hot first! Then add the teriyaki sauce (in the little blue and white jug—also in the fridge) and when it’s almost bubbling, serve it up! Vegetables are cut up, ready to steam, in the container with red lid, bottom shelf of the fridge. Sorry I have to work late again, love you all! x
Was he licking her toes while I washed dog poop off our porch? Was she on her knees, begging for more, while I scoured for recipes that would be deliciousandnutritious? A wave of nausea rises up my throat as I watch him lapping up the attention, and all I want is to walk up to him, slap him and yell,Remember me?right into his face.
They’re posing for photos now, Luis and Isabelle. The artist and the curator. I thought Luis and I made a nice couple, but these two together look spectacular. How long has it been going on? I try to remember when these late nights started, the evasive answers about where he went, but I can’t pin it down. I was hardly there myself in the evenings. Those months of work with Alex took care of that.
Is she going to reap what I’ve sown and tenderly nurtured all these years while my time came and went with barely a ripple?
Suddenly Luis is by my side, a glass of champagne in his hand. None for me, I note.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I pause and gather myself. I search his face for evidence of his treachery, a twitch of guilt even, but all I find is the beaming grin of a winner.
He raises his eyebrows. “So?”
“It’s wonderful. Really, Luis. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He smiles. “But I couldn’t have done it without Isabelle.”
