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ELLA: That is incredible.
ELLA: And scary?
GRETA: I feel the same. I think it’s rare to find such a unique talent— but the emotions this painting brings up shatter me.
GRETA: You said you were concerned about Aurora after the other night.
GRETA: Do you think we have reason to worry about her mental health?
ELLA: Barbie said Aurora has low blood sugar, which could be a reason she fainted. But I don’t know. I get a strange feeling.
ELLA: Have you seen her around the residency lately?
GRETA: I have a feeling she’s nocturnal. Every time I step into the studio, she’s not there. But meanwhile, the painting has changed so much over just the past few days.
GRETA: Then again, if she’s sleeping during the day, I don’t want to be the one who wakes her up. It’s not up to us at the residency to dictate anyone’s schedule.
Ella grimaced, her heart thudding as she brought the photograph of the painting back up on her phone. After a deep breath, she wrote back.
ELLA: I hope, if she needs help, she’ll find a way to ask for it.
ELLA: All we can do is keep ourselves available.
GRETA: I know you’re right, honey. I love you.
ELLA: I love you, too.
ChapterNine
When Aurora was thirteen, her mother had had a period of nocturnal living, during which she’d stayed up every night until nine in the morning— usually crying or talking to herself— and then passed out till evening. Aurora hadn’t known what to make of it. She was always worried her mother would hurt herself, so she would normally stay up as well, keeping tabs, prepared to run next door to borrow the neighbor’s phone if things got rocky.
It was strange now to experience life through a nocturnal lens, as though the daylight hours no longer mattered, as though they were set aside for everyone else but her. For Aurora, the darkness was a blessing, a time in which her mind felt most creative and alive. And hour after hour, night after night, she sculpted a painting that seemed beyond her, to speak a language she didn’t know she knew. She couldn’t be sure if anyone else in the world would like it, of course. But the fact that she felt special, as she hadn’t liked anything about the world, herself, or her work in a long time, was a start.
Well, she hadn’t liked anything except Brooks.
But Aurora was terrified and embarrassed by who she’d been Monday night when she’d fainted at the bar after a spontaneous performance. She knew that this was part of the reason for her nocturnal behavior. She wanted to hide.
One morning, when Aurora was on her way upstairs to bed, she passed Barbie, who was always generous with her greetings, asking Aurora questions about her work. There never seemed to be a glint of worry in Barbie’s eye, as though she knew that Aurora had to do what was right for her art, which for her, meant staying up all night.
“Oh, there was a guy asking for you the other day,” Barbie said, snapping her fingers as though she’d just remembered. “Really handsome guy. I think he said his name was Brooks?”
Aurora’s heart dropped into her stomach. She was no actress, and Barbie could see his importance— along with the fact that Aurora wanted to keep her distance— written all over her face.
“I guess you don’t want me to give you his number?” Barbie said. “Because he left it.”
Aurora shrugged, then heard herself say, “Um? Sure. I guess I could have it?”
Barbie’s lips twitched with curiosity, as though she ached to ask what the deal with this guy was, but she was kind enough to head to the next room, find the piece of paper with Brooks’ number written on it, and hand it off to Aurora without demanding more of her. Aurora held onto the paper, staring at the phone number that served as a direct line to the only man she’d crushed on in years, and wandered toward the kitchen, where Greta had said there was a landline that artists could use if they wanted to.
Thankfully, the kitchen was empty. Aurora placed her hand on the phone, took a deep breath, then dialed the number as her heart felt like it would break free from her chest. Before she knew it, ringing blared through the receiver, and she held her breath until she heard a chipper, “Hello? This is Brooks.”
But at that moment, Aurora was struck with an image of her mother holding the telephone to her ear.Where had they been? Whose telephone was it?And yet, in this horrible memory, Delilah was screaming at someone, probably a lover, crying out,“Why don’t you love me anymore! Why! Why did you leave me all alone!”And the crying began to echo in Aurora’s mind, so much so that she couldn’t manage to speak.
“Hello?” Brooks said again. “Um. Is this Aurora?”
But at the sound of her name, Aurora really couldn’t take it, and she smacked the phone back into the cradle, letting her nerves win.Where had that memory come from? Why had it come to her now?In her right hand, Aurora crumpled up the note with his telephone number, enraged at herself for even trying. She knew better. It was already going wrong.
Upstairs, Aurora got into her oversized t-shirt and wrapped herself into a ball beneath her duvet. The curtains did little to blot out the tremendous June day. Outside, Aurora knew, tourists glided on sailboats, met one another for brunch, laughed along the boardwalk, and kissed.Why was it so difficult for Aurora to be normal? Why had it always been?
