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“You’re heartless,” I said, snickering. “Okay. I’m going to bed. I’ll wash my face in the morning.”
“Goodnight,” they chorused, leaving my room.
I pulled my clothes off and got into bed in old sweatpants and a T-shirt, my skinny arms sticking through the sleeves like twigs. Not washing my face at night was a sleep-saving technique. If I looked at myself too closely in the mirror, I’d find something to spend hours critiquing or tweezing or scrubbing and self-examining, so it was just better to do it in the morning when I’d be distracted preparing for the day.
Lying there, staring at at the patterns from car headlights traveling across the ceiling, I thought about the evening with Flynn, how totally out of character it was for me to agree to have coffee, or go to his house or agree to spend the day with him.
I flipped onto my stomach, my mind racing between the two poles of thinking of the fun we’d had playing chess, how relaxed I had been, and the fear of seeing Flynn the next day. I got out of bed and went to the dresser to read the card he’d sent me with the flowers. It was really that card that had made the difference. Not his words so much but the subject—she was called the woman in gold.
Returning to bed with the card, I examined it carefully, trying to imagine what the scene had been like in Klimt’s studio. Flynn had told me Adele Bloch-Bauer and her industrialist husband had been patrons of the arts. She had modeled for some of Klimt’s most famous paintings.
The painting was priceless. Flynn had a beautifully framed copy that he’d said he’d bought online. It made me laugh, but the truth was that he was unaffected. He’d hung inexpensive posters of famous works of art he liked next to paintings of up-and-coming local artists whose work he also admired. As I studied the card, I thought of the things that were so appealing about Flynn outside of the obvious things that made me nervous.
He could have used his talent for more financially lucrative endeavors than doing surgery gratis in the poorest countries in the world. Tomorrow, I planned on talking more to him about that. Maybe an interest in his charity work would spur me on to taking the state boards again. For the first time, I didn’t shiver thinking of it.
Setting the card on my nightstand, I lay back and closed my eyes again, thinking of his touch. When he’d held me, we’d fit together. His kiss had been soft on my cheek, a prickle of five o’clock shadow enticing.
Before closing my eyes, I glanced at my phone once more.
I really like you.
The next morning, a call from my mother woke me up hours before I was ready to face the day.
“Your father wanted me to remind you Grandpa is bringing a tree this morning, and we’re going to decorate it tonight. You need to be here with the family, Bella.”
“Aw, Mother, I’m still in bed.”
“Well, wake up. You’re wasting your life.”
“With all due respect, you have no idea what I’m doing with my life. Every day is a new beginning.”
“Prove it to me.”
“Can I get a rain check? I have plans for the day, and it doesn’t include decorating a Christmas tree.”
“Grandpa would like to see you.”
“Give him my regards,” I said, having no intention of seeing him anytime soon.
“You need to get over it,” Lillian said in her sternest no-nonsense voice. “Whatever it is.”
“Mother, I’m not going to get over it. I might never get over it. Now have a wonderful day and let me go back to sleep.”
“Bella, I love you. I know you don’t think I do, but I do.”
“I love you, too, Mother. This is the beginning of a new start, I guess.”
“I hope so.”
I thought I heard Lillian sob, but I shook my head. Lillian was stoically unemotional.
“Bye for now,” I said, taking the last word and ending the call.
It was one of those many conversations that we’d had over the years where she’d end it by saying,Someday you’ll have kids of your own, and then you’ll understand.
I vowed that if I had children, I would do everything in my power to never make them feel inadequate or shamed or frightened. My mother had been through hell, my father, too, but that didn’t give them license to take it out on me. For the next fifteen minutes, I tossed and turned and finally gave up on going back to sleep.
Sitting up, I saw the flowers again. They were still gorgeous. I picked up my phone and snapped a photo. The next half hour, taking a shower and preparing for the day, I sufficiently blocked out the fact that my family was going to put up a Christmas tree. Everything about it felt wrong. I realized I might very well be the one at fault, not being able to move on. Everyone’s loss was greater than mine.
