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“Really?” I leaned back to look at his face. “That was like, half an hour ago.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I wanted to look at you.”
Warmth flooded my cheeks. As a renowned portrait artist, my father had turned people-watching into a vocation. He used to draw me all the time when I was little, but just then, I found his gaze unnerving, like the phantom sensation of having to pee before a performance. His scrutiny pared at my composure, and I was afraid he’d scrape away the layers only to be disappointed by what he saw underneath.
“See anything interesting?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
My father cocked his head. He seemed to be weighing his words. “Your hair is darker than I remember, and you’re taller. Of course, that makes sense, considering how long it’s been.”
I wanted to ask him why it had been so long since we saw each other, but he looked so pleased to see me; I didn’t want to ruin the moment. My parents had only been married a few years before my father moved out. For a while, I continued to see him every weekend, until he stopped visiting altogether. If I hadn’t stumbled across a phone number in my mom’s address book, marked only with the letter H, and sent a hastily typed “What’s up?” text after one-too-many tequila shots, we’d still be estranged.
“Your hair’s shorter,” I said. “It used to cover your ears. But it looks good now.”
He raked his fingers through the light-brown strands, his mouth quirking at the corners. “So do you.”
He nudged my arm, then waited to see if I’d nudge him back. If I did, it would mean he could touch me.
I nudged him. He pulled me into a side hug, gently squeezing my shoulder. I leaned into him, comforted by his sturdiness and the familiar, long-lost scent of his clothes.
We took a stroll through the American galleries, my father stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I stayed close, pulled by an invisible thread, lured by the thrill of simply being in his presence. We circled each other, like a dance, with him pausing now and then to point out something about composition or technique, or to shake the hand of yet another fan who recognized him as the Henry Monroe.
Four years ago, Art in America had dubbed him the modern-day Egon Schiele for his contour line drawings of sex workers with their children. But the work that had made him famous was a series of frankly intimate paintings titled The Family in Repose. A father, mother, and their twin sons. Cooking breakfast, clipping toenails, checking email, changing their socks.
He lived with the family for two years, quietly observing. Two years invested in a family that wasn’t his own.
The paintings were exhibited at top galleries around the world. There had been some controversy concerning a few of the pieces and whether they were truly drawn from life, specifically the pieces involving sex and masturbation. Critics accused him of exploiting the family and even fabricating them altogether.
I followed his career with the zeal of a fangirl lusting after her favorite boy-band member. But instead of headshots and posters on my walls, I had prints of Henry Monroe’s work. It wasn’t all about reverence and longing to reconnect, though that was part of it. I was an artist, too. I’d been accepted into New York University’s undergraduate painting program.
It was my acceptance into a top art program that emboldened me to reach out to him through his website’s contact page, managed by his agent who made me verify my identity before forwarding the email. I asked her if Henry’s fans often claimed to be his long-lost relatives, to which she said, “You’d be surprised.” After a few weeks of emailing back and forth, he invited me to spend the summer before college painting in his private studio, an opportunity of a lifetime for any would-be professional artist, but an even more monumental break for me.
It was a chance to reconnect with the man who had helped make me, a man whose talents and mystique had rooted themselves in me from the moment I was conceived.
But, most importantly, it was a chance to finally get answers to the questions that had haunted me since the day he disappeared from my life.
Chapter Two
We passed Central Park on our way to Sistina, an upscale Italian restaurant. I could tell he was keeping a leisurely pace for my benefit, letting me soak in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. It’d been years since I lived close enough for regular trips into Manhattan, and I missed it, everything about it. The rush and the hum and the heft of it.
The host at Sistina recognized my father and seated us at once. I hadn’t eaten much besides a granola bar and a handful of Skittles on the bus that morning. I ate four pieces of bread and was still ravenous by the time our entrées arrived.
We talked about his works-in-progress, my senior year and graduation. I wanted to ask why he hadn’t so much as sent a congratulatory card, but again, I decided not to push for answers—though I hoped he would offer them of his own accord. Whether it was resentment or elusiveness that made him seem so alluring, all I knew was that being around him made me feel needy in a way I’d never felt before.
I was still picking at the last of my gnocchi when he pushed his plate away and asked, “How’s your mom doing?”
“She’s good. Still working in the town planner’s office.”
“Is she still seeing the foot guy?”
“You mean Dave, the podiatrist?” I smirked. “Yeah, he’s around.”
“Do you like him?”
I shrugged. “He’s friendly, in a weatherman-esque, ‘Back to you, Tom,’ sort of way.”
“Does he wear themed ties?”
“Yeah, but he saves the really dorky ones for special occasions.” It occurred to me that I could not recall ever seeing my father in a tie. His style had always consisted of jeans and paint-stained tees with the occasional sweater. Today was no exception. “He’s good to Mom, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
