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I nodded.
“It’s nice. You look good.”
“Thanks.”
My mother set her purse and the shopping bag on the floor and opened her arms to me. I remained rooted in place, not wanting to be touched, afraid she could read the truth on my skin like Braille. Eventually, she gave up, her smile tightening into a wince as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear—hair the same color and thickness as mine, only shorter.
Guilt rapped its knuckles on the back door of my heart. I pinched the inside of my wrist, both as penance for treating her coldly and to distract myself.
“Do you want to show me what you’ve been working on?” she asked.
It seemed like a safe enough way to fill the silence. Besides, if she saw how well I was doing and how hard I’d been working to improve as an artist, she would realize there was no need to worry, and leave us alone.
“Okay.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have to go far to gather my sketchbooks. My mother sidled up to the workbench, and I laid my drawings out for her perusal. She fingered the pages with care, her gaze drifting over depictions of clouds and body parts and cityscapes.
“These are lovely.” She lingered over a series of sketches featuring my father’s hands holding and manipulating various objects: paintbrushes, bedsheets, flowers, my feet. “This is Henry?”
“Yeah,” I said. Apparently time and wear and tear in the studio hadn’t altered his hands so as to make them unrecognizable. I was glad I knew better than to store the drawings of his cock with my regular work.
My mother cleared her throat but said nothing in response. You could have filled volumes of empty pages with everything she’d left unsaid. Grimacing, she rose from the stool and pressed a hand to her stomach.
Finally, I had to ask, “When was the last time you ate?”
She breathed through what appeared to be an intense abdominal cramp. “I had a coffee this morning.”
I clenched my teeth. So, this was how she was going to punish me for not staying in touch. By refusing to take care of herself. “I’ll get you something from the apartment?—”
“No,” she snapped. Then, more calmly, “I have a granola bar in my bag.”
Hands shaking with frustration, I snatched her purse from the floor and rifled through it until I came across a fruit and nut bar, which I passed to her. My mother took her time opening the package, and even more time forcing herself to take a bite.
Her gaze flitted about the studio as she chewed. I counted my breaths. One. Don’t see the painting. Two. Don’t ask what he’s been working on?—
“Is that Henry’s newest piece?” She pointed to the back of the large canvas by the window. The one that, on its front, depicted her teenage daughter masturbating with no clothes on.
“It’s not finished,” I said, trying to sound detached. “He doesn’t want anyone to see it yet.”
She took a few steps toward the painting. My heart kicked against my sternum like a horse. I followed her, trying to grab ahold of her hand before she reached the easel.
“He doesn’t like people to see his work before it’s done,” I said.
She tugged free from my grasp and continued on, determined. Short of physically restraining her, there was no way to stop my mother from seeing the painting. I hugged myself as a bolt of panic ripped through me like lightning. Bile washed the back of my throat. If she saw it, if she assumed the truth and confronted me about what we’d done…I was going to lose it.
My mother rounded the easel and then abruptly stopped. She cupped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. No.”
The look of horror and disgust on her face made my stomach coil in on itself.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, though I had a feeling it was exactly what she thought.
“Paige, this is obscene!"
If my body were a house, she’d be the tornado blowing the roof off its frame and tearing the doors from their hinges. “His model called in sick. I offered to take her place.”
“And he let you?” Her voice was pure agony. The sound of it made my stomach cramp, like an infant wailing after hearing its mother’s screams. Tears streamed down her face. “I knew this would happen. I knew it.”
“Knew what would happen?”
