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What was so wrong with being seen?
Chapter Seven
I lay in bed staring at the glass of water until almost noon. When my hunger eclipsed my discomfort and I marshaled the nerve to come downstairs, my father was nowhere to be found.
There were muffins and jam waiting on the kitchen table, and a note about hardboiled eggs in the fridge. I munched a black currant muffin and poured myself a mug of coffee. He’d made it strong, just how I liked it, though there was no way he could’ve known.
After breakfast, I showered and hand-washed my bra, left it to dry, then put on a fresh white tank and yesterday’s jeans, which were clean enough. I’d packed light so I wouldn’t have to check my bag at the museum. A few pairs of underwear and pants, some simple shirts, whatever I could fit in my laptop bag. I made a mental note to ask my father about the laundry situation as soon as I was able to look him in the face again.
My whole body knotted with embarrassment as memories from the previous night came flooding back. I had watched my dad masturbate, eavesdropped on an illuminating late-night phone call with my mother, stumbled upon some homemade porn they’d filmed when they were young, then made myself come imagining his hand between my legs.
It was beyond twisted. It was fucked-up. But the worst part, without a doubt, was him knowing I’d been in his room. Like a spaz, I had left my water glass on his bedside table. At minimum, he knew I had seen the porn.
Thankfully, there was no way for him to know I’d been spying on him, but that didn’t change the fact that I had, in fact, seen and felt things I shouldn’t have. That I’d stood captivated outside his bedroom door, watching him fuck his own fist.
Was I so desperate for his affection that I perverted innocent curiosity into something sick? Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. Maybe we were better off not knowing each other.
Still, there was the phone call to consider, and what parents had unwittingly revealed: that my mother, believing I was in danger, had asked him to abandon me, and he’d agreed to go. I needed answers, and my father was the only person who could give them to me.
I found the studio unlocked and empty. My father must’ve gone out. The layout was identical to the apartment across the hall, but with a lot less furniture. Four easels had been situated around what would’ve been the living room, all facing a futon that sat open in the center, layered with green and blue fabric. A plastic bin filled with colorful shrouds stood off to the side. Nearly every surface lay strewn with brushes and palettes, tubes of oil paint, and cans of odorless paint thinner.
I walked the perimeter of the room. On the table closest to the wall of windows, I found a sketchbook wedged beneath a set of canvas stretcher bars. Carefully, I teased the sketchbook out into the open, and went to sit on the futon. The first dozen or so pages contained sketches of random body parts: arms, hands, shoulders, calves. Some crossed out, others so faded they could’ve been made years ago.
I stopped flipping when I came across the model from last night, splayed out on the futon, naked, with her hand between her legs.
“Whoa.” My fingers twitched against the paper. I turned the page and there she was again on her stomach, then on her side. Pages and pages of her masturbating in various poses.
My breath stalled. I didn’t want to think about the circumstances surrounding these images. Apart from my suspicions that this woman had to be more than just a model to him, seeing the drawings only served to remind me how badly I missed being my father’s muse.
Not that I’d ever posed for him like this. Not that I’d wanted to.
The door swung open, and my father stepped inside. He wore jeans and a gray T-shirt with a black-and-white skull superimposed onto a Union Jack flag and the words Grateful Dead London UK 1972 printed below. His calm wavered for the briefest of moments when he saw me. Then, he smiled.
“Hey,” he said. “When did you get up?”
“A little while ago.” My pulse kicked into overdrive. “Thanks for the muffins and coffee.”
“Did you see my note about the eggs? You should eat some protein. I don’t want to send you off to college malnourished.”
“I’ll have two for lunch,” I said, touched by his concern for my health.
He set the plastic bag he’d been carrying onto the counter by the sink, then proceeded to unload the contents—chalk, in various colors by the look of it. I tapped my finger nervously against the sketchbook in my lap, struggling to come up with a natural way to ask about last night’s phone call.
“Your mom called last night,” he said, beating me to the punch. He turned his back on the sink, the heels of his hands braced against the countertop. “She knows you’re here.”
“Oh?” I feigned surprise. If he wanted to confront me about eavesdropping or sneaking into his room, it was now or never. A few seconds passed. “Did she say anything else?”
“She’s not happy you lied.”
I had to laugh. “How very pot-meet-kettle.”
“She just wants to know that you’re safe.”
“Well, I am, aren’t I?” I flipped to a different page and struggled to keep my expression neutral while staring at a pencil rendition of a vagina with two fingers in it.
I felt my father’s gaze like a hand gliding down my arm to the image in question. He cleared his throat. “You know, sketchbooks are kind of like journals. You really shouldn’t go through them without the artist’s permission.”
“Sorry.” I closed the book, avoiding eye contact. “I just wanted to see what you’ve been working on.”
