32
In the morning, I wake to the sound of an ambulance siren. It’s 7:30 a.m., and sunlight is streaming in through my tiny window,
warming the bare skin of my arms. There’s a cold weight in my chest where my heart used to be, but I’m determined to ignore
it. Not today, I tell it sternly. Today is the first day of my new internship. Today, I’m not going to be sad.
I dress in an outfit that I hope comes off as chic and professional—a knee-length skirt, ballet shoes, and a collared shirt.
I almost put on the necklace John gave me, the one with the tiny sword that Kiara made, but after a moment I set it aside.
I’m not going to keep holding on to the past. I’m going to move on properly, starting today.
I stride out into the sunlight and make my way to the nearest subway station. I get off at Seventy-Seventh Street and fall
into step with the swelling crowd, many of them heading to the same place as me.
My feet slow as I reach the base of the steps, and my breath catches in my throat as I peer up at the towering pillars, the
curving arches, the deep red banners hung on either side of the doors, emblazoned with two simple words.
The Met.
I float through the line in a bit of a daze, handing over my money when I get to the front. I guess I could tell them that I’m here for my first internship day, so I don’t have to pay, but that doesn’t start until one, and anyway, right now I just want to experience it like everyone else. I want to wander around aimlessly and breathe it all in.
I spend the morning walking around, twisting my neck up to look at the ceiling in the Great Hall and gazing in awe at the
Temple of Dendur and the Charles Engelhard Court. I peer at ancient weapons and costumes and study intricate suits of armor.
I eavesdrop on a couple having a (slightly pretentious) argument about whether or not you can create great art without experiencing
trauma, and giggle at a rich woman who’s snuck her tiny dog into the museum in a Prada bag. I watch a girl in her late teens
stare at a painting for ten full minutes, her brown-eyed gaze soft and faraway.
This .
This is why I came here.
I love absolutely everything about this place. The smell of the air; the sound of my footsteps on the marble floors; the low,
rolling murmur of the crowd. Working in a place like this, creating spaces where people can escape from the stress in their
lives and get lost in the past for an hour or two...
It really is my dream job.
I find a bench in a quiet hall and sit down opposite a portrait of an elderly woman in a heavy gown. I take deep breaths in
and out, trying to draw the feeling of this place inside of me. I can feel the muscles of my shoulders getting looser. I wonder
if this is how people feel when they meditate. Not a single thought in their head, just a vague sense of contentedness.
I wonder how Mrs. Finnamore is doing.
The thought pops into my head out of nowhere. She’s supposed to be getting out of the hospital today. I wonder if they’ve
changed any of her medicines around. I wonder if she’ll listen if they did.
I shake my head impatiently. Mrs. Finnamore isn’t a part of my life now. There’s no sense in worrying about her anymore.
I turn away from the painting of the elderly woman to face a marble statue of a naked woman carrying a vase.
Much better. She doesn’t remind me of Mrs. Finnamore at all.
I space out for a little while, until a group of tourists pass by on a guided tour. I wonder absently if the Met does tours
for New York nursing home residents. If they don’t, maybe I could arrange some during my internship. Even someone as crotchety
as Doris would be hard-pressed to complain about a place like this.
Actually, that’s not true. She would definitely find things to complain about. The long lines, the abundance of “youths,”
the signs advertising free wi-fi for visitors (“So kids can look at their phones instead of the art,” she would scoff. “What genius came up with that idea?”).
I try to imagine how Jim or Mrs. Finnamore would react, but if I’m honest, I’m not sure they would like it either. Mrs. Finnamore
would find the museum too cold and crowded, and I think it would all be too overwhelming for Jim. I think he liked working
at the barrel museum because it gave him a reason to get out of his house and talk to people, not because of any deep-rooted
interest in barrels or museums.
I hope he isn’t missing me too much. Maybe I should call him tonight, just in case.
I shake my head again roughly. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I need to stop thinking about Waldon. I need to totally cut the cord, like I’ve done with John. Mrs. Finnamore and Jim aren’t a part of my life anymore. They aren’t a part of this dream.
I get to my feet again—staying still is the enemy—and wander determinedly until one o’clock, when I make my way back to the
museum entrance and nervously ask a worker where the new interns go. He directs me to a room in the Egyptian Art wing and
tells me to look for a woman named Benedita Ferreira.
A murmur of voices welcomes me into the room. There are a few tourists milling around, peering at the exhibits, but there’s
also a slightly awkward-looking group in the corner who must be my fellow interns. Most of them look younger than me, but
to my relief there’s a man and a woman who look about my age.
I smooth down my hair and approach them nervously. The man who looks about my age, a tall Asian guy with short dark hair,
looks around as I approach.
“Here for the internship?” he guesses.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He gives me a wide smile. “Us too.”
He introduces himself as David, and the rest of the group offer me their names in rapid succession. There are so many of them
that only a few of them stick in my mind, like Leah, the woman nearest my age, and Katarina, a short, dark-haired girl with
glasses and a really friendly smile.
“Where are you from?” David asks me.
Before I can answer him, an older woman with an official-looking name tag strides toward the group.
“Welcome,” she says, smiling at all of us. She has long dark hair, a stylish suit, and high heels that click along the marble. “Are you my new interns?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Leah says, while the rest of us murmur in agreement.
“Wonderful. Do we have everyone yet?” She counts aloud. “Eighteen, nineteen—yes, that looks like all of you. Please, gather
around.”
We shuffle into a half-circle around her. One girl jostles for a spot in the center, making a big show of taking a notebook
out of her bag to take notes. David, who’s standing next to me, catches my eye and grins. I hide a smile. There’s one in every
group.
“I’m Benedita Ferreira,” the woman introduces herself. “Program coordinator for internships, and curator specializing in early-twentieth-century
art. How are you all doing today?”
“Nervous,” I murmur under my breath, while the rest of the interns say, “Good.”
Benedita tells us a bit about the internship program and then we do a round of introductions. I’m a bit anxious hearing all
the things that everyone else has done. Half of them have interned or worked in museums before, and most of them are from
the States, except for David, who moved to the US from China as a kid, and a girl named Gabriela, who’s from Mexico. They
all tilt their heads a bit when I say I was born in Nova Scotia.
“Is that a city?” the girl with the notebook asks.
“It’s a province in Canada. But I was living in Prince Edward Island—that’s another province—before I came here.”
“Ooh, like in Anne of Green Gables ,” Katarina says.
I smile at her. “Yep.”
Benedita leads us out of the Egyptian Art wing through a locked door, which opens on a long, plain hallway lined with doors. Some of the doors seem to be offices—I see a man talking on the phone at his desk, and a woman typing at a computer—while others kind of look like laboratories, with long white countertops and rows of glass cupboards. I feel a stir of excitement. This is so cool. Like going behind the scenes at Disney World or something.
We end up in a small classroom, where Benedita hands out shiny folders with our names on them. Inside, there are badges and
brochures and a schedule of activities.
“As you can see in your schedules, you’ll spend time in every wing of the museum, but I encourage you all to find a particular
area that really interests you and dive into it as much as you can. You’ll mostly be shadowing curators for the first few
months, but down the road, there will be opportunities to get involved in research projects and acquisitions—perhaps even
to help design installations.”
A fizz of excitement runs through me as I read through all the different wings I’ll get to see. Arms and Armor, Ancient Near
Eastern Art, Drawings and Prints... they all sound amazing. I don’t know how I’m going to pick just one to focus on.
You wish you could do a lot of things.
John’s voice pops into my mind out of nowhere. I shake it away irritably. I’m not going to think about John right now. Or
later, for that matter.
“For your first month, you only have one piece of homework,” Benedita says. “And that’s to come up with an idea for an exhibit. This is an exercise in creativity, so don’t be limited by feasibility or budget. At the end of the month, you’ll each present your exhibit idea to the group, for feedback and discussion.”
An interested murmur passes through the room—several interns sit up a little, looking pleased, as though they already have
great ideas. I feel a stab of nerves—all I can think of right now are exhibits of barrels. But I’m sure with a little bit
of time, I can come up with something great.
Benedita pulls down a projector screen at the front of the room, and for the next hour, we watch a video on the history of
the Met. Notebook Girl (whose real name, I think, is Lydia) scribbles furious notes, as do some of the others, but I just
rest my chin in my hands and listen. Every word is like a balm on my soul. I’ve always wanted to be a part of something big
and important, and watching the video, learning about all the amazing artwork and sculpture and pieces of history the museum’s
housed... it’s every bit as wonderful as I always hoped.
Afterward, we do a few of those awkward icebreaker games to get to know one another, then Benedita releases us to enjoy the
museum for the rest of the day.
“The names and office numbers of your first supervisors are written on your schedule,” she says. “Who’s starting with me—ah,
Emily.” I look up. “If you want to come with me for a second, I’ll show you where my office is for tomorrow.”
I edge around Notebook Girl, who’s scowling at me a bit jealously, and follow Benedita to a room just a few doors down the hall. Her office is small and cozy, with hundreds of old books crammed into a bookshelf and a heavy desk covered in papers. There are a bunch of photos on the wall that must be of her family. There’s a wedding photo of her and her wife, and another picture of them with two kids.
“I hope it wasn’t too hard to get here on time,” Benedita says. “I know you didn’t have much notice.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “It was totally fine.” That’s a tiny lie, but I mean it when I add, “I’m just happy to be here.”
She smiles. “I’m sure you’re going to love it. You worked at a museum before, didn’t you?”
“Er—I was just a volunteer, actually. It was just a really tiny museum in PEI.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Small museums have their challenges, of course, but they also have their charms.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ours was about barrel-making. We had a cooper who did demonstrations with old equipment.”
She smiles. “Sounds wonderful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to head out to attend to a few things. But I’ll meet you
here tomorrow at nine a.m.”
“See you then.”
I sneak one last glance around her office then return to the classroom, where most of the interns are still gathering their
things.
“Some of us are going to explore a bit,” David tells me, standing with a group that includes Leah and Katarina. “Want to join
us?”
I smile, feeling a pleasant warmth settle over my shoulders. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’d love to.”