33
The next few days rush by in a nerve-wracking blur, then it feels like I blink and two weeks have gone by. It’s kind of strange
how quickly I fall into a new rhythm: wake to the sound of sirens, eat a quick bowl of cereal in my room, rush to the subway
to make it to the museum by nine.
I spend my days in the bowels of the Met, watching Benedita do her work. I’m so glad I’ve been paired with her first. She’s
so kind and knowledgeable, and she never makes me feel stupid for asking questions. Which is a good thing, because most of
what she says is totally beyond me. Following her around is like a study in my own ignorance. I kind of thought curators just
tracked down interesting things, came up with a clever way to display them, and then voilà! On to the next thing. The reality
is much more complicated and sometimes—if I’m being perfectly honestly—a teensy bit dull.
Benedita spends a lot of her time doing research, for example, and although she tries to include me as much as she can, the fact of the matter is, a big part of research is just sitting quietly and reading. Those are the worst times, because whenever my brain isn’t distracted, it immediately starts thinking about John and Waldon. Missing John isn’t a surprise—I didn’t expect my feelings to go away overnight—but I’m surprised by how much I miss Waldon itself. Sometimes I’ll be walking along and suddenly remember something random, like the cute dog that used to trot out to see me every morning when I did my run, or the smell of the local library where I used to check out books.
It’ll all fade the longer I’m here, I’m sure.
When I’m busy, it’s easier, so I fill most of my days from dawn till dusk. I’m starting to get to know the other interns a
little better, especially Katarina, Leah, and David. Katarina has lived in New York for a few years now, so she gives us a
bunch of tips on free things to do in the city. In all my fantasies about living in big cities, I’d kind of glazed over how
expensive they are. My dreams of going to art galleries and restaurants have been amended to reading books in Central Park,
wandering the High Line, and eating ninety-nine-cent ramen for most of my meals. And while the energy in the city is just
as amazing as I always imagined, it’s also sort of—
Tiring. And loud.
But I try not to dwell on that. It’s just different, that’s all. I just need time to adjust.
I throw all my energy into my exhibit project, the one Benedita assigned us on our first day. Katarina and Leah and David
all have great ideas for theirs—Leah wants to showcase this really eccentric local artist who makes art out of trash, Katarina
is designing an exhibit of art by single moms, and David wants to do a display of children’s toys from the 1300s to today.
I spend night after night trying to come up with something equally clever, but I don’t strike upon inspiration until one day
in Central Park.
I’m jogging alone, trying not to think about this murder documentary I saw about a girl who was killed jogging in Central Park, when I spot a stooped, gray-haired woman sitting on a park bench, struggling to open a bottle of juice. She has a tiny, yappy dog with her whose leash is wrapped precariously around her wrist. My feet slow to a stop, sensing the impending disaster.
“Do you need help with that?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
She looks up at me, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. I’ve noticed that’s everyone’s first reaction in New York when a stranger
talks to them.
I must look harmless enough, because her expression relaxes and she smiles at me. “Yes, thank you.”
She hands me the dog’s leash, and it throws itself eagerly at me while she uses both hands to twist off the bottle cap.
“He’s so cute,” I say, handing the leash back to her.
(This is a tiny lie—he’s a scrawny, half-balding chihuahua with a horrendous pair of bright pink booties.)
The woman cackles. “You think so? Looks like a drowned rat, to me. He’s my daughter’s dog.”
I stifle a laugh, then kneel to pat the poor little dog on his head. It’s not his fault he looks like a rat. “Does your daughter
live here?” I ask politely. The woman doesn’t look like a local—for one thing, she’s wearing an I ? NY T-shirt.
But she surprises me by shaking her head. “She lives in Jersey. She’s just visiting me for the weekend. I’ve lived here for
seventy-seven years,” she adds. There’s a distinct note of pride in her voice.
“Wow,” I say. “And you—like it here?”
It’s a stupid question, I realize as I say it. Of course she likes it here, why else would she have stayed so long (or be
wearing that T-shirt)? But I’m curious to hear what exactly she likes about it. All the older people I knew in Waldon would
despise living in New York City. They would find it too loud, too rushed, too crowded.
“Of course!” the woman says. “I was born here during the Bliz zard of ’47, and I haven’t left since.” She laughs, revealing very white, shiny dentures.
“Was that a big blizzard?”
“Big! It was huge. Nothing like these little flurries that people these days call a storm.”
I grin. That sounds like something the older people in Waldon would say. No snowstorm is ever as big as the one happening
in front of you. “That’s really neat,” I say. “Were your parents born here too?”
As it turns out, they were, and for the next half hour, the woman tells me about them—her mother, a seamstress, and her father,
a painter. I ease myself onto the bench as she talks, feeling myself drawn into the slow rhythm of her speech. She talks like
Jim does, dropping names of friends and family as if they’re people I should already know. “And of course Aunt Mabel hated
that,” she says, and I nod conspiratorially, as if I knew Aunt Mabel too.
I ask her what she did for a living, and that’s its own story—a clerk at a grocery store, a history teacher, a stay-at-home
mom of six (six!). She’s telling me about her youngest daughter, whom she hilariously refers to as the “least clever one,”
when all of a sudden she looks at her watch.
“Oh, would you look at that.” She rises to her feet. “I’ve got to run. Pleasure chatting with you, dear.”
She ambles off with her dog, and as I glance down at my phone, I realize with a jolt that a whole hour has gone by.
There’s a strange ache in my chest as I rise to my feet. I try to make myself jog again, but my legs are slow and heavy. I
walk the park instead, thinking and chewing on my lip.
I’ve missed talking to older people, I realize. I miss talking to people who grew up outside of my time. I miss that little spark of interest when I learn something about the past, like the time Jim told me about rumrunners during PEI’s prohibition years, or when Mrs. Finnamore described the dress Queen Elizabeth II wore during her royal tour of the province. It’s like time traveling, almost. Being transported back to a moment that happened before you existed.
I stop dead in my tracks as an idea hits me.
That’s what I want to do for my exhibit. I want to give people that feeling.
The very next day, I bring it up to Benedita. I’m speaking quickly with excitement, leaning forward in my chair in her office.
I know it’s only an exercise in creativity, but I can’t help but feel I’ve struck upon something really cool.
“Picture a dark, quiet room filled with little enclosed booths,” I say. “And every booth has a video feed of an older person
talking about their life growing up in the city.”
“Like artists and historians, you mean?” Benedita asks.
“No, just average people,” I say brightly. “Regular people telling regular stories. Like this woman I met yesterday in the
park—she told me the funniest story about her family’s milkman back in the fifties, and how he always got their order wrong
on Thursdays.” I hesitate, seeing Benedita’s slightly bemused look. “It was funnier when she told it,” I admit. “But that’s
the point, see? It’s a glimpse into the past, told by people who actually lived in it.”
Benedita smiles. “It’s a lovely idea,” she says. “Really creative.”
I bite my lip. I can hear an unspoken but.
“I could do something else,” I say, “if you don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Oh no,” she says. “I told you, this is not about realism, it’s about creativity!”
I nod, but I can’t help wondering—why couldn’t an exhibit like that be real?
“The Met focuses more on art and sculpture, that’s all,” Benedita says. “But it’s certainly a clever idea. I would go to an
exhibit like that.”
I can’t tell if she’s just placating me. I muster a smile. “I’ll keep thinking,” I say. “I’m sure I can come up with something
more... artsy.”
“Let me know if I can help,” she says kindly, then turns back to her computer, which is open to an article about an old painting.
I keep a bright, interested look on my face, but in truth, I’m a little disappointed. I thought it was a pretty cool idea.
In fact, I had this secret daydream that when Benedita heard it, she would want to make it into a real exhibit. But that’s
pretty childish of me. The Met isn’t a tiny barrel museum in Waldon where I can nail up a stack of barrels and call it an
exhibit. It’s one of the greatest collections of art in the world—and videos of old people telling funny stories about milkmen
aren’t art.
Why not, though? whispers a voice in my head.
I shake my head and push the thought away. But I’m distracted the rest of the day, and at lunchtime I find myself typing “private
caregiving services New York City” into my phone. I close the tab before it can load, annoyed with myself. Yes, I miss talking
with older people, but I’ve already decided I’m not going to try to do any caregiving here. I need to focus on my internship,
my new friends, my new life.
I open a new tab and type in “young hot up-and-coming artists NYC,” and after filtering out the inevitable porn, I find a twenty-one-year-old artist in Queens who re-creates famous paintings out of candy. A Mona Lisa made of M&M’S, blue raspberry Twizzlers swirling in The Starry Night . In thirty minutes, I’ve done up my presentation for the end of the month. It’s bright and quirky and young, the polar opposite
of my first idea.
When I tell Leah, Katarina, and David about it at dinner, they smile and tell me they love it, and David suggests I call it
“Candy Land,” as a funny tie-in to his children’s toy exhibit. I make myself laugh with them, but there’s a hollow feeling
in my chest.
Katarina tilts her head at me. “Everything okay, Emily?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say quickly. “Just a bit tired. A bunch of sirens woke me up at, like, five a.m. today.”
She grimaces. “Brutal. You’ll get used to them after a while. I don’t even hear them anymore.”
“Yeah, but you’re a city girl,” Leah says. “Em and I are small town. Right, Em?”
“Small town!” Katarina laughs. “You grew up in Boston, Leah.”
“Outside of Boston,” Leah retorts. “My suburb was tiny , there were, like, barely two thousand kids at my high school.”
“Two thousand is a lot, dummy,” Katarina says.
David catches my eye and pulls an amused face. Katarina and Leah can bicker for hours about nothing. I try to smile back,
but my mind is still caught on Leah’s words.
Em and I are small town .
She says it like it’s something innate and unchangeable, like someone’s eye color or height. As if there’s a small-town gene that makes you crave quiet mornings and wide-open spaces. My mouth twitches up a little at the thought. If there is a small-town gene, John definitely has it. And Kiara, too, for all she liked to complain about Waldon.
As for me... I don’t know. Maybe I am small town at heart. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay that way. People can change
their natures, if they want it enough.
I shake my head and refocus on Leah and Katarina’s conversation, but the thought follows me home on the subway, echoing under
the thrum of the rails and the noise of the crowd. In the relative quiet of my dorm room, the words get louder.
People can change their natures, if they want it enough.
I peer out of my window, watching all the people, staring at all the lights. This is what I came here for. The noise, the
energy. I want this life.
Don’t I?