29. When One Door Closes … #2
I found out later that the reason he missed Great Aunt Isla’s funeral was because he was smack-dab in the middle of a fourteen-day, pressure-cooker shoot for the movie. In sweltering August heat, he was donning a parka and delivering lines like, “It’s never too late to tell someone you love them.”
“They couldn’t have given you bereavement?
” I asked when, around the movie’s premiere, he finally deigned to call and apologize for his absence.
I had needed him there that day standing in that congregation of black-clad mourners.
His shoulder was the only one I wanted to cry on.
His hands were the only ones I wanted soothingly rubbing my arm.
“Henry, she wasn’t my family,” he said.
Hurt spiked my heart. She had taken him in when he had nowhere else to go. She had nursed him back to health. She had loaned him money so he could see the world, and this was how he repaid her? “Wow. Okay.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” he said.
“Didn’t you?” I asked with a lot less bite than I wanted to.
He sighed. “Henry.”
“No, you’re right. It’s okay. I hope the movie turns out swell.” I hung up.
The movie turned out so swell that they were running a re-airing of it directly after his starring turn. The opening credits for The Christmas We Spent on the Cape started even before the ending credits for The Christmas Key to My Heart wrapped.
I went to the fridge to grab the water pitcher.
Stuck to the door with a magnet was a flyer for my first exhibition.
It was an emerging artists showcase in the West Village not far from the Whitney.
The small ground-floor nonprofit gallery in the Meatpacking District saw plenty of foot traffic, which made the less-than-ideal exhibition date of mid-December totally worth it.
“Did you all RSVP to my opening?” I asked, filling a glass.
“I responded to the email for me and Paige,” said Kelly. This was a big step for her. Unless she had a gig booked out months in advance, she never committed to plans too soon in case something better came along.
“My scene study class runs until seven, but I’ll rush over after,” added Corbin.
“Thanks, guys. It means a lot that you’ll be there.”
“Are you ready?” Kelly asked.
“Nearly. I think it’s shaping up. It’ll be a good foot in the door.”
“Your New York debut!” said Corbin. “I can’t wait to see how the piece we helped with turned out.”
“Hope you sell lots,” Paige said with a sweet smile.
“Me, too.”
I retreated to my room. Presto and Chango, my two turtledoves, cooed a welcome from their giant enclosure that took up nearly half the space. Before I shuffled off to shower, I fed them. Presto let me pet the base of his neck.
It was hard to stay mad at the sweet, naive man who once thought “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was a shopping list. The fond memories of Aidan would remain inked on my mind. I’d told him to come back when and if he was ready. He didn’t owe me anything, and I had too much going on to stew.
Saturday, December 17, 2027
Per(in)fection, Henry Aster was stickered onto the wall in simple black text that made my heart flip into a full gallop. Beneath was a description of the works from the gallerist:
Aster is a Manhattan-based assemblage artist originally from Ocean Glen, New Jersey.
In his first exhibition, titled Per(in)fection, he repurposes family heirlooms and found objects into portraits and sculptures of figures from his past, present, and, in one stunning piece, a self-portrait of his imagined future self.
The pieces displayed here ask the question: Are the missing parts of the subjects the artist leaving room for viewer interpretation or is imperfection the purpose, both here and in life?
I tipped my plastic cup of wine to my lips and tried not to publicly weep with the weight of accomplishment.
The show had just opened. Patrons trickled in, going straight for the spread of cheese, crackers, and grapes.
The gallery owner—a beanpole of a Black man in a plum-colored suit and massive glasses that called to mind Elton John—did the rounds, introducing his esteemed guests to the plucky young artists. Soft jazz underscored the evening.
Mom, Dad, Alexa, and Sid all arrived at once. The New Jersey brigade of loud voices, vibrant flower bouquets, and lipstick-y kisses overwhelmed the other art patrons, but I couldn’t care less about decorum or critics. These four people held the opinions I cared about most.
I held my breath as they took their tiny plates of food through my exhibit, stopping in respect before each piece.
Mom and Dad seemed taken by their likenesses.
I’d used my copy of their wedding photo and recreated it with dried flower petals.
Every day for weeks, I visited a florist near my apartment.
In exchange for sweeping up at the end of the day, I got to bag the petals, take them home, and bake them for use. I titled the piece: He/She Loves Me .
Sid, in his full suit because he “didn’t know what the dress code was and I’d rather be overdressed than under,” stood in front of my self-portrait.
I’d hung an old curtain that I used in the Anchor Avenue apartment—too big for the tiny window in my Hamilton Heights bedroom.
On it, I used broken pencil tips, empty tubes of paint, and fishing wire to outline my profile.
Inside the outline, I collaged pages from novels I loved growing up— Walk Two Moons, A Wrinkle in Time, Simon vs.
the Homo Sapiens Agenda . Over the pages, I projected a video edited to look like a time-lapse of me aging.
Paige did my prosthetics as an assignment for her stage makeup class, and Corbin helped me with the video component since he was used to cutting and re-cutting his acting reel.
Alexa stood in front of my crowning glory, Nothing Gold Can Stay . A piece made in Great Aunt Isla’s memory, done entirely in gold-colored beach trash picked up in Ocean Glen.
“You really captured her. She’s so alive here,” Alexa said, eyes transfixed by the canvas.
So alive here.
Here.
I wished she had been there, standing beside us, telling me which features of hers I’d gotten wrong but that she was proud of me all the same.
How could the universe contain magic enough to personify a mannequin, but not magic to keep the ones we loved alive? It made no sense to me.
Other patrons circled my centerpiece sculpture, which shared a name with the exhibition. I’d put the retired mannequins from Isla’s Attic in storage when we closed. I knew I’d use them again someday, but I didn’t know for what. This exhibition proved the perfect opportunity.
Using lost-and-found items like fishing nets, bubble wrap, and colored packing tape, I clothed a “family portrait” where every member was missing something—a limb or a shirt or a finger or a shoe.
Inside each mannequin, I set up small speakers.
I had my real family members record themselves saying either “perfection” or “infection.” The mismatched timing of the words created a creepy crescendo that drove my point home: the pursuit of perfection was a disease of the mind.
Not exactly the kind of holiday cheer one might’ve been expecting at this time of year, but I loved what I’d made. I took a quick video of the family portrait and posted it to my professional social media account. I captioned it: Come out and see my first exhibition while you can.
Much later in the evening, once my family had left and the space was near closing, the gallerist called me over to the front desk. “A high-rolling buyer just left. Congratulations on your first sale!”
The news knocked me back a step. The pieces were deeply personal. The only one not for sale was my self-portrait because of its installation needs. But even still, the others felt like parts of my soul chipped off and set to form.
“Which piece?” I asked finally.
“Nothing Gold Can Stay,” he said. “They paid a pretty penny, too. Well over asking.”
“Where’s the buyer?” I asked. They usually wanted to meet the artist at events like this, especially if they loved the work that much.
“He said he had to go, but he left his business card. The only trouble is, it’s blank.”
As the gallerist handed me a red card, Aidan’s name rang in my mind clear as a silver bell. When I touched it, shimmering words emerged out of the scarlet emptiness.
Congratulations! Because of a wish, your true love is back in your city. You have until midnight tolls on New Year’s Eve to reconnect.