3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Emilia
L ess than twenty-four hours after being told of my father’s passing, I find myself standing outside my family’s art gallery, unable to enter as I’m suddenly flooded with memories; the full gambit of emotions overwhelming me–pain, hope, love, joy…
This building is more than just the business it contains.
It’s the home I grew up in. Where I had my first kiss and the place I learned my craft.
It is a representation of my life. A life that has suddenly shifted.
The grey clouds overhead and drizzling rain fit my sombre mood perfectly.
As I look upon the building, even from the outside, it’s like I can see the lack of my father’s presence here.
“Do you need help taking these inside, Ma’am?” the driver asks from behind me. Perhaps he thinks I’m waiting for him to gather my bags, rather than the reality that I just don't want to face; being in this space without my father.
“No, thank you. I can take it from here,” I say, taking my bags from his hands.
He nods, climbing back into the driver’s seat of the car.
As he merges into traffic, I stand there watching until I can’t see the taillights through the other cars any longer.
I know I can’t keep standing out here in the rain, having attracted a few strange looks from the morning commuters passing by, so I take a deep, fortifying breath, and hesitantly stride the few steps across the footpath to the gallery's front door.
I don’t bother to turn on the lights as I enter the front room, I don’t want to deal with any walk-in’s right now; plus, I could find my way around the gallery even if I was blind.
Although most of the gallery’s clients schedule viewings, when my father was out in the backroom sorting inventory or dealing with shipments, it wasn’t unusual to find the front door open and random people wandering through the exhibitions.
I slowly make my way across the exhibition rooms, the motion sensor lights guiding my pathway through the various spaces on the way to my father’s office.
I drop my bags at the bottom of the stairs next to the office before I open the door and reach in to turn on the light.
I lean on the doorframe, just looking in, not willing to enter the space that still smells of him and stale coffee.
The office is a mess. My father always referred to it as his ‘organised chaos’, and he would usher me straight back out the door on the many occasions I had tried to come in and tidy up for him.
He had a ‘system’. He somehow knew where every invoice, certificate of authenticity, business card, and shipping manifest was, though, there wasn’t a designated spot for any of them.
I’m going to have to wade my way through and clean it all up sometime soon. But not today.
I turn off the light and close the office door with a solemn sigh.
I gather my bags and head up the stairs.
My booted steps echoing loudly off the metal stairs.
I pause on the landing, putting down my bags and unlocking the door to my right.
Flicking on the lights, I’m immediately soothed by the familiar smell of paint and sight of the riotous colour that fills the studio.
I’ve spent more time in this room than any other place in my entire life. Even though I moved away five years ago, I’ve come back a few times a year to do restoration or valuation work for my father. It’s been nearly eight months since I’d last been here though, and the guilt of that hits me hard.
I turn off the light and close the door before the feelings overwhelm me. I move back to the other side of the landing and unlock the only other door that’s up here. I take another fortifying breath in an attempt to prepare myself before I go inside.
Opening the door, I step into the apartment that has always been my home; the morning light flooding through the windows that run the full length of the open plan space.
They have always been my favourite feature, taking up half the height of the wall; a real-life cityscape.
I wander through the tidy living and dining rooms, towards the kitchen in the back corner.
Unlike the office downstairs, my father kept the apartment clean and orderly even after I moved out.
I’ve always been the neat freak out of the two of us, needing order to keep my mind straight.
I remember being surprised when I’d first come home to visit, after moving away, to find that he had kept up with my standard of cleanliness. I’d made some cheeky remarks, comparing it to the office downstairs but he just winked and said he had to keep it ready for me, just in case.
He was incredibly proud when I finished my art history degree.
I’d unofficially been working in our family gallery for years, restoring artwork, so it was a natural progression to take that skill, adding in authentication and valuation, and making it my full-time job.
He never found out about my other life as a forger.
Initially, I’d taken his ‘just in case’ to mean that he’d thought I would fail to make it on my own in the art world, but I came to understand he just wanted me to have the security of knowing that my home would never change, even if I wasn’t in it anymore.
And he was right, it did give me comfort.
I grab a glass from the shelf and fill it with water from the tap.
As I stand at the bench sipping from the glass, my eyes lower to the single coffee cup, bowl, small plate, knife, fork and spoon still on the drying rack.
He refused to use the dishwasher after I left, saying it was a waste of water.
Instead, he would use the same cup, bowl, plate, and cutlery for every meal, hand washing them and leaving them on the drying rack for next time.
I turn away, the sight only increasing the pain that’s sitting heavily on my chest from his loss.
Letting my eyes roam around the rest of the apartment, passing the closed bedroom and bathroom doors, they land on the perfectly made double bed in what should have been the second living space.
I walk over and am surprised to see my father’s personal items on the bedside table, and when I open the cupboard doors, his clothes are still in the armoire.
Frowning, I go over to the bedroom and open the door, freezing at the doorway in shock.
Everything inside the room is exactly as I remember it–from the art print posters on the wall, to my favourite furry throw blanket and pillow on the moon chair in the corner.
I’d assumed after I left, my father would have moved into the sole bedroom in the apartment.
He’d insisted I take the room growing up so I could have privacy.
It’s only a small room, barely big enough for my double bed, half-sized built-ins, the moon chair, and the small makeup table with matching stool.
As I enter the room and sit on the end of the bed, I’m overcome by sadness.
Even though nothing in the apartment has physically changed, it’s as if his absence has dulled the colour; like everything is less vivid without his presence.
My phone ringing from my bag snaps me out of my thoughts, and even though my bag is near the front entrance, the noise is ridiculously loud in the otherwise silent space.
The ringing stops a few seconds later, followed by the telltale text notification sound suggesting the caller has left me a voicemail.
I don’t move to check it, needing to take a few moments to just breathe before I have to face reality; but on my second inhale, the ringing starts up again.
My body feels heavy as I rise from the bed, my feet dragging as I head back through the apartment and over to my bag. But my phone goes silent again before I can dig it out. The screen lights up again a moment later, an unknown local number showing on the caller ID. I hesitate before answering.
“Hello?”
“Miss Walters, this is Alister Green of Serenity Funeral Homes. My sincerest condolences for your loss. I am calling as I have received an email from Mr Silas Lacriox overnight regarding funeral services for your father.”
“Thank you,” I say, quietly. The reminder hitting like a punch to the gut.
“I’m wondering when you would like to come by for an initial appointment?
Generally, we like to get the basic information sorted as soon as possible, such as locking in a preferred time and date for the service, to ease some of the pressure that you are no doubt dealing with.
I have some time available later this afternoon if that suits your needs, perhaps at two p.m.? ”
Normally, the pushy approach would have my hackles rising, but if Silas had contacted him directly then he must be the best. And honestly, I’m not even sure where to start, let alone grasp all of the specifics of everything I need to do for the funeral, so having a professional direct me through it all is going to be a huge help.
“I can make it at two p.m.”
“Silas explained that you don’t have transport in the city.
I’ll send a car to the gallery by one-thirty, that way you have plenty of time.
If you have any issues between now and then, just send me an email.
I have just forwarded you some brochures.
You don’t need to review them before the appointment, unless you would like to, we will go over them this afternoon.
I understand how overwhelming all of this can be, but that is what we are here for; to help you through this difficult time. ”
“Thank you, Mr Green. I appreciate the assistance.”
“I’ll see you at two,” he confirms, before ending the call.
I pull the phone away from my ear and glance down at the screen.
Overwhelmed by the number of notifications, I decide to ignore them all for now and instead, I grab my ear buds and keys from my bag, and head back into the studio.
Once set up and with my earbuds in place, I lose myself within a classical playlist and the soothing calm that only painting can provide.