Chapter 21 #2
“So, yeah. Rocío found me counting pills in the bathroom late at night when she slept over. They took me to the hospital where I had to stay in the Psych ward for two weeks. They diagnosed me with Bipolar II, so I’m on a cocktail of pills.
Antidepressants, a mood stabilizer; we’re looking to see if I’d need antipsychotics for mania. ”
I don’t know what to say. I set my brush down so she sees she has my full focus.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.
I just—I came here, because I wanted to prove to myself that I’m better.
Not just in a psychological sense, but in a personal sense, too, you know?
That I’m not who Natalia said I was, that I can rise above all that trauma and—like they said—maybe get some closure so I can move on with my life.
“But I’ve stumbled. Really, I have. I mean, initially, I came here with the idea that, you know, I was going to mine this place for ideas.
Amparo wants me to pitch a book to her at the end of summer, so you’re not the only one on deadline.
But I had zero ideas. And then the invitation came, and I was like: you know what?
Why not? Let’s write a book on how shitty rich people are.
What a novel idea, right? Never been done before.
” She snorts. “I thought, after everything, all the bullshit Nat put me through, I was entitled to it. Even if the world doesn’t know her by name, they’ll agree that the things she did to me, within the context of fiction, are atrocious.
But I’m starting to feel shitty about it, squirreling away all these tiny details about people who have no idea what I’m doing, who are being—well, I hope they’re being open and forthcoming with me.
Past oppressions don’t justify present and future misdeeds. ”
“What have you written about me?” I tease, though really, I’m curious.
She shakes her head. “You’re off-limits.”
“Why?”
Her shrug only begs more questions.
“I was going to ask,” she says, “where you think the line is when it comes to basing art off of real people. Ethically. How much is research and how much is just being a vengeful bitch jotting shit down? But then I guess it’s not the same with the visual medium.
People are kinder when they see themselves painted.
Consent is the key component, I guess. I mean, if you drew someone without their consent, especially nude or something, then exhibited it in a gallery?
Jesus. But if they consented to it…” My heart races as she ponders quietly.
“Then again, I don’t think you seek to expose so much as depict. So—” She cuts herself short.
I let her words sit between us. I think hard about what to say, because I want to get it right.
I want her to know I understand, that I’m here for her, and that I’m grateful she trusts me enough to share this with me.
I want to do all this without exposing myself for doing the very thing she just called out.
To make matters worse, I’m starting to realize that for all the beauty I try to capture in my art, have I really been trying to say anything worth saying? Is that the problem? Have I created beautiful, hollow things?
Shit. Is it enough to make something beautiful just for the sake of its beauty? Does art have a duty to perform virtue?
I should apologize. I should. I open my mouth to speak but clam up. Coward.
“Sorry. You probably think I’m such a bitch now,” she says.
“I don’t.” I swallow thickly. “I—I think it’s brave, what you’re doing.
Facing your past for your art, I mean. And sure, maybe you got off to a bad start, but you’re here, and you’re giving all of us a chance even after what they did to you.
I think that speaks more to your character than your initial impulse to… what did you say? Mine us for ideas?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe me thinking you liked her and telling you what she did to me was selfish of me, you know?
Like, there’s still a part of me that was like, okay, you like her, but do you know who she actually is?
The truth is that even I don’t know who she is, not really.
She’s someone to me, but that’s not the entirety of her being. That’s between her and God.”
She flips her book back open and looks down at it. I take that as my cue to pick up my paint brush.
“I don’t think you have to have it all figured out,” I say, hand shaking so much from nerves I have to put the paint brush back down.
“I think you’re trying your best. To be a good person, I mean.
And you’re willing to admit where you’ve gone wrong and then course correct.
That’s more than most people are capable of. ”
I can tell she likes that.
“Do you want to talk about it some more?” I ask. I set my guilt aside to focus on her.
When Isabel meets my gaze, it takes my breath away.
There’s something about her; I can opine endlessly about her hair and her eyes and her smile, but this something—it’s beyond that.
It’s something the eyes can’t see, not exactly.
Only a heart that’s dedicated itself to beating for her is privileged to bear witness.
I could look at her all day.
“What’s there to talk about?” She chuckles.
“Let’s see. I’m constantly afraid of slipping back into a depressive episode.
When I’m excited about something, I have to make sure I’m not manic.
My mom’s still paying off the loans she took to pay my bills.
I feel like utter shit about it. I love my job, but between all the other bills and surviving, I can barely make a dent in our debt.
Art doesn’t pay as well unless you’re at the top. ”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. I always knew I was lucky to have a mum who owns her own gallery.
Even if I never had my own show there, by virtue of being her son, I had more access to the art world than someone outside of it hoping to get in.
No matter how little I connected with my classmates and my professors, the people who go on to comprise a chunk of this industry, and no matter how much I love outsider art, I hold all the privileges of being accepted by the Institution.
“It’s just never-ending, you know? Sometimes it feels like life is such a slog.
Congrats, you’re alive. Now you have to pay for lifesaving medication for the rest of your life.
And here’s more admin work on top of everything else.
Schedule your appointments, wait hours because your doctor’s late.
And if your disability makes you unfit to work, well, tough luck. ”
If only there was a way I could take all her pain, shield her from it somehow. If I were as rich as the Aranazes, I would cover all her bills, no question.
“I remember what it was like in the ward. You know? There’s such a routine.
Breakfast at eight in the morning, lunch at noon, snacks at three, then dinner at seven.
Meds twice a day. Lights out at nine. There were a lot of clerks and interns and residents.
I barely saw my actual doctor. Most of the time I felt like a lab rat rather than a human being; my doctor would quiz her student in front of me on my condition as if I’m just a bag of symptoms.” She shudders.
“But it’s not all bad, though.” She holds Mere Christianity up.
“I found my way back to God in the ward. For a while I was worried it was religious mania. But it’s not, really.
It’s a source of strength. A compass that points to love.
When I’m running empty, He’s there, extending me. ”
“I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me,” I say. That was drilled into us in school.
“Exactly,” she says. “I know it’s not exactly popular to be a believer these days.
And for good reason. So many religious people are—well, they’re terrible.
There’s that saying that goes—there’s no hate like Christian love.
” She shakes her head. “But I guess that’s just the thing.
God’s love is different from Christian love.
And it’s given me peace. There’s still a lot of shit I have to sort through, but I’m not despairing anymore.
That has to count for something, right?”
“Of course it does.”
“At the same time, part of me wishes I didn’t apologize to Jaime, though,” she admits sheepishly. “He’s such an ass. I mean, seriously—he puts my hand on his bulge and has the nerve to act like I was the one initiating.”
I laugh, despite the anger that boils inside me.
Fucking Jaime. Selfishly, I’m happy to hear it.
I should’ve known he was lying. That fucking prick.
“I never liked him,” I say. And knowing he’d taken advantage of Isabel like that?
I could punch his face in. But hadn’t you taken advantage of her, drawing her without her consent?
Is it as bad if I never exhibited it? I grapple with my own guilt under the surface.
I need to get rid of those drawings, but something in me refuses to.
“No?”
“No,” I repeat. “He’s a prick. I think you should just sit by me all the time. Steer clear of him. Let me run interference. Next time he asks you for a walk, I’ll be like—sorry, asked her to, uh, scratch my back right now.”
She laughs.
“Well, I think he’s taken good care of that,” Isabel answers. “He hasn’t said a word to me since he kicked up a fuss in the gym the other morning.”
“Still.” I shrug. It’s selfish of me to want these nights to bleed into our days and I know it.
I can’t bring myself to care, though; she doesn’t like Jaime, which means there’s still a chance she could like me.
I’ve made it clear that I have no feelings for Natalia.
And if there’s anything I learned from surrendering to my muse and painting Isabel, it’s that it’s useless to deny my own feelings and my own desires.
They come out on top again and again anyway.
I like Isabel Martinez, and I’ve liked her even before I met her. Sue me.