4. Isabel
4
ISABEL
T he few blocks that I checked out last night seemed so different in the daylight. I hadn’t gotten a drink after all, too intimidated by the crowds of people in the bars, clubs, and touristy venues. Sometimes, it felt good to slip into a mob of people, anonymous and untraceable among many. There was a strange sense of community in jam-packed places like that. A reminder that within the diversity of ages, genders, shapes, and sizes, we were, at the core, all the same. When we were six feet under, we would all look identical, but in life, we had the color and vibrance of our uniqueness to merge and mesh and blend into something that was never static, never stable.
Always changing.
That was how I liked my life, never stationary or locked in an immobile situation. The resistance to putting down roots made the most sense for my lifestyle, and it was what I was most comfortable with.
However, sometimes, the opposite hit me. On rare occasions, I was swept away with an indescribable sense of being lost, some weird version of homesickness.
It was what dragged on me this morning, but like every other time I felt this loss, this sensation of not fitting in anywhere when I preferred a more nomadic and versatile life, I assumed it was loneliness.
I walked along a sidewalk, mindlessly taking in the local scene. Palm trees offered some shade, but it wasn’t that hot, anyway. It was a mild, pleasant day that didn’t make me sweat and prevented me from a chill. But that matched my mood, too. I felt mild, almost apathetic and disinterested in the usual old sight-seeing that I was attempting to get excited for.
I wasn’t feeling the vacation vibe. I wasn’t smiling and content with the conviction that I was living my life to the fullest.
If I were being honest with myself, I’d admit that I wanted to just go home.
Pausing at a storefront window, I roved my gaze over the odds and ends of locally made jewelry. It looked identical to the gimmicky stuff that was for sale at damn near every “local” shop or boutique.
What would going home do?
I’d taken this trip for a change of scenery, and giving up on it to fly back to San Diego wouldn’t solve anything. The simple apartment I called “home” was nothing more than a landing pad. In between my commissions and active job sites, I went there. It served no other purpose than to be a place to sleep and store my supplies. Whenever I started a new mural, I found a hotel or rental and called it a temporary home away from home.
Who am I kidding? What if what they say is right? That home isn’t a place but the people you share your life with?
I hoped that wasn’t true. Because I shared my life with no one at all. Part of that was due to habit, but a bigger part of it was due to not knowing what I was looking for in a partner. All I knew was that I hadn’t found him yet.
I may as well just go. It was early days yet, only the very first day of my vacation, but I couldn’t see how my attitude would turn around. Everywhere I looked, I saw all the signs of others being together. Families. Couples. All together and so opposite me—a single loner.
If I gave up on this harebrained idea to enjoy a change of scenery, it wouldn’t be to mope and brood at my apartment by myself. Spending Christmas there would be downright depressing, and I didn’t need that negativity in my life.
I could start that commission in Tampa, though…
My career as a mural artist was an interesting one, and I appreciated that it gave me the opportunity to always be on the move. Since my medium wasn’t a movable item to sell, the pay I received matched the level of complexity of what I had to paint. Private residences paid the most. It wasn’t everyday that a homeowner could commit to an image on their walls forever. My clientele ran more in the public than private sectors of life. Not-for-profit organizations were my number-one source of commissions, and that was done on purpose. I liked the idea that my artwork could better pitch the mission that organizations wanted to stand behind. Animal shelters, churches, homeless centers, halfway houses for women, orphanages, and libraries. Those were the usual groups that wanted to hire me.
I was overbooked, but if I wanted to, I could call that one gallery owner back. Located in Tampa, she wanted a new look for the outside of her contemporary arts gallery since the building next to it had been torn down and the facade was now visible from the street.
Private commissions were fine. They paid the most. But the non-profits were where I felt the most passion. It was my way of giving back.
“Give it another day,” I muttered as I walked toward the local art museum.
As was my routine, I headed to the epicenter of artwork. Every city and new location I traveled to—for work and the rare times I carved out a period of vacationing—I checked out the art. Of course, I did. I was an artist. It was my love language.
Yet this time, as I ambled through the many galleries and wings of not one but a couple of museums, I didn’t experience that closeness to the paintings or sculptures collected and on display. Fitting in with the other visitors checking out the pieces here, I remained aloof.
Untouched.
Alone.
I had to snap out of this funk!
I couldn’t explain this weird hunch that something was wrong.
With me.
Something bothered me, and I worried that if I couldn’t shake it off, I’d leave.
Hoping my line of business could speak to me, that I would feel more like myself and not obsessed with feeling like I was stuck, I walked a few more blocks to the site where a mural tour would begin. I was already familiar with the name of a couple of the artists who’d done murals in this area. We mural painters were a selective bunch. In the art realm, it really was a case of it being a small world, after all.
Still, I sat on the double-decker bus and smiled at the warmth of sunshine on my cheeks.
Then I felt it. It came back again, that odd sensation I couldn’t ignore.
That strange clutch of my stomach as it tensed.
I furrowed my brow as a cloud passed in front of the sun, robbing me of the warmth that had brightened my spirits for a moment.
Shit.
I had been so stuck in my head, depressed and feeling listless, that I hadn’t realized this was nothing but paranoia, a familiar fear and worry that I’d lived through before.
Someone’s been watching me.
That was what it was. That was what was bugging me in the back of my mind. This sixth sense of feeling someone’s attention on me from afar, yet too close for comfort.
No. That’s nonsense.
No one could be interested in watching me. I was a loner, an artist on a vacation of one. I wasn’t anyone special.
That dismissal didn’t stick, though, because I was once seen as someone of importance. I’d dealt with the fear of someone coming after me for no other reason than the fact that I was my father’s daughter. Louis Flores never cared about making friends, only pawns and enemies.
He was touted as a successful businessman with a wide portfolio of wealth, but I knew otherwise. My father was a grifter. A conman. A crook, only dressed better than most.
It’s impossible.
I filed for emancipation and left my father’s house seven years ago. From that day on, I cut off all ties to him. I went full no-contact, severing any and all associations with him when I struck out on my own, got a new number, and went to college.
I hadn’t seen him in forever. I hadn’t spoken to him in years.
Yet, he was the first and only reason I could be followed now.
My life was simple and unassuming, just the way I liked it. No one could want anything from me, no beef to settle with me—but there would always be someone who’d have an issue to take up with him.
But I’ve been so careful.
The whole mural and outdoor art tour passed by in a blur. So stuck on this feeling of being watched—of being followed, too—I went to lunch at a bistro area and tried to scan my surroundings.
Here, in the middle of so many, it would be noticeable if someone tried to take me or hurt me.
I am not his daughter anymore. I hadn’t gone so far as to change my name, but I was nothing to Louis Flores. He hadn’t ever tried to contact me, and I would never reach out to him.
My mother’s reply to my call stung. It hurt for her to so cleanly reject me as my father’s child. Not hers. She was so stubborn to believe that all the evil and wrongdoing my father did was an instant reflection on who I was as a person.
It wasn’t true. I was nothing like Louis Flores, and I never would be. I wanted no part of his huge empire, a cent of his vast wealth, and definitely no connection to him as a relative.
There was no lost love between us.
Yet, someone thought to follow me.
“More water?” the waiter asked as he stopped at my table.
I tucked my hair back over my shoulder and shook my head. “No. No, thanks.”
Three times now, he’d come to ask me if I wanted any more water, and each time, I said no, sipping slowly and not letting him guilt me into going and freeing up the table. I’d tip him well. I just needed more time to decide what to do about this development.
What do I do now, though?
It was already on my mind to go home and give up on this solo vacation. After realizing someone was watching and following me, though, I viewed this as logically as I could.
Being watched necessitated staying on the move.
Going back to my hotel was out of the question. Because over my light lunch, I thought back through the day and pinpointed when I’d started to feel off. When I assumed I was too idle and thinking too much, I figured that was why my thoughts headed to depressing things like loneliness and never fitting in. That had begun in the morning, though, when I left my hotel.
All day long, as I walked along the sidewalks and played the part of a sightseer, I had been feeling that sixth sense without realizing it. I had turned that survivalist mode off, assuming I’d be safe since cutting ties with my father so long ago.
I’d felt that funkiness when I was walking through the museums. It lingered when I walked toward the mural tour’s start point. And then it hit me just as I had taken my seat on the bus.
All. Day. Long.
This wasn’t a case of someone noticing me and taking an interest in a passerby who’d caught their attention. This was a matter of someone following me. Maybe even stalking me.
No. Stop.
I shook my head at the thoughts, fighting to stem them and cease this nonsense.
No one was out to get me. There was no reward to be found in watching me or stalking me. And I’d be damned if I'd let my previous fears and concerns get the better of me now.
You’ve got to stop this.
All this negativity had to stop. Now. Regardless of whether I gave up on this vacation-for-one adventure I wanted to have to ignore the loneliness consuming me, I had to quit this habit of irrationally jumping to conclusions.
It was time to really let loose, to shake things up and purge these dumb ideas.
Going out for a drink last night hadn’t done anything for me.
Maybe it was time to really try.
I eyed the neon signs for a club down the street. It didn’t glow yet as it was too early in the day to be open for business, but I locked my sights on it and planned to hit up a club somewhere and have a good time to get out of my head.