Epilogue
A few years later...
Tonight is a big night.
Benjamin Jr. is taking a nap, though he has been a trouper while I get ready for my final The Last Song show. Our nanny, Gertrude, makes him an early dinner and will bring him by the gallery later, once the initial rush dies
down.
Our apartment in Dumbo isn’t anything fancy, but I love it more than I’ve ever loved another home. Ben helped me pick it out
online before he passed away. Despite all the doctors’ predictions, he made it all the way until Benjamin’s birth. He could
barely speak at the end, but he got to hold his son. He looked into his eyes. He witnessed the miracle of his legacy, living
and breathing. And for him, that was enough.
When Benjamin turned one month old, Ben looked at me in bed and scribbled a few lines on his small whiteboard he carried around
his neck.
I’m tired, Harp. I’ve hung on for as long as I can. I’ve met my son. I’ve loved you with all of my heart. And I know you are
both going to have a spectacular life. I’ll see you in the next life.
He kissed me once, went to sleep, and never woke up.
The emotion of that day still takes my breath away sometimes, but I am also grateful. I received so much more time with him
than I ever thought possible. I am lucky. Benjamin Jr. is lucky. We are all lucky.
Little did I know that my private show of Ben would blow up to sizable proportions and be shown across the country, largely
thanks to Liam’s article and Wren’s connections on every coast.
Once I moved to Dumbo, I marched right to Rita Clementine’s gallery and all but demanded a second chance. Luckily, she’d already
caught wind of the show and dedicated half of her gallery to it, and now, after a year of showing it around the country and
three months at Rita’s gallery, I am retiring Ben’s work and moving on to something new. I’ve been doing guest teaching gigs
at galleries nationwide, and I’m thrilled I’ve found my way back to teaching in some capacity, even if it’s not in a classroom.
Tonight is the last night that these pieces will be displayed, and it is a bittersweet moment for us all. I take my time getting
dressed, creep into Benjamin’s room, and smooth the hair from his sweet face while I watch him sleep.
Memories flood my system: my surprisingly easy pregnancy, the way Ben came alive at being able to help massage my feet or
satisfy my wicked cravings, then holding my hand from his wheelchair while I pushed his son into the world. But he missed
other things: Benjamin’s first smile, his first cuddle, his first steps, his first word ( baba ). Being a mother has rocked me to my core and given me purpose in a way I’ve never known. And getting to raise Ben’s son...
Well, it’s a privilege I don’t take lightly.
I lean forward to stroke his soft cheek. The watch Ben gave me catches the light. I think about the engraving: You’re the only woman who makes me forget about time . The concept of time has changed, stretched, warped, and created some seemingly impossible outcomes, but here I am anyway.
I have survived.
After confirming that Gertrude will bring Benjamin by shortly after the show starts, I walk the short distance to Rita’s gallery.
I pass by Liam’s loft and stop, as I often do, to think about what happened in those sacred dreams of mine. We haven’t kept
in touch, mainly because I blocked his number, though he did fly in for the memorial after Ben’s passing. He offered his condolences,
but that was that. Opening that door again felt too dangerous, though as time has trekked on, I have thought of him often,
hoping he’s well.
Being on my own these last three years has been necessary. I needed to learn to be by myself again. I’ve lived for my art
and my son, and allowed myself ample time to grieve.
Rita is waiting outside for me, and I get the strangest sense of déjà vu as we both step inside. I smile, as I always do,
when I get to see every version of my husband mounted on these walls.
“Excited?” she asks.
“Extremely,” I say. Though we have become friendly these last few months, I still have never asked her what I wanted to ask
her about that night so long ago. I place a hand on her arm, because this is the end of the line for us, and if I don’t ask
now, I probably never will. “Rita,” I say. “I want to ask you something.”
She turns, and I can see the flicker of impatience in her eyes. Rita is nothing if not focused, and I know her mind is on other things. But this is important. This question has haunted me for such a huge chunk of my life, and regardless of the answer, I am ready to know.
“That day I dropped off the painting at your apartment,” I say.
“You mean the day you disappeared,” she corrects.
I open my mouth, then close it. “Well, sure. Technically, yes.” I take a deep breath. “I just need to know. Why wasn’t it
good enough?” Why wasn’t I good enough? Despite how hard I’ve worked on myself, and how far I’ve come, that doubt still lingers, like a fading scar.
To my surprise, Rita scoffs. “My dear Harper, it was good enough. But you left.”
My brain scrambles to think back. The only communication I ever received from Rita was a terse email asking if I had a preferred
address to return the piece to. “But you emailed me,” I explain. “And you said it was a shame it didn’t work out.”
She crosses her arms and really looks at me. “Yes, it was a shame it didn’t work out because you left, Harper. After I told you I’d be in touch, which means ,” she emphasizes, “that you stay and you wait. But then Kendall told me you scurried back to Chicago because of some boy.
And I figured if you left before you even knew what I thought about your work, then you weren’t really serious about the opportunity
in the first place. So.” She flicks her fingers, her heavy rings catching the gallery lights. The explosion of color reminds
me of how the sea glass had caught the light through her window, how much I’d loved that unexpected effect. Yet I never asked
for the piece to be returned because it was too painful a reminder of how I’d let my dreams slip away. Sensing the conversation
is over, she takes a step in the opposite direction, but I stop her.
“But I was serious,” I say now.
“Harper.” She steadies me with her steely gaze and tents her fingers around narrow hips. “I decided long ago that I have a knack for finding talent. But I’m not going to chase someone who isn’t ready for the opportunity.” She motions behind her to the show. “You clearly weren’t ready for it then. But you are now.”
Her words ring in my ears, and though I don’t want to beat a dead horse, I still have to know. “Does that mean you were going to give me a shot?”
It’s the one question I haven’t asked, because I always assumed it was a blatant no. The quick dismissal, never hearing anything
beyond that email, just like I never heard from Liam. I always thought it was a rejection... but now I’m wondering, what
if it wasn’t?
Rita’s blood-red lips curl into the slightest hint of a smile. “Do you know what I thought when I walked into my gallery that
day? When I first saw your piece?”
I’ve waited almost fifteen years for this answer, nearly fifteen years of wanting to know this single piece of feedback. “What?”
My voice comes out a whisper.
“I literally thought, ‘She’s going to be a star.’ You surprised me. I was expecting a simple portrait or some piece of pottery,
but you brought that bridge to life. You brought the girl in it to life. It was magic. I still have it displayed in my home
gallery, in fact.”
“You do not.” The fact that I left Liam and his loft and that painting has never been lost on me. It always felt as though
pieces of me, just like the sea glass, were still here, waiting to be reclaimed.
“I do. And I think you should show it. You should create the show that you intended to back then, but from your perspective now. Because, my dear, you’re not just a visitor here anymore, are you?” She grips my elbow and then disappears as someone calls to her.
I am floored. It seems I wasted years of my life thinking I wasn’t good enough professionally, when really I’d sabotaged my
own success. But perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I wasn’t ready for it then. If my dream had come true, as I saw in that other
life, I might never have married Ben. I never would have had his son. I never would have created this show, which means so
much more to me than any other. Maybe it all worked out just as it should. Maybe now is the right time.
As I contemplate my life with all its twists and turns, I attempt to get myself in the zone. I have a ritual of taking a moment
to talk to Ben before every show. I grip his wedding band, which hangs on a chain around my neck, coupled with mine. I issue
him a quick hello, kiss it once, then step onto the gallery floor.
The show goes off without a hitch. I greet people and answer questions, and I am tired and ready to go home by 8:00 p.m.,
but I know it’s going to be a late night because it’s the last. I wave as Gertrude and Benjamin Jr. rush inside, and I scoop
him up, depositing kisses all over his face.
“Mama, stop!” He giggles. “Listick.” His sweet, husky lisp warms my heart.
“Oh, so sorry, big man,” I say, smearing some of it away. He grips my hand, and I walk him through the show as I always do,
regaling him with stories about his father. Each piece has a particular story. He is only three, but I want to reinforce these
details of his father’s life, keeping him with us, alive in our thoughts and conversation.
As we snake back to the front, Benjamin yawns. I release his hand, and he runs back to Gertrude.
“You two can go on home. No need to stay.”
“But it’s the last show,” she says. “You sure?”
“This little one needs to go to bed, don’t you?” I say, dropping down to tickle Benjamin. He looks so much like Ben as a boy,
and in my deepest moments of grief, I look into his eyes and remember that Ben is still here. He lives on in his son.
I kiss Benjamin goodbye and continue on until the very last person has left the building. Rita and her staff gather around
as we make a final toast, which includes Kendall. It’s odd seeing her again, but it’s been nice to reconnect. As I’m getting
ready to leave, I pull Rita aside. The exhaustion is evident on her face, but I can tell she is proud, satisfied even.
“Thank you for giving me another shot,” I say, shrugging into my coat. “I’ve waited for this a very long time.”
“I know you have. And I believe you’re ready for it this time, yes?”
I consider her question, really take it in. After a beat, I nod. “Yes, I am.”
“Come by anytime, Harper Swanson,” she says. “My door is always open to you.”
For some reason, that hits me in the most vulnerable place, and I clear the emotion from my voice as I tell her goodbye. Outside,
the cool fall air reminds me of my first week here. It still fills me with joy, this place. This moment. I stare up at Rita’s
gallery one more time and begin walking west. I will collect the pieces in the coming days and have to decide where they will
live. But for tonight, I lose myself to my thoughts and take a moment to feel proud of how far I’ve come. I am living in the
place I love, doing what I love, surrounded by love.
I grip Ben’s wedding band again and stop on the street corner. With a small start, I realize I’ve walked toward Liam’s loft. Memories flood my brain faster than I can catch them. My first week here. All that promise. The way I sabotaged my happiness by walking away. My dream life. Sometimes I struggle to remember which parts are real and which aren’t. I glance up to where Liam’s loft is and see soft light pouring in through the window. Does he still live here?
Before I can contemplate what I’m doing, I cross the street and approach his buzzer. I search for his last name, the dingy
scrap of paper that says Hale . It is still there, written in a sloppy, cursive rush. Relief washes through me as I stab the button with nervous hands.
While I wait for his voice on the other end, I wonder if it will be someone else who answers.
During those uncertain few seconds, I think about turning around and running home. But I’ve done so much running in my life.
I’m ready to stand still, to face my life and choices. I’m ready to take this step, to move beyond the what-ifs, to finally
know what we are, even if it hurts, even if it doesn’t work out between us.
“Hello?”
Liam’s voice fills the most defenseless spaces, at once so familiar and also completely new. He is a reminder... of this
place, of what we once were, of what we could have been. Am I really ready to open that door? I close my eyes, open them,
and take a deep breath. Yes, I’m ready. Ready for it all. No matter what it costs.
“It’s Harper.”