Chapter 35 Lily #2
She shook her head. “I don’t believe in fate as much now.
We all make choices, and sometimes those choices bring us to places we never expect.
Those women made choices to go with that man without any way to know he would make a choice to do something evil.
I’m trying to choose a normal life. You chose to ignore that moron ex-boyfriend of yours, to go your own way.
We never have total control, but we all do our best, right? ”
“I guess so.” We walked along the shore, let the cool waves wash over our bare feet.
“I guess you’ll go back to New York now,” she said.
“Actually, no. I think I’ll stay here, at least for a little while.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I am, but I don’t have a plan to go anywhere. Not really.” A seagull swooped over our heads, and we both flinched. “What about you? You’re being safe, right?”
“The stuff with the men, that’s all over.
But I am leaving. I don’t know how. I actually think Des used my cash to leave town herself.
I haven’t seen her or heard from her in days.
I mean, she goes MIA all the time when she’s on a bender, or when she’s met some new guy, but usually she at least comes home for a change of clothes.
But I can’t wait for her. I’ve got to get out. ”
We were quiet as we walked back to my car.
Clara was still wearing Victoria’s purse.
I didn’t think I could help Clara until we passed the bank.
I pulled over on a side street and told her to wait.
I couldn’t take out more than $1,000 in one withdrawal—it was half of what I’d made so far at the spa.
I had never handled that much cash before, and what overwhelmed me was the scent, that tantalizing, terrible smell of grime and paper and promise.
I hoped it would be enough to hold Clara—Ava—over for a little while.
I handed it to her, told her she could only use it to go.
“I can’t take this, Lily,” she said.
“For once, you’re not taking anything.” She smiled at that. “I wish I could give you more.”
“Are you sure? You might not want to get back to the city now, but maybe in a few months you’ll change your mind.”
“Doubt it. Plus … maybe this is stupid, after everything it almost cost me. But I really want to figure out the story with those paintings.”
“It’s not stupid at all.”
“Any psychic insight you can give me on those?”
“Ha. Nothing, unfortunately. I think you’ve got this one, though.” We were almost at the bus stop. Clara finally put the money in her purse.
“I hope you’re right.” I felt like there was still so much to say between us, but anything I tried to think of felt forced, melodramatic. “And hey. I never said thank you.”
“You don’t have to. I just wish I could have known more sooner.
And I wish I hadn’t said that about Luis.
Whenever I saw him he gave me this feeling, like I always thought he was hiding something, but he must have been in the same boat as me.
He must have seen them somehow and wondered what to do.
Oh, that reminds me.” She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and held out a tarot card.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for another reading, Clara. I’m just going to stick to the here and now, I think. I want to rent a room somewhere here, see if I can show these paintings in town. Simple. Easy.”
“Just take it, okay? It’s the Moon. It stands for the part of yourself that is yet to emerge, for mystery and illusion. The version of events you can’t see just yet. It’s a reminder to connect with your subconscious, to trust yourself.”
I took the card and slid it into the cupholder. “Thanks, Clara. I’ll try my best.”
“You better.” A bus chugged up to the shelter.
“That’s me,” she said.
I leaned across the console to hug her, but I didn’t want to say a real goodbye. “Text me when you know what your plans are, okay?”
“I will,” she said. “Okay, better go.” She waved to me from the line, and her dark hair disappeared behind the tinted windows.
Even after the bus pulled away, I sat in the car for a few minutes, feeling like there was something I could be doing, but not sure what it was.
I thumbed the card. It showed a round yellow moon above a pool of water, a curving path to the horizon, a dog and a wolf raising their heads to howl at the sky.
What illusions was I hanging on to? What was the version of events, the story, that I had yet to see?
Maybe I should go back to the library, talk to Sue again.
But she wouldn’t have anything new to tell me.
I was still stuck on the idea she’d mentioned, that woman, the one who used to come looking for the photos.
I wasn’t ready to give her up. Something about her was relevant, close to all this.
And then I felt it, the knowledge dropped like a stone in my gut.
Luis. Clara had said she felt like Luis had been hiding something. Maybe she had been right about him, but not in the way she thought. It made perfect sense. The grandson. Quiet. Stuck to her side, watching. His last name was Silver. That big, swooping S at the bottom corners of the paintings.
Luis. Of course.
THE BOARDINGHOUSE, Sea Breezes, appeared ready to collapse in on itself. All the porch spindles were broken, and sections of lattice looked like they had been kicked in. I knocked on the door and an old woman answered, her hair a nest of brown-and-gray frizz.
“Is Luis Silver here?”
“Haven’t seen him today. You one of those ladies from the state?”
“From the state?”
“One of those social workers. Don’t know why you bother. His grandmother raised the boy right. Never had any trouble with him at all.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s right. It’s just a routine visit.
” I felt nervous about lying to her, sneaking around on Luis.
But I was worried about what he would do without his job at the spa, and he deserved so much better than this.
I hoped she didn’t notice the way I stammered, the way I flushed, or, God forbid, ask for a business card. “Can I see his room, please?”
“Up there, second door on your right.” She moved aside to give me access to a dark, narrow staircase. I wanted to turn around and drive away, but I felt the tingle of possibility, even as the smell of cat urine stung my eyes.
I knocked once, twice. No answer. I tried the knob and the door was unlocked.
I counted to three, then stepped inside, my eyes shut tight like a kid making a wish.
Would he be angry at me for showing up like this?
What if he wanted to keep the paintings a secret?
It would be an unforgivable intrusion, inserting myself into his home, his work, if he didn’t want me there.
I kept my eyes closed at first, but I could smell the paint. The mellow scent of linseed oil and the chemical tang of turpentine.
When I opened my eyes I had the same stunned feeling I always got before an anxiety attack. But instead of the tightening of my chest, the breathlessness, the clammy skin, I was dumbstruck, then filled with a warm joy.
There were canvases everywhere. They leaned against the wall, three deep.
One was new, set up on an easel: the women, five of them in a single line.
I knew their names now. Amanda, Grace, Julie, Victoria, Georgia.
Emily had still been alive by the time Luis found Clara, when she came to see me at the spa.
Another thing he’d been so desperate to show people, so relatively powerless to make them see.
There was a small pile on the bed: a book of matches, a folded shirt.
Had he been planning on going away? I didn’t know what I would do if he came back to find me in his room, but I couldn’t resist. I started going through the paintings.
There was one of a girl in what looked like a shelter, the kind the state set up during Hurricane Sandy, a Red Cross blanket draped over her shoulders.
Another of a jitney driver eating lunch from a Styrofoam container.
And one that I loved, of a woman praying in front of the steps of an old church.
To her left was a battered rowboat at the center of a plot of earth.
The boat was filled with clusters of faded impatiens and held a molded statue of the Virgin Mary in the middle.
The details were stunning: from the woman’s wooden rosary beads to the flecks of mold on Mary’s veil.
And then I had to rub my eyes, stare at the floor for a minute, afraid that I would look again and the painting would be a mirage.
But there he was, among all the gangsters and the nuns and the bartenders and the go-go dancers, the kids at the schoolyard and the pit bosses and the bodega clerks.
My dad, in one of his ratty union shirts, a fingertip-sized hole at the collar.
That grin like someone had just whispered a fantastic secret in his ear, his hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup, his hair wild and unbrushed, blown around from driving with the windows of his truck rolled down, even in the cold.
I couldn’t help it—I raised my eyes to the ceiling and laughed as I choked down a sob.
I don’t know how long Luis stood in the doorway watching me stare at the painting, feeling as though something precious had been returned to me.
I wanted to tell my mother. I wanted to understand how.
I turned when the floorboards creaked. Luis raised his eyebrows at me and I held out my hands: I’m sorry, then gestured to the paintings—hoping he would understand my awe, my wonder for what he had made.
Wonder. I hadn’t felt it for such a long time.
Luis reached toward the small pile on the bed, moved the shirt aside, setting it down as softly as you might a baby animal, something that could be injured if handled the wrong way.
He picked up something that I couldn’t make out, then reached into his pocket.
He held his palms out to me like an offering.
A folded piece of paper and a two-dollar bill.
Like the one my father had given me. Like the one Matthew had nearly destroyed.
Out of instinct I flipped it to the back, where there was a zigzag of lightning above Ben Franklin’s head, traced in blue pen.The tears caught in my lashes. I unfolded the note. Two words: I SEE.