Chapter 16
I wish I could step through a doorway into the memory of the last time I saw my father before he left. I would use the opportunity to look for signs, clues, smoke signals. Anything that might’ve hinted at his decision to go. But when I try to comb through the details, the memories blend together until I’m not even sure if I’m remembering the right film we saw or the flavor of ice cream in my cone. To my twelve-year-old self, everything about that day had seemed normal.
What I do remember is the look of relief on my mother’s face when I walked in the door, as if she had half expected to never see me again. Knowing what I know now, I wonder if my father ever considered running away with me.
Sometimes I imagine how differently my life would’ve unfolded if he had. Would we have circled the globe ten times only to find ourselves at a similar crossroads between Maddox and my mother?
Part of me thinks this was all inevitable. Stolen from my mother or abandoned by my father, the outcome would’ve been the same: a life shrouded in secrets and lies; the frantic search for the disparate parts of myself.
All roads converging on this exact moment, six years later, in my father’s studio.
“Hello, Paige.” My mother clutched a shopping bag in front of her like a talisman, protection from some invisible harm. She caught sight of Maddox. “What is he doing here?”
Maddox rose from the futon and straightened his suit jacket. “Nice to see you, too, Charlotte.”
She looked to my father. “I said I wished to speak with my daughter alone.”
“You can talk out in the hall,” he said. “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”
“Is there some reason we can’t talk in here?”
My father’s gaze flickered to his work in progress. Thankfully, only the back of the canvas was visible from this side of the studio. “Maddox and I have a few things to discuss. In private.”
“That’s all right, Henry.” Maddox lobbed a smirk in my direction and strutted toward the door. “You and I can talk any old place. Let Paige show Charlotte what y’all have been working on.”
My mother stood ramrod-straight, forcing Maddox to walk around her on his way out. My own spine felt about as sturdy as dried spaghetti in comparison. My father lingered in the doorway, his expression guarded.
“I’ll be in the apartment if you need anything,” he said.
“You didn’t answer my question, Henry. What is Maddox doing here?”
He shrugged. “It’s a party. Everyone’s invited. Even you, apparently.”
“Right.” Her laughter fell flat. “I’m sure my invitation just got lost in the mail.”
My father glanced at me one last time and then left, shutting the door. My mother and I assessed each other in the resulting silence. She was wearing the pink scarf I’d given her last Mother’s Day over a striped dress that emphasized her waifish figure. Her eyes appeared sunken like she hadn’t slept in days. I wondered if she had stopped eating, and if I asked her, would she tell me the truth.
“Have you been crying, Paige?”
I sucked in a loud breath through my nose. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
In truth, I was still reeling from the spanking Maddox had given me, confused as to how I felt about what he’d done versus what he’d asked me to let him do. Clearly, he and my father had some sort of arrangement with Kristin, an arrangement Maddox incorrectly assumed extended to me. However, now was hardly the time to unpack those feelings. My mother was watching; I needed to stay alert.
“What are you doing here, Mom?”
“You won’t return my calls, so I figured I’d come see you. Don’t worry, I won’t be staying long.” She looked me over with a small, sad smile. “Is that a new dress?”
I nodded.
“It’s nice. You look good.”
“Thanks.”
My mother set her purse and the shopping bag on the floor and opened her arms to me. I remained rooted in place, not wanting to be touched, afraid she could read the truth on my skin like Braille. Eventually, she gave up, her smile tightening into a wince as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear—hair the same color and thickness as mine, only shorter.
Guilt rapped its knuckles on the back door of my heart. I pinched the inside of my wrist, both as penance for treating her coldly and to distract myself.
“Do you want to show me what you’ve been working on?” she asked.
It seemed like a safe enough way to fill the silence. Besides, if she saw how well I was doing and how hard I’d been working to improve as an artist, she would realize there was no need to worry, and leave us alone.
“Okay.”
Thankfully, I didn’t have to go far to gather my sketchbooks. My mother sidled up to the workbench, and I laid my drawings out for her perusal. She fingered the pages with care, her gaze drifting over depictions of clouds and body parts and cityscapes.
“These are lovely.” She lingered over a series of sketches featuring my father’s hands holding and manipulating various objects: paintbrushes, bedsheets, flowers, my feet. “This is Henry?”
“Yeah,” I said. Apparently time and wear and tear in the studio hadn’t altered his hands so as to make them unrecognizable. I was glad I knew better than to store the drawings of his cock with my regular work.
My mother cleared her throat but said nothing in response. You could have filled volumes of empty pages with everything she’d left unsaid. Grimacing, she rose from the stool and pressed a hand to her stomach.
Finally, I had to ask, “When was the last time you ate?”
She breathed through what appeared to be an intense abdominal cramp. “I had a coffee this morning.”
I clenched my teeth. So, this was how she was going to punish me for not staying in touch. By refusing to take care of herself. “I’ll get you something from the apartment?—”
“No,” she snapped. Then, more calmly, “I have a granola bar in my bag.”
Hands shaking with frustration, I snatched her purse from the floor and rifled through it until I came across a fruit and nut bar, which I passed to her. My mother took her time opening the package, and even more time forcing herself to take a bite.
Her gaze flitted about the studio as she chewed. I counted my breaths. One. Don’t see the painting. Two. Don’t ask what he’s been working on?—
“Is that Henry’s newest piece?” She pointed to the back of the large canvas by the window. The one that, on its front, depicted her teenage daughter masturbating with no clothes on.
“It’s not finished,” I said, trying to sound detached. “He doesn’t want anyone to see it yet.”
She took a few steps toward the painting. My heart kicked against my sternum like a horse. I followed her, trying to grab ahold of her hand before she reached the easel.
“He doesn’t like people to see his work before it’s done,” I said.
She tugged free from my grasp and continued on, determined. Short of physically restraining her, there was no way to stop my mother from seeing the painting. I hugged myself as a bolt of panic ripped through me like lightning. Bile washed the back of my throat. If she saw it, if she assumed the truth and confronted me about what we’d done…I was going to lose it.
My mother rounded the easel and then abruptly stopped. She cupped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. No.”
The look of horror and disgust on her face made my stomach coil in on itself.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, though I had a feeling it was exactly what she thought.
“Paige, this is obscene!”
If my body were a house, she’d be the tornado blowing the roof off its frame and tearing the doors from their hinges. “His model called in sick. I offered to take her place.”
“And he let you?” Her voice was pure agony. The sound of it made my stomach cramp, like an infant wailing after hearing its mother’s screams. Tears streamed down her face. “I knew this would happen. I knew it.”
“Knew what would happen?”
My mother wiped her cheeks and turned to the window as if she couldn’t stand to look at either version of me. “There’s a term for it. Genetic sexual attraction. It’s when blood relatives meet for the first time as adults and there’s an overwhelming sexual magnetism between them. I had hoped that since you had memories of Henry from when you were little, it couldn’t happen. Clearly, I was wrong.”
“Mom, that’s crazy. What you’re suggesting is crazy.” Even now, I was still desperately clinging to the hope that I could spin this, that I could somehow convince her the painting was the extent of our physical relationship.
“Just tell me the truth, Paige. Has he fucked you?”
I nearly burst into giggles at the realization that my father’s restraint—infuriating as it was—had inadvertently saved me the burden of lying.
“No, he hasn’t.” I wasn’t sure if she believed me but asking would only undermine my insistence.
She made her way back to the workbench, giving the futon a wide berth as if its presence alone was enough to make her sick. She cried silently for over a minute, then rubbed her eyes and said, “If I had known keeping you apart would only drive you closer together, I’m not sure I would’ve done it. But I couldn’t risk him hurting you.”
I moved around to the opposite side of the workbench. “You’re saying you made him leave?”
“He didn’t tell you?” She choked out a laugh. “Of course, he didn’t tell you.”
“Well, someone had better tell me, because I am sick of being kept in the dark about my own childhood.”
I sat on the stool across from her and waited. I waited a long time. Finally, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and met my gaze.
“Yes,” she said. “I made him go.”
Six years’ worth of pain and anger lodged in my throat. I squeaked, “Why?”
“To protect you.”
“Protect me from what? He’s my father.”
She reached under the table and pulled out the shopping bag. “See for yourself.”