Chapter 33 #2
“It’s a good omen.” Lucie squeezes me even tighter into her. “The world is cheering us on.”
I want to believe her more than anything. I squeeze her back, and for the first time in my life, I pray. But even as I do, I can’t shake the feeling that this was the easy part.
“To us!” Lucie makes the tenth toast of the night in our hotel suite.
“To us,” Stella joins in through a yawn.
The adrenaline is wearing off and we have an early train to Amsterdam, where we’ll show the paintings to Stella’s team of experts later in the week.
In the meantime, Colette will make preparations to take Stella’s Sunflowers to auction at Sotheby’s.
She plans to meet with someone from the Van Gogh Museum on her own in Amsterdam to talk about its authenticity.
Everything is clicking into place. I should feel incredible, but there’s a strange coiling in my stomach.
I take another sip of champagne to try to unravel the knot, but it only burns my throat.
“I’m going to turn in,” I tell them as I stand.
“Okay, love. Could you call the answering machine at the Fleas House to see if Rock Star called?” Lucie asks. “I can never remember the code to get the messages.”
I pick up the phone and punch in the numbers.
Another message from Matthew telling me he was sad that he missed me before he left, that he’ll return from Japan in a week.
He wishes me a happy new year and asks if we can meet up.
I feel another pang of guilt for not returning his calls.
In the next message our landlord thanks us for the rent checks.
Using some of the money from the sale of the contents of Stella’s safe, we paid him the next three months to keep him at bay.
We’ve also paid all of our tuitions for the next semester.
Stella called it an advance on all our work.
The final message starts with heavy breathing, an unfamiliar American voice. My knees turn to liquid, and I fall to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Lucie crosses the distance between us in a flash, suddenly sober.
When I open my mouth, no words come out. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, but now that it’s here it feels impossible. The room spins and narrows. My skin prickles with cold sweat even as my face burns hot. The stranger’s voice echoes in my ears, drowning out everything else.
“My mother is dead,” I finally manage, the words scraping my throat like broken glass.
All three women are on me. Their arms wrapped around my quaking shoulders, picking me up, getting me onto the couch, letting me dissolve into them.
I feel Colette’s cool hand on my neck, Lucie’s strong fingers gripping my shoulders, Stella’s perfume enveloping me like a protective cloud.
Their touches anchor me to reality when everything inside me wants to float away.
Someone is making a terrible keening sound, and I realize it’s coming from me.
“I have to go to America to officially identify her body.”
“Wasn’t she in a facility?”
“They said she left. Wandered off. They found her on the side of the road.” The words barely make it past my lips.
“You don’t have to go,” Lucie says.
“I wasn’t there when she needed me. I should have gone back last year. I should never have left. I’m a selfish little brat.”
Stella tries to reason with me. “You aren’t, my love.
You needed to live. And she would have wanted that for you if and when she was in her right mind.
It is what all mothers want for their children.
And it is what I want for you. Go back if you must. I can buy you a plane ticket right now.
You will be on the next flight.” I nod into her breast as she holds me tighter to her.
“My visa is almost expired.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just go. You can always fly back as a tourist and we’ll handle it later,” Stella says.
“I’ll have to go back to the apartment. There are documents I’ll need.”
“Go now,” Stella says firmly. “Your ticket will be waiting for you at the airport. We will go on to Amsterdam without you. Reach out whenever you are ready, but also take your time. We have you covered.”
The taxi ride back to our apartment is a blur. I don’t know what I’ll need. I have copies of Mom’s birth certificate, her social security card, her driver’s license, somewhere among my things. How long have I been preparing for this very moment?
I pay the driver with more cash than the fare calls for because I can’t wait for change. Our street is empty, but there’s a hint of sunlight about to break through the horizon. A line from one of Vincent’s letters to Theo comes into my head.
I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day. The morning always wakes us up to the same thoughts and the same dawn that we saw the day before.
If I’d stayed in America, every morning would have been the same, the colors of my life slowly fading every day. And if I’d stayed my mother might still be alive. Both of these things could be true.
The street feels different somehow. Quieter than usual, even for this hour. The vendors who normally set up their stalls in the Fleas before dawn are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps everyone is still enjoying or sleeping off their New Year’s celebrations.
I pause at our building entrance, aware of how exposed I am.
I glance behind me at the empty street, then up at our dark windows.
A cat knocks over a bottle in a nearby alley, the clatter echoing between buildings.
I jump, then laugh nervously at myself. Grief and exhaustion are making me paranoid.
As I fumble for my keys, I hear the footsteps approach from behind me.
I try to spin around, but there’s a sharp crack on the back of my skull and a pain so intense I see a flash of light in front of my eyes and then the outlines of a familiar face before I lose consciousness.