Chimera (7 page)

My thoughts drift from her unease as I think about the words coming from her mouth.

“So are you going to do it?” she asks.

“Do what? Oh, the exhibit? Yeah. Ferry and I are committing to an opening in about two months.”

I see the first genuine smile grace her beautiful lips. “That’s awesome. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

We spend the next two hours sitting in that spot, enjoying the sunshine, talking about anything and everything. We talk about the pieces I hope to bring to the gallery, KD, what Ferry might do. We talk about her sculpting, the figure she’s currently working on, and everything in between. The conversation is effortless, but it’s the details that keep me captivated.

As an artist, I see color and light differently than most I imagine. I see the way the sun reflects off her dark hair, changing the color entirely in that one animated space as the rays dance on the strands. I memorize the change in the color of her irises as the sun moves over us—what little I’m able to garner from just above her glasses. I study the shade depth of the bruise on her face and the way it fans out around the edges. Each time I look at her, I mentally snap a picture of a different element—her thick eyelashes, her full lips, her high cheekbones. Michelangelo couldn’t have created a more beautiful woman. I take in the lines of her body, the fullness of her breasts, the curve in her waist, her long, lean legs. She mesmerizes me, not just visually, but the way she talks, the things she says, and the stories she tells.

Every detail seduces me, every facet, every exquisite element.

She gets a text and tells me quickly she needs to get back to the studio. Tension mars her face.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep,” she replies with a terse grin.

Jesus, she’s all over the place today. She never said anything else about what happened to upset her enough to make her cry, and me being a guy, I didn’t push. I guess maybe I should have, but then I would’ve wanted to fix it and she would’ve just wanted to talk about it. That would’ve made me mad because men are fixers. Women are talkers. They don’t need us to fix their problems; they just want to talk it to death. I know, I’m an ass, but if you don’t want a solution, why dissect the issue? When we stop in front of her studio, I want to hug her goodbye, but she jumps out of the car so fast there’s no chance.

“Thanks, Bastian. I enjoyed the afternoon.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before closing the door and turning toward her studio. Dismissing me. I watch her walk in slightly shocked, but completely enamored.

T
he next few
weeks seem to fly by. If I’m not spending time with Sera, I’m painting because she inspired something new in me. I’ve slept less in the last month than I have since college. For years sleep consumed me; I slept to see Sylvie. I miss her visits, but they’re coming less and less frequently. The sandman took hours away from what now dominates my life.

I’ve never produced the amount of work that has come from my brush in the last four weeks. More impressive is the canvases covering my house are brilliant. Never have I felt so strongly about my art. It’s fierce. I have never believed more in what I am doing, but Sera has brought depth and fresh life to each project. My past work has always been nudes—classic nudes, not crude. I never used art as cover to cascade porn on people’s walls. I believe the human form is gorgeous, male or female; I have since I was a small child.

My mother has rudimentary paintings from my early youth, illustrating my love of the human body. At that young age, I only eluded to genitalia, found ways to mask those areas, because other than my own, I had no real knowledge of what they actually looked like. As I discovered their true nature, my painting evolved but never to the extent it does now. The pieces have taken on details that draw the eye in but evoke emotion, the emotion of the woman on the fabric, whether she’s morose, elated, enraptured, pensive…whatever the emotion, the intensity in the color and the range I’ve pulled from my brush is impressive.

Tara has been pressuring me for images of what I have in store for the opening, but I haven’t been able to decide what to send. I’ve debated over and over, one piece for another. Whatever I showcase has to be superb. This is my one shot to reenter the community, and while I feel better than I ever have about my work, that brings an uncertainly that’s unfamiliar. I haven’t allowed anyone in my house since I started painting again, not even Nate. If he comes to my door, I meet him outside, but most nights, we meet somewhere for dinner, so that doesn’t pose a threat. He still gets his daily Bastian fix, reassurance I’m still breathing, and I keep my vault secure.

Today, I’m giving someone else the combination to the lock, baring my soul for criticism in order to receive help with the gallery selection. Sera’s knock on the door startles me. I’m a nervous wreck. Her opinion, criticism, praise, whatever her thoughts are, will define where I go with the opening, or if I back out altogether.

She walks in the door and kisses me on the cheek. “Hey there, Sunshine.” She beams at me.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I kick the door closed. “Hey.”

She rubs her hands together, eager to start, waiting for me to initiate what she came here for.

“They’re all in the spare bedroom. They were all over the house. I moved them so you wouldn’t have to wander from room to room—”

I feel her fingers curl around my forearm before she speaks, stopping me. “Bastian, you’re ready for this. You’re not an amateur. This isn’t your first rodeo. Take a deep breath.” She doesn’t say anything else. Searching my eyes, I see something in hers. Despair maybe. The flecks of amber glimmering in the sea of green speak to me, calling for my attention. But just as quickly as they say my name, they disappear along with whatever emotion she’s hiding. “Show me.”

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I take her to my soul. My chest heaves. I watch her with bated breath, looking for any reaction, any slight indication of what she’s thinking. I see more in the expression on a person’s face when they look at paintings than they can convey in words, but her face is blank. Completely void of emotion. Empty, vacant, there’s nothing. She zeros in on one of my favorites,
Dark Angel
. Done completely in yellows, golds, and hints of orange, she exudes light…the colors alone scream mirth. Her smile is so infectious it could cure even the loneliest heart. It’s not until you look beneath the surface, under the exterior, past the two-dimensional piece on the canvas, that one can see the devastation isn’t superficial. It’s deep, but it’s there. I watch Sera’s back, unable to see her face. Her silence kills me with each second that passes.

When she finally turns around, the eyes looking back at me are those in the painting. The torment is hiding just beneath the surface. Her face seemingly haunted, tears trickle down her cheeks. She identified. She found her windows in the face of my angel. I doubt she recognizes the curve of her neck or the shape of her jaw, but she connected with her all the same. I open my mouth to speak, but her raised hand halts me. Those same delicate fingers make their way to her mouth, covering a sob, which attempts to escape.

She points to the golden woman, nodding her head, croaking out, “This one.” It’s all she can muster. I have no words; I simply indicate my understanding with the nod of my head.

Turning away from me again, she continues through the other images on the floor and walls. She picks four before taking some pictures with my camera. Throughout the process, she doesn’t say anything. She gives me no reason for her choices, makes no comment about the validity of my work. After downloading the pictures to my computer, she emails them to Tara.

She gathers her things, indicating she’s leaving. I’m lost. I don’t know what to say or do. I’m struggling. I don’t know how to do relationships of any kind anymore. Nate comes to
me
. He loves me unconditionally, but I lost all other friendships after Sylvie died. I feel like a teenager learning how to interact with women again.

When she reaches the door, she turns to me. “I’m in awe of you, Bastian. You see beyond the façade of life. Past the synthetic appearance people show the world. It’s what makes you truly great.” With that, she walks out my front door.

Her acceptance of who I am stuns me. Sylvie always loved my work, but I never thought she really saw what I saw in them. I never moved her to tears, but that’s quite possibly because my work didn’t contain the sadness it now does. Sera sees my pain, she recognizes my anguish, accepts the raw reality of what I perceive. I can’t confirm she saw herself in the
Dark Angel
, but she felt the torment of the gilded lady.

There’s a piece of Sera that knows I sense more than she admits, maybe that scares her as much as it terrifies me to know it exists.

W
ith less than twenty
-four hours until the opening, I’m running around trying to put finishing touches on each canvas before delivering them to Tara. Primarily, I’m overthinking ever color, every touch of the knife, every stroke of the brush. I’m torturing myself, questioning my thought process behind doing this to begin with and exposing myself to the public again.

The vulnerability is frightening.

I’ve been back and forth to Ferry’s studio countless times. Photography is a completely different beast than paint—a medium I’d prefer not to work with again. I admit I’ve learned a tremendous amount about the process, but edits, prints, frames…those are not my cup of tea, and neither is signing said prints. Tara had tried to talk us into one hundred signed prints, but I wasn’t comfortable with that number, and Ferry agreed it made them less valuable. We finally agreed on twenty-five. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but numbering and signing each one just seemed a daunting task. They’ll sell in auction-like format—the highest bidder gets number one of twenty-five.

When Tara got the pictures of the pieces I wanted to highlight in the marketing campaign, she sent Ferry over to take print-quality photographs that started the whole process again. I’ve never been on this side of an opening. In the past, I delivered my canvases to the gallery and then showed up on the night of the event—what happened between those two points was a mystery to me and one I wish still remained. There’s a monumental amount of work that goes into the preparation for the actual date, although I doubt she has to do nearly as much preparation with Ferry. She called me yesterday to tell me about the collectors coming, sending my nerves into orbit once again. Five years ago, this all rolled off me, but today, the fear is almost paralyzing.

Nate should be here any minute to help me transport the paintings remaining in my house to the West End Gallery. The knock on the door signals his arrival, but upon opening it, I find the beauty showcased in so many of my latest creations.

“Hey, Sera. What are you doing here?” I ask, opening the door and silently inviting her in.

“I just came by to see if you needed any help. Give you a that-a-boy. Pump you up.”

Instantly, my nerves settle. Having someone believe in me changes everything. It takes me from nervous to excited, reminding me of why I paint. It’s always to evoke emotion from those who view my art. Not only does this woman awaken my desire to hold a brush again, she also reminds me who I am. Or maybe she’s helping me redefine who I can be without Sylvie. Emotion hits me as I realize this will be the first appearance Sylvie hasn’t been with me, by my side, singing my praises.

I stop dead in my tracks, close my eyes, breath deep, swallow the lump in my throat, and fight off the tears that threaten to fall. I don’t catch myself in time. I feel the water slide down my cheeks, and before I know it, there’s an endless stream.

“Bastian, man. What’s wrong?” Nate booms from the entryway.

I shake my head, unable to answer or even open my eyes. The fact is, when I do open my eyes, she still won’t be here. My wife will never see another one of my paintings. She will never attend another opening with me.

She will never again be my champion.

“I don’t know what happened. I just came by to give him encouragement. I know he’s been really nervous and thought it would help to have friends close.” I hear the crack in her voice. She must be thinking my emotion is a result of her showing up.

Nate doesn’t bother correcting her or denying her reasoning. He knows without me saying a word. He’s always in tune with me. “She’ll be there with you, Bastian. Just because you can’t see her doesn’t mean she’s left you.”

We’ve had this conversation more times than I care to admit, and he always reminds me she walks with me. Her spirit, her soul, never leaves my side. It was easier to believe when I saw her every time I slept, in every dream I had, but she never comes to me anymore. She doesn’t comfort me at night. The piece of her I’ve been holding on to for five years is slipping away, just like she did. The sob escapes before I can prevent it, coming out like a bellow of agony. I sink down on my couch and succumb to the anguish her memory brings me. Acknowledging I will never see her again on this side of eternity.

Just as quickly as it started, I stop it. My best friend is not the only witness to this scene, and I likely just scared the shit out of Sera, who probably thinks I’m the biggest pussy to ever walk the face of the earth.

“I need to get down to the West End. Tara’s waiting.”

I grab a load of stuff, walk out the front door, and hear Sera whisper behind me, “What just happened?”

“Sylvie.” I stop to listen just outside the door. “She haunts him. He loved her with a passion most people only read about. When he lost her, it came close to destroying him. This is the closest to living I’ve seen from him in five years. Be patient with him, Sera. He’s just starting to heal. It’s a painful process, and just about everyone in his life gave up hope he’d ever do it.”

I don’t wait for her response because I don’t want to know what she thinks about a weak man who loved a woman so much he hasn’t lived since the day she died. My reaction to her death is a testament to my love for her, and I wouldn’t change any of it. I will mourn her loss until I take my own last breath.

Sera rides with us to the gallery, acting as if nothing took place in my living room. I love listening to her talk; the animation in her voice can make the darkest heart light. Her zest for life, even if it’s just on the outside, is infectious. I find myself smiling at the sound of her voice—not listening to the words, just the highs and lows in her tone. The melody is like sunshine warming my soul. By the time we get to our destination, we’ve all moved on from my issue and are back in the moment, which is a big one for me.

While Nate unloads his truck, I stop to speak with Tara who has come to greet us at the door. She fills me in on the agenda for the evening, reminding me for what seems to be the hundredth time it’s black tie.

“So you don’t want me showing up in Chucks?” I wink as I deliver my jab.

“So help me God, Bastian. If you show up in Chucks, I will kick your ass myself.” She giggles but gives me the look to say, test me. Game on. “Sera, are you coming tonight?”

Holy shit. I never fucking invited her. I’ve had her in my house helping me pick out paintings, taking pictures, hauling shit back and forth, going to the supply store with me, helping me in more ways than I can even count, and I never extended an invitation. Goddamn, my ignorance is limitless.

“Yes, I got my invitation. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Joy radiates from her. I have no idea what invitation she’s referring to, but I need to bow at the feet of whoever sent it. “It’s an honor for me to be considered. There are huge names coming to this showing. Just getting to network with the bigwigs of the art world has me totally pumped. Knowing Bastian and Ferry are the center of that is even better.” She emits genuine happiness.

“Bastian, I got your parents’ confirmation this week as well. They’ll both be in attendance.” Tara informs me.

“What about me? Don’t I get a mention?” Nate pipes up as he walks by carrying more shit.

Tara rolls her eyes in an attempt to seem irritated, but you can’t help but love him. Everyone does. Every woman wants a man like Nate. Before I have a “bro” moment and outwardly express my love, I return to Tara’s mention of my parents.

“Seriously?” I haven’t spoken to either of them in over two years. They didn’t understand the severity of my grief; therefore, when I was unable to “snap” out of it, they refused to continue subjecting themselves to my ongoing misery. They live less than five miles from me, but I’m relegated to the Christmas card list for communication. Their abandonment used to bother me, but I gave up long ago. I gave up trying to hold on to them.

“Yes.” Well, alrighty then. That adds a new dimension to my panic attack. For fuck’s sake, why the hell are they coming?

“Stop overanalyzing, Bastian. Who cares?” Again with the fly-by comments from Nate as he sweeps back and forth from car to gallery.

Sera looks perplexed. “Why did you invite them if you didn’t want them to come?”

“He didn’t, Sera. Tara did. Bastian’s parents haven’t been all that supportive in the last few years. My guess is they saw the mention in the paper and heard about the opening through the grapevine. They are big into being
seen
.” He uses air quotes to highlight the last word. “Good people, but to them, appearances are as important as the actuality of what goes on.”

“I’m sure tonight will be amazing, Bastian. You and Ferry are the talk of the art world, not just here in town but community wide. Between the collectors and other artists attending, I’ll be very surprised if you don’t have a wildly successful night. Now go home and get dressed.” Tara pivots on her fancy heel with the red sole before turning her head to call over her shoulder, “Black tie!”