Falling Under (16 page)
“Oooh,” she says. “You think that’ll look good with my eyes?”
“Absolutely. I’ll buy some leather string and make it for you tonight.”
“Cool. About this Caleb guy though.. .”
“Listen, artists have always had apprentices, and many great artists started out as apprentices too. That’s what I’m doing, apprenticing. It’s totally normal.”
She sighs and shakes her head.
“So you paint?” Caleb asks you one morning in the second week of your apprenticeship.
“Yeah.”
“What?” He’s talking without looking up from his work, but at least he’s talking.
“Just... so far whatever they ask us to in Art—a bit of everything. Mostly I like painting and drawing.”
“You any good?”
You consider this question for a long time.
“Compared to the other people in my class I am, but it’s only high school. So no, not really. Not yet.”
He looks at you for a moment. “Hm,” he says.
You’re dying for him to take a look at your work, but you’re afraid to ask and afraid of what he might say. He’s blunt and it could hurt.
“I’ve been imagining what you’re painting as you go, since you won’t let me see it,” you say. “And then later when I get home at night I paint what I’ve been imag- ining.”
He laughs. “Come look then.”
You uncurl from your chair and walk over. This deviation from the set routine feels odd, but it’s progress. He steps back as you move in front of the easel and look.
It’s different from his previous work. From what you’ve seen, he usually does portraits.
This is a lake... just a lake.
A half-frozen lake in silvers and grays, surrounded by pine trees and the shells of falling-down houses. The longer you look at it, the further you’re drawn in. It’s not
just
a lake, it’s a bleak, beautiful, haunting lake.
“How do you do that without having it in front of you?
How do you get all those details?” you ask.
He taps his temple and then his heart. “Got it here,” he says. “What do you think of it?”
You turn toward him, finding him unnervingly close and somehow taller. Except to pass you a coffee in the morning, he has not come within three feet of you.
“Nice,” you say, “not bad.”
And then walk away and back to your chair. “What were you imagining?” he asks, eyes narrow. “Something else,” you say.
“What do you want from me, Sixteen?”
“I told you already, I want to paint like you.” He steps out from behind the easel.
“Not possible,” he says.
“Apprentices did it with the Old Masters. People do it.”
He shakes his head and rubs his hands on his jeans, still looking at you.
“Bring something,” he says. “Bring something tomorrow.” You duck your head to hide your smile.
6
You’re not smiling when you arrive the next day with two scrapbooks and a large canvas—you’re sweating and nervous as hell.
Caleb opens the door, glances down and then lets you in- side.You lean your stuff on the wall by the door and perch on a stool while he makes the coffee.
Oh God, you might throw up. If Caleb says you have no talent, you’ll have no purpose in life.
He hands you your coffee, and you see him notice your hand shaking. He smiles.
“Okay,” he says, “let’s see.”
He walks over, picks up one of the sketchbooks and starts flipping through. It takes about five seconds. He puts it down and picks up the other. You try to breathe quietly. Five seconds and then he is pulling the garbage bags off your canvas, propping it back against the wall and stepping back to look.
He grunts and then runs a hand through his shaggy black hair. He shakes his head.
“You want to learn to paint like me?” “Yes.”
“You can’t.”
Oh fuck. Oh no.
“There are things you can learn, but you gotta paint like yourself. This is okay,” he points to the canvas, “but it’s im- itation. Imitation is crap, it’s bullshit. Your sketches aren’t bad though.”
“Do you think I have . . .” you swallow, “talent?”
He hooks thumbs in his belt loops and shakes his head. “Lots of people have talent,” he says. “You have to work.”
It’s not exactly the highest praise, but you feel a vast relief.
“Come on,” he says, “let’s get to work.”
S
aying good-bye to Erik leaves me fragile and I stay home for the rest of the weekend, but Monday morning arrives with new canvases from Loomis and I figure if I can deal with Erik, I should be ready to face the studio and whatever is behind the door.
Time to be brave.
It takes me until Tuesday.
6 a.m.: hand to doorknob, turn, push, enter studio. Yep, it’s wild.
And scary.
Even at the height of my “extravagant” phase, I never painted anything this reckless or chaotic. It’s an outrageous mess of color and texture, mostly abstract, but with jarring little pockets of realism. The strands and clumps of hair are truly disturbing and the whole thing feels overly personal.
Lucas would have liked it, but it makes me wince.
I roll my shoulders and get to work, moving all six pieces to lean on the far wall, facing backward. I can’t look at them and maintain any kind of focus.
I trudge to my front hall, carry my new supplies back to the studio, mix colors, and sit down to work.
What’ll it be?
I get a vision of bubbles—big, soapy bubbles, like the kind the kids across the road played with when I was six. Bubbles are circles and circles are symmetrical and I will put the whole hair-painting event behind me.
Blues and whites then, and maybe some silver ...I begin. I surface at 4 p.m. and realize I haven’t eaten, haven’t even touched the coffee that’s sitting, now cold, to my right. I’ve also barely covered a corner of the canvas, and at this rate it’ll be spring before I do. Nevertheless, I stop for the
day and go inside to check my messages and e-mails.
Hugo has e-mailed. “Our first date?” is the subject line and the text says:
“I love ‘not dating’ you. When can we ‘not date’ again? Can we also ‘not kiss’ again in the front seat of my car? And maybe ‘not’ do a few other things? Seriously, can’t meet tonight, but can I ‘not’ make you dinner and ‘not’ introduce you to Pollock this weekend? Maybe Friday?
Yours truly, Not me.”
I reply:
“Let’s definitely not.”
And smile for at least ten minutes before worry sets in. Introducing me to his dog—that’s serious. Making din-
ner is serious.
And we’ll be alone again, alone in his apartment. My erogenous zones hum at the thought, but of course it’s not that simple.
Logically, there could be someone normal out there who will stick by me no matter how screwed up I may be some- times, and people get more than one chance at love, and we are not doomed to repeat our mistakes, or the mistakes of our parents, or to linger forever in a half-life filled with guilt and grief and fear.
We are not. I am not.
I don’t have to be.
Alone in my bedroom, I purse my lips and let out a long breath.
All of this is true. So what do I do about the fact that I’m walking around convinced that the sky is going to fall? Is it shrink time again?
No.
No, I can deal with this myself, heal myself, take action.
Because if I want a life, if I want Hugo (and I DO!) it’s time to get my shit together.
So what’s the plan?
For starters...I will go out alone.
Every day I’ll go somewhere new. When the fears crash down on me, I will breathe deeply and—I wrack my brain for advice from Dr. Phil, Oprah, anybody!—I’ll breathe deeply and wait. I’ll just stop and wait. Or take a book and stop and read.
I’ll tell Bernadette the full extent of my leaving-the-house problem.
I’ll be honest with Hugo... mostly. I’ll stay away from Erik.
I’ll...
I bite my lip and shut my eyes. I can do this. I will let go of Lucas. Somehow.
Deep breath.
Ten counts in, ten counts out. Repeat. Five in, ten out. Repeat.
6 p.m.: microwave frozen dinner and eat. 7 p.m.: leave message for Bernadette.
7:01: pick up phone to call Hugo, then put it down.
Needy. Too needy.
7:04: check e-mail again.
7:05: sit on floor in front of closet. 7:10: still sitting.
7:11: listen to traffic.
7:12: reach hand toward box filled with letters and photos. 7:13: chicken out, close closet door, walk away.
7:15: put on shoes and coat. 7:16: walk out front door.
Nothing like fearing something inside to get me outside. I walk up to the Danforth and turn left. Looking down,
afraid of faces, I see my feet. My feet and the sidewalk and the occasional dog, which makes me think of Hugo, which makes me want to turn around and go home to see if he’s e-mailed back. Or walk all the way to his place and strip his clothes off and strip my clothes off and run my hands over his shoulders and belly and legs, and let him tickle my skin with his curls and nibble my shoulder and grip my hips and take me to his bedroom and do slippery hot things to me all night long.
But I would have to cross the Bloor viaduct and there are hundreds of people who have jumped from it, smashed their heads open like pumpkins on the highway below. There was that guy who threw his four-year-old over and then jumped after her.
Horrible.
There could be someone there now, ready to jump, even though they put that wall of cable up to try to stop the sui- cides. Could I talk them down? Or would I make things worse and then have to watch them fall and then maybe lose my balance, one hand trying to hold on, losing my grip, hanging, sliding, flying, falling...
Stop!
Stop it right now, Mara. I try inhaling, exhaling.
Thinking. What was it I was going to do?
Read a book? Forgot to bring one. Breathe. Yes. Look around. Right. Okay. No heads smashed on concrete. Only cafés and furniture stores, people hustling about.
I am not on the Bloor viaduct watching anyone plunge to their death. I am not plunging to my own death. I’m panting and sweating, but I am free and safe for the moment. I can go to the bookstore, buy myself dinner, rent a movie, draw murals on the sidewalk, skip...
Oh, sure, skipping is a great option. Lots of people
skip
on the streets of Toronto.
Ha. There, I’ve made myself laugh. Whew.
Now what?
I promised myself an hour outside the house, but what do people do?
People shop. Walk their dogs. Have dinner. Take yoga classes and boxing classes and spinning classes. They sit on patios, even in the brisk fall weather, and play chess. Talk on cell phones, jog, read the paper, drink coffee, drink martinis, drink green tea, wheatgrass, soy milk, rice milk, almond milk. They smoke outside. Go to movies. Get involved, get stressed. They stand on corners and talk to each other, or talk to themselves, or talk to people who don’t want to talk to them.
“Spare change, miss?”
They beg for money from strangers.
“No, sorry,” I say to the woman huddling by a planter box filled with purple and white icicle pansies. I step past her, but I look at her. I don’t avert my eyes because I read somewhere that the worst thing for homeless people (aside from being homeless) is that they begin to feel invisible. So I look and try to smile.
“Have a nice day, cunt,” she says.
“Thanks, you too,” I say out of reflex, and keep walking. Holy shit.
It’s not funny, but I want to laugh. I could laugh and cry too.
Jeez, I need to go home and stay there. I need to do
something
.
I duck into a store and buy every newspaper they have— one of each. I add four candy bars and an art magazine and put it all on debit. I take out some cash and plan to give it to
the hostile woman outside, but when I get back out on the street she’s gone.
I look at my watch.
I’ve been out for twenty minutes.
6
Three weeks.
You’ve memorized his face and body, learned his gestures, looked at his work. You’ve brought your own paints and canvas and work as he works, but he makes no comment, shares no wisdom. You silently will him to give you more.
He doesn’t.
It might take something different.
One morning you stare at his back as he makes coffee. His shoulders are wide, almost like he’s wearing football pads, and he holds the right one higher than the left. He has nice proportions, a good body, if a little skinny in places and a little soft in others.
“Caleb?”
“Yo,” he says without turning around. “You have a girlfriend?”
Now he turns. His eyes meet yours for a moment before he looks away.
“No,” he says. “Boyfriend?”
At this he gives a short, sharp laugh. “No.”
You lean forward with your elbow on the counter and your chin in your hand. His back is to you again. You watch his body for clues. He takes an apple from a bowl and begins to slice it.
“You know, I’m legal,” you say as the knife slides toward the core of the apple and then straight through without pausing.
He turns the apple so it rests on its flat, cut side and gets ready to slice again.
“Legal for what?” “You know.”
He puts the knife down and you see the muscles of his shoulders tensing.
“No, I don’t know.” “Figure it out,” you say.
You slide off your stool and walk up beside him. You pour yourself a mug of the fresh coffee, then reach out and take some of the apple from the cutting board.
“Thanks,” you say, and turn and walk down the hall to the studio. You can barely breathe and you feel like you’re going to pee your pants, but you take a careful bite of your apple, chew, swallow, put your coffee down and then begin to work.
All morning, you can’t look at him. You feel him trying not to look at you. You paint nothing but lines—squiggly, curly, tangling lines.
As you’re leaving for the day he says, “I won’t be here tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Uh, I have a...I have something...I won’t be here,” he says.
You feel your cheeks burning and you look down at your hands so you don’t have to meet his eyes.