Just Like Heaven (22 page)

Undeterred, Tyler said
to Nina
, “
Darlin’, you got a future in pictures, not music.”

The picture froze on Tyler’s excited expression while Lopez gave Nina an empathetic look.

Mei Lee
turned to her. “You’re just not cut out for singing in public.”

“But I’d be amazing in the studio. I know it. If Kelly Clarkson heard my lyrics, she’d want them for herself.”

“And do a better job at
the microphone than you.”

“W
ell, she’s special,” Nina said
.

“
The same could be said of
Carrie Underwood.”

“Well, there are exceptions.”

“Adele. Beyonce. Rihanna.”

“
I thought you were supposed to be supportive
?
”

“Whe
n
you’re on
e
arth
? Yes. In heaven? Not so much
.”

“I have poor taste in selecting parents, men, and
now
spirit guides…But I
have these feelings inside that I can’
t get out any other way.”

“
Why did you want to sing
if you have a
fear of the spotlight?
”

Nick pretended to examine the canvas like he saw something that no one else did, that the blank slate spoke to him in ways that a blank pa
ge spoke to a novelist. H
e couldn’t hi
de the truth from himself. He could not compete with
three of
the greatest artists in history. H
e didn’t deserve to even hold th
e same brushes as these icons.
Yet
,
the crowd behind him expected g
enius to
explode from his spirit
and onto the canvas.

He scanned the crowd, searching for…someone familiar, someone who could calm his nerves. Anxiety swept through him until he finally rested his gaze upon Roland.

He met Nick’s ga
ze with a severe but enthusiastic
and inspirational nod. And Nick didn’t know why, but he felt Roland’s confidence swelling inside him. It felt like he’d just received a shot of adrenaline.
He dabbed the brush in some blue paint and
began the only way he knew how; one stroke at a time.

Within moments, clarity took hold, allowing him the opportunity to follow his
artistic insight
. He didn’t second-guess himself, didn’t agonize whether whatever he wo
rked on could compare
with the three masters around him. He just let his eyes guide his brushstrokes.

Before long, Nick had become so wrapped up in his work that he didn’t see beyond the canvas
; he didn’t even notice
the individuals working a short distance away from him. And as time passed, he felt consumed by
one of the most intimate yet penetrating portraits he had ever complete
d. It seemed as though his soul
, not his mind, guided his vision, and he worked with such rapidity that he couldn’t believe he had finished so quickly. Never before had he finalized a work without making countless mistakes
and
corrections.
It was a
s though in some strange fugue
state, he didn’t even know what he’d created
until he stood back from it to
view it from a distance.

Only then did he realize that Picasso, Monet, and Dali had left their stations. If that weren’t disturbing enough, the crowd on either side of him had vanished. All around him, silence reigned.

The geniuses around him had probably already finished their work, only to take one look at his portrait and chuckle at his unskilled hand. And the crowd, having already seen what would amount to worthless garbage, had already headed out to avoid meeting his eyes and relaying disappointment and pity.

But when Nick backed up, he felt a couple pairs of hands clutch onto him so he wouldn’t fa
ll backwards. He glanc
ed to the left and saw Picasso
eye
ing
his artwork as though trying to decide whether he liked it or hated it
.
Nick took his deliberation as a compliment; since Picasso could dis
tinguish excellence from trash
, Nick was simply glad to see that the master didn’t judge his work as outright crap and dismiss him with a flick of his wrist.

He
looked to his right and saw
Dali, fingering his mustache
while staring at the portrait with wide-eyed intensity, as though he’d fallen into the painting and wanted to merge himself inside it. Once again, Nick regarded this as an endorsement. He couldn’t have been more pleased.

Finally, Monet met Nick’
s gaze and cring
ed,
obviously dismissing the portrait as second-rate, if not worse. But Nick didn’t mind. Seeing Dali’s expression negated Monet’s evaluation.
N
ick turned around to see Roland
clapping and whistling
.
Nick had never seen him
so
...exhilarated.

T
he crowd that had
originally sat behind the three masters now waited expectantly for him to step aside so that they could take in his work. When he did, he heard a collective gasp.
Their faces
beamed
as they applauded.
And although he didn’t recognize any of them, he got the
impression that he knew
some of
them. This realization struck him in the same manner of seeing a
n old
friend while that individual’s name eluded him.

And while he marveled at this unexpected epiphany, he
actually felt the joy and elation in their hearts. It filled him with the most amazing peacefulness that he’d ever experienced. All of the pain he’d experienced in his life, all of the sorrow, all
o
f the doubt, all of the loneliness, all of these emotions had been replaced with a fullness of love and understanding and support that Nick
stood before them mystified and…for the first time since his parents died
, he
no longer felt alone.

Nick felt a hand clap him on the back. Turning, he came upon a hefty man with a dark, well-manicured goatee. He wore a tan suit and revealed a big-hearted smile. Nick stared at him in disbelief.

“It’s breathtaking,” said Thomas Kinkade.

While Nick hadn’t expected the masters to consider his portrait as anything special, he definitely sought out his idol’s opinion. And to
see Kinkade smiling at him while declaring his admiration proved to Nick that, not only had he followed the correct career path, but he had done a valiant job in that professi
on. He had never before felt so
rewarded and accepted and valued.

Kinkade threw an arm around Nick’s shoulder and walked him away from the three masters. “They paint for themselves and the critics. You and me? We paint for ourselves and…” He
extended an arm and swept his hand toward
the crowd. “It took me a while to figure out that you can’t please everyone, nor should you even try.”

Kinkade, who had never earned the respect of artists and critics, had long agonized over this lack of es
teem, while disregarding how
millions of people not af
filiated with the art world
adored
his artistry. This absence of validation attributed to his accidental
overdose of alcohol and Valium, resulting in his death.

“As long as you love your work,” Kinkade said, “and you can pay your bills, you will have enjoyed a successful career.”

Unlike his idol, Nick didn’t want critical acclaim
, but he did want public recognition
. And in the event that he didn’t reach the masses as he’d long hoped, he vowed to remember this moment for the rest of his life and to carry out its wisdom. “I understand.”

“Good luck to you, Nick,” Kinkade said, offering his hand.

Nick took it and shook it profusely. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” A few seconds later, Kinkade’s expression grew a little worried. “Um, Nick?”

“Yes.”

He glanced down at his hand with a gentle smile. “I’m going to need that back.”

“What?” He followed his gaze. “Oh, right.” He released their grip. “Of course. Thank you so much.” After feeling Kinkade slap him on the back again
before walking
away
, Nick turned around.

And t
hat’s when he spotted his brother in the crowd.
Harold’
s smile gleamed and his eyes glittered with pride.

A swell of emotion went through Nick.
Perhaps that’s why he felt so uplifted; he’d someh
ow known that Harold stood in
the crowd.
Maybe brotherhood linked them more profoundly than he’d thought. Of course, this type of connection wouldn’t work on
e
arth
. But in a dream, this type of link seemed not only possible but expected.

A moment later, Harold vanished.

The mass of individuals sta
nding before Nick
blocked
hi
s line of sight.
This time, however, he wouldn’t
let h
is brother get away so easily.
Nick pressed
into the crowd, accepting
s
laps on the back
with a distracted smile. The further he walked into the masses, the more abundant the size of this group seemed to grow. He’d expected to pass a few people and come upon his brother within a few seconds.

When he’d turned around, he saw perhaps five hundred people gathered around him. Despite that staggering estimate, he now figured that figure had double
d
or maybe even tripled. This oddity seemed on par with t
he compact size of the dance club
, only to discover that upon entering it,
the dimensions of that building grew with incomprehensible
swiftness and with disregard to every law of physics.

But he used his imaginati
on to create images on canvas. So w
hy couldn’t he use that
same creativity to bend his dreams
to his desires? Given his high expectations when it came to what he
hoped to accomplish with his artwork and his
subsequent need for acclaim, he shouldn’t
have
be
en
surprised that
a huge crowd had
appear
ed
to lavish him with admiration.

Smiling fa
ces blurred his field of vision, and
a
nxiety swept through him.
He glanced left and right. But he didn’
t see Harold anywhere
. It seemed
fitting that upon finally receiving
the
ad
ulation
he
’d
longed
for
,
h
e all but ignored their praise to focus on finding one of the few people that he cared about; a person he’d let down, a man he’d never trusted until it was too late, a brother he’d loved only
after
losing him.

It seemed his vanity had wrecked his chances for a reunion.

Nick pushed further into the crowd. “Harold!”
Now plagued with the thought that he might once again lose his brother, he rushed forward, forsaking those around him, dismissing the
strangers around him, concentrating only on finding the one person in the crowd that knew him, the one person that mattered.

Unable to locate his brother, Nick spun around to
check
the outskirts of the crowd on either side of him before directing his attention to the spot where he’d first entered the crowd, only to learn that he’d traveled the length of a football field. But he didn’
t
see Harold
anywhere.

What added an element of strangeness to the melancholy of failing to find
his brother
was that he only had himself to blame. If he hadn’t placed so much emphasis on
receiving praise
from others, he could have
reunited with the only person in the world who understood him. Failing that endeavor, Nick felt defeated during the one instant where he’d finally achieved the type of success that had always eluded him. The excitement around him only compounded his disappointment because he had no one to share it with.

Now, he felt closed in, claustrophobic.