Easels display oil-pastel renderings and watercolor paintings, along with a few of Mom’s charcoal sketches. Most of the pieces featured are from her Autumn collection, Lincoln’s idea of staying on theme with the current season. He negotiates prices while admirers speak overtly about the tragedy of such a talented artist dying so young.
“What better way to remember Elizabeth than to display and sell her masterpieces at the wake,” he’d said with enthusiasm. “Eclectic art is all the rage now.”
I nodded my consent, but I knew better. Lincoln Cooper couldn’t care less about paying tribute to Mom. He hardly knew her. All he cares about is his big fat commission. And considering he’s priced each painting well beyond what Mom would approve of, I don’t think he’ll have trouble getting what he wants. Sheesh. Maybe this is a cocktail party. Let him have his fun. I only want one painting for myself, along with Mom’s sketchbooks.
The essence of her surrounds me. In every brushstroke and ebony pencil rub. In the scent of canvas. In the crinkle of brown paper as Lincoln unwraps a new piece to replace one he’s just sold. My lower lip quivers, and I suck it in between my teeth. Mom would want me to be brave now, but how can I be? She’ll never again sit on our roof and paint the sun rising over Central Park. Never send me down the block to pick up a new box of pencils from Staples or sketch me while I do my homework.
At once I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating, but no one notices. I can’t be here anymore. I won’t do this. She’s not dead. She can’t be.
Nausea takes over. I cover my mouth with one hand, bolt from the kitchen. My empty stomach lurches, but I welcome the chance to escape. I shove past the mingling art enthusiasts in the sunroom who turn their attention to me for a moment before I enter the bathroom across the hall. Slam, flip, click. Finally having a moment of privacy and solace, I collapse to the floor, clutch my throbbing head in my hands, and cry.
“Mom . . .” Sob. Swipe. Sniff. “Mom, I need you.”
“Beneath winter’s icy sadness lies spring’s blooming joy.”
Mom’s poetic words breeze across my heart. She was always repeating things like this, urging me to remember them, to write them down.
“Not this time, Mom.” Not this time.
Tap, tap.
I jerk my head up. Hold my breath. If I don’t answer, whoever it is will go away eventually.
Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap—
“Occupied,” I call out. “There’s another bathroom—”
“El? Are you in there? It’s me.”
I roll my head back against the door. He’s here? He’s here.
“Come on.” A hint of humor mellows Joshua’s tone. “I brought pizza. I know how much you hate fancy hors d’oeuvres.”
My stomach rumbles. I’ve hardly eaten in days. Still, I can’t bring myself to budge.
“If you don’t come out, I’ll start singing.”
He wouldn’t dare, not with all those people around.
“One . . .”
I stand and push the tears away with my palms.
“Two . . .”
I force myself to look in the mirror, and my heart tumbles to the floor. What did I expect? Crying and mascara streaks would actually help my appearance? I can’t let him see me this way.
Shattered. Broken.
I’ve fallen apart in his presence once, and all it brought was more heartache. Never again.
“Three.”
I glance at the door and wait. One, two heartbeats. Footsteps depart. I sigh. Guess he gave up. It’s for the best. I’m a wreck.
My gaze returns to my reflection. The strange crimson birthmark winds up the right side of my face in creeping, curling tendrils. Like vines choking my skin. Thorns drawing blood in trickles, permanently staining my complexion.
I’m a monster.
I lift a hand and let it hover there. Now I look almost normal. Too bad I can’t walk around this way all the time. Or better yet, wear a paper bag over my head. My only trinket of beauty is the silver treble clef–heart pendant Joshua gave me last spring. The one he made me swear never to take off—a token from a time that will never be again.
I swipe my fingertips beneath my eyelids to extract some of the runny mascara goop. My ombre hair, mocha melting into blonde, hangs in drab sheets to my shoulders. Mom’s idea of something wild for senior year, though it just makes me feel as if I’m trying to be someone I’m not. I comb my fingers through my full bangs, the ones I cut to cover my forehead, to help me blend in. Some birthmark covered is better than none covered at all.
The soft picking of guitar strings breaks the silence. A familiar melody floats under the crack beneath the door, cradles my heart, and lifts it off the ground.
Joshua sings out pure and strong. The chords to “Daydream Believer” are the first he taught me to play—G transitioning into A minor, then B minor to C. I could play the song in my sleep. He’s not being fair.
More notes. Closer. Louder. His dynamic tenor beckons me as it crescendos at the chorus.
I place a palm on the door. A smile surfaces for the first time in a week. In the three years I’ve known Joshua, he’s never once sung in public.
I turn the lock and open the door to a crowd gathered around a boy and his guitar. The boy I love.
No. The realization is a slap in the face. The confession may be internal, for my heart alone, but it’s there. Complicating. Everything.
When he finishes the song, everyone applauds. Once they disperse, trickling from the foyer back into the sunroom, Joshua smiles and shrugs in his boyish way.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say to the floor.
“You asked me not to.”
My head lifts. “And yet here you are.”
He takes a step closer. “Here I am.”
The silence between us is easy. Comfortable. The first bout of normalcy I’ve had since Mom died.
“You didn’t think I’d let you deal with these suits alone, did you?” He hitches his thumb over one shoulder, then lays the guitar against the stairs and crosses the hall, closing the remaining distance between us.
“Thank you.” The words release on a much-needed exhale. Maybe I misunderstood what happened between us the other night.
“Of course.” He smiles and his fingers brush mine. An accident? Aside from the times he had to position my hand on the guitar, Joshua has never initiated physical contact. I search his eyes for some confirmation the touch was intentional.
A throat clears. Joshua shoves the hand that grazed mine into his pocket. The moment, whatever it was, is gone.
An elderly gentleman with a pocket square and a circa-1970s briefcase steps forward, a manila folder tucked beneath his right arm. “Ah, Mr. David. Glad you could make it. I just need your signature on a few more papers.”
Joshua glances between me and the man. Scratches the back of his head. His dark hair is a mess, and his black-and-green plaid shirt is rumpled. The disheveled look is out of character for him. “Right.” He takes the folder from the man. “Thanks.”
My eyebrows pinch. “What’s that? Who are you?”
“Forgive me.” The man sets down his briefcase and offers a hand. “My name is Wallace Matthews. You must be Eliyana. Elizabeth told me so much about you.” I can’t help but notice he doesn’t meet my eyes. My face.
I cross my arms, not bothering to shake his hand. “Joshua? Do you know this guy?” My eyes don’t leave Joshua’s stubbled face, but his gaze remains downcast.