The Forgotten Hours(75)
A large canvas was propped up against the far wall, about three feet by five. It had three figures on it, a woman and two men, one looming and stretched out, something soft, feathers perhaps, stuck in the black paint of his bones. The other man had no face but papier-maché hands attached to the canvas that reached out, painted a luminous white. The female figure was somewhere between a girl and a woman and had been rendered in amazing detail with vibrant yellows and reds. Zev called this technique sfumato; he’d apply lighter colors over a dark glaze so the paint pulsed with life. The female appeared to hover over the other figures, to emerge from the darkness of the picture, delicate, ephemeral. Tiny gold buttons on her jacket glinted, and she wore jewels in her ears. In her hands she held something that seemed to be the focus of the painting, but it was smudged, as though purposefully unclear or unfinished. The girl’s hair was blonde, almost incandescent. Like Katie’s.
Zev emerged from the bathroom. His silvery hair was slicked back, darkened by water, his skin a glowing brown hue as though he’d just come from picking grapes in Greece under a punishing sun or visiting family in Tel Aviv. Katie’s towel was slung around his hips, threads trailing along his damp shins. In his hand he held a razor.
She dropped the bags and grinned at him like an idiot. “What the hell? You’re back already!”
“Hey, there. My last panel was canceled—I took an earlier flight back.” He indicated the door with the razor. “It’s okay? That I let myself in?”
“Oh, yeah. Sure,” she said. So he’d been traveling; that’s why he hadn’t answered her email. She pointed to the painting. “Wow, Zev. It’s incredible. It’s supposed to be me?”
He smiled. “I’ve been working on it for the past few weeks. A friend was storing it for me.”
“It wasn’t in your show?”
“It’s for you.”
“Thank you, Zev. I mean, it’s . . . I don’t even know what to say.” When they embraced, his skin was damp against her face, and it felt so good. She fought back a sudden surge of tears: He doesn’t know, she thought. He doesn’t know anything. What am I going to say?
“You okay?” He held her at arm’s length.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”
“Is it about the test? I’m sorry—I saw it in the trash can.”
They eyed each other, trying to assess what the other one was thinking. She could not still the percussive pounding in her chest. His voice was neutral, his face composed. He’d been smiling at her, and now he was serious. Did that mean he was hiding anger or fear—that he hated the idea of having a child? Or was he waiting to see what she said? She needed to know at least on some level what his gut reaction was before she could begin the work of knowing what she wanted.
“You are shocked,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snoop; it was right there, lying on the top.”
“I—I just took it. Yesterday morning.” She hoisted the bags onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes. She had bought steaks for her father.
Zev lingered on the other side of the island. “I’m so sorry; we were careless, and . . . and that I put you in this position.”
“I’m a big girl too,” she said, unable to tell from his tone if he was saying this was a disaster from which they had to recover or an opportunity. Was he saying it was up to her to choose? The uncertainty and fear made her sharper than she intended to be. “I know how babies are made.”
“A surprise like this. It’s disorienting, no? But that doesn’t mean it’s bad.”
Certainly, she couldn’t regret those heady moments when they’d lost themselves in the timeless dark. Katie couldn’t imagine flicking on a light, reaching for a condom. She wanted the dream of losing herself to be possible; she wanted to be safe while also being free. But that didn’t mean she was ready to be a mother. Freedom and motherhood were not synonymous.
“What are you thinking?” he asked. His sad eyes made Katie want to run a finger over his brows, smooth out the worry lines. “I have so much I want to say . . . but I don’t know.”
“I just—I mean, I don’t feel ready. I can’t make a decision just like that,” she said. “I’m not ready.”
“Of course, I know. I’m sure.” He paused. “It’s not the same for me; I know that. But Katie, a child? A child is a beautiful gift.”
She looked away. He wanted the baby.
“I can’t tell you what to do. I would never tell you what to do,” he said. “But we can choose to see this as a gift. A chance to build something together. Something very, very important.”
It wasn’t just a child he wanted; he wanted to have a child with her. He trusted that she could be the mother she would need to be for the sake of their baby. This was incredible; this was beautiful and good—and yet a sickly, creeping anxiety overtook her. It was one thing to admit her tentative hopes for them as a couple, maybe even as a family, and another to finally come clean about her past. How could she know that he wouldn’t be disgusted with her for keeping so much from him?
“Come here,” he said, pulling her by the hand toward the couch. He put one arm over her shoulder, and she nestled in, the scent of her own soap and shampoo on him. “It’s not a disaster. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”