Seven Days in June(65)

“In a way,” said Eva, “you helped me. I realized that I wasn’t the only hot mess in school.”

“I never realized I was lonely,” he said. “Until I met you and I wasn’t anymore.”

And then Shane and Eva slipped into a moment, and for a few prolonged, heightened beats, they forgot that Audre was there. Audre felt the temperature change in the room. She got up from her seat and slid onto her mom’s lap.

Audre did this sometimes. While Eva helped her with homework. While they marathoned The Bachelor. Despite being long and gawky, she still needed to cuddle. But this was a territorial move, catlike—as if she picked up something possessive in Shane’s gaze and needed to claim Eva as hers.

Eva got it. She linked her arms around her daughter’s waist and gave her hand three squeezes, their secret I love you code. Audre squeezed back and relaxed a little.

“Honey, should you get back to work on your piece?”

“Yep, going,” said Audre, hopping off her lap and picking up her art from the floor.

Shane witnessed their entire wordless exchange with the awe and reverence of a city dweller’s first visit to the Grand Canyon. He let out a gasp. “You did that? It’s dope!”

“I like collaging,” she said shyly.

“It reminds me of Man Ray,” said Shane. “Or, no, what’s his name, the dude out of Seattle who collages with vintage magazines? He has such a surreal perspective on ordinary life. What’s his name?”

Audre gasped. “You know about Jesse Treece? Wow, thanks! But I could never be like him.”

“Good,” he said. “Be like you. Who is the woman in the piece?”

“My baby’s a great artist,” Eva blurted before Audre could answer. “Let’s show him your gallery wall!”

“Mom. Noooo.”

“Come on, let me be a proud mama, please.”

Ushering them both out of the kitchen, Eva led them to the hallway near her master bedroom. The wall was covered in ten years’ worth of framed portraits of Eva and Audre—drawn or sketched or painted with increasing sophistication, by Audre.

Shane went mute, studying Audre’s work. No matter the medium, her pieces were bright, vivid, evocative. But also, he noticed that she’d littered the back-and foregrounds with melancholy, using withered florals and vintage mementos. Porcelain dolls and dusty books. Objects visiting from another time. It was almost a manifestation of Eva’s vibe. Audre was happy and well adjusted, not prone to her mother’s darkness—but she’d absorbed her edge anyway, through osmosis.

Eva watched Shane admiring her baby’s art, and her heart stuttered. She couldn’t help it. Shane was in her house, casually chatting with Audre the way a collector would speak to an artist at a showing. Eva tried to play down how delicious this felt. How domestic. Because hope was coiling up into her brain, like a snake piercing her with its fangs. Just like when she first met him, that day on the bleachers.

Grow up, she told herself. You know how this ends.

Of course she did. But it felt so delicious, she was starting not to care.

“…collage knocks you off-balance, a bit,” explained Audre. “You know, seeing elements that don’t belong together.”

“Like your portrait, right? With the feathers and the corduroy hair. It almost feels like its rippling in the breeze.”

“Exactly!” She beamed at Eva. “It’s Grandma Lizette, by the way. She’s a nonconformist, like you. You met her, right?”

“No, I never had the pleasure.”

“We always hung out at Shane’s house,” Eva said quickly.

“Grandma Lizette has a real appreciation for art,” said Audre, adjusting a crooked frame. “When Mom was little, she took her to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum in Santa Fe. And the Picasso Museum in Paris.”

Shane glanced quickly at Eva. Eva made a tight expression. And again, Audre got the distinct impression that she was on the outside of something.

“Well…,” she said, backing out of the room, “I’m gonna go finish my piece.”

Shane stuck out his hand to her. She shot him a confident smile and shook it.

“It was an honor to meet you,” he said. “You’re such an impressive person.”

“Ask her to name the capital of Maine, though,” Eva said with a smirk.

“Mom!” To Shane, Audre replied, “I’m really not that impressive. I’m just wildly verbal for my age. But thank you. And don’t be a stranger.”

With that, she shoved her artwork under her arm and headed off into her room. And then stopped abruptly.

“Oh,” said Audre, turning around to face them. “Quick question.”

“What?” asked Eva and Shane simultaneously.

“Which one of you is the turtle?”

“I’m sorry?” asked Eva.

“Which one of you is the turtle? You know, the one who leaves and comes back and leaves again, while the other waits?” she said, spinning on her heel. “It’s a metaphor, writers. Think about it.”

She left them alone as they stared straight ahead. Looking at each other might have started a fire.



Later, they loitered on the sidewalk in front of her brownstone. It was just after dinnertime, and the Park Slope sidewalks, overrun with out-of-school kids all day, were quieting down. The sun was setting in rosy lavender streaks. Audre was upstairs, collaging. Shane and Eva couldn’t stop touching each other—a hand on a shoulder, fingers tracing cheekbones, indulgent hugs—and they’d stopped trying. All was right with the world.