In Sight of Stars(72)

I hang up and stare at his name on my phone. It’ll be good to see him. Really good.

I move through the rest of the messages. The next one is from Dan: “Cleto told me the news. Sorry, Leo. Hope you’re feeling better soon.”

The rest after that are from Sarah, dating way back to Saturday night: “I’m so sorry, Klee. I love you. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me. Call me when you get home.”

The words make my chest hurt. They’re from more than two weeks ago. Bet she didn’t realize how long I’d be gone.

I scroll through the rest. They’re basically the same. She’s sorry. She loves me. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She’s worried about how I am. They’re hard to read, but here’s the weird thing: I believe her, too. I don’t think she was trying to hurt me. Of course that doesn’t change the fact that she did.

I don’t respond or call back. I’m not ready. My heart still feels crushed. I’m going to need some more time.

I take out a fresh set of paints and decide to work on my remaining portfolio piece. I may just submit something close to the painting I left for Dr. Alvarez.

By dinnertime, it’s coming along nicely, but I’m stir crazy. I badly want to go out for a drive. I find Mom reading in the screened-in porch off the living room. She’s got the double doors open and her view of the water. A nice warm breeze is blowing in.

“The apartment sold for twice what the house up here cost…”

I can’t believe I thought she was being selfish.

“… a man or a mackerel, Klee?”

A snow queen, or just my mother?

I clear my throat, and she startles. But she smiles quickly, though it’s more forced than natural. Not just now, but for the last two weeks, I’ve scared the shit out of my mother. I get that. I’m going to have to give her time to adjust, to trust that I’m all right. That I don’t want to hurt myself. That it was never my intention in the first place. Better that I hurt myself than someone else, though, right?

My breath catches. What if my father had thought the same thing? What if I was that someone else?

But I am not my father. I see that now. And, for better or worse, neither of us is Van Gogh.

“Are you hungry?” my mother asks. “I’ve been trying to give you some space. But if you are, we could order up some Green Jade Chinese.”

“Sure. Not yet, but soon. Maybe in a while?” I say.

I walk over and sit in the chair across from her. I think of all the hours I sat across from Sister Agnes Teresa playing games and talking about everything and nothing, and I fiddle with the ladder in my pocket. “For when you hit those chutes…” The folded Post-it note is in there, too, with her email and her cell phone number.

“Did you know,” I say, though it isn’t what I was expecting to say, “that they recently discovered Van Gogh may not have cut off his own ear?”

My mother’s eyes shift to mine, alarmed, unsure what my point is. I’m not sure I know what it is either. Maybe I don’t have a point. Maybe it’s just something I want her to know.

“Dr. Alvarez told me. Some new book is out. A biography. And they think it wasn’t Van Gogh at all, but rather Gauguin who did it. Accidentally. He was a fencer, Gauguin, and apparently, they got in a fight. And in a fit of rage, they think, Gauguin may have sliced off Van Gogh’s ear.”

“Really?” my mother asks. “So, Gauguin, not Van Gogh?”

“Right. And Van Gogh covered for him. To protect him. I guess that’s what friends are for.” I wink at her, then feel stupid for it. Still, she laughs a little, which is good to hear.

“Well, that’s quite a twist, then,” she says. “I wonder what your father would have said about that.”

My father.

God, I miss him.

The thought sits there, heavy, but it doesn’t take me down.

“I’m glad you brought him up,” I say, and her eyes dart to mine. “I had this dream last night. It was weird, like dreams are, you know?” She nods, and picks her book back up but doesn’t open it, just fidgets with the bookmark inside. “And the details, well, they didn’t make too much sense. But I was in it, of course, and you were there, too. And Dad. We were a family again.” Mom dabs at her eye with her ring finger. “Armond was there, too. Which was weird, because, well, I wouldn’t exactly want him to be.” Mom lets out this strange, guttural sound, and I add, “I met him once, I told you that, right? At a gallery downtown. I remember him … Dad bought a painting. Called Icarus’s Flight Plan. It’s still here, in the guest room. We could hang it.”

Her eyes meet mine with fresh concern, and I bust out laughing.

“Oh,” she says, relieved. “You’re just joking?”

“Yeah, I kind of hate it,” I say. “Always did. It’s pretty hideous.”

But now that I brought him up, I feel like I have to finish, because I know we can’t keep pretending none of this happened. We need to talk about it, Mom and me. About Dad, and about him. Armond.

I need to talk about it.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t like him all that much, either. He was nice, I guess, but weird. Then again, I was little.” I sigh at how long ago it was. Dad must have been living a lie for an awfully long time. “I feel bad for Armond, though. And I keep wondering. I mean, he must be missing Dad, don’t you think?” Mom nods sadly, which only makes me feel worse. “But, the painting? It’s so ugly. I can’t believe Dad even bought it. We should take it out back and burn it,” I add, hoping to lighten the mood again. “Something ceremonial, you know?”