The Last Flight(54)

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

Jacinta smiles, and I can see Kelly in the set of her brown eyes and the sharp structure of her cheekbones. “Nice to meet you too.”

“And her friend, Mel.”

The other girl raises her hand in a half wave, then turns to Kelly and says, “Thanks for coming back, Kelly.”

Kelly squeezes her shoulder and says, “Only for you, Mel.”

The older woman chimes in from the counter. “I’m sorry I didn’t check in with her before you left.” She shoots a look at Jacinta. “She told me she had everything she needed.”

Kelly turns to me and says, “Eva, this is my mother, Marilyn.”

I brace myself, waiting for a flash of something in her eyes, a flicker of a question, knowing this is how it will always be when I meet someone new. But she smiles and wipes her hands on a towel before shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I’m struck by the power of belief. How easily it transfers from one person to another. Kelly believes I’m Eva, and now her mother does too, without question. I look between them, their bond as familiar as an old, favorite coat. It wraps around me, making me want to sit down at the table and never leave. “Tell me what you’ve chosen for your project,” I say to the girls.

Jacinta slides her laptop so I can see two paintings side by side on the screen. Jasper Johns’s False Start and Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Boy and Dog in a Johnnypump.

“Great choices,” I say. “Basquiat started on the streets of New York as a graffiti artist, commenting on the social injustices he saw and experienced. He’s responsible for graffiti being the legitimate art form we know it to be today.”

“I think we read something about that. But it’s all kind of blending together,” Jacinta says. “This is the project from hell.”

“Jacinta,” Marilyn warns.

“Sorry, Grandma. It’s just…look how different they are. It’s easy to contrast them. But how are they similar? They’re not. At all.”

I sit down in the chair next to them and lean my elbows on the table, which wobbles in the same way my mother’s used to. “Here’s a tip. Don’t get tied up in the images. Art is all about emotion. Teachers want to know what you take away from the piece and how you apply that to your own life. It’s totally subjective, so have fun with it.” With the light streaming in from the windows, the rich smell of a cooking meal filling the room, and the reassuring sounds of Marilyn behind us, opening the refrigerator, moving between the sink and the stove, I feel as if I’ve traveled back in time. All my edges matching up with the space around me.

I spend five more minutes filling the holes in their research. Background about each artist, their childhoods and early influences, before Kelly tells me we have to leave.

“I like your family,” I say as we pull out of the driveway.

Kelly smiles. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, trying to raise a child under my mother’s thumb. Because I had Jacinta so young, my mother sometimes forgets that I’m Jacinta’s mother, not her. I appreciate her help, but that house is too small for the three of us.”

I want to tell her that the tangle of their crowded life should be a comfort, not a burden. I’d been in such a hurry to redefine myself, not knowing that I’d be carving away a piece of my heart. I assumed my family would always be there, waiting for me. Sometimes I can trick myself into believing my mother and Violet are still in our house, moving around each other, waiting for me to finally come home.

*

“How’d you know all of that?” Kelly asks as we turn onto the on-ramp of the freeway.

I’ve been silent for most of the ride, my mind still back at Kelly’s house, sitting at that table, feeling as if the farther we drive from it, the farther I’m traveling away from myself. Who I’m supposed to be.

“I was an art history major in college.” I don’t feel I’m risking too much to tell her that, and it feels good to say something true.

Kelly looks at me, impressed. “You should be looking for jobs at museums or auction houses.”

“It’s complicated,” I say, suddenly afraid if I keep talking, I’ll tell her everything.

Kelly laughs. “Show me someone whose life isn’t complicated.” When I don’t respond, she says, “No pressure. I get it.”

“I’m leaving a bad marriage,” I finally admit, before tacking on a lie. “Hiding out at a childhood friend’s house while she travels. It’s temporary, until I can figure out what’s next. But my husband will be looking for me, so I can’t work in my field anymore.”

The car feels like a protective layer, safe and warm as we speed down the freeway toward Oakland. I look out the window, at the people in the cars around us. So many secrets playing out in their minds. No one is going to look too closely at mine. And as far as Kelly is concerned, my story has been lived a hundred times already.

“It takes a lot of courage to start over,” she says.

I don’t respond. Nothing about what I’ve done feels brave or courageous. Kelly reaches across the center console and squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

*

Kelly wasn’t kidding when she said tonight’s party was a big one. There are twelve of us hired to set up and work the event, which is being held in a giant warehouse in downtown Oakland. Nearly forty tables fill the enormous room, each one seating eight. When she introduces me to her boss, Tom, I only hold his attention for a split second before someone calls for him from the kitchen. “Thanks for giving me the job,” I say as he begins to hurry away.