Page 15 of The Art of Loving Ellie
To say his painting is beautiful would be to mock its very existence. I study his piece for a long moment, absorbing the colors and raw feeling seemingly pouring off of it. My eyes are drawn to the man and woman, alone on the canvas. They appear to be separated by an invisible force, and it’s not until I truly look at the finer details that I start to unfold what’s happening between them.
The woman is portrayed as weak and frail, with a sense of sadness and longing in her eyes that guts me. She's staring up at the man in the painting, who's lying on his stomach on an invisible surface above her head. He’s reaching toward her, but it’s clear he's unable to touch her, and I find it peculiar that he's painted the picture of health. The man is handsome, tan, and full-faced—happy and colorful. Which is the total opposite of the woman, who is gaunt, gray, and practically lifeless.
I’m speechless as I reach out to lightly trace the contour of the woman’s face, shaking my head in disbelief. “Alex, this is…I don’t have any words.”
His slender hand strokes his cleanly shaven jaw as he mumbles, “Do you like it? I’m not sure what I should title it.” He doesn’t look at me, too lost in whatever thoughts are crowding his mind as he waits for my response.
Again, my gaze roams over the features of the woman Alex has brought to life, or lack thereof rather, and I can’t help but see myself reflecting in her eyes. My constant worry, my refusal to let myself enjoy things, and my misery-loves-company attitude I tend to wallow in reflects in her dull eyes.
The longer I stare at the painted man, the more I begin to see Tyler, and I’m amazed at how Alex has unknowingly captured his vibrant spirit. To see our opposite personalities literally painted out before me is unsettling. My eyes search every inch of the canvas as I contemplate the meaning behind it all and I come to a conclusion; I see an opportunity for change. For this woman to reach out and grasp at this chance of being more than just a withered ghost of herself—something I fear I’ll never be able to do.
I turn toward Alex with a sad smile. “How about, New Beginnings?”
He continues to stare at the painting for a bit, then turns his bright eyes to me and smiles. “Brilliant.”
I feel the warmth in his embrace as he pulls me in for a hug, and I secretly love that he's just tall enough that when he bends down a little, his chin rests perfectly on the top my head. I hug him back tightly. “You sure are being emotional today, should I check your temperature?”
“Me, emotional? Never.” Gently squeezing my shoulder, he releases me and I walk over to my desk to finish up some work for the gallery.
I give Tina a call to go over the finer details like tablecloth colors, centerpieces, and the entire timeline for the event since it’s her turn to arrive early to help set up. Looking at the notes I have written in regards to the itinerary, I reiterate to her that the event will start promptly at six-thirty. We wanted a nice dusk setting for the gallery—hence the given name, Twilight. My eyes move down the list to where I see cocktail hour is scheduled from seven to eight, then showings from eight to nine-thirty, and finally, we finish up from nine-thirty to ten.
Pleased with my conversation with Tina, I move on to my next venture, which is to swing by the museum to give the curator the schedule of events, and make sure all the little details for the night go according to plan.
I wave goodbye to Alex when I leave, and as I step outside of the office to make my way over to the museum, I’m surprised to see how beautiful and bright it is. There’s not a cloud in sight, and although the wind has a bitter chill to it, I’m not frozen to the bone for once. Taking a few calming breaths, I allow my headspace to clear a little, enjoying being out in the fresh air, and the comfort that it brings me.
My phone begins vibrating in my coat pocket and I scrunch my brows together, pulling it out to see who's calling. My feet halt their momentum, and all the blood from my head rushes through the rest of my body at once in one massive adrenaline dump. I make a desperate attempt to not collapse onto the pavement when I see the name lighting up my phone screen.
ROBERT CLARK
Why is he calling me? I haven’t spoken to him in at least four years, and what communication we have had has been little more than updates on where he was living at the moment given to me by my aunt. With him constantly moving around and changing jobs, I can hardly keep up with where he is, let alone find the time to actually care.
I contemplate letting it go to voicemail, but being the curious cat I am, I answer. “Robert?”
“Hey, Ellie.” There’s a long pause hanging between the connection, and I can tell by the tone of his voice my calling him by his name has made him uncomfortable.
Panic floods my body. “What’s going on, did something happen to Aunt Jane?” I step to the side of the busy walkway so people can get around me. I’m waiting for him to fill me in on why he's bothering to call, but my tolerance is thinning quickly. I side eye a careless teenager who shoulders past me on the sidewalk.
“No, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted to call and check on you. I wanted to make sure you were doing okay and—”
Bitterness coats my tongue when I respond, “I’m fine. I’ve been fine for about six months now since graduation. You know, that college graduation you didn’t bother showing up for?” I’m struggling with being cordial and my face begins getting red with anger and lack of proper oxygen. “I don’t need you to check in on me. I learned pretty early on how to take care of myself.”
He answers with a huff, “Does borrowing obscene amounts of money from your aunt count as taking care of yourself?” There’s irritation in his voice in response to my attitude and my jaw drops as heat explodes across my chest and neck. It takes every ounce of self-control I have to not chuck my phone across the street. “Ellie, wait. I didn’t mean that,” he sighs, “I just want to talk to you. I’ve changed—”
“Changed,” I scoff, shaking my head. “To be perfectly honest, I couldn't care less how much you’vechanged.” Sarcasm is thick in my voice and I don’t hesitate as I hang up on him.
How dare he tell me I’m taking advantage of the help Aunt Jane has given me. He has no idea what I’ve been through, moving to a city I had never even visited before, putting myself through college, and making it on my own. Sure, Aunt Jane helped me find Alexandre, and yes she helps me pay rent in my apartment, but the rest? That was all me.
I start back on my path toward the art museum, attempting to calm down, but seeing only red. What has he ever done for me? After mom left, and he decided to check out,Ibecame the parent. I clothed myself, lived off scraps, and worked odd jobs just to help pay the bills. What was good oldDaddoing? Becoming a permanent fixture in what we called a house.
I get more upset the longer I think about our conversation. A tiny part of me refuses to acknowledge the fact that maybe he has a point. Iamborrowing Aunt Jane’s money and using her resources—and for what? I’m sitting in limbo with my creativity just swirling around in my brain, with no outlet in sight.
Guilt curdles in my stomach at the thought of taking advantage of this opportunity. Alex has been begging me for months to come up with something that he can use in his gallery and I’m not only failing him—I’m failing myself.
I’ve got to choke these emotions down so I can at least get through this meeting. After that, I’m going home to open some Ben & Jerry’s and let Adam Sandler make me laugh until I forget that this conversation ever happened.
∞∞∞
There's something to be said for surrounding yourself in the works of other fellow artists. The fresh, crisp smell of the museum lobby makes me feel both at home and energized all at once, and I play with the tip of my ponytail to give my fidgeting hands something to keep them busy.
