Seashell Season (17 page)

Chapter 50

I
'll be introducing four new pieces at the gallery show in July, rather, four parts of one larger piece. I've called the work
The Four Seasons,
and as the title so clearly indicates, each individual piece represents a conception of a particular season. It's taken me the better part of a year to complete the work, to perfect
Winter, Spring, Summer,
and
Fall
as separate but related works. I'm also planning on showing several sketches of each season in process. I chose the sketches carefully for visual interest, and for all four pieces, I wrote up a short statement of intent and purpose and a description of the path from initial idea, through changing iterations, to final form. I framed the sketches in rough wooden frames to match the wood used for each season—walnut for
Winter,
butternut for
Spring,
cherry for
Summer,
and white pine for
Fall
. For some people, preliminary sketches and the studies that come before a work is finished are themselves works of art. Process is as important as the final product. And, let's be practical, for those who want to collect art but have a limited budget, this sort of thing is far more affordable than the final pieces.

Anyway, I don't mind telling you that I'm anxious about Gemma's being at the opening of my show. I want her to be proud of me, even if she can't find an interest in what I do. I want her to know I am a responsible, reasonably successful person on whom she can rely. And I want to impress her too, no matter how silly that sounds. I want her to know I have some reputation as an artist. I want her to realize that people who do care about art take me seriously.

Alan didn't care about art. And he never took my work seriously. He never took
m
e seriously. But that's typical of emotionally controlling and possessive men.

Let me explain.

In the early days of our relationship, Alan pretended to be supportive of my art (but of course at the time I thought he was sincere), even if he admitted to not understanding it. “I think it's great,” he'd say about a particular piece. I'd ask him what exactly about the piece made him say it was great. He'd shrug. “The whole thing, I guess.” It didn't matter to me that he was no art critic. It only mattered that he paid me a compliment.

But over time he took more and more to belittling my achievements, specifically, my sculpture in clay and stone and wood, denigrating the work that meant the most to me. I can't tell you how often he opined that playing around with wet clay and chipping away at blocks of stone was all well and good, but I was meant for better things. At least, a more steady choice of jobs.

“Like what?” I would ask every time he brought up the subject of My Life.

“Like pretty much anything,” Alan would reply. “Why don't you change your major and get a degree in accounting?”

And every time I would say, “Alan, it's too late for that. Besides, I hate doing math. I'm no good at it, and it doesn't interest me.”

And round and round it would go. To be fair, money was tight in our household, what with me still in school and Alan not making very much money. And even when I'd graduated, we still sometimes had trouble making the rent. I was working part-time as a waitress while devoting the majority of my days to my art, creating new pieces, learning new techniques and perfecting the ones I'd already learned, submitting pieces to local gallery shows. There were times, I admit, when I felt demoralized and wondered if in pursuing a life in art I was being willfully naïve or selfish. I'd remember what my mother had told me about following my dream and feel bolstered for a moment or two, but then I would think of my father's none too subtle hints about “settling down” and getting a “proper job,” and always there was Alan's not so subtle pressure. It became more difficult with each passing day to sustain enthusiasm for what had once been so important to me.

There were more than just economic reasons behind Alan's pressuring me to quit art. He didn't like me going off to the tiny part of town where artists congregated to work; he began to follow me to my studio and wait outside, sometimes for hours, for me to leave. He didn't try to hide, either—just parked his beat-up old car across the street and sat. He began to show up unexpectedly at my lunch dates and to invite himself along to gatherings of fellow artists, where he'd be a dark, negative presence in the room. Later he would criticize my friends for being lazy and morally suspect and lacking civility. “Not one person had the decency to ask what I do for a living,” he would complain. I never did, but I should have replied that
he
never asked one question about anyone's work, either. Instead I would soothe his petulance and say stupid things like, “You know how artists are,” no matter that I was insulting myself as much as I was insulting my friends.

But Alan persisted in his subtle and not so subtle methods of undermining my commitment to the thing I most loved, and finally, worn down, tired of being broke, and without another emotional resource but for Marion, who, as Alan's devoted mother, always echoed his opinions and sentiments, I put away or sold most of my materials and canceled the lease on the tiny studio I had been renting. Alan praised my wisdom and told me he knew I would now also put aside the dubious characters—especially the men—I had once worked among.

As luck—really?—would have it, there was an opening for a deadly boring clerical job at Rowland Electronics, the company for which Alan was currently working. I applied and got the job immediately; frankly, I was way overqualified, and as a result, not very good at the work. But in Alan's opinion, the situation was ideal. He could keep an eye on me at all times and hey, we could even commute together, which, he announced, was cost saving and efficient. Who could argue?

I'll probably never tell any of this to Gemma, definitely not at this point in our relationship. For one thing, I don't want to sound accusatory. For another, I'm not proud of behaving the way I did with Alan, of pretty much handing over my independence and abandoning my interests. If he's to blame for manipulating me, then I'm to blame for allowing it. But maybe neither of us is to blame, assuming we were hardwired to play out the relationship as we did. But no. I can't let either of us off the hook that easily.

I just remembered something. I wish I hadn't.

At one point a few years after Gemma's abduction, I decided it might be a good idea to see a therapist again—this was a year or so after the therapist who suggested I have another child as a way to heal the pain of Gemma's loss. There had been a similar case to Gemma's in the national news, but unlike in Gemma's case, the stolen baby had been found within days of being taken. He was in the hospital for observation, doing well, though a little dehydrated. His mother was hysterical with joy. His father, the abductor, had been arrested, along with his female accomplice.

I was happy for the mother and child. But their happy ending only highlighted my own state of uncertainty.

At our second session, the therapist told me that after seven years (it varies from state to state, but it's seven years here in Maine), a person could have another person declared legally dead. “And?” I asked. Seriously, I had no idea where he was going with this bit of information. “And,” he said, “having Alan and your daughter declared legally dead might help bring some closure. After all, the odds of them being found alive are pretty small. Infinitesimal, really.”

I remember a sort of fury rushing through me then, fogging any clear thought. When my mind returned a moment later, I realized that having Alan declared legally dead was the last thing I wanted, because as long as he was presumed guilty of child abduction and was, therefore, a fugitive from justice, there was in my mind every reason to hope he was alive and would someday be caught and prosecuted and sentenced.

And as for Gemma . . . “Screw the odds!” I shouted at the therapist. “What happens if my daughter does come home to me someday only to find I've had her declared dead? What in God's good name will she think of me, that I cared so little, that I gave up hope!”

The therapist (obviously an idiot) tried to calm me down with some words I was too furious to register, but I was already half out the door. And I never paid the bill. That was the first and only time in my life I made such a stand.

Seriously, maybe now I've exorcised that awful memory once and for all. I certainly hope so.

Because there's still work to be done if I'm to be ready for the opening.

Chapter 51

I
went with Verity to her studio at the college again. If she wondered why I was along for the ride, she didn't say. I know she likes us to spend time together because she's always the one asking me to do stuff with her. Maybe she doesn't care why I go along as long as I do.

When we got to the studio, I sat at one of the long tables and looked through some of Verity's books about art while she worked. Let me tell you, some of those books weigh a ton, and you should see how much they cost. I'd never seen books like them, not the inside of them, I mean. They're full of pictures of paintings and sculptures and buildings, both really old ones like European cathedrals and ones from the last century, like some by this American guy named Frank Lloyd Wright. It was kind of like watching the Travel Channel in some ways, flipping through those books. And kind of like being in history class but a lot more interesting. Occasionally I looked up and watched Verity as she stood at one of the easels, paintbrush in hand and a pencil behind one ear. I'm pretty sure she didn't notice I was watching. She seemed so focused. She looked so on another planet at one point I thought she probably wouldn't even hear the fire alarm if it went off. And it occurred to me that I'd never seen Dad concentrate so hard on anything. Ever. Maybe that's why he always loses at cards.

I wonder if he plays cards in prison. What does he have to bet with?

“Look at the time,” Verity said suddenly, glancing at her watch, and grabbing a rag to wipe the paintbrush. “I've got a meeting with the department head, but I should be back in about half an hour.”

“Okay,” I said.

Verity nodded toward the book opened in front of me. “Rodin,” she said. “Interesting?”

I shrugged, still pretending that art bored the life out of me. “He's okay.”

Verity sort of smiled and left the room. When she had gone, I peered into all four corners of the ceiling. There was no obvious sign of a security camera, though I know security is an issue. Verity keeps the room locked when she isn't there; she'd explained that the stone and wood and clay she uses in her sculptures isn't cheap and that she can't afford to lose a piece to a thief. And, she said, there were always those strange people who think that vandalizing art is a way to make some sort of statement.

“Like what?” I'd asked.

“Don't ask me,” she'd said. “I'm not one of that crazy bunch.”

Anyway, with Verity out of the room and as far as I could tell no security guard watching me via cameras, I was good to go. I had no idea if I was about to steal school property or if Verity had paid for the sketchbook on her own, not that I'd feel any better about stealing from her than I would from the college. Stealing was Dad's thing, not mine. Stealing people and things.

There's a tall metal cabinet against one wall. I'd seen inside before, and I knew it was where Verity stored supplies. I opened the door of the cabinet and grabbed a sketchbook from the top of a stack of about ten and stuffed it into my bag. I don't always carry the bag (I'd bought it with the twenty dollars Tom had sent me) so I hoped Verity wouldn't suddenly ask me why I was carrying it now. I wasn't entirely sure I could keep the guilt off my face. But even if she caught me with the sketchbook, I was pretty sure she wouldn't be angry. She would be Verity, which means she would probably apologize to me for some bizarre reason and assure me that all I had to do if I wanted something was to ask. She's annoying that way.

As promised, Verity was back about half an hour later. “Ready to go?” she asked. “I'm too tired to work more today. Maybe I'll do some at home after a nap.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

I was glad when we drove away from the campus. Away from the scene of the crime. So, you're asking: Why steal a sketchbook? Why not just buy one? How much could it cost? The thing is, I'm so high profile in this town that all I need to do is walk into a bakery and order a coffee and the entire population of Yorktide would know exactly how many sugars I put into my coffee in about two minutes flat. (Two, by the way, sometimes three.) I just don't want people—strangers—gabbing about how The Little Kidnapped Girl bought a sketchbook.
Just like her mom!
people would say.
See? It's the mother's influence that counts!
Or some silly stuff like that.

Anyway, there was no need to steal a pencil. Pencils are easy enough to come by at home, and unlike a sketchbook, a few missing pencils won't be noticed as easily. Verity keeps stacks of all sorts of pencils around the house. I just chose a few—one dark soft lead, one hard light lead, one thick charcoal—and brought them to my room. Pencils can also be used for writing, I'm told. Or they were, back in the old days. Only kidding. Of course I know they can be used for writing. Dad is a mechanical pencil freak, the cheap yellow plastic kind that cracks really easily. He was always bringing them home from whatever office he was working in at the time. I mean, he was always stealing them.

I feel kind of ridiculous hiding the sketchbook—it's not like I'm doing anything illegal—but I just don't want Verity or anyone, really, knowing what I'm doing. Don't ask me why, exactly. Maybe—and this is just a guess—maybe I need something entirely my own, something private. Since being shipped to Maine to live with Verity, I feel so . . . exposed. (I can't forget that idiot Mirelle Turner.) I feel so out of control of any aspect of my own life. Back home with Dad, I knew what was what. I knew how and where to carve out my own life in spite of—well, because of—his overprotectiveness. But here . . . it's different. I feel so powerless. And keeping a secret can give you some power. At least, it can give you the illusion that you have power over the person you're keeping the secret from. I wonder: Did keeping my real identity from me all those years give Dad a sense of power over me? I don't really want to go there.

I also don't want to think too much about the fact that I find myself both resenting and being okay with the fact that maybe I've inherited what artistic interest (I won't say talent) I have from Verity, someone who's still such a stranger to me.

My mother.