Authors: Mary Carter
My Sister's Voice (19 page)
Chapter 18
M
aybe she shouldn’t be here. After all, he hadn’t reminded her about the show since giving her the flyer, hadn’t called to see if she was coming. Even Tina wasn’t coming, and she was the one trying to date him. Speaking of which, what was Tina going to think if she found out Monica was here? Dressed in a sexy little black, low-cut dress? Monica stood outside the art studio and watched as people made their way up the narrow staircase. Lights and jazz poured out of the space above. It looked like fun. There was nothing wrong with popping in, saying hello.
I was in town for business.
aybe she shouldn’t be here. After all, he hadn’t reminded her about the show since giving her the flyer, hadn’t called to see if she was coming. Even Tina wasn’t coming, and she was the one trying to date him. Speaking of which, what was Tina going to think if she found out Monica was here? Dressed in a sexy little black, low-cut dress? Monica stood outside the art studio and watched as people made their way up the narrow staircase. Lights and jazz poured out of the space above. It looked like fun. There was nothing wrong with popping in, saying hello.
I was in town for business.
But she wasn’t. She was here to see him. To support another artist. That was all this was, artistic support. The fact that she wasn’t frequenting art shows in Boston, or New York, or anywhere else was beside the point. She had a personal connection; he’d interviewed her—if you could call it that—and now she was supporting him. Besides, she still had to find out how he knew about her birthmark. She had several reasons for coming, and none of them were cause for concern. She didn’t bother to invite Joe simply because she knew he was swamped with work. And she didn’t tell him she was coming to Mike’s show because he’d been jealous of him at the cabin. She was standing outside with the smokers. It was time to either light up or go up.
Within seconds of entering the space, Monica was glad she came. She was offered a glass of wine right away by a nice-looking woman, also in black, and soon after offered a tray of cheese and crackers. She was standing in the center of the space, facing a section with a leather sofa and chairs, and behind it, a kitchen. There were people clustered in the middle, then another cluster to her right, where she could barely see sculptures over the heads of those standing close to them, and paintings were hung to her left. Monica was about to turn to the sculptures first, when she got a good look at one of the paintings dangling from a chain on the ceiling. Taking her glass of wine with her, she moved closer. And then, even closer still. As if pulled by a magnetic force, Monica moved through people to get as close as possible. Then, she stood surrounded by paintings of horses, dumbstruck.
They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen in her entire life. She felt giddy, and yet grounded, as if she were rearing up like many of the horses in front of her. People were talking all around her; much of it didn’t make sense. One woman was saying, “Where is my little Fran?” over and over, and another was on about a missing iguana. How could these people yak about nonsense in front of these masterpieces? She stepped even closer.
PLEASE TOUCH
Who was this artist? Monica held her hand out to a white horse rising out of an ocean’s dark wave. The wave looked like a fist lifting him out. Even with the sign permitting her, she held back. Please touch. Monica made herself do it. For a second she swore she could feel the damp ocean, feel the roar. The horse was like silk, except his wet mane was coarse and slick. She looked to the corner of the painting to see the name of the artist.
“Monica?” At the sound of her name, Monica whipped around.
“Tina.” What was she doing here? More important, what was she going to say she was doing here? Monica made up for her angst with a huge smile. “Hey,” she said. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” Tina said. “What are you doing here?”
“He gave me a flyer. Remember?”
“We talked about this. You said you weren’t coming.”
“Well, so did you.” What was going on here? She and Tina never fought. Here they were squabbling like siblings. Tina looked around. She grabbed Monica by the elbow and pulled her in close to the wall.
“Has anybody seen you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does Mike know you’re here?”
“Not yet.”
“Thank God.” Tina slumped against the wall as if she were a blow-up doll and someone had let out the air. Then she took Monica’s wineglass right out of her hand and drained it in one go. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you out of here.” Monica yanked her arm out of Tina’s grip.
“Tina,” she said. “You’re being ridiculous.” She wasn’t going anywhere; she was going to get another glass of wine and find the artist who painted these horses. “I’m not here for Mike, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Monica said.
“Then why are you here?”
“To support the arts.”
“Yeah, right.” Tina looked over Monica’s shoulder, scanned the crowd. “Where’s Joe?”
“He couldn’t make it.”
“So you came all the way to Philly to support the arts?”
“Tina. Let’s not fight like jealous schoolgirls. I just needed a night out, some time away from work. I’m happy to see you. Please don’t be upset with me.”
“Look,” Tina said. “You’re my boss. It’s just too weird if we start spending all our free time together.” Monica felt as if she’d been slapped. She and Tina had done plenty of things together; they’d always acted like friends. Was Tina this upset over a guy? Did she think Monica was going to try and steal him away? Even worse, the niggling fear that kept Monica thrumming with overblown defensive anger—was it true? Wasn’t Monica here to see Mike? Hadn’t she been thinking of him every single second since they’d met? They were two independent, strong, beautiful women. Were they really going to let a man come between them?
“Pretend I’m not here if you’d like,” Monica said. “But I’m not leaving. In fact, I’m thinking of buying a painting.” She turned back to the horses. “I wish I could afford them all,” she said. “Do you know anything about the artist?” Tina stared at Monica. The corners of her mouth lifted in a tiny smile.
“I’ve met her,” Tina said. “She reminds me of you.”
“She does?” Monica said. “In what way?” Suddenly, someone stepped in front of Monica and started waving his arms about. At first she thought it was some kind of joke, but when another person came up and did the same thing, she felt like a complete fool. Waved their arms about. They were deaf, they were using sign language. But why on earth did they think she would understand them? Suddenly, another woman, an attractive brunette, was standing in front of her as well.
“Oh my God,” she said, staring at Monica. Then she turned and signed to the deaf people who had been trying to talk to Monica. Whatever the woman signed to them had quite an effect. Their faces took on strange expressions; they looked from the woman to Monica, shook their heads. “Wow.” Did she hear one of them say, “Wow?”
“I’m Kelly,” the woman said. “I’m sorry. They mistook you for someone they know.”
“No problem,” Monica said. “How do you say ‘hello’?” Kelly just laughed and waved hello. Monica felt like an idiot again. She waved hello. They waved back, then continued to stand there staring at her, as if they were microscopes and she were the specimen on a slide. Kelly waved them away. Then, just as Tina had done, she took Monica by the arm and started guiding her. To the front door. Monica stopped.
“Are you trying to throw me out?” she said. She’d only had a few sips of wine, what the hell was going on here?
“No, no,” Kelly said. “I just thought we could go outside and talk. Get some fresh air.”
“I don’t want to go outside and talk,” Monica said. She wasn’t usually that rude to people, but she’d had enough aggravation with Tina, and really, who did this woman think she was?
“I’m sorry,” Kelly said, pulling up her pant leg. “I need to move it around sometimes.” Monica stared at the prosthetic leg. What a jerk she’d been! The woman probably needed help down the stairs. Was there no elevator? But couldn’t she find someone else to help her? Monica wanted to see Mike’s sculptures, and she wanted to talk to somebody about buying one of the horse paintings. She didn’t care how much they cost; in fact, the more expensive, the better. She hadn’t splurged much since the book came out; she and Joe, sensible Joe, were saving for their future. What better way to spend money than supporting the arts? On a painting she loved. The hard part was going to be choosing just one.
“I’ll help you down the stairs,” Monica said. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to come right back up. I have to find the artist of those paintings.”
Monica is here,
the text said.
Outside with me.
the text said.
Outside with me.
Nooooooooooo!
She came to see Mike. Wants to meet you. Wants to buy a painting.
Noooooooooooooooo.
She has no clue.
Panic-stricken, Lacey made her way out of the crowd surrounding her. She was about to find Alan or Mike when she ran into Robert.
Panic-stricken, Lacey made her way out of the crowd surrounding her. She was about to find Alan or Mike when she ran into Robert.
“What’s wrong?” he asked the minute he saw her face.
“Help me,” Lacey said. “You have to help me.”
“Wow,” Kelly said, looking at her phone. “She just texted and said to bring you on up.”
“Great,” Monica said. “I can’t wait to meet her.” It turned out Kelly didn’t need help on the stairs after all. She must have just been lonely, wanted Monica’s company. Maybe Monica should give her a copy of her book. Then again, maybe the woman would think Monica was trying to tell her she needed help. Or she might think she was just self-promoting. This evening wasn’t about her. It was about the art.
“I should probably find Mike first,” Monica said when they reached the top of the stairs. “Say hello and see his work.”
“Okay,” Kelly said, gesturing to the sofa. “Meet me back here when you’re done.”
Monica barely had time to look at Mike’s sculptures. They were as impressive as she’d imagined them, and even though Tina was hovering around him as if she were magnetically drawn, he was thrilled to see Monica. She could see it in his eyes. But like Tina, she read shock in his face, and if she didn’t think it was crazy for thinking it, she would have said: fear. Seriously, everybody had crazy eyes and a nervous energy, as if they were expecting something to happen.
Why would they be afraid of her? Had he and Tina already slept together, was that what she was picking up?
“Monica,” Mike said. “Why don’t we get you out of here?” That was one too many. Everyone wanted to get her the hell out of there, as if she were wired to blow.
“What is going on?” she demanded. “Why doesn’t anyone want me here?”
“She hates your book,” Tina blurted out.
“What?”
“The other artist, the one whose painting you want to buy? She thinks you’re a phony.”
“Tina,” Mike said. “That’s not quite fair.”
“She read your interview with Mike,” Tina continued. “Thinks you’re full of crap.”
“Oh my God,” Monica said.
“It’s not as bad as that,” Mike said, taking her arm. He gently led her away from Tina.
“She doesn’t hate your book,” Mike said. “In fact, I think she’s really going to like you.”
“I was just about to meet her,” Monica said. “The woman with one leg—Kelly—she’s taking me to her. I was going to buy a painting.”
“I think I’d better talk to her first,” Mike said.
“It’s like I’m a leper or something.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“So she doesn’t like my book. I don’t care. Why should I care?”
“Tina shouldn’t have said that.”
“I shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” His voice was low, and soft. He didn’t want anyone to hear it but her. She looked into his eyes. Oh God, she was after him. She was a horrible person. A horrible girlfriend, a horrible friend. No wonder nobody wanted her. Her pores were oozing “horrible” and she didn’t even know it.
“I have to go,” Monica said. “Congratulations. I like your work.” She meant it, he was very talented. She just couldn’t stay. Because no matter what, no matter what she said, she didn’t want to face this woman who hated her book. Wasn’t this what she feared all along? Hadn’t she waited for someone to come up to her and tell her she was a phony? Full of it? Then why did it hurt so much? Especially coming from someone whose work she loved, wanted to buy. It made it all that more humiliating.
“Why don’t you stay with me tonight,” Mike said. Monica was about to answer when she spotted Tina over her shoulder, eyes flashing.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I have to get back home.” Everyone was right. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong here at all.
Mike found Lacey standing in the middle of the room, waiting. She was wearing a black mask with peacock feathers.
“You can take that off now,” Mike said. “She’s gone.”
Chapter 19
“
P
lease, stop packing.” But Tina kept at it as if she couldn’t hear a word Monica said. She sealed the last box. Movers had just pulled up to the curb. “Please,” Monica said. “Don’t do this.”
P
lease, stop packing.” But Tina kept at it as if she couldn’t hear a word Monica said. She sealed the last box. Movers had just pulled up to the curb. “Please,” Monica said. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m doing it,” Tina said. “I should have done it a long time ago.”
“But we have workshops to do. You committed to me—”
“I’m not an East Coast girl. I’m a West Coast girl.” Tina was from San Diego. She was moving to LA. Worse, she was blaming it on Monica—on the “Build Your House Where the Foundation Suits You.” But Monica knew better. This was about Mike. He must have turned her down flat. Was it true? Was it Monica’s fault? It had been three days since his art show and she hadn’t tried to contact him. He hadn’t contacted her either.
“Things change. ‘If your house is crumbling down around you—at least you save on the demolition costs,’ ” Tina said. She glanced at her copy of
The Architect of Your Soul.
It was the only thing she hadn’t packed in a box. Looked like it was staying behind.
The Architect of Your Soul.
It was the only thing she hadn’t packed in a box. Looked like it was staying behind.
“Don’t quote the book. Please talk to me.”
“Are you deaf?” Tina said with a strange laugh. “I’m moving back to California.”
“But I need you.”
“You’ll find someone else.”
“I don’t want to find someone else—”
“I’m doing you a favor. You’ve no idea how big.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. Just forget it. I’m leaving. I’m sorry.” The doorbell buzzed. “The movers are here. I’m sorry, Monica—but you’re kind of in the way here.”
“I’ll help you bring down boxes.” Monica lifted the nearest box. Tina lunged for it.
“No,” she said, grabbing it back.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“You want to help? Then leave. Don’t you get it? I can’t talk to you, I can’t think about you, and I certainly don’t want to look at your face.”
“My face?” Monica touched her cheeks with her hands. Then she threw her hands down and grabbed the duffel bag Tina heaved over her shoulder. “What is wrong with you?”
“Poor Monica. I’m sorry. I just can’t take your advice anymore. You two deserve each other.”
“I told you I’m not after Mike—”
“Don’t lie to me. It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t even talking about him—”
“Who were you talking about?”
“You know,” Tina said as she opened the door, “everyone is going to feel sorry for her. But not me. I care about you, Monica, I really do. And you’re right, I’m jealous. But it’s still time for me to go. Just don’t let anyone walk all over you, okay? You can’t help it. It’s not your fault.”
“I can’t help what? What’s not my fault?”
“I’ll just be a phone call away,” Tina said. “I’m sorry.” She hugged Monica, kissed her on the cheek, and then showed her the door.
“Mr. Paris will see you now.” Monica followed the petite woman down the hallway. Josh Paris sat behind a desk that was covered in stacks of paper, barricaded behind an ordering-form moat. That’s what it was all about. Sell, sell, sell. Buy more books, attend more workshops, listen to more crap. She thought of the sign her father used to hang next to the front door: S
OLICITORS
W
ILL
B
E
S
HOT
.
OLICITORS
W
ILL
B
E
S
HOT
.
“Monica.” Josh stood as she entered but didn’t come out from behind his fortified wall. He held out his hand, and after a quick shake, he gestured to the chair in front of him. Monica sat, and crossed her legs. “What can I do for you?” he said.
“It’s about my remaining workshops,” Monica said. She was dreading this, but it had to be done. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel them.” Josh Paris laughed.
“Funny,” he said. “You had me there for a minute.”
“I’m serious. My assistant just quit—”
“You can hire another one.” He pushed the buzzer on his desk. “Shirley, can you send me a pile of résumés? We have a sales assistant position available.” Sales assistant. Just like she wasn’t a writer, or even a speaker, she was a motivational sales agent. Why had she ever agreed to do this in the first place? Because 150,000 books come out every single year and hardly any of them stayed afloat?
“Mr. Paris—”
“Josh.” He was all teeth. He’d had them whitened, lasered, she was sure of it.
“Josh. I have to be completely honest. My heart isn’t in this anymore.” There, she said it. It felt good. It was honest. Josh opened a drawer in his desk. He flipped through a row of hanging files. He pulled out a bundle of papers and handed them to Monica. Her contract. Monica took it, but didn’t look at it. She already knew where he was going with it.
“As you can see on page thirteen,” he said as if she were expected to turn to page 13. “If you cancel the remaining workshops, you will owe us not only the weekend registration fee of one hundred fifty dollars per person, but the potential loss of sales that each participant is projected to generate—” Monica stood. She slid the contract back across the table. He knew she couldn’t afford any of that.
“Look,” he said. “It’s a demanding job. I understand that. If you’d like, I can recommend some great tapes on recharging your battery—”
“No.”
He held out his arms as if to say
Look how unreasonable you are.
“Shake it up, then. You mentioned you didn’t like ‘Celebrate Good Times.’ Why don’t you pick out some other songs and I’ll have a listen.”
Look how unreasonable you are.
“Shake it up, then. You mentioned you didn’t like ‘Celebrate Good Times.’ Why don’t you pick out some other songs and I’ll have a listen.”
Monica stood.
“That a girl. Chin up. Let me know if you change your mind about those tapes.”
Joe sat in the front row. Since Tina left her high and dry, and Monica refused to hire a new assistant, he’d been very supportive. She hated being back in Philadelphia, hated that Mike lived here and wasn’t sitting in the front row instead of Joe. She burned with shame at the thought of the artist—the one with the haunting horse paintings—finding out she was in town and telling everyone, “That phony woman with the crap book is doing a workshop at the downtown Marriott.”
“I am the architect of my soul,” Monica said to the crowd. “And so are you. Remember that castle in the sky? Well, you can have it. And I’m going to spend the rest of the weekend showing you how.”
Suddenly the interpreter standing to the left of Monica started talking. This was the first time Monica had ever had a hearing-impaired person attend her seminar. There were two sign language interpreters on stage with her, and they were switching back and forth every twenty minutes. It was totally distracting. Not that she didn’t fully support the idea, but it was weird to have someone standing so close; she kept catching their hand movements out of the corner of her eye. It was one of those strange phenomena, like learning a word for the first time, then hearing it everywhere. First she’d seen hearing-impaired people at the art opening; now they were at her workshop. Which was totally great. Monica welcomed the handicapped. She just wasn’t sure how to behave. And the hearing impaired, she was starting to realize, liked to ask a lot of questions.
“I don’t understand,” the interpreter interrupted. “What do you mean by ‘castle in the sky’?” Monica looked at the interpreter. Was she joking? The interpreter slightly nodded her head out toward the audience. Right. She wasn’t asking the question herself, she was simply relaying the information. Where was the hearing-impaired person?
“This is a question from the hearing-impaired attendee?” Monica asked. As soon as the interpreter signed her question, a woman in the second row shot out of her seat. She was dressed strangely, wearing a long trench coat and hat, and sunglasses. She had curly blond hair falling down past her shoulders.
“ ‘Hearing impaired’ is not a term I accept,” the interpreter voiced as the woman signed. Her hands were flying so fast, Monica was worried she was going to hit one of the attendees next to her. She didn’t accept the term “hearing impaired”? Wasn’t that the polite way to say it?
“I’m sorry,” Monica stammered. “What would you like to be called?”
“I am Deaf. Not impaired. Impaired implies something is broken and needs to be fixed. I am not broken. I do not need to be fixed.”
“I’m so sorry,” Monica said. “Did you have a question?”
“I don’t understand you,” the woman said. “Castle in the sky. Architect of your soul. What does any of it really mean?” Monica froze. It was finally here, the moment she’d be “outed” as phony, a fraud. But she never pictured it happening with a hearing-impaired—deaf—woman with sign language interpreters, and Joe staring at her from the front row.
“It means there are no limits to what you can achieve. The sky is the limit.”
That’s it,
Monica told herself.
Keep talking.
She believed in some of what she had to say, she really did. “This weekend is about creating a vision,” Monica continued. “Planning out step-by-step the life you want to lead—”
That’s it,
Monica told herself.
Keep talking.
She believed in some of what she had to say, she really did. “This weekend is about creating a vision,” Monica continued. “Planning out step-by-step the life you want to lead—”
Instead of just falling into it, crashing into it, following the pack—
“I will be leading you through specific exercises to help you get started. By the time you leave here this weekend—” The deaf woman waved her arms again.
“I want to confront my family,” she said. “Can you help me with that?” Joe stood up.
No,
Monica shouted inside her head.
Don’t.
He turned toward the hearing-impaired woman.
No,
Monica shouted inside her head.
Don’t.
He turned toward the hearing-impaired woman.
“Maybe you’re in the wrong seminar,” Joe said. “This isn’t family therapy.”
He did not just say that.
“This workshop cultivates visionaries.”
Oh, but he did.
He did not just say that.
“This workshop cultivates visionaries.”
Oh, but he did.
“Please,” Monica said. “I’d like to answer her question—”
“Who the hell are you?” the deaf woman said, staring at Joe.
I like this girl,
Monica thought. The air was thick with anticipation, as if everyone could feel a good fight coming on. They were probably all wondering who Joe was, wondering why Monica was letting him take over like that, as if Monica couldn’t handle a heckler.
I like this girl,
Monica thought. The air was thick with anticipation, as if everyone could feel a good fight coming on. They were probably all wondering who Joe was, wondering why Monica was letting him take over like that, as if Monica couldn’t handle a heckler.
“This is my fiancé, Joe,” Monica said. “He helped me write the book—”
“Oh,” the woman said after a smattering of applause. “No wonder it doesn’t sound like you.”
“Excuse me,” Joe said. “I’m sorry you’re hearing im—deaf—but it doesn’t give you the right to—”
How does she know?
Monica thought.
How does she know it doesn’t sound like me?
Monica thought.
How does she know it doesn’t sound like me?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the interpreter translated. Her voice rose in volume. “You’re sorry I’m Deaf? You’re sorry I’m Deaf?”
Oh God, Joe, you didn’t just say that, did you? You didn’t mean that. Tell her you didn’t mean that.
“That’s a disgusting thing to say. That’s like saying ‘I’m sorry you’re black,’ ‘I’m sorry you’re Latino,’ ‘I’m sorry you’re a woman.’ ”
Oh God, Joe, you didn’t just say that, did you? You didn’t mean that. Tell her you didn’t mean that.
“That’s a disgusting thing to say. That’s like saying ‘I’m sorry you’re black,’ ‘I’m sorry you’re Latino,’ ‘I’m sorry you’re a woman.’ ”
Joe threw up his arms. He looked at Monica and shook his head.
She can see you,
Monica wanted to say.
She’s not blind.
So why was she wearing those huge sunglasses? She looked like a deaf terrorist. Monica took a step forward.
She can see you,
Monica wanted to say.
She’s not blind.
So why was she wearing those huge sunglasses? She looked like a deaf terrorist. Monica took a step forward.
“You want to confront your family?” The woman crossed her arms against her chest and nodded her head. “I can definitely help you construct a blueprint to guide you through the—conversation—”
“Confrontation—”
“Confrontation you want to have with your family.” Monica paused. “Although,” she said, “if you’re already thinking of it as a confrontation rather than a conversation, I think you’ll be setting yourself up for failure.” There. She did it. She took back control. Now move on before the woman picks up her hands again. Monica was suddenly grateful she wouldn’t be the recipient of this confrontation; the woman was terrifying. Monica could almost see waves of light pulsing from her. “So,” Monica said, addressing the entire crowd again, “please look at the number on the scraps of paper I passed out. This is your group number. Please meet your group in the sections of the room marked with your number. Then we’ll get started with our first group exercise.”
The deaf woman picked up her things and moved through the aisle as if she were leaving. Monica didn’t know why, but she couldn’t let her go.
“Wait,” she called after her. “Don’t leave.” She looked at the interpreter, who just shrugged. Monica walked down the steps off the stage and started after the woman.
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