Page 18 of The Art of Vanishing

Claire

My head rested on Jean’s chest, my right ear close enough to his heart that I could hear it speed up as I ran my fingers up and down his arm.

I drew invisible doodles along his bicep.

My clothes, puddled in piles on the floor, were haunting, a reminder of the life to which I was pretending I owed nothing.

My ugly but “practical” sneakers mocked me, tangled in the pant legs of my uniform.

“Do I have to leave?” I said, mostly joking. I was a human inside a painting.

“If I could ask you to stay, I would get down on my knees and beg. I’d have no shame in doing so. But I can’t even imagine how that would work,” Jean answered too earnestly.

“It was a joke,” I reassured him, hearing the sadness in my own voice.

“It’s impossible; I know. Plus, I can’t.

I’ve got…people out there who need me.” I saw confusion and maybe even a little hurt play across Jean’s face.

I had told him I wasn’t ready to talk about it, and I knew he wasn’t going to push me, but I felt guilty.

I wasn’t thinking about who Jean thought I was thinking about.

But he wanted to laugh it off, not contaminate this moment with those thoughts. “So, instead we have nights,” he said. “I’m kind of a bore during the day, anyway, frozen in place as I am.”

“And I have to sleep, like, kind of a lot, when I’m not here.”

“Of course, sleep, I remember that,” he joked. I pinched his arm and he caught my hand in his, holding my fingers in place. He leaned down to kiss me, and I felt like I could melt right then and there. I was utterly obsessed with him and it was freaking me out, how intense these feelings had grown.

“Speaking of sleep, I’m playing it fast and loose now. I better get back out there, check in with Linda.” Jean nodded but made no move to get up.

“How is Linda these days?” he asked as he tangled his fingers in my hair.

“Same old, same old.” I forced the words out, not allowing myself to get distracted by his touch.

“She’s normally done way before I am and is waiting for me in the break room, playing around on her phone until our shift is over.

She sometimes makes jokes about how slow I am and I just let her.

I tell her it’s because I can’t stop looking at the art and she totally believes me.

But it doesn’t feel like a lie; I am looking at the art.

” I gazed up at Jean again. “Just a little closer than she imagines, maybe.”

“As long as she doesn’t come looking for you, I think that’s great.”

“Oh no, she never would. Sometimes I describe to her a painting that I say just got me all caught up, and she’ll listen and laugh.

She has no interest in the art but I think she likes hearing about what makes me happy.

She’s a real friend in that way. I sometimes wish I could tell her about you.

” Or anyone, for that matter. What would I even call him? My boyfriend?

Jean wrapped his arms around me. “It feels unfair that the people in my life know about you while you have to keep all of this a secret.” Well, at least I was good at keeping those. Maybe a little too good.

That imaginary alarm clock that seemed like it was built into my brain started ringing and I rolled over, putting my feet on the floor.

It was time to go and we both knew by now that this part was easier if we just ripped the bandage off.

Jean followed, though he had significantly more clothing to put back on.

He pulled his shirt on one sleeve at a time, draping his tie around his neck.

By the time I had buttoned my jumpsuit and scooped my hair into a poorly executed but serviceable topknot, he had just started on his pants.

I tried to catch my reflection in the warped glass of the cottage windows, rubbing away the mascara that was making the dark patches under my eyes look even worse.

Whatever sleep I was getting in this weird split life was not enough.

Jean caught one of my eyes in the reflection. “It’ll have to do,” I said.

“You look beautiful, as always. Every day, you’re more beautiful than I even remembered.” I blushed viciously. I knew he was trying to flatter me and honestly, it was working. My skin felt hot all over.

We made our way back to Jean’s house in a dazed, contented silence. “Remember when I won a horse race?” I asked when we were almost there.

“I’m not sure that’s exactly what winning looks like in that context—”

I cut him off with a searing glare. I was not about to let the details get in the way of this story.

“Yes, absolutely,” he corrected himself. “The team could not have done it without you. I’m sure your new friends will be eager to get you back.”

“Well, duh, I’m a catch, but there’s so much more to see. I get freaked out when I think of running out of time to take it all in.” I panicked whenever I thought about this way of living coming to an end, but I wasn’t going down that rabbit hole right now. I really did need to get going.

“Why would you run out of time?” Jean asked. I didn’t know how to tell him I couldn’t help feeling like something this good had to have an expiration date.

“No reason, I’m just daunted by the expansiveness of it all,” I replied, trying to reassure him.

“You want to keep exploring the museum?” I could tell the gears in Jean’s head were turning.

“As long as it’s with you.” I linked my arm through his and he patted my hand.

“Well, then, tomorrow night. It’s a date,” he said. I was distracted, wondering what he was cooking up, and I didn’t realize his mom was back in her rocker, embroidery in hand, until we were right in front of her. It was clear from the expression on her face that she was listening to us.

“Good evening, Mother, have you had a nice evening?” Jean’s measured tone made me feel like a kid again, embarrassed to be caught in the act. Could she tell from the dopey expressions on our faces what we’d been up to tonight? I shuddered at that thought.

“Oui,” she responded. Clearly she understood Jean’s English but had chosen to answer in a language just the two of them shared. Well, I could play that game.

“Bonjour, Madame Matisse.” I tried to infuse my voice with a confidence I didn’t quite have.

I knew my pronunciation was rocky, but it sounded better than it had when I first started practicing.

I crossed my fingers that this was working because I didn’t have much French left.

To my delight, Jean and his mother both looked utterly charmed.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she replied, one of her eyebrows crooked upward in an impressive arc. I’d have to practice that in the mirror later. “I gather you are the young woman my son has become infatuated with.”

Jean’s jaw dropped and I resisted the urge to slam my elbow into his side. I recovered for the both of us. “And I with him,” I said. Jean turned toward me, a silly expression on his face.

“Well, aren’t we lucky to hear that. My son rarely gives his heart away. I’m glad it appears to be safely kept.” Speaking of hearts, I could feel mine thundering in my chest.

“To the best of my abilities,” I said as I reached out and grabbed Jean’s hand to stabilize myself.

She offered us a short nod; we were being dismissed. We made our way to the edge of our worlds for our usual framed goodbye.

“That went well, right?” I couldn’t help myself from asking.

“Very well.” Jean kissed the top of my head. “We have her approval, for now.”

“I really don’t want to, but I have to go.” Even in this world, I couldn’t shut off the logical side of my brain, ruled by rules.

“Good night, Claire,” he said. “Rest well tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Jean, have a good day at work,” I quipped back, giving him one more kiss before I dropped out onto the floor of the gallery.

I grabbed my tools and pushed my way to the back halls of the building, winding my way to the storage area where we kept our supplies.

That song about everlasting love, one of my grandmother’s favorites, came to mind, and I hummed a little bit of it aloud.

These hallways, white and sterile, having none of the coziness or color of the galleries, were meant to be the secret part of the museum.

When the guests thought about the parts of this building that they didn’t have access to, this was what they pictured.

If only they knew what they were really missing out on.

I slammed my car door, tucking myself inside and dropping my purse on the passenger seat. It spilled to the side, dumping its contents between the seat and the door, and I just let it fall.

“What the actual hell ?” I asked aloud, trying to process the events of tonight’s shift.

I pressed my hands against my cheeks. I could feel a smile crossing my face.

This was not the time for giggling, but I couldn’t help myself.

I knew I probably looked like an idiot, grinning to myself alone in my car.

I tried to put my key into the ignition, but my hands were shaking too much.

I gave up and took a deep breath. My mind danced back to the newly made memories of tonight.

Had it really only been a few hours since I was last sitting in this exact spot, getting ready for another night at work? So much had changed.

Life in Jean’s world was a fairy tale, a conglomeration of colors and laughter and sunshine.

It was never too cold or too hot; I never needed an extra layer and I never saw anyone sweat.

I was never hungry or tired, and I weirdly never needed to pee.

I didn’t have to think about all the things that normally clouded my brain.

For a few minutes, or hours, if we were pushing it like we did tonight, I could just be me. And, even better, be me with him.

Being with Jean made me feel like I could act my age again. I was twenty-one; in his world, it was okay to do something just because I wanted to every now and then. And it was okay to make mistakes. When I was with him, I could just let my feelings for him run free. And run they did.

Jean was so patient; it was like he had an attention span unaffected by all the things technology had done to ruin ours.

He never looked away from me when I was talking, even if it took me a moment to figure out how I wanted to phrase things.

He asked follow-up questions, trying to digest pieces of my life he didn’t understand. He wanted to take the time to get it.

I’d calmed down enough by this point to get the car started and pull out of the lot without running into anything on the way. I waved to Terry, who ran the gate for the after-hours shift, and he released me to the world beyond. Reluctantly, I drove out into the night.

My euphoria rubbed off as I coasted farther away from that dream life and closer to my reality. I remembered meeting Jean’s mom. I should have assumed that would happen eventually, but there was nothing like meeting your boyfriend’s mom for the first time. I wondered if she had liked me.

Was Jean my boyfriend? I had obviously never asked him. I was pretty confident no one was using the phrase define the relationship a century ago. But I also knew that for Jean, there was only me. He’d made that as clear as he could. So why did I need a word for it, to hear it from his mouth?

Because that would make it feel more real.

Because it would put it in my terms, in my language.

Because a boyfriend wasn’t someone you just casually dated, saw when it was convenient, but who didn’t cross your mind during the in-between moments.

A boyfriend was someone you carried with you, even when you two weren’t physically together.

And that’s what he had become to me. I thought about him all the time.

I relived our nights together in the dull reality of my days; I imagined him inserted into various scenarios of my life.

I wanted to call him my boyfriend. I wanted to have a reason, an official reason, to define him in relation to me. I wanted to be in a relationship.

He’d never meet my mom, regardless of whatever term we chose to describe us, and that was for the best. She’d find a way to ruin this all—to insult me, and to hurt him. I was lucky he was safe from her.

I pulled onto my street. I’d been on autopilot for most of the drive but the need to focus on looking for street parking drew me out of my dreamy haze.

It was either grab a spot or pull around the creepy alley in back and try to squeeze my car in.

But it was barely lit back there, and I could never stop myself from sprinting the whole way to the back door.

My fingers were crossed the parking gods would work in my favor tonight.

And sure enough, they did. A few blocks down, I found a spot just big enough for my tiny old car.

I completed an impressive parallel parking job, except there was no one around to acknowledge my feat of maneuvering.

I leaned forward and gathered all my belongings that had scattered to the ground, sure I’d missed a Cheerio or crumpled-up tissue but telling myself I’d get them tomorrow in the daylight. Even though I probably wouldn’t.

As I walked back toward my apartment along the silent, streetlamp-lit street, I noticed how this didn’t feel any more real than life with Jean.

This sidewalk right here could be something out of a painting.

With no one around, there was nothing that reminded me that this life was the real one.

I might as well be a player in a video game or a character in a movie.

It wasn’t until I reached my door, pulling my keys out and wiggling them around in my fingers, that a sense of reality struck.

I probably had a few quiet hours, if I was lucky, before all hell broke loose, as it always did.

I was always tempted to use those hours to do something for me, just for me, but I knew I needed to sleep.

That would have to count as my self-care for tonight.