Page 53

THIRTY-FOUR

J onathan calls about a week after Party was “moved” to see how I’m doing without her. I know I shouldn’t disclose the actual situation, but the concern in his voice and our deepening friendship undermine my caution. “There’s something I have to tell you…”

A pause. A sharp intake of breath. “No.” The man is quick.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.” I struggle to suppress a giggle, as I’m well aware he doesn’t think this is funny, but it escapes anyway.

Another pause. “How the hell did you pull this off?” he asks with less annoyance than I would have expected. When I explain, he whistles and says, “We need to talk.”

He comes over on Saturday, and when he sees Party still hanging on the living room wall, he crosses his arms over his chest. I show him the dehumidifier set at 45 percent, the air purifier running full force, the closed shades, the dimmed bulbs, then tell him about the eco-friendly pest control service that will be coming monthly.

“And you saw how great the building security was dealing with the press, keeping all those reporters and photographers away, protecting my privacy.”

He shakes his head but says nothing, eyes fixed on Party .

“I’m also thinking about looking into hiring a guard.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” He sits on the couch and throws me an appraising glance. “You certainly know how to get what you want, don’t you? No line too red to cross.”

I stare down at my hands, embarrassed by his all-too-accurate assessment. When I look up, I see that although his words are disapproving, there’s a small smile playing around his lips. “So do you forgive me?”

“No,” he says, then turns to focus on Party .

After a few minutes, he adds, “Every time I look at this painting, I see something new.” He points at Berthe.

“Like the expression in her eyes. It’s so lifelike, but also complicated.

Is she looking out over the river because it’s a beautiful sight?

Or is she turning her back to the party because she doesn’t want to be there?

Or maybe it’s a statement about how she feels about her place in the world?

You can clearly see all those emotions, and maybe even a spark of mischievousness there…

How the hell did he do something like that? ”

I begin to relax. “Beats me. I told you before that sometimes I sketch it, and the harder I try to copy what’s he’s done, the more mystified I am about how he managed to pull it off.” Then we sit in a slightly uneasy silence.

Finally, he stands. “I understand, Tamara. I really do. Even though your attempts at temperature control are notable, is it fair to the painting to be in these unstable conditions? Or that no one else gets to see it?”

“I know, I know, you’re right. But it’s only temporary.

I’m going to start setting up meetings with museums next week to get the process started.

And it’s not as if she hasn’t been in unstable conditions before.

Plus hardly anyone saw her in Philadelphia, and in Brazil she was in storage the whole time.

” I give him a perky smile. “Not to mention that there weren’t a whole lot of art lovers hanging out in that salt mine. ”

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me with a touch of amusement. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Having her with me reminds me I’m not as alone as I always thought I was,” I tell him, and he says no more.

After he leaves, I pass Party on the way to my study and sense something off.

I look at her closely, and she’s as she always is.

Then I catch a whiff of that old-fashioned flowery aroma, and my stomach cramps.

Berthe’s focus shifts from the far riverbank to me.

Her brow is furrowed, and she shakes her head.

Inside my own head, I hear her say, “Don’t. ”

Don’t what? Don’t put Party in storage? Don’t lend her to a museum?

Don’t go into my study? I defiantly walk into the study but find myself closing the doors to separate myself from Party .

Then I open them to prove there’s nothing scary out there.

But I’m still afraid. And it’s not what’s out there I’m afraid of.

It’s what’s inside my head. Normal people don’t hallucinate sights and smells or hear dead people talking to them.

I must be having some kind of breakdown.

My parents told me little about our family—my father was the silent type, and my mother’s mother had some kind of catastrophic rupture with her own mother—so, as I’ve said before, I have no idea if I have a genetic predisposition toward mental illness.

But now that I know I have all these artists in my bloodline, I suppose it’s possible.

Lots of famous painters have their unhinged sides.

Think van Gogh or Munch or O’Keeffe or Rothko.

Does this mean I should go to a shrink? I went to one once when I had a bout of anorexia in high school, but it turned out I was more into the idea of being anorexic—which was rampant in the popular cliques—than suffering from an actual eating disorder.

Yet this isn’t teenager me wanting to fit in.

This is me as an adult perceiving the world in a way that it isn’t.

“WOULD YOU LIKE me to call you Ms. Rubin or Tamara?”

“Tamara is good.”

“And you can call me Dr. Hawthorn or Ruth. Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

“Ruth is good,” I say with a nervous laugh.

Yup, I’m in a therapist’s office. I mentioned that I was feeling off to Holly—who’s seen more therapists in her thirty-seven years than most people have seen a doctor in their lifetimes—and she suggested Ruth Hawthorn.

I like Ruth already. Or I like how she looks, how her office looks.

Both are well-worn but attractive and homey.

I almost canceled a couple of times, but I guess my need to know is stronger than my fear of knowing. Maybe.

Ruth is in an oversized chair, and I’m on the couch across from her, almost as if we’re just hanging out in her living room.

She even offered me something to drink, and there’s a bowl of candy on the coffee table between us.

“Why don’t you tell me what brought you in today?

” she asks. “Start wherever you want, or if you’d rather, just talk a little about who you are. ”

I tell her who I am, where I grew up, where I went to school, what I do, that my parents are dead, no sibs, no cousins. Then I tell her about Party . How the painting came to me, how wonderful it is, how it was almost destroyed in a fire, and about Damien’s lawsuit. Obviously, I leave out a lot.

“That sounds remarkable—and stressful.”

“Yes, both. In equal measure.” I realize my syntax sounds strained, which it is.

As am I. “I’ve never been an art person, but the more time I spend with her and learn about the Impressionists, that whole world is opening up to me.

Or maybe more like I’m being sucked into it,” I say.

“In a good way,” I add quickly. Not much better, but I’m anxious.

I came here to tell her I’m afraid I’m losing my mind, wanting her help, but I worry she’ll agree with me. And, frankly, I’m embarrassed.

“It’s wonderful to be open to new experiences,” Ruth says. “And the experience of learning to appreciate art can be an especially gratifying one. But I noticed you used the word ‘her’ in reference to your painting.”

Another awkward laugh. “Oh, you know. After being with, with the painting for all these months, it’s just gotten so familiar that I guess, I guess I’ve personified her—it.”

She smiles at me encouragingly but doesn’t say anything.

Right. The therapist silence bit. So we’re just going to sit here? Is she going to wait me out until I spill the beans? And which beans would those be? “I, uh, I, well, sometimes the painting is so real to me I dream about it. About Berthe.”

“Can you tell me more about this?”

“And sometimes when I’m hanging out with it, it almost seems to come alive.”

“I’m familiar with some of Manet’s work. His paintings can be so compelling, his models so realistic and psychologically complex, that it can feel as if they’re jumping off the canvas.”

“Yes, yes, that’s just the way Party is,” I say, thrilled to have her confirmation. “Particularly Berthe, whose expression seems to change. Even her position.”

“How does that feel? When you sense she’s shifting.”

So this is how it works: Shrinks make you say things you don’t want to say. If that’s true, Holly was right—Ruth is damn good at her job. I start to fidget, stop myself, and shrug. “Maybe just wishful thinking.”

Another smile, another silence.

I remind myself that I came here to discover, not to obfuscate. What I saw, what I smelled, what I heard in my head, is more than just a wish. “Sometimes, sometimes it seems as if I hear her voice. Like, like she’s communicating with me,” I blurt.

Ruth doesn’t appear to be at all perturbed. “What does she say?”

“I mean, well, it’s not like she actually talks to me. It’s more like I have a thought that’s, that’s somehow spoken in her voice—not that I know what her voice sounds like. And, and I don’t hear it with my ears. It’s in my brain, not in real life.”

“Is that part of the reason you came here today?”

What the hell. “Yes. But that’s not all of it.

” I’m amazed that as I tell her all the gory details, she’s still looking at me as if I’m a normal person.

When I finish, I add, “I know paintings don’t change and someone who’s been dead for over a hundred years can’t talk to me—and there’s no way I can smell her perfume.

But that’s what I’ve been experiencing, and I’m starting to worry that maybe, maybe I’m hallucinating.

That I’m losing it. Or have a brain tumor or something. ”

“Have you had similar experiences before? Now or at any other time?”

“I’m pretty sure I haven’t.”

“Does this happen just when you’re around the painting? Or do you have these types of incidents in other situations?”

I consider this, having never thought about it before.

“Just with the painting. And it’s only the painting that it happens to.

Actually, it’s only Berthe who ever moves, no one else, and, and I only smell the perfume when I hear her voice.

In my head, I mean. Not out loud.” I’m beginning to really scare myself.

“And has any of this, everything you just explained to me, affected other parts of your life? Your job, relationships?”

“My job is fine, no problems there. But my boyfriend—I mean the guy I’m seeing—well, he thinks I’m too obsessed with Party . He wants me to get rid of her, sell her to Damien. But I suppose our relationship is going fine. For what it is.”

“There’s much to explore here, and that gives us plenty to discuss during your next session, if you’d like to continue. If you don’t, I’ll be happy to refer you to someone else. But either way, I’d recommend psychological testing before your next therapy visit. Again, I can give you a referral.”

I sit up straight. “What kind of testing?”

“There are standardized tests that can provide an additional lens to understand what you’re experiencing. To help figure out what exactly is afoot here—and what isn’t, which is equally important. This, along with more sessions, will hopefully pinpoint the best treatment options.”

“You think I need treatment?”

Her smile is warm and reassuring, the opposite of her words.

“I’ve known you less than an hour, Tamara, and frankly, I have no idea if you do or you don’t.

But I do know that whatever is going on is upsetting you, and that my goal as a therapist is to try to alleviate this.

And for that, more information is necessary. ”

I WALK BACK to work from Ruth’s. It’s about two miles, but the sun is out and I need time to sort this through.

I went to a therapist, and although she didn’t act as if what I was telling her was any big deal while I was telling it, she recommended not only more sessions, but psychological testing.

And even more upsetting, she never mentioned a neurologist. Ergo, she doesn’t believe I have a brain tumor—she believes I’m mentally ill.

Would I really prefer a brain tumor? I suppose not, but if I did, it might be operable or maybe there’s some medication that would make it go away.

Yes, yes, I know there are medications to treat mental illnesses, but I’m pretty sure they just deal with symptoms and don’t eliminate the underlying disease. So I’d still be a crazy lady.

When I reach my office, there are three minor disasters that have to be dealt with and demand my full attention until early evening.

As I head home, I remind myself that this is only one woman’s opinion, not even close to a definitive finding.

How could I have just solved all those work problems if my brain isn’t operating correctly?

Maybe I should make an appointment with a neurologist on my own.

Get my ears checked. Perhaps a new pair of glasses.

After dinner, I play around with the pastels.

I found some cheaper canvases online, and although I haven’t managed anything nearly as good as the fake I put into storage—or at least as good as I remember it was, which I’m probably overhyping—the sticks are fun, much more rewarding and forgiving than the pencils.

As often happens, I paint too long, and it’s almost two when I finally climb into bed.

The building is quiet, even the street sounds are muted, but I can’t fall asleep.

I switch from my side to my stomach to my back, punch my pillow, curl into a fetal position.

No luck. The Paris hearing is only two weeks away, and Wyatt hasn’t been able to postpone it a second time.

I can’t afford to send him or anyone else from his firm to France to represent me, and I have a bad feeling about the outcome.

He tries to be optimistic to keep me from stewing, but it’s obvious he’s concerned too.