Jessica Chiarella - And Again

“All of them?”

“All of them. You want a drink?”

I glanced back up at myself. “I think I need one.”

As Penny floated off, I tried to put space between my portrait and me. I wandered toward a collection of photographs on the opposite wall, unimpressive shots of abandoned bicycle frames locked to various racks around the city. Trevor was across the room, holding court among a small clot of older women wearing perfectly tailored silk dresses and intricate jewelry, and when I caught his eye he winked at me. As I tipped my imaginary hat to him, I felt someone sidle up next to me.

“It’s you in that painting over there, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly,” I replied, glancing over and swallowing my next breath when I realized that the man next to me was Sam. His boyish features were the same as ever, the light shadow of stubble on his chin the only evidence of his age.

“You have the same tattoo,” he said, motioning to the lacy lines of ivy swirling their way from my left shoulder blade down to my elbow. Those same lines crawled their way over my bare shoulder on the canvas.

“You’re very observant,” I said, searching his face for any signs of recognition. I’d dyed my hair a faint lavender color in college and invested huge amounts of money getting it chemically straightened from its usual tight ringlets. He’d also never seen me in makeup, particularly not the kind of heavy eyeliner I was sporting that night. It was exciting, like wearing a mask, to stand in front of Sam as a stranger. It made me feel powerful.

“So it is you,” he said.

“Not really. It’s only what Trevor sees.”

“Seems like Trevor sees an awful lot.”

I laughed, peering at him from under my bangs. There were differences, when I looked at him long enough. His brown hair was shorter than it had been in high school. His jaw was a bit wider, his mouth broader. All of his lankiness seemed to have hardened, become more defined. Maybe he wasn’t the best-looking guy in the place, but he was mine, a little, by virtue of having been my sister’s once. That familiarity alone drew me to him.

Penny reappeared then with a couple of vodka tonics. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, handing me the cold, sweating glass. I took a sip, relishing the sweet tang of it, preparing to enjoy my new game.

“Penny, this is Sam Foster,” I said, watching the rush of confusion overtake his expression. To his credit, he recovered quickly.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” he asked. I could almost see him pawing through his mental Rolodex, hoping to find my face.

“Ages ago. If I remember correctly, you gave me a bootleg of the Smashing Pumpkins farewell show at the Metro for my twelfth birthday. Which was nice, considering my sister got me a gift card to The Gap.”

“Holy shit,” he said, taking a step back, as if seeing more of me would draw everything into focus. “You’re Lucy Reed’s little sister. Hannah. Jesus, I can’t even remember the last time I saw you.”

This struck me as odd, because I could remember exactly when I last saw him. It was at his father’s funeral, only days before he ended his relationship with Lucy. But I smiled anyway, brushing off the memory. “Probably back before I got my braces off,” I replied as Penny watched with curious amusement. It was a break in my pattern. I didn’t usually go for the jacket-and-tie types.

“How is Lucy?” Sam asked.

“Married,” Penny replied, before I could. “To a banker, no less. They’re picking out their white picket fence next week.”

Sam’s face showed no discernable signs of disappointment, only faint, polite interest. It was reassuring, to imagine how little Sam cared about Lucy and her banker husband in my presence.

“Well, tell her I say hello.”

“So what do you think of the show, Sam?” Penny asked.

“Can you keep a secret?” Sam asked. Penny motioned to him to indicate that he should proceed. “I don’t know much about art.”

“So what are you doing here on a Saturday night?”

“I’m writing up the show for the Trib .”

“You’re a reporter?” I asked, and he nodded.

“And they’re sending you here, even though you don’t know anything about art,” Penny said, and didn’t wait for an answer, waving her hands in front of her, as if she could fend off any additional conversation. “Christ, I don’t even want to know. You two have fun, I’m going to go rescue Trevor and pretend there’s still a thing called culture in this country.”

“Don’t let her bother you,” I said to Sam once Penny was out of earshot.

“She’s got a point. I’m new at the paper, paying my dues in Arts and Leisure for the moment, trying to work my way up.”

It’s the sort of thing that would one day bother me, the idea that my life’s pursuit was his purgatory, his stepping stone into more practical and important matters. That he would arrive at the gallery, fully prepared to write about the work, and yet harbor no desire to learn anything about it that wouldn’t fit into a page of text. But those concerns would come later. That night I would have overlooked anything to keep him talking.

“What do you want to write about?” I asked.

“Politics,” he replied. “Political corruption, really. How money and patronage influence the system.”

“So you’re a crusader then. Trying to make the greedy and corrupt pay for their misdeeds?”

“Maybe just trying to shine a little light into a system that’s the worst at serving the people who need it most,” he replied.

“An idealist.”

He shrugged, completely self-possessed. “Maybe.”

“Well, you’re certainly a better person than I am,” I said, feeling myself drawing closer to him by degrees, even if my body wasn’t moving. “I would want to make them pay.”

“Hannah Reed,” he said, as if testing out how my name felt in his mouth. “You’re not at all what I remember.”

“You’re a lot like what I remember,” I replied. “Well, except your hair is shorter.” I brushed my fingertips over the close-cropped hair at his temple, watching him twitch a bit at the contact. “It was always so curly.”

“And you were such a shy little kid,” he said, glancing back at my painting, at the burnt umber and gold Trevor used for my eyes, the peachy swirls of skin, the dark russet of my nipples.

“It’s easier than you think. Sitting for a painting,” I said. “Once you’ve painted a portrait yourself, you realize it’s just about what’s in the artist’s head. It’s not really about the subject at all. It could have been anyone up there.”

“But doesn’t it feel a little weird? With that on the wall in front of a crowd of people?”

“Maybe,” I said. “But no one really sees me when they look at it. Here.” I took his arm and pulled him in front of it. “What did you think when you first saw it?”

“I’m not sure if I want to tell you,” Sam replied, and his expression made me laugh.

“I’m not thirteen anymore. I can legally drink and everything. Please, humor me.”

“I guess I thought she looks lonely,” Sam said. “I wondered what kind of idiot would leave a girl like that alone in his bed.”

I had to look away from him for a moment then, until the sear of heat across my cheeks subsided. “See, it’s not me. I’m not lonely.”

“No?”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” I said, and I wanted to be thirteen again, so the younger version of me would know that Sam Foster would one day look at me the way he used to look at Lucy. To reassure her that her loneliness wouldn’t last forever.

Sam saw all of my tattoos that night. The dark lines of poetry on my ribs, the oleander blooms sliding down my thigh. The roman numerals on the insides of my wrists. The marks I had amassed in the years since I realized that it was easier to love my body as a collection of stories than as something sacred and holy, the body my mother had given me. It was easier to make myself into something I recognized, something I could love.