Page 25 of Yield to Me

Chapter 14

I was cross-legged on the bed, a phone shoved in between my ear and my shoulder. Eight by ten photographs were lying across the mattress, each one holding the most appealing angle of one of my sculptures; the back of a woman, her front aimed towards three sides of mirrors, her face a mirror; two human figures facing each other, holding hands, made entirely out of construction materials; and the plastic box in which the audience could enter, and see shadows of others through the murky windows. I had finally narrowed it down to the top twenty-five works, but I still had to cut five more pieces. “I don’t necessarily agree on the vanity piece,” Michael chimed in my ear. I knew he was referring to the woman with the mirrored blank face. “Your piece from the copycat project is more—” he paused, “invigorating.”

“Sexual, you mean,” I corrected. I knew the exact photograph he was talking about; the couple’s arched backs to the left in mid-swing, a third man with a black eye lying on the couch, watching in exhaustion and peace, as if it was simply another day. But from the way Michael spoke about it, he clearly didn’t understand the mirrors. He called it the vanity piece when it was actually about how we perceive ourselves based on what others see in us. You couldn’t see the woman’s face, but the audience would see their own faces, their own reactions in hers. “I happen to love my so-called ‘vanity’ piece. But the copycat project is the wrong medium anyway. I’m applying for sculpture.”

“It’s a damned good photograph,” he said. “I’m proud of it.” He had shown it off in the front of the class, claiming that that was what a copycat photograph should be like: delicate enough to praise the predecessor, but haunting enough to claim its own stake in the arts. “Where’d you take that, anyway? You should invite me next time.”

I smiled to myself. I was kind of hoping he’d say that. It was promising that he was curious about the image. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to try dating him if it meant he could experiment. And hadn’t Owen mentioned a masquerade party coming up?

The smile on my face disappeared as I thought of Owen. I hadn’t spoken to him in over a week. There had been a fundraiser for the Foundation at one of the local studios, and we had both acknowledged each other’s presence without much more than a nod. It had stung, but I had told myself it was for the best. But still, I could feel his eyes on me the whole night, and I relished in that feeling, knowing that I had still piqued his curiosities. And I still wanted to go to that party he had mentioned during our post play meal at the Jade Orchid, even if that meant bringing Michael.

“It’s a private club,” I said. I wondered whether Owen would let me have a plus one to the party. If we had agreed not to see each other, there wasn’t anything he could do about me having a date, I decided. “There’s a party coming up. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Where did this Riley come from? Getting us into a party at a private club! Did you learn anything new at this private club?” Michael asked.

“I did, actually.”

“You’ll have to teach me then,” he said.

It was funny to think of myself as a teacher when I had barely skimmed the surface of possibilities with Owen. Damn it, there he was again. I had to get him off of my mind. Flirt with Michael, damn it. Use him to get your mind off of Owen. “You’re asking a student for help? That’s a new one.”

“I’m willing to learn.”

I bet you are, I thought, smirking to myself. “Well, I’ve gotta finish this application,” I said.

“Fine, fine. But let me take you out this weekend,” he said, hints of flirtation in his voice. “We can call it a lesson in deviance. More of a lecture than an actual date.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Always the thinker.”

“Professing requires it, and if I’m going to be teaching you about deviance, well, then...” He laughed and I clicked off my phone. I looked at the photographs of the sculptures in front of me. There was something about the way the couple was made out of fiberglass insulation, pieces of concrete, steel, but I was drawn to the marble man covered in a cloak, holding a candle, one that had been inspired by Owen. While he hadn’t let me take his photograph, I had used him in my mind as inspiration. I imagined him standing there, holding a large pillar candle in his palm, looking forward, a large cloak over him, shadowing his face. It reminded me of the way he held light in his actions, even if he was shadowed and mysterious. I put the photograph of that sculpture in my definite pile and found others I could remove. I let out a deep breath. I had come a long way, and this put me one step closer to my goals, closer than my father thought I would ever get.

I still remember when I was ten years old, when Grayson hadn’t left us yet, and his exact words as he leaned over me, looking at my painting of a beach. ‘Artist?’ he had said. ‘See what happens to artists is they give up when they make a family. All of them do. You might as well resign yourself to being an art teacher like your mother.’ He had laughed as he said this, mumbling jokes about Regina’s attempt at making it as an artist. ‘You’ll never make it as an artist. Why don’t you study medicine?’

Because studying medicine was more practical, more useful, more like Grayson. He had become a doctor for the perks that came with it; women, money, the faith that people blindly gave him, the idea that he helped people. Like Regina had believed in him. But I knew what he was like, and he wasn’t as altruistic as he claimed. And while art couldn’t heal a physical disease, art could help people too. It could move someone to tears and strike conversations, make people think hard about their own lives. My mother had become a teacher because she was tired of the politics that came with artistry, she had said, it wasn’t about giving up her dreams. It was taking another path willingly; she said she never wanted that as her life anyway. Still, I sometimes felt guilty, like she gave it up for me, even if I knew in my heart that Grayson had convinced her to make the choice.

If I was accepted to Foundations For the Arts sculpture program, there was a chance I could be selected for one of the scholarships for graduate students, and even if I was accepted without funding, I would still have the opportunity to teach classes like Michael and to meet some of the most esteemed agents and gallery owners in the country. I believed in myself, even if my own father didn’t. Even if it took more than getting into my dream school, I would prove my father wrong.

Each year, I made sure to watch my mother when it came to her and Grayson’s anniversary. I made sure to distract her as much as possible when it came to those big days. It was babysitting, and even at the age of thirteen, I looked out for my mother. When I was nineteen, after the anniversary had gone by without any mishaps and several days had passed, Regina snuck out, leaving me by myself in the Bay Area without a car. Two days later, Regina finally called me crying from Vegas. ‘I can’t find him,’ she had sobbed, ‘I can’t find him anywhere.’ She was inconsolable, and I did what I had to do; I flew to Vegas, charging the plane ticket to my credit card, and drove my mother home.

Since then, I had treated the day like any other. I realized I couldn’t stop my mother from doing whatever it was that my mother intended to do, but I could take care of her when the time came from it. Luckily, as far as we knew, Grayson didn’t live in Nevada anymore; he lived somewhere else, somewhere too far away, somewhere neither of us knew the location of. Regardless of Grayson’s whereabouts, even if I didn’t mark my calendar, I woke up knowing that today was that day, the day I had to be extra careful around my mother. The fear of what might happen drowned all of my happy thoughts.

The house was empty after I arrived home from a shift at the Chez TonTon. I jumped back in my car and started slowly patrolling the neighborhood. Luckily, we only had one car, so Regina couldn’t have gone far. After making the rounds, I went to the next closest subdivision and found Regina sitting across the street from a two-story house with a wire fence around it. A light flickered in the top bedroom window. A plastic tricycle lay on its side in the front yard.

Regina was so still; I almost wondered if she truly couldn’t hear me.

“We could’ve had this,” she said, breaking the silence. Trails of dried tears shined on her face. “I could’ve given him anything he wanted. I don’t even think I would’ve cared if he slept with other women, as long as he always came home to me.”

“He did sleep with other women, Mom,” I said.

“He loved me,” my mother said, turning towards me as she said this.

“He loved himself.”

Regina turned back to the house. “Even if he couldn’t see it, I was good for him, you know.”

“Mom.” I waited for her to stop. She didn’t say anything, so I continued. “He never deserved you. Or us.”

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