Page 9 of Keep Me In Your Heart

“Fuck it,” I mutter as I punch my thumb on my phone screen. It lights up with my mom’s picture.

Calling Mom…

I wait as it rings, and rings, and rings.

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mailbox of Torrence Devereaux. She is currently unavailable. If you are calling to commission or purchase a piece of art, please contact her assistant, Enid Hamilton, at 290-555-1004. Thank you.”

Enid’s voice grates on my nerves, but I stick through the greeting until it beeps.

“Hey, Mom. It’s Sylvie. Your daughter. I don’t know if you’re still in Florence, but I’m just calling because I’m literally fucking starving. You can’t just cut me off like this. I’m not sure what you expect me to do. Can’t I just have, like, half of my allowance until I figure something out? You can’t do this to me. Just call me back…please.”

I hang up the call as I reach a crosswalk, waiting in a crowd of pedestrians as I try my dad’s number. It rings and rings and rings just the same.

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice mailbox of Yuri Devereaux. He is currently unavailable.”

“Fuck my life,” I mutter to myself.

“If you are calling to commission or purchase a piece of art, please contact his assistant, Enid Hamilton, at 290-555-1004. Thank you.”

Beep.

“Dad,” I cry into the phone. “It’s Sylvie. Please call me back. I’m just…” My voice cracks. “I’m having a really hard time lately, and I need your help. Just a little something to get me through the season. No one is hiring right now, and my credit cards are all maxed out. I’m not sure how I’ll pay rent this month, and I’m scared.”

My voice is thick with emotion, but my eyes are as dry as the desert. I can feel the curious attention of the nosy people around me glancing up from their phones to sneak a peek at me.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

I punch the End Call button and pull up the last contact on my list. With a disgruntled sigh, I hit the phone icon next to her name. This time, she picks up after the first ring.

“Hello, Sylvie,” she says without a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Hello, Enid,” I mutter into the phone. “Are my parents still in Florence?”

She sighs. “They haven’t been in Florence since May. What can I help you with?”

The light turns, and the crowd begins their walk across theintersection.

“I’m trying to get ahold of them.”

“They’re in the studio,” she replies coldly.

In the studiois a phrase I’ve heard since the day I was born.In the studiocould refer to a few hours or a few months. It is both literal and symbolic, a blanket statement that refers to some artistic zone my parents escape to—usually together—where they cannot be bothered, or else it would disrupt their delicate creative process.

They were oftenin the studioover my birthdays, the first day of school, a couple of Christmases, and once when I was seventeen and was in a bad car accident on the way to the Hamptons with some friends. They showed up at the hospital four days later.

The piece they were working on is now in the Guggenheim.

“That’s fine. I was just checking on them. I haven’t received my deposit in a couple of months, and I was getting worried. Maybe you could log into their accounts and send it over.”

“Bullshit, Sylvie,” Enid barks. “They cut you off four months ago. Are you really out of money already?”

My molars grind. “Fuck you, Enid. You’ve been sucking their teats since you graduated college.”

“I do my job, Sylvie,” she replies. Her voice is so fucking annoying. Nasally and posh. “You do know what a job is, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, your job must be so hard,” I argue. “Being at my parents’ beck and call twenty-four-seven. On the yachts and at all the parties. Tell me, Enid. Are you there when they fuck each other too?”

“You’re disgusting, Sylvie. No wonder they’re so embarrassed by you.”

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