Page 15 of Keep Me

I’m left standing in silence, confused and shocked and wondering what the fuck just happened.

Chapter Five

The one perk of having slightly famous parents is that sometimes I know exactly where they are going to be and when. As I stride through the lobby of their gallery uptown, I smile at one of the security guards and thank my teenage flirting skills I used years ago to get him on my good side.

And being the daughter of the artists means I don’t have to have a ticket or reservation.

I just have to get past Enid.

The gallery is in a brownstone on the Upper East Side, which means there’s not a lot of space for me to hide from their bitch of an assistant who will no doubt usher me out if she sees me.

Two steps into the ground floor gallery space, I spot my mother on the opposite side. She seems thinner than I remember. Almost skeletal. Her thinning red hair is styled with wide curls that rest on her bony shoulders.

She’s holding a glass of wine and speaking to a group of people gathered around one of her oldest paintings.

“Of course, the style in those days never quite allowed for introspection. Everything had to be expressed in moderation,” she says in her sophisticated tone that makes my spine tense.

There is a wall between my mother and me. Not literally, of course. A real wall I could climb over. But this one is unscalable. I don’t know where she keeps her emotions, because they are not available to me. Instead of showing me love, empathy, or compassion, my mother appraises me—finding every single flaw or room for improvement.

Once upon a time, she heralded me as her greatest piece of art, but as I grew and stopped being just a pretty thing to look at, I started to feel more like the mess left over from whatever piece of art she was making. The dried paint under her nails. The watercolor stains on the table. The stench of acrylic chemicals.

I was never the masterpiece she once assumed I’d be.

And when her eyes land on my face across the gallery, it’s obvious, and it feels like a gut punch.

“Excuse me,” she says politely to her friends or admirers. Then, with her lips pressed in a tight line, she hurries over to me. “What are you doing here?”

My throat burns, so I clear it. “You don’t return my calls.”

“Well, are you calling because you want to talk to me, or are you calling because you need money?” Her voice is so low I can only make out her words by the movement of her lips.

“No, I’m not only calling for money,” I reply, averting my gaze as I talk.

She crosses her arms. “Then, what is it, Sylvie?”

Just then, an angry pair of heels click against the hardwood as Enid approaches from the next room. “What are you doing here?” she whisper-shouts.

“Talking tomymother. I didn’t realize that was a crime,” I argue, throwing my hands up.

“Well, after the shit you pulled last time you were here, Sylvie, it is technically a crime. You’ve been served a restraining order.”

My jaw drops, and I feel the eyes of the other people in the gallery scoping toward us. “A restraining order?”

My mother sighs. “Against thegallery,” she says, giving Enid a serious expression. “You really shouldn’t be back here, Sylvie.”

“That was over a year ago. I’ve changed.”

Enid crosses her arms now. “Oh really, how have you changed?”

Avoiding the question, I glance around the building. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s in the studio,” my mother replies.

I let out a defeated sigh. If anyone is likely to give me a moment of pity, it’s him.

“Can’t we just…talk? Somewhere? Anywhere.Alone.” I say to my mother, not bothering to glance in Enid’s direction.

Her breathing is heavy, and her expression is cold. “Come on,” she says without sounding the least bit welcoming.

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