Page 58 of Promise Me Sunshine

He shakes my hand again, crosses his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes.

I stand up from the bench and approach the painting. Storm clouds in dramatic, shadowed grays. The skull of a majestic animal. Horns attached at the bone. Scorched red hills below. And that one silky, rich flower—the only thing left alive—growing from the skull.

You live long enough, you’re the only one left.

Either she was going to die first, or I was.

I wipe my tears into the sleeve of my sweatshirt, careful not to alert George. Making my way out of the hall, I feel as lost as he is. Delirious in a maze of paintings.

A man in a faded Yankees sweatshirt rushes through a set of doors in front of me. He’s got two hands in his hair and a wild look in his eyes as he turns a full circle.

I approach quickly and tap his shoulder. “George is in the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit. Sleeping on a bench halfway through,” I tell him.

“Thank you,” he breathes, relief washing over him, and then he sprints in the direction I’m pointing.

Poor George. His nap is over.

Lucky George, he’s got someone who loves him so much that he makes him look at art.

I stumble into the vestibule at the head of one of the public restrooms and I just make it into the corner when I slide down the wall. My head is buzzing with tears and I’m sick with grief.

Coming here was a mistake.

“Miss?” a security guard inquires from behind me.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I say, gaining my feet and jetting toward the stairs. I make it out onto the street.

It’s raining today, just enough to make the car tires sing. I dash across the street. There’s rain on the back of my neck.

I cast my face toward the sky, and look, there’s a mass of Georgia O’Keeffe clouds. But the skull is in my chest, lodged and jagged. No flowers anywhere.

“New friends?” I half shout. “Ha fuckingha.The old friend just about killed me.”

How come I can’t just buy a bouquet of roses and go lay them on her grave when I’m missing her?

No. When I miss Lou I weep at the Met and make passersby cross the street to get away from me.

I shouldn’t visit Georgia O’Keeffe and invoke Lou’s name. I shouldn’t dig her up from the fresh dirt. I should let her restand just take step after step on this crowded Manhattan avenue.

I want to disappear just like George. Get lost in the world and not tell a soul where I’ve gone.

Worrying is for the living. George and I, we’re caught somewhere in between living and dead.

An hour later, I’m on the Staten Island Ferry, waving at Ellis Island and gasping in the wind.

I want to be good and lost. Forever lost. I want dark night and strangers and oblivion.

I look up from my sleeve in time to make eye contact with Lady Liberty. “Give me Lou or give me death,” I whisper to her.

I grip the rail and collapse at the knees, hitting the deck. My eyes are squeezed tight, but even so, the tears find their way out. Then, up from the dark black I’m greeted by one image.

George’s son. His hands in his hair, the look in his eyes. Frantic to find the one he loves.

People in sweatshirts who come to collect us when we sleep in public. People who run as fast as they can to keep us earthside.

“Miles,” I gasp into the phone when he answers.

“Lenny?” His voice sounds like it’s already sliding into shoes, grabbing a coat and his keys off the hook. “What’s going on?”

---