Page 32 of The Artist and the Muse

When we pulled apart, I said, “I know I haven’t been the world’s greatest big brother, but that changes now.”

Her expression was one I couldn’t quite decipher. “I never needed you to be the best, George. I just needed you to be there for me. And you are. God doesn’t call us to do everything on our own strength and to be everything to everyone. We can’t change the past, but we can know that in Christ, we are a new creation. And He’ll make us into what He has called us to be—if we let Him.”

Chapter Sixteen: Georgia Philips

“Mom, I’m home!” I flung my bag onto the hook by the door, kicking off my too-tight boots before walking into the kitchen, following the scent of herbs and spices. “What’s for dinner?”

“I thought we’d have some spaghetti carbonara, just like the old days,” Mom said, referencing the Chef Boyardee’s we used to eat when I was a kid. “Does that sound good?”

“It sounds amazing. Do you want help with anything?” Ever since we'd taken our cooking class together, she had been making food more often. She'd done breakfast, lunch, and made little snacks. But this was the first time I'd seen her make dinner in a long time.

She pointed at the leather barstool across from the island. “Why don’t you sit down there, pour yourself some lemonade, and tell me about your day? I feel like we’ve been missing each other too much lately. There’s so much I don’t know about my only daughter’s life.”

“Sure.” I crossed the room to sit across from her while she added some spices to the ground pork in a mixing bowl. As I poured myselfa lemonade, I filled her in on my week, from art history class to my photoshoot the other day withLa Mode.“What made you want to cook dinner tonight?”

Usually, we’d order from one of our favourite restaurants if we ate together: California rolls or Pad Thai from the corner Asian restaurant that sold everything, from sushi to pho to ginger beef. I wasn’t sure it was particularly authentic, but it was good.

“Oh, I just felt… guilty, I suppose, for never being able to cook for you growing up, especially after our cooking class together. I was thinking about it the other day, when you and the girls were over making brownies, that I’m not sure I ever gave you the childhood you deserved.” Her eyes were faraway, her tone wistful. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had been less reluctant to accept help from my parents or even from your uncle.”

I reached out to squeeze my mom’s free hand, the one that wasn’t gripping the wooden spoon. “Mom, it’s okay. We did our best. We’re here now. Besides, you always told me your parents didn’t like Dad.”

Dad. After all these years, it still felt strange to use that word, an epithet for a man I’d never met but who had given me life.

“Your father never got along with my parents, it’s true, and they certainly didn’t approve of our elopement. But who knows? Perhaps if they had seen you more often, they might have come around.”

I had scant memories of my now-deceased grandparents. What little I did remember was wearing a stiff dress and going to see the Nutcracker ballet with them at Christmas, or going to the Steeles’ Christmas party with my cousins, where children were expected to be seen but not heard.

“We’ll never know that now.”

“Perhaps. But I still feel guilty that you were made to take on so many adult responsibilities when you were still a child, Georgia. I should have… You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“It was modelling, not child labour in the mines,” I said, trying to make light of it. After all, the last thing I wanted was to add to her guilt and tell her that I had mixed feelings about modelling. I couldn’t tell her about all the harm that modelling had brought into my life, from Sergio Cavalli to how it affected the way I saw myself. She had never known that my relationship was Sergio was fake. Telling her that now would only make her feel worse.

“Children should be outside playing, not getting dressed up and having their makeup done so they can parade around in front of a camera.”

“Mom, it’s fine!” I wasn’t sure when my voice had risen to such a defensive tone as she turned on the stove to boil water for the pasta. “Can we stop talking about this?”

My mother, unfortunately, was as stubborn as I was, and she dug in her teeth further when I asked her to drop something. Like a dog who’d been asked to give up a favourite toy. “No, Georgia. I want to—no, I need to say this.”

I folded my arms across my chest and waited. What I had hoped would be a fun, nostalgic dinner had clearly morphed into something else.

“Georgia, I fear I may have been an absent mother. Growing up, I never looked out for you the way I should have, and I want to make that up to you now. I want you to know how much I love you, and that… you shouldn’t have been made to feel like you were on the hook to provide for our family from such a young age. If you love modelling now, that’s wonderful, but it shouldn’t have been such a source of pressure for you growing up.”

My muscles tensed as I listened to her apology. It should have been a relief. I should have spilled my guts to her then and there, and told her the truth about how I felt about modelling. But the thought of disappointing her further, of taking more from her than she’d already lost… It was too much. I didn’t want her to endure the thought that she’d ruined my childhood and my life.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, a pitiful excuse for a response. “But I really am fine, and I love you too. I love our life, even if it is unconventional.”

She squeezed my hand back. “Oh, Georgia, I’m so relieved to hear that. You have no idea how worried I was that I’d, oh, I don’t know, screwed up horribly with you.”

“Nope.” So why did my heart feel like it was breaking from the weight of my lies?

***

Later that night, after dinner—I ate about half a normal portion and told my mother I was full because I’d eaten a heavy lunch—we curled up on the couch and watched a movie we’d seen a thousand times before,Roman Holiday.

The story’s Italian setting, along with the secret identity of Audrey Hepburn’s character, reminded me of my first meeting with George.

“Georgia,” my mother said abruptly as we watched Audrey Hepburn walk around Italy, “when are you going to find a nice man to settle down with?”

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