Page 56 of Back to Me

“I love you, too,” she giggles against me.

Grabbing her hand, I turn around and walk us toward the entrance to the museum.

As we approach the museum, walking up each of the concrete steps, our eyes scan the building. Two long banners hang on either side of the building, a larger, elongated one hanging near the roof. Plastered across each banner in bold text, it reads:

The Dallas Museum of Art Presents:

Graham Ward, A Special Exhibition

September 18- December 21

Stopping mid-step, I stare up at the banners, my eyes dancing from one to the other to another.

“Sara,” I breathe out. “Can you believe this?” I turn to her and point up to the building. “That’s my name up there.” Shaking my head in disbelief, I turn back to the face the building before continuing to make our way inside.

Holding my hand, Sara wraps her free hand around my arm, keeping me close, and clears her throat. “Yeah… Yeah, it’s amazing.”

Sensing her nervousness, I squeeze her hand and pull open the doors leading to our exhibit. Inside, the receptionist at the front desk immediately greets us.

“Can I help you?” she asks, cheerfully.

“Yes,” I grin. “We’re the artists for the exhibit.”

“Oh my.” Placing her hand against her chest, she walks around the desk. “You’re Graham Ward?” Extending her hand, I return her gesture, surprised with her reaction. “It’s very nice to meet you. I love your work.”

Glancing at Sara, I shrug before turning my attention back to the enthusiastic receptionist. “Thank you.”

Pointing down the long hallway, she says, “Your exhibit is straight down this hallway. You can’t miss it.”

Sending her a nod, Sara and I slowly walk down the expansive hallway. The sound of Sara’s heels hitting the glass tile brings me back to all those months ago when I had first stepped into this building for my interview with Mr. Price. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment, not even then.

My heart rate increases the closer I get to the exhibit. An open archway leads to a large, dark, grey room, illuminated by golden spotlights overhead. The room is split by several short walls scattered throughout, dividing the space and allowing separation with each piece.

Mine and Sara’s paintings line the four outer walls. Loosening my hand around Sara’s, I turn to look at the first piece to my right.

The painting of my grandmother. The rich, creamy colors of her skin shine in the golden spotlight hanging overhead. Tears spring to my eyes, amazed at how different it looks hung here. How much more beautiful she looks.

Next to the painting a small plaque with the title is pinned to the wall. Gertrude by Graham Ward. A lump forms at the base of my throat, and I swallow around it, attempting to hold my emotions and myself together.

Leaning over, Sara whispers in my ear, “This one has always been one of my favorites.”

Smiling, I stare into my grandmother’s brown eyes. “Mine too,” I whisper back.

Forcing ourselves to move on, Sara and I walk around the outer wall of the exhibit, studying the paintings as if we weren’t the ones who had created them. It’s as if I’m looking at these pieces for the first time with a whole different perspective and in a whole new light. We don’t speak, simply allowing the silence to fall between us, enjoying our success together.

Finally, when we’ve reached the far end of the room, we find the first drawing Sara and I had done together. Studying the various shades of blue painted within the petals of the flower Sara had designed, my skin tingles, amazed at how beautiful it looks displayed on this wall. I never could have imagined how spectacular it would look.

Staring at our painting, I remember how Sara spent hours bent over the canvas, her hands covered in black. When she had finished, my stomach flipped, asking her what color she thought the petals should be.

A blue. A deep, dark blue,she said.

I hadn’t told her I loved her then, and I didn’t know she loved me. I had given up on fighting my feelings for her, finding every possible way to keep her close. So much has changed since then, and I’m thankful for every moment we’ve shared since.

Breaking my eyes away from our painting, I turn to Sara.

Her face is frozen and hardened, her eyes wet, like two pieces of fragile glass on the verge of shattering. Tears spill down her cheeks, and when I reach for her hand, her fingers are wrapped tightly into a fist. Feeling my touch, she rips her arm away, as if my hands were laced with poison.

She’s angry.

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