Page 3 of Pieces of Ash
Her favorite photographer, Jacques Renard, once toldTimemagazine that he’d never worked with someone as classically beautiful. Tig’s face was perfectly symmetrical, identical cornflower-blue eyes with long, dark lashes, high cheekbones, and a perfect, Grecian nose. Her lips were lush, but not obscene, he said, and her hair, which she kept naturally blonde for the entirety of her career, was a stunning shade of platinum ash. The color was trademarked by Orion Beauty at one point and offered in salons everywhere as Tíg White.
A pretty mannequin, however, wouldn’t have sold as many magazines as my mother did.
The most captivating thing about Tig was that she couldn’t completely conceal the vulnerability in her gaze, a kind of wistful longing that every human being could relate to.
I recognize her expression now that I am the same age she was in the photo. She is hoping for something she believes is beyond her grasp. Dreaming of something but scared it won’t come true.
What was it?I wonder.What were you hoping for?
Success? Fortune? Freedom? Happiness?
A year and a half after that Easter photo was taken, my mother’s face would grace the cover ofVogue’s illustrious September issue.
Isthatwhat she had hoped for? Isthatwhat she’d wanted?
Or maybe it was something deeper and more ephemeral, like belonging, or being accepted, or feeling loved, or knowing that she was safe?
I sigh softly.Those areyourdreams, my mind whispers,not hers.
“She wasmadgorgeous. Tragic perfection.”
Gus stands behind me, staring at my mother’s tentative smile with tears in his eyes.
“Gus!”
He opens his arms to me. “How’s my li’l Ash?”
I step into him, closing my eyes as I inhale the familiar scent of the cloves from the cigarettes he smokes.You smell like fall, I think.You smell like help. You smell like goodness.
“Don’t you cry on my silk threads, now, miss.”
I lean back a little and look down at his shiny gray suit, perfectly fitted to his spare, wiry body.
“I’m not crying,” I say.
“No,” he says slowly, remnants of a sad smile fading into an expression of deep concern as he looks into my eyes, “you’re not.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him, quickly scanning the room for a glimpse of Mosier, or his sons, Damon and Anders. I relax a little when I don’t see them.
“They went outside for a smoke,” says Gus, reaching forward to tilt my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “But I’ll be leaving soon. I’ve already been told once that I’m not welcome.”
“You are!” I insist. “Youarewelcome! We were the only ones who really?—”
“Hush, li’l Ash,” he says, shaking his head as he places a finger over his lips. “Don’t say it, or it might be true.”
He releases me and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a small silver case. He plucks a card from inside and presses the stiff cardstock into my hand.
“If you need me, this is where I’ll be.”
I flip over the card and read the name and address of an art gallery before slipping the card into my pocket.
“She was clean,” I blurt out, searching his eyes. “I saw her at Easter, and she was clean. She wasn’t drinking. She wasn’t taking anything.”
Gus winces. “Baby doll, I wish I could believe that. But once an addict?—”
“I’m telling you,” I say. “She hadn’t touched anything in years.Hewouldn’t allow it. She barely left the house, Gus. Where would she get enough heroin to overdose? I don’t understand! I don’t knowhow it happened!”
“Shealwaysfound a way. It waspartof her, baby. It’s what she did when times got tough.”
