We moved on to the next piece. I stepped closer to it to get a better look. It was a smaller hand-drawn piece of a woman and a baby. The title card said that it was called “Professor” by George Cage. I spun around. “You’re not going to believe this, but George is one of my mom’s students, too.”
William’s eyebrows raised and his crooked smile slipped across his face. He shoved his hand in his pocket. “This gallery features local artists.”
A cloud of confusion took over. I tried to figure out how that was possible. I looked around at the other paintings at the front of the gallery. I silently moved from painting to painting. I recognized some of the names, but some of them I didn’t.
“This is unbelievable,” I said, completely dumbfounded, turning to look at William. That’s when I saw it. When I looked past William and toward the back of the gallery, I saw the large, oversized painting of river rocks that I would recognize anywhere. It was the large river rocks painting my mom had painted a few years before she died.
“William,” I said quietly. I pointed toward the back of the gallery. I felt a sense of confusion that blended and crescendoed into excitement. “William, that’s my mom’s painting.”
I pushed past him and walked to the back of the gallery. There they were. All my mom’s large river rock pieces. I spun around to see William standing behind me with an anxious look on his face. I was completely astonished. I stuttered, “How is this possible?”
“Your Aunt Rita and I wanted to do something for you and your mom,” William said softly. “I reached out to my contact here at The Met, and I worked out a deal to have the space leased for six months for a special exhibit. We wanted to honor your mom, so Aunt Rita picked out her favorite large works by her. But you told me your mom felt that the work of her students was what she was most proud of, so we contacted some of her students and asked to use their pieces in this exhibit.”
“This is unbelievable.” I felt the swell of emotion as a sob burst from my chest. There was a sting in my nose and eyes as warm tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Oh, Kit,” William said. He pulled me close to him hugging me, and I cried into his chest. I sniffled, stepped back, and he handed me a tissue.
“Has Aunt Rita seen it?” I asked.
“She has. She was here earlier today setting up because she’s one of the artists,” William explained as we walked over to a set of black and white photos. “She said your mom taught her how to take photos. She has some on display over here.”
The photos were all of my mom and me by the river. The first was me as a baby. My mom looked so young and beautiful as she held me up for the camera to see. The second was of me as a toddler splashing in the water with my mom. The next was a photo of us playing on a tree swing. There was a photo of us walking by the river after a fresh snow. Another one of me, maybe ten years old, holding up a fish I had just caught while my mom clapped. Another photo of me as a teen sunbathing and reading on a rock while my mom painted. There was a photo ofus in a canoe laughing after one of us dropped a paddle. There was a photo of my mom and me on a picnic blanket when I was home from a college visit, and the last photo was of me sitting next to my mom as she painted. Her head was wrapped, and she had a heavy blanket draped over her shoulders. I was looking at my mom’s painting, but my mom’s glassy eyes were fixed on me. She had a slight smile as we held hands. The title card of the collection read, “A Perfect Love” by Rita Campbell. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I turned and buried my face in William’s chest again.
William held me for a while before I stepped back. He cupped my face in his hands and smoothed away tears with his thumbs. “Aunt Rita is coming back tomorrow so we can all see it together. She said she thought you’d like to see it alone first, and that you wouldn’t want to cry in front of everyone.”
I looked up. “In front of everyone?”
“Well, we’re having a private exhibit opening in the morning. Just some family and friends. A few of the artists.” William looked nervous.
I lost it again. I cried so hard into his chest that a dark circle formed where my face had been buried.
When I looked up at William, he looked like he was going to be sick. “Do you hate this? Are you upset? We don’t have to come tomorrow if you don’t want us to. Aunt Rita said she could handle the opening alone.”
“William,” I squeaked. “I love it. I absolutely love it. I can’t even really comprehend it. How did you do all of this without me knowing?”
William tilted his head thoughtfully, his arms still wrapped around me. “I just secured the space. Aunt Rita and your dad reached out to the students and college professors your mom knew.”
“College professors?” I asked.
“Well, the exhibit will be here through the fall semester. Local college art education programs are going to bring students who are working on their art education degrees here to see the impact teachers have on their students and how their contribution shapes the field.”
I felt the swell of tears again. “This is so unbelievable.” I sighed as I wiped the tears from my eyes. “My mom deserves this. I can’t…I just can’t even…”
“It’s okay,” William said quickly. He looked uncomfortable.
“No, I want you to know that no one has ever done something so thoughtful for me,” I said, looking up at him.
William pulled me to him, and I closed my eyes. I felt his soft lips against mine. I had wondered before, but at that moment, I was certain I was in love with William.
Chapter 20: William
The relief I felt when Kit told me she loved the art exhibit could not be described in words. Rita and I had been planning to do something for Kit to honor her mom, and things just came together perfectly for us to create this exhibit.
I knew what it felt like to lose someone. II knew how grief created this pressure around all your memories and thoughts about losing that person, but when that clears, what has crystallized is often something imperfect, but beautiful.
Kit and I spent over an hour looking at the artwork that night. The gallery attendant, Janet, left me the key. I told Kit she could stay as long as she liked. I watched her happily moving from painting to painting. I took a few photos of her in front of her mom’s work, and she texted them to Veronica and her dad.
Eventually, Kit took my hand, looked up at me, and said, “I could stay here all night, but I’m starving.”
