[10:10]Kiara:Sorry I was kind of weird the last time we met.
[10:11]Kiara:I’m just really going to miss you.?
[10:11]: It’s okay.
[10:12]: I’m going to miss you too.
I send a heart emoji, then I put my phone down and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. The ache in my throat is so fierce Ifeel sick. But I’m not going to break down. I’m not going to spend my first night here crying. I’m not, I’mnot.
I force myself to look out the window again. Look at those lights. Listen to the sound of this city.
I’m going to be happy here.
I am.
32
In the morning, I wake to the sound of an ambulance siren. It’s 7:30 a.m., and sunlight is streaming in through my tiny window, warming the bare skin of my arms. There’s a cold weight in my chest where my heart used to be, but I’m determined to ignore it. Not today, I tell it sternly. Today is the first day of my new internship. Today, I’m not going to be sad.
I dress in an outfit that I hope comes off as chic and professional—a knee-length skirt, ballet shoes, and a collared shirt. I almost put on the necklace John gave me, the one with the tiny sword that Kiara made, but after a moment I set it aside. I’m not going to keep holding on to the past. I’m going to move on properly, starting today.
I stride out into the sunlight and make my way to the nearest subway station. I get off at Seventy-Seventh Street and fall into step with the swelling crowd, many of them heading to the same place as me.
My feet slow as I reach the base of the steps, and my breath catches in my throat as I peer up at the towering pillars, the curving arches, the deep red banners hung on either side of the doors, emblazoned with two simple words.
The Met.
I float through the line in a bit of a daze, handing over my money when I get to the front. I guess I could tell them that I’m here formy first internship day, so I don’t have to pay, but that doesn’t start until one, and anyway, right now I just want to experience it like everyone else. I want to wander around aimlessly and breathe it all in.
I spend the morning walking around, twisting my neck up to look at the ceiling in the Great Hall and gazing in awe at the Temple of Dendur and the Charles Engelhard Court. I peer at ancient weapons and costumes and study intricate suits of armor. I eavesdrop on a couple having a (slightly pretentious) argument about whether or not you can create great art without experiencing trauma, and giggle at a rich woman who’s snuck her tiny dog into the museum in a Prada bag. I watch a girl in her late teens stare at a painting for ten full minutes, her brown-eyed gaze soft and faraway.
This.
This is why I came here.
I love absolutely everything about this place. The smell of the air; the sound of my footsteps on the marble floors; the low, rolling murmur of the crowd. Working in a place like this, creating spaces where people can escape from the stress in their lives and get lost in the past for an hour or two...
It really is my dream job.
I find a bench in a quiet hall and sit down opposite a portrait of an elderly woman in a heavy gown. I take deep breaths in and out, trying to draw the feeling of this place inside of me. I can feel the muscles of my shoulders getting looser. I wonder if this is how people feel when they meditate. Not a single thought in their head, just a vague sense of contentedness.
I wonder how Mrs. Finnamore is doing.
The thought pops into my head out of nowhere. She’s supposed to be getting out of the hospital today. I wonder if they’ve changed any of her medicines around. I wonder if she’ll listen if they did.
I shake my head impatiently. Mrs. Finnamore isn’t a part of my life now. There’s no sense in worrying about her anymore.
I turn away from the painting of the elderly woman to face a marble statue of a naked woman carrying a vase.
Much better. She doesn’t remind me of Mrs. Finnamore at all.
I space out for a little while, until a group of tourists pass by on a guided tour. I wonder absently if the Met does tours for New York nursing home residents. If they don’t, maybe I could arrange some during my internship. Even someone as crotchety as Doris would be hard-pressed to complain about a place like this.
Actually, that’s not true. She would definitely find things to complain about. The long lines, the abundance of “youths,” the signs advertising free wi-fi for visitors (“So kids can look at theirphonesinstead of the art,” she would scoff. “What genius came up with that idea?”).
I try to imagine how Jim or Mrs. Finnamore would react, but if I’m honest, I’m not sure they would like it either. Mrs. Finnamore would find the museum too cold and crowded, and I think it would all be too overwhelming for Jim. I think he liked working at the barrel museum because it gave him a reason to get out of his house and talk to people, not because of any deep-rooted interest in barrels or museums.
I hope he isn’t missing me too much. Maybe I should call him tonight, just in case.
