I shake Ms. Segawa’s hand; I smile and answer her questions about the photographs that are hung on the largest gallery wall behind me—but all the while I feel my eyes drift to Greer across the length of the room, standing in front of her own quarter wall, the rest of which she shares with three other students from her class. They’re cramped over there, the adult ed contingent. The rest of the space—a vacant storefront rented out along a hip shopping district adjacent to the university—is taken over by my display and the displays of the art students. Hiltunen had boasted about it to me when we’d toured the space yesterday, letting me know that the bigger venue was a gesture to my “high profile,” and the students setting up their work not far from mine had looked wide eyed with pride, excitement. It’d made me feel good then, but now, with Greer’s class added to the mix, I feel guilty, uncomfortable. Her work is getting dwarfed, her bright, thoughtful pictures and her small explanatory placards drowned out by the crush of people that all seem to push down to my end of the room.
I swallow, take a sip of the water I’ve held in my hand for the last hour. I nod my thanks to Ms. Segawa as she moves on, take a step back, and try to look remote for a few minutes so I can focus on my breathing.
So I can focus on her.
It was smart, of course, that Greer hadn’t wanted to come together, that she doesn’t want Hiltunen knowing she and I are anything more than friends. “It’s bad enough, the way I’ve used you for this,” she’d said, and that had been—unpleasant. Too casual, too simple, too crass for what Greer and I have been to each other over the last month, but I hadn’t wanted to press her, or maybe we haven’t wanted to press each other. Since my sister got home, everything between us has been more of a negotiation—how to navigate the time we spend together, where to spend it, who to include—and I’m trying, I’m trying so fucking hard, but I’m terrible at this type of negotiation. Too new and too tentative, unsure of how my old life can work with this new one.
I’ve been in a holding pattern—unwilling to commit to the job in Syria, unwilling to book the studio I’ve rented past Sunday, unwilling to talk to Patricia about anything more than how best to manage the anxiety for this night, this showcase, this promise I’ve made.
That Greer has been different all week—differently shy, differently separate, and now, even differentlydressed—it’s kept me off kilter, bad off enough that once, in a moment of embarrassing, unpracticed weakness, I’d asked Kit if she’d noticed anything unusual about her.
“It’s probably not a good idea,” my sister had said gently, “for me to be involvedwith you two.”
So. It’s definitely not her fault I’m fucking this up.
But I’m resolved. After tonight, after she seals the deal on this thing with Hiltunen, Greer and I will have a chance to turn the corner, to get out of this holding pattern. I’d thought Thursday might be the moment, my plans from the week before finally coming to fruition in a space we could call our own, but after a surprise blow job that had basically made my brain go absurdly, deliciously blank—Greer had turned quiet, had told me the meeting with Hiltunen hadn’t been ideal. She’d wanted to go through her pictures again, and so that’s what we’d done over dinner instead of what I’d hoped to do—to talk about the two of us, about what happens afterthis showcase.
Across the room, Greer lifts her eyes to mine briefly, sends me a soft smile before returning her eyes to the person in front of her, a fellow student pointing happily at one of Greer’s photos—the black and white, which I try to blur my eyes to, lest it gets me thinking about that hotel room, the one where we first had each other. Took care of each other. I swallow back a fresh wave of nerves, of restlessness, let my eyes drift to the clock on the wall. One hour to go. One hour more I need to be in this hot, crowded room, everyone watching me.
“Alex!” It’s Kit’s voice, high and excited, and I find her not far from the gallery entrance, one arm in the air waving at me, the other linked with that of the man at her side. There’s lots of guests here for Greer tonight—Ben and Zoe and Aiden, Humphrey and Felipe, a woman in a very loud blouse who I think must be her boss from the hospital. At any moment I expect her parents to arrive, her sister and Doug, maybe even Caryand his family.
But this guest is for me, or more specifically, for Kit and me together. I recognize him from his website picture as Dr. Singh, the advisor Kit had all through her master’s program, and still her most frequent collaborator. I put up a hand in greeting, nodding a smiling excuse toward the guests closest to me who’ve been angling for a better view of my gallery wall, and try to makemy way to them.
It can’t be all that far, maybe thirty feet between us, but it feels like it takes me hours to get there—bumping into other guests, getting stopped, shaking hands, taking compliments, answering questions. All of it should be flattering, bracing, encouraging, but of course, for me—the anxiety of the past week and of being here tonight already at a low simmer—it’s not, and I can feel the way my thoughts start spiraling away from me, chastising me for having the anxiety at all, for not being able to do my job, for being unable to enjoy the simple pleasure of being admired for my work. Behind me, I can hear Hiltunen call my name again—“Aleksandr!”—and I pause in my progress toward Kit and her colleague, frozen, momentarily, between what I know, Iknow, are two relatively small obligations: to meet whomever it is Hiltunen wants to impress, and to meet and thank the man who’s been part of my sister’s surrogate familyhere for years.
But they feel huge, impossible.You’re panicking,I think, feeling the sheen of sweat on my lower back, the roiling heat in my stomach.They’ll notice.You’ll ruin this for Kit, or you’ll ruin it for Greer. I swallow, too many times, clutch my water, grateful that I’ve kept it with me but strangely unable to liftit to my mouth.
“God, it’s so crowded in here,” Kit says, laughing as she makes the final step to me, navigating around a small crush of people. Dr. Singh doesn’t look like he enjoys crowds much either, but he certainly doesn’t look as though he’s on the verge of a medical event, which is how Ifeel right now.
“Dr. Singh.” My voice sounds hollow and strange to my own ears, though he and Kit don’t seem to notice, both of them smiling up at me as I shake Dr. Singh’s hand. Immediately I worry it’s a mistake, that he’ll be able to feel the clamminess of it, the way I’ve gripped slightly too hard, everything about my body disobedient. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“He was so excited to come,” says Kit. “I always show him your photographs.”
I nod, my head feeling heavy, outsized for my neck. “I’ve heard a lot about you over the years,” I say, tucking my hand back into the pocket of my dress pants. They’re the same ones I wore to the rehearsal, and I have a strange thought, obviously Greer inspired:Maybe these are bad luck pants. Panic attack pants.I clear my throat, afraid the pauses to regulate my breathing are too long, awkward. “Thank you for everything you’ve donefor my sister.”
Has it come out too fast, overly hasty, insincere sounding? Again, Dr. Singh doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles and tells me Kit was first the best student and now the best colleague. Kit shares with me a degree of sheepishness about compliments, and she’s turned away slightly, a flush on her cheeks as she shakes the hand of a student I worked with last week, a talented photographer who sold an image to the local paper last month.
“I must say,” says Dr. Singh, looking over my shoulder toward my gallery wall, “I always look for your photographs now. I’m quite a consumer of news.”
Behind me, I hear Hiltunen’s voice again, calling my name.
“I’ve always wondered how it works,” Dr. Singh says, and I try to keep my focus on him. His voice sounds so quiet in this loud room, or in comparison to the noise kicking up in my head. “Do you pick your own stories, or does someone tell you where togo next, or…?”
I don’t know if he finishes that thought, if there are more options he offers. I get stuck on the first two, thinking of how I’ll answer through this panic, and then when I realize he’s stopped speaking and I’ve said nothing, I feel a new, hot rush of it, my eyes darting to Kit, who’s now deep in conversation, to her friends on the other side of the room, toGreer.Oh, God.
Everyone will see.
“Dr. Singh,” I manage, and for the first time he maybe looks as if he knows something’s wrong, though I can’t focus enough to be sure. “I apologize. Wouldyou excuse me?”
There’s people between me and the glass door, the dark rectangle to freedom I need to get to, and I move as quickly as I can, leaving my glass on a high-top table and muttering more apologies as I go. If Hiltunen’s still calling for me, I can’t hear it. I can’t hear anything over the noise in my head, the endless loop of anxiety that’s punishing me with a thousand ugly, upsetting thoughts and only onecomforting one:
Just make it to that door. Make it to that door, and you can be alone.
* * * *
Once I’m outside I turn left, walk down a few storefronts so no one inside the gallery will be able to see me out here. I lean one shoulder against the hard, ridged iron of an old-fashioned lamppost, my body sagging into it like it’s a soft, reliable friend. At first the panic rises slightly, a tiny crest—here I am, out on the street,illuminated, for fuck’s sake, where anyone walking by can see—but through my breathing I remember Patricia’s reminders over the past week especially. “It only feels like you’re the center of the universe during one of these,” she’d say. “But mostly, people are going about their business, fighting their own battles. Focus on yourown self-care.”
So that’s what I do. Propped against the unforgiving metal at my shoulder, basically a spotlight shining down on me, pedestrians passing me on the sidewalk, I close my eyes and imagine myself on that dark beach at Turner’s Point, Greer next to me on the soft sand. I turn the sound of passing cars into the sound of gentle waves. I breathe in, counting for four, pausing slightly before I exhale, counting for eight. When I feel my unruly thoughts spiral—What if Kit comes out here,what if everyone inside notices I’ve left,what if the therapy hasn’t helped at all,what if I never get better,what if my career is over, what if I fucking am just like my father—I do my best to follow the advice of Patricia, of my book. I confront every one of those thoughts; I’m kind to each one of them in a way that would’ve made me roll my eyes a month ago.If Kit comes out, she’ll be surprised, but she’s an adult and she’ll understand. If everyone inside notices, you can say you didn’t feel well, and everyone knows what that’s like. Therapy takes time, and you’ve made progress. If you never get better, you’ll figure out how to manage this. Your career will wait, because you’ve earned this time.
