“Gigi?” The music turned off.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” she said running into the foyer, wearing her usual second skin of dancewear.
“I’m fine, why?”
“Because you haven’t come here since Dad died, like, literally.” Gigi kissed his cheek.
Where had time gone? Ah, somewhere between her NYU Tisch graduation, her maturing, and his Swiss account growing from eight hundred million to a billion.
“It’s about time you returned home. I have to show you something,” she said. He followed her skinny form down the hallway. “Please don’t be mad at me,” she continued.
“Never.”
“I think you will be, but I had no choice. I’m outgrowing the apartment, and I had to make some big decisions since you don’t want anything to do with the place. Anyway, it’s done, and I’m super stoked about my decision.”
“How have you outgrown a thirteen-room apartment?”
She huffed. “Because, everything is, literally, still here! I need my own spaces.”
“Well, I gave you carte blanche when I signed over my inheritance to you. The place is all yours to do what you want with, provided the Board of Directors approves.”
Her pretty, smiling face turned to him over a shoulder. “I know, but still.” But the smile receded, and she stopped at the door to their mother’s art studio. “You look like shit, Will.”
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”
“It’s this sham wedding you’re planning. I know you won’t take my advice, but I’m warning ya ... you’ll be sorry ... and then broke. Beanz is gonna take your desperate ass to the cleaners. And don’t think for a minute I bought into all that lovey-dovey shit the two of you dished out at the engagement party.”
“It’s time to face reality. Beanz will be your sister-in-law whether you approve or not. And yes, we do love each other.”
“Mom wouldn’t approve.”
“Yeah, well. Mom’s choice for me made her choice years ago.”
“Ugh! I’m not talking about that cowgirl beotch! Anyone is better for you than her or Beanz. Jeez, I’ll never understand you Millennials. You all suck at figuring love out.”
“You finally understand me.” He smiled because she cared, and he did appreciate it—even if he never told her. “What is it you want me to see?”
Entering the room behind her, his smile dropped and his heart crashed to his stomach. Two walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and two ballet barres were attached to the other stark-white walls. Gigi had turned the sunny art studio, which held every one of his dear memories, into a dance studio. Gone were his mother’s easel by the window and the stacks of blank canvas against the far wall. All the finished pieces that once hung from brass racks flanking the window and the empty colorful frames had been replaced by dance posters, sound equipment, and various training tools. Even the wood flooring’s large yellowpaint stain and toddler footprints (which he was responsible for) had been sanded away and refinished. Chopin had replaced the seventies folk music that his mother listened to when painting.
“What? Where is? Gigi ... this ...” He sighed.
“See, you’re mad. I knew you would be, but I really had no choice, Will. Renting studio time was getting super expensive and, face it, the art room was collecting dust. I mean, how long was I expected to grieve? She’d want me to move on! I’m sure of it. This opportunity to audition for American Chamber only comes once!”
“I’m not mad. What did you do with everything?”
“It’s neatly cataloged. Yes, cataloged. Cousin Anne and I logged each finished and unfinished piece and carefully packed all the art supplies in rubber bins. Except for the frames and empty canvases, which I donated, all the artwork is stacked in Dad’s office until I can figure out proper storage or we have that triggering conversation about what to do with both Mom’s andyourstuff.”
He wasn’t ready for that conversation but did recognize that he had to do something with her collection. Mustering every bit of brotherly, supportive love he could, he said. “You’re right, Mom would be glad you took the initiative instead of waiting for me. If you’re going to succeed, then you need the tools. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I’m good.” She turned to him and gave him a rewarding hug, something he hadn’t had since funeral condolences at his father’s graveside almost two years ago. He supposed if he had tried harder, been more present in her life, the hugs would be plentiful but demonstrating hisfeelingsfor anyone was hard. He vowed to be a better brother going forward. It wasn’t her fault that just about everyone and everything he cherished had left him holding his heart in his hands. She was still here and that should count for everything.
“You’re the best!”
“So, they say.” He chuckled wryly because only his clients and his banker say that, and, as of yesterday, his cheap realtor. “Hey, have you had lunch yet? Because it’s gross to feel your ribs and spine when I hug you. You need to eat.”
“I guess I have time to shower and change for a date with my big brother. How does a poke bowl sound?” She beamed.
“Boring and not filling. How about a burger?”
