The infants Kari drew in ink. A minimum of lines. Unfinished brilliant blue sketches of new life. Strong and vivid.
Indrid, she drew in pencil. The therapist held both children in her lap, an act not shown in the photographs. In fact, Indrid was not in any of the pictures. Kari drew the woman as Indrid already appeared in her heart—both strong and caring. A woman capable of giving love and showing compassion, no matter what.
Kari drew her leaning forward slightly, studying the two babies. Calm. Knowing. Loving.
Too soon the creative moment ended. Too soon.
“I’m very sorry, my dear. But our time has ended. Perhaps you can . . .” Indrid stopped speaking when Kari handed back the pad.
Kari sat and watched as Indrid’s motions slowed. For the first time in what felt like forever, Kari was truly content. Tight little sparks, aftereffects from releasing the creative energy, jolted her body.
Indrid sniffed. Wiped her face. “I’ve never cried in a session before. Afterward, yes, not often. But it happens.” She looked up and inspected Kari with eyes of rain-washed opal. Even now, so early in their relationship, Kari’s new friend knew exactly what to say. “Your family . . .”
Kari nodded. “They can never know.”
* * *
Kari had long ago realized she was not, and never would be, normal. Whatever that word meant. But in the eight and a half years since first walking into Indrid’s office, Kari had found a distinct peace in two hard-learned lessons.
The first was, she was far from unique.
The world was full of fragmented souls. That was especially true for a place like Los Angeles, where the beautifully broken came seeking the film world’s special form of redemption.
Drifting around the periphery of her family’s universe, Kari had observed any number of so-called stars. Who viewed their newly happy existence through the lens of success. As long as the world remembered their names.
All the others, though, faced the terrible daily challenge of viewing a hard-edged world through crystal shards. Just like she had in those awful months after the art schools rejected her work.
Kari’s second realization was she had found a way to knit together all her own broken pieces.
In the hours spent within her creative fire, Kari was as close to whole as she would probably ever come. As a result, her art remained her most precious treasure. And everything came down to protecting the gift. Crafting a time and space and seclusion where the gift could rise up, consume her, andbe.
Which was why she had not revealed her secret life to her family until the day of her departure. Even now, as the gallery crowd began to thin, the small voice continued the same fretful whisper that had plagued her since she’d agreed to this public display. That she had made a terrible mistake. Revealing herself was an act of self-destruction.
Especially to her family.
Kari let Indrid set the pace as they toured the two rooms. This was her fourth exhibition in Rafi and Graham’s gallery. Indrid had attended them all, either alone or accompanied by her husband. This was the first time Kari had ever attended, first time she had allowed herself to be identified as the artist. Before, she had come to the gallery only on the days before the opening and had fretted over the hanging of her work, not complaining, but distraught. Eventually either Rafi or Graham always ordered her out.
Before, she had watched the openings from a coffee shop across the street. From time to time, while her work hung on the walls, she would scurry up and down the sidewalk, passing in front of the gallery. Hiding her face behind a cap and oversized sunglasses. Not going inside. Never, never, never.
The fact that she had cast aside her secret mantle and revealed herself to the world left her breathless.
Indrid asked the occasional question, but mostly, she viewed the works in silence. Kari was beyond grateful for the chance to share this moment with her dearest friend. Indrid had remained her therapist for only nine months. Far too short a time, as far as Kari was concerned. But Indrid had been insistent, repeating the same response to all Kari’s pleadings, speaking the words so often they became a mantra. Kari did not need therapy. She needed a friend. Which was what Indrid had remained to this very day.
She had also refused to accept any of Kari’s paintings.
Indrid had framed the pen-and-pencil sketch of herself with the two grandbabies and had hung it in her living room. Anytime Kari had offered something more, Indrid had insisted this memento honoring their first meeting was all she would ever need.
So Kari had painted what she hoped Indrid would be unable to refuse.
The two babies, now nine and ten years old, were again painted in vivid blue. But the brushstrokes were vague; the forms incomplete save their faces. They watched the woman holding them with solemn trust.
Kari had tried a new technique in shaping Indrid’s image. First, she had created a hazy collage of grays, an indistinct shadow figure that melded into the background. Kari had then taken an iron-tipped pencil and drawn Indrid’s actual form into the wash. A single colorless deep line that depicted the woman holding the infants, meeting their gaze with her own.
By the time they returned to the front room and again stood before the one unsold painting, most of the other patrons had departed. Waiters moved quietly about, cleaning up. Rafi and Graham stood with two old friends in the back room, laughing and gossiping about the latest scandal making headlines in the LA art world.
Kari said simply, “This is yours.”
Indrid gazed at the painting and said, “I can’t possibly accept it.”
“Fine. There’s a Russian oligarch who told Graham he’ll basically pay any price. Rafi says he’s suitably awful. Big and hairy and he smells of vodka. He’ll pay cash. Then he’ll hang it in some corner of his superyacht. Which he keeps in Dubai.”
“All the nice things I’ve said about you over the years,” Indrid said, “I take them back.”
Kari struggled to find some way of saying what she felt. Such words had never come easy, if at all. But this time she needed to knit them into the bond that joined them. “You are why I can do this. Be here. Meet the world. Speak with my family. To say thanks just isn’t enough. I did this for you. It would mean the world—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Indrid wiped her face. “I could not love you more if you were the daughter I never had.”
