“I’m glad you let me come,” I say after a long moment. “I know I don’t deserve this. You have every right to tell me to fuck off and never darken your doorway again. But…I’m glad.”
She nods again, but her expression seems softer somehow. And she isn’t rocking that stroller quite so furiously anymore.
When Dvora and I say our goodbyes and head off in opposite directions, it feels like the final closing of a door. I stop at the end of the block and turn to watch her disappear into the crowd. This might be the last time I ever see her—I want to etch her figure into my brain, short and curvy with that pristine wig, her hands gripping that huge black stroller. I want to meld this image somehow with my memories of her when we were young, as impossible as that seems.
I won’t get Wyatt’s happy ending here. And that’s my own fault; I know it. Wyatt never did anything to his family to deserve being pushed out. But me…I did. And maybe it’s time I came to terms with that.
But I don’t know what the future holds. Dvora did come here, didn’t she? She met with me. And maybe that’s all she can do right now. But in a few months or years, she might heal. She might reach out.
I’d love it if she did.
But if she doesn’t, I’ll understand.
On my way to the bus stop I call Michal and take her up on her invitation. Starting now, I’m not spending another Shabbos alone.
37
I finish my capstone project with just a week to spare before Parker’s final gallery show.
It feels like the end of an era—only a summer, but my time at Parker seems like it’s lasted years. California is a fever dream in a lot of ways, fuzzy as a distant mirage. I never thought I’d come back to New York and certainly not for good. But now that I’m here, I can’t imagine uprooting myself again.
“You’re staying for another semester, right?” Michal says halfway through the show. We’ve abandoned our posts by our own exhibits to wander around, wine or sparkling water in hand, pretending to look at the other displays. “You’re not leaving us after one summer.”
“I’m not staying another semester.But,” I say before Michal can interject, “I’ve signed on to the lease for my apartment. So. I’ll be around at least a little while longer. I got a job at Sotheby’s as a cataloger in their photography department.”
“Congrats! That’s a big step.”
“It’s a start, anyway.” It’s still not where I want to end up. It’s not doing photography full-time. But I need something to pay thebills, and from what I’ve read, freelancing in New York City isn’t gonna cut it. “What about you? Another semester?”
She nods. “They can’t get rid of me that easily. Besides, Ava said she’d work with me on an independent study next semester. How can I turn that down?”
“I mean, you can’t.”
“Exactly.”
Dr. Zhu appears at my shoulder at that moment, squeezing my elbow lightly. “Elisheva? There is someone looking for you at your exhibit.”
I wave my apologies to Michal and head back, weaving through the crowd to the corner of the room that has been appropriated for my own little mini-gallery. There’s a man in a clean, fitted suit there, a glass of champagne in his hand, and he smiles at me when I approach. It’s not until I’m only five feet away that I place where I’ve seen him before.
“Elisheva Cohen?” Henrik Andersson says, and when I nod, he goes on: “This is your work? I’m very impressed.”
He doesn’t seem to recognize me as the student he tried to pick up earlier this summer, but I’m counting that as a good thing. I follow his gaze to one of the sample pieces from my project, featuring a carefully cut out photograph of myself in secular clothing pasted into a blurry crowd of frum scholars and mothers crowding a Brooklyn sidewalk on Shabbos morning. I’ve stitched threads through the work, tying people together—everyone tied to someone else, except for me.
“Thank you,” I say. “It was a really fun project to put together.”
He extends a hand to shake mine. “I’m Henrik. I curate a gallery at—”
“I know who you are,” I interject before I can stop myself. And I honestly don’t care that I sound like a simpering fangirl, because that’s exactly what I am. Henrik’s gallery at PS1 is one of thebestart galleries in the city, known for discovering some of the top rising talents in the visual arts world.
He laughs, so at least he’s not offended by my rudeness. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been following your portfolio”—What does that mean, what does thatmean?—“and I’m really impressed with how you’ve evolved. I’d love to talk more about this project, if you’re interested.” He produces a business card from a slim steel wallet and passes it over. “Please give me a call.”
“Yes,” I say. “I mean…I will. Thank you. Wow.”
He grins again, showing white teeth. “Great. Well, I’ll let you get back to all your adoring fans. Looking forward to hearing from you, Elisheva.”
I watch him go with my heart still beating a thousand times a minute. It takes all my concentration not to just stand here grinning in front of my exhibit like a complete weirdo. But also like…holy shit.
I’m sweating a little bit still, so I sneak off to the washroom to splash some cold water on the back of my neck—this mascara isn’t waterproof—and give myself a little calm-the-hell-down speech.
