Restoration

Restoration

by Jennifer Luckett

   The balled-up pages blanketed the carpet below like melting snowballs, useless for the masterpiece of a snowman I wanted to build. I really needed inspiration to end this Writer’s Block that all the long walks or journal writing couldn’t fix. I’d loved Science museums since grade school, always fascinated by displays of obsolete machines and extinct creatures. I was considering an overdue museum visit when my best (and only) buddy Jenny suggested I visit the Fine Art collection.

  “I’ve never really been a fine art fan, remember the field trip we took in second grade?” I asked, paging through last Sunday Post’s Lifestyle writeup describing the new Renaissance offering.

  Jenny sighed. “Alex, we were only 7, and no one said anything. Even Mrs. Johnson smiled when you said it.”

  “It was embarrassing, Jen, and I haven’t been back to an art museum since then.”

 “But that installation was scary, you voiced what everyone else thought,” she said.

 “Do you really think an Art Museum visit will break my block?”

 “Try it, nothing else has worked. Listen, gotta run, talk later?” She taught a yoga class in the afternoons.

  “OK, bye.” Jenny has been my best friend since kindergarten, a kind, encouraging influence, anchoring me when I spiral into doubt and anxiety. So, if she thought looking at works of art would help me finish my manuscript by my impending deadline, what did I have to lose?

 I replayed messages when we hung up.  “Alex, where are my pages? Please get back with me ASAP. Have a good day!” Beep. Elena, the point person for my ghostwriting project, had now called twice. Eying the half-written outline, I skipped the next message from my editor, Susana, and set a reminder to call the next morning. I made a plan: spend no more than an hour at the museum, finish the outline before dinner, and begin the draft so I could at least answer somewhat truthfully when I updated Elena. Maybe I needed to get out of my head, “touch grass”, or at least a museum wall, to re-energize my work.   

  One 20 minute train ride later, I approached the stately domed white building, reminiscent of a structure in a European history text. I minored in History when I was Pre-Law, and now that I’d abandoned both fields, I didn’t really care about looking at relics. How could these paintings of people who lived in an idealized world inspire me to portray a fictional world? I know the past is not really the past, that systems fail to improve societies, though many people would disagree. I suppose that’s why I choose to write, to create worlds in which I wish I lived, and use my idealism to elevate the shitty realism of our world.

  My admission fee waived because Tuesday afternoons are designated Family Evenings, I followed a procession to the second floor. A crowd congregated around a painting of a baptism scene, details so vivid one might see its subjects in an Italian villa. I would have preferred a closer look, but decided to return later when the crowd dissipated.  Later, I couldn’t look away from the work of a mother and child.. 

  A voice from behind me whispered, “Stunning, right?”

 “I’m sorry?” I looked over my shoulder and faced a woman in a sky blue dress, holding a booklet, its cover showcasing a painting I’d passed earlier. 

  “Isn’t this work so stunning? It shows the nature of true love, don’t you think?” She seemed normal, attractive even with large, chocolate eyes, but I wasn’t sure how this painting communicated such devotion.

  “I’m not an art enthusiast, but I suppose the painting is lovely.”  Lovely? What had gotten into me?

 “Why do you think it’s lovely?” She faced me, her hands folded in front of her. Did she really want to know what I thought?

“Well, the colors are very pleasing, and the way the mother cradles the baby, she was probably a really good mom.” It wasn’t a deep insight, but she asked.

 “I agree. For someone who isn’t into art, your skill for interpretation seems spot-on.” Her full lips upturned into a beautiful smile.

 Was she serious? “Thank you.” I needed to stick to my plan, make a graceful exit here, and see some more paintings before I headed home.

 “Are you late for something?” 

 I shook my head, regretting the glance at my watch. “No, I’m not. I thought this would help.”

 She extended her hand.  “I’m Helen, and it’s very nice to meet you…”

 “Alex.” Helen’s velvety hands sported a manicure as flawless as her hair and makeup. She probably spent lots of time here, maybe even as a member of the museum.

 “Well, what did you mean,‘I thought this would help’?” Helen asked.

 “I’m a writer, finishing a romance novel about two people who meet following a tragedy, and I’m stuck, trying to figure out the ending.” 

  “Oh, well, at least you have a story,” Helen said.     

  “That’s the thing. I’m thinking of deleting it all and starting over, because I’m not sure what to do with the characters. I don’t like the story.”

   I was shocked at how much I was sharing with this woman, but I really wanted leave, having had my fill of beauty and enlightenment, or perhaps the inspiration I sought. Other than my editor, I don’t speak about my writing to anyone, not even Jenny.

   Helen shrugged. “Maybe all you need is a new experience.” 

  “My friend suggested I visit here today.” 

  “For someone who doesn’t like art, you seem to grasp themes well. Holding out on me, Alex?” I really liked Helen’s smile. 

 “I don't dislike Art, Helen, but I am a history and science nerd, fascinated about how things work and fit together,” I said. 

 “Sometimes, making connections is essential,” Helen said.

  I nodded. “I should probably remember that.” 

   Helen took my hand, and I followed, as if an invisible string pulled me, completely losing track of time. I enjoyed Helen’s commentary about the works, and her answers to my questions about the Renaissance. Once we’d seen everything, I can’t say that I felt inspired, but I had learned about Italian art from a witty professor who gave me a new perspective, as well as her information to keep in touch.

  “I’m invested now, keep me posted on your story, OK?” I watched her slim, graceful fingers tap her addresses and other info into my phone. We parted after agreeing to meet for drinks or coffee the following weekend.

  Back home, I skipped dinner and opted for a huge mug of hot chocolate with mint while I finished my outline and wrote six pages for the ghostwriting project. Thankfully, Elena loved the work I’d done when we met, and mentioned that she might have a new ghostwriting project for me soon.

   But I was avoiding my editor Susana, with no ending in sight. I had no choice other than to face her when she showed up at my door on Friday afternoon  

  “Alex, tell me what you need. I thought you were making progress with this.” Susana handed me a chai latte as she draped her bag on the sofa, where she settled opposite my desk.

  She reread the manuscript with the new pages, a question in her eyes. “This is good, but what, they just decide to remain friends?”

 I shrugged. “I know it’s not the conventional happy ending we discussed, but don’t you think it’s realistic?

 Susana nodded. “I like your idea, because it’s realistic, but I’m just skeptical about the team’s reaction.”

 Susana sipped her tea, as she turned pages. “How about you write another ending, and I share them both?”

 “Sounds like a plan, and I know you’ve got a lot to prove, so, let me see what I can do over the weekend.” Susana was a brand-new editor for the independent publisher that wanted my work. So even with a successful first offering, I, and Susana as well, had a lot to prove.

 She beamed. “A weekend? Wow, you’ve found some inspiration.” 

 “I guess you could say that.” I tried to hide the smile spreading across my lips.

 “So it seems. You really think you can finish that fast?”

 Helen’s smile flashed in my mind. “I think I can manage.”

  After Susana left, I wrote nonstop until I finished the alternate ending, which I hated. The team would probably choose it over the original one, and maybe it was for the best. 

When I woke up Sunday morning, after a 15 hour sleep, I crawled out of bed and sat on the sofa. I skipped the four messages from Jenny and Susana, and replayed the last one.

  “Hey Alex, I thought we were getting together this weekend. If you’re busy working, OK. It was great to meet you. Bye.” Helen’s voice sounded like honey spilling over rocks, so I replayed it again before I left her message of my own.

  Three hours later, we faced each other at a cafe table. She wore a thin cream sweater and tailored black slacks, effortlessly chic and superior to my ratty sweatshirt and ancient holey jeans.

  “It’s good to see you, Helen.” I looked at the manuscript on the table between us.

  “I’m glad you called me, but I understand you were busy. Wow!” She picked my work and flipped to the tabbed section. 

  “I wrote for 18 straight hours until it was done, then promptly slept until a few hours ago. I guess you could say I found some inspiration.” 

  Helen turned page after page, alternating between grasping her teacup, fingers curling around the handle. I could have watched her all day.

 “Well, I think it’s beautiful, Alex. Truly.” 

  I shrugged and bit a corner of my muffin. “I don’t like happy endings.”

 Helen’s eyes flew open. “Why not?”

  “Don’t trust them. Happiness is overrated.” I’d had this conversation with Jenny many times, and she always laughed off my pessimism with her patented, “Oh, Alex, what am I gonna do with you?!”

   Helen crossed her arms. “I think happiness is what we make when we give to others. Don’t you think so?”

  “Giving to others is duty, what we’re supposed to do. But it never makes me happy.”

   “If it’s the right person, if you’re truly connected and you care about her, it should.”

   “If you say so.” I really hadn’t expected our conversation to move this way.”

  “Alex, may I ask you something?”  Helen reached for my hand, and I edged it closer to my plate, and gave a tiny nod.

   Helen’s eyes followed my hand, then looked at me again. “Have you ever been in love? Experienced true love?” 

  It was my turn to look down. “I don’t believe in love.”

 “But you wrote this book. How can you say that?”

 I exhaled, wishing I’d skipped her message earlier. “No, Helen, I’ve never been in love, and honestly, I think I can live without it, at this point.” 

 “How do you know that if you’ve never known love? I mean, how did you know you loved to write?”

 I looked around the room, for some unknown reason or excuse to bolt this table, this cafe, this situation that I created. Sure, I love our conversations, and she’s gorgeous, but I didn’t need deep existential conversations on a random Sunday afternoon.

 “Thanks so much, Helen. This has been great, but I need to get back and get to work.” I stood, rolled up my sleeves to free my sizzling skin.

“Alex?” Helen called to me before I shoved the door open.

 I nodded, and Helen handed over my manuscript. “Here.”

  “Thanks again.” 

  I didn’t look back, but I could feel Helen’s eyes on me as I sauntered down the sidewalk. Clouds had finally cleared, and I wished I’d remembered my sunglasses to shield me from the overwhelming brightness. Or, maybe I couldn’t take the light of truth beaming on me.

  Later, when I tried to sleep, I couldn’t stop thinking about Helen’s questions and how I was missing something I needed to understand.    

  A few months later, the team accepted my project work, and the new ghostwriting project was set to begin the following month. Susana had earned a new position, ecstatic about how everything had worked, and we planned a dinner to celebrate with Jenny.

  As for my novel, Elena had gotten me a better deal for two more books, and my publication date loomed, early November.

  I should have been excited about my success; instead, I felt emptier and more disillusioned than ever. Yes, I was writing daily, sleeping more or less regularly, and I had reconnected with my older sister Anna, with tentative plans to celebrate Thanksgiving with her family. 

 I hadn’t heard from Helen since that day, but I thought about her constantly. I finally recognized that missing piece, and it seemed there was nothing I could do about it, to show her that I was beginning to understand.  I even visited the museum a few times, hoping to see her, though the collection we’d seen was long gone. When I looked at the works, I focused on how I felt when I saw faces, landscapes, structures, whether it was confusion, revulsion, fear, like I’d done as a child. Art didn’t need to serve a purpose or have a meaning-i just needed to be OK with being lost in the emotions stirred inside me. And it felt really good just to let myself feel. 

  So, when I received Helen’s card, I acknowledged what I’d been unwilling to admit all those months ago-I missed her, and truly wanted nothing more than to see her again.

  Snow blanketed the sidewalk, as I watched for Helen from my window seat at the cafe. I’d ordered a tea service to arrive when she did. We weren’t exchanging gifts this afternoon-that would happen tomorrow after the dinner we’d planned. She would bring dessert and a homemade Italian pastry; I would roast veggies and a turkey, a change for my routine of being alone, watching movies with pizza and hot chocolate. We had a lot to celebrate. I was adding a few items to my shopping list for later when she sat across from me.

 “Cold enough for you?” Helen wore a simple red dress under her white coat, and she never looked better.

“Just about, so glad you came.” I caught a whiff of lavender and something spicy when she hugged me.

I glanced at Teddy, our barista, who delivered the tray a minute later..

  “Wow, thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.” I handed her a tea bag while she poured hot water from the kettle.

 When she was finished, I nudged the package toward her, and couldn’t stop the grin on my face. 

“You wanna open it?” 

 Her brown eyes opened wide. “Your book?”

 I nodded, and she opened the package. 

 “Alex, this is amazing!” Helen flipped through the pages of the book, and flipped it to my photo on the jacket. 

 “You really think so?” I asked.

 “I do. May I keep this one?” 

 I nodded, so many thoughts swirling and unsure of what to say next. 

Teddy approached our table. “You ladies need anything else?”

“Thanks, Teddy, I think we’re OK, at least for now.”

 Helen winked at me. Just then, the sun peeked through the clouds, bathing our table in warm beams of light, a perfect silhouette.