Nauseating Ambivalence

As Philip was calling out her name from the entrance, she began to shiver. It wasn’t because of the temperature of that ice-cold rainy winter night but rather hearing her name being muttered by Philip’s voice. What was once a voice of reason, a pillar of safety and warmth, was now a striking affliction. His soothing voice had remained exactly the same, slightly more tired and weary as the years passed by, but for Madeline it now sounded like a piercing knife striking her in the heart. She glanced at him, nodding her head. She was standing in the parking lot, surrounded by white lines painted over asphalt and concrete, with a distinctive hue of orange from the streetlights shading the dark night. She continued smoking, a habit that, not only had she grown out of, but that would only return in times of dire need. She threw the cigarette foot to the ground and walked back in. The art gallery brought her painful memories: the chronic depression, her failed marriage with Mia, the passing of her mother, the last three controversial exhibits that were more costly than profitable… It was a myriad of failures and mistakes that were daunting and haunting her. “Philip, I simply can’t be a part of this anymore. I made my decision and you won’t be able to talk me out of it.” Philip tried to interrupt Madeline, but it was proving difficult to overpower his sister. “Mad, listen, I understand it’s been difficult to work, your mom’s memories are all over the place, but this is where your heart belon-” – Madeline interrupted him – “No, Philip. It’s not her memories that are hidden in these walls. It’s her voice. It’s her smell. It’s her presence.” No one could quite understand the pressure Madeline was under. She described it once as “a combination of a void, a black hole that consumes my inner fiber. It takes and takes and there’s nothing left, leaving me at the seams, confused, alone, belonging to no one, to nowhere, to nothing.” It was later diagnosed as a severe chronic depression, a result of her mother’s death.

Philip and Madeline were half-brothers, they shared one father, but their mothers were not the same. Hence, Philip, as much as he tried, could never understand the pain Madeline was in. It was two years ago, right after her mother’s passing that Mad inherited her family’s art gallery; a small gallery that first began breathing in the 1970s and quickly became a famous spot for the café society, a place where the riskiest and most daring works of expression and intellect would be exposed, forcing a change upon the world; no matter how small that change could or would be. By the 2000s it was recognized as one of the most important galleries in the country and it was deeply connected to a cultural shift and impact that had happened throughout the decades. Madeline became the creative director and the driving force behind the gallery after her mother’s passing in 2012, but as she feared and dreaded, she became unable to fulfill her role and substitute her predecessor’s shoes. “So, your plan is to give up?” Philip asked. “No, my plan is to move on. For the gallery’s health, for my health. For our well-being.” Madeline responded, sighing, as they stood in the center of the room, surrounded by striking portraits of shadows painted in dark hues of purple and blue, looking at each other. Philip surrendered, nothing he could do or say would change his sisters mind. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to dad. Tell him that I’m leaving the gallery. I’ve already made a list of great replacements who will do a marvelous job with the gallery. You will all be in safe hands, that’s a promise.”

She left Philip alone in the gallery and left to her car. She closed the car door and picked up her phone. As she dialed up Mia, rain started to pour. The sound of the raindrops hitting the car, almost like glass shattering, resounded in a premonition. Madeline wasn’t quite sure of what it would be; maybe her upcoming conversation with Mia, her ex-wife – Mad was hoping she wouldn’t pick up the phone – or possibly of her conversation with her father about leaving the family’s business the following day. A few seconds had turned into a minute or two when Mia picked up the phone and Madeline was overcome with a feeling of anxiety, dreading the end of the conversation. “Mia?”, she asked somewhat fearfully, “Yes”, answered Mia from the other line, “I need to talk to you. I made my decision regarding the gallery and I’ve decided to leave. I don’t feel happy here, I don’t feel safe. I feel trapped, insecure.” While it took only a few seconds for Mia to answer back, it felt like hours. With the sound of the raindrops and her shaky breath, the ambience inside the car felt like an utter anxiety attack. It was almost as if several sharped knifes were stabbing her throughout her body. Time was ticking slowly, and death was seemingly around the corner. “Mad, sweetheart, listen, you and I both knew this would be the outcome for a long time. You never grieved your mother’s death and forcing yourself to do her work was your way of keeping her alive, forcing her to stay with you. I felt your mother’s weight on your back every time I was with you. It’s consuming you alive. This is a step you have to make for yourself, for your wellbeing. No matter how arduous it is, you can’t run away from it, at least not anymore. Not if you want to survive.” The harsh words stroke a cord and Madeline felt strangely at peace with them. They felt, in Madeline’s bones, above all else, like a sign to move forward. It felt like the right thing. It was the right thing to do.

All the sleepless nights and contradicting thoughts, that nauseating ambivalence, all those had finally shimmered down. Despite all this, Madeline was still to be tested. She had to come clean with her father about her decision and she had to finally start grieving her mother.

She was to meet with her father, John, in Barhaus, a family favorite spot, and, arriving earlier than him, ordered two glasses of bourbon, old fashion. She lit a cigarette, the second that week, and smoked for a brief two minutes. As her father arrived through the door, she took two sips of her bourbon and drowned the cigarette in it. John sat down in front of her, the bar was seemingly empty, with only two other clients and the employees. It was late at night, in a weekday, the only souls roaming bars where the lonely who need to drown their sorrows or escape from the mundane. John and Madeline didn’t get along quite well. The mother’s passing had brought them closer, but only in regard to the art gallery. John co-founded the gallery and had a say in all things financial and Madeline took artistic and creative control. Professionally their relationship was tight, but as father and daughter it was untied, filled with loose ends. They spoke for a while, with very little to be said. Her dark and sad mood was clearly hereditary, his gift to her. It was after a while that she finally found to courage to speak her truth. “I’m leaving the gallery and there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.” It would be pointless to feed the conversation, as we’d only add fuel to the fire. The conversation, which by that point had become a discussion, an argument between two old enemies, wasn’t the most pleasant. Difficult to transcript, difficult to imagine, difficult to indulge. Eventually the night would come to an end. So would the week, the month, the year. While everything had changed, it also remained the same.

Life for Madeline was but a battle of highs and lows, of doubt and contradiction. Of fear, of courage, of resistance, of a nauseating ambivalence that would flow through her blood cells. She would eventually recover from her depression, from her mother’s death, from leaving the gallery. She would eventually return to live life in a perfunctory nod, perhaps as the only way to live numb, away from the pain. Finally free to chase whatever she liked.