The Truth About Delilah Blue (30 page)

Monday and Victor’s hearing came and went. Lila was there, sitting directly behind him, willing him to stay lucid long enough not to cuss out the judge. Before walking into the courtroom, the lawyer Lila hired told them there would be one of two outcomes. Victor could be released pending trial, which was a distinct possibility because he wasn’t a huge flight risk—though Elisabeth, Lila had thought to herself, might have had a different opinion of this. The other outcome was that Victor could be admitted to a psychiatric facility on consent pending the trial, whereupon he planned to plead guilty.

Victor’s desire was clear. Sitting across the polished wood table in room 17B of the courthouse, he told the lawyer, polite as anything, he’d like to check into the facility after lunch, if it could possibly be arranged. Please and thank you.

Turned out the judge agreed. Said Victor, given his condition, would probably be safer there than at home without a trained health-care worker. Victor had nodded his approval, kissed his daughter on the cheek, and presented his wrists to the bailiff for handcuffing, mildly disappointed when the bailiff announced he wouldn’t be shackled for the journey.

L
ILA HADN’T KNOWN
what to expect from a psychiatric institution largely dedicated to locking down criminals. Mint green walls and windows facing birdfeeders and special nooks dedicated to knitting, perhaps. Actually, no knitting. The needles were too sharp. Rug braiding and checkers? Maybe even guards with smiley stickers on their badges? Fairfax Institute wasn’t like that. Stern but functional. The decor was spare—with linoleum floors and ugly couches centered around an enormous TV. But the hallways were painted the soft pink of the inside of a conch shell, and just like with the shell, if you listened hard, you could hear the pound of the Santa Monica surf.

No wonder Victor had insisted upon this place.

His room was small. Whitewashed cement lined the lower parts of the walls, with a gray-blue paint above. The décor here was spartan as well: iron bed and nightstand in one corner, speckled white floor, laminate reading table flanked by two tired armchairs. Overhead lighting. He sat in the armchair by the window wearing the taupe shirt and pants you might see on a zookeeper. The look on his face was unexpected too. He looked peaceful. Content. Had atonement softened him?

“Your mother all settled in?”

Victor had endorsed Lila’s idea immediately. Not only
did it offer him a shot at giving something back to Elisabeth, but he’d actually been calmed by the knowledge that Lila would be surrounded by family.

To Lila, the move meant much more, Like the small dark coyote in the hills, Lila would step in as unofficial, unasked-for guardian of her sister. At no time would the girl be offered up to a couple of tourists at an amusement park, or left to amuse herself among empty beer bottles.

“Mum’s settled, yes. And she’s surprisingly thankful to you. She’s selling the Cabbagetown house now, so she’ll have a bit of a nest egg, not having to use it for another place.”

“She take my room like I said?”

“I told her to sleep on the other side of your bed. Seemed fitting.”

He nodded his approval.

“Kieran shares with me.”

Confusion crosses his face. “Kieran?”

“My sister, Dad. Mum’s other daughter. I’ve told you about her.”

He thought about this for a moment. Then asked, “Is your mother all settled in?”

“Yes. She is.”

“You give her my room, Mouse?”

She should have grown used to it by now, but she hadn’t. Every time he got disoriented, it made her ache. “I did, Mister.”

This seemed to please him.

A nurse came in with a tray dotted with paper cups, and announced it was pill time. He flat-out refused. Told her to send in someone else. She frowned, shot a disapproving glance at Lila, and left the room.

When she was gone, Victor pulled a sealed envelope
from his pocket. He handed it to Lila and pretended not to watch as she tore it open. After she’d scanned his words, she looked up. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You were dead against it. Now you’ll fund it?”

“I’ve been thinking—and I do maintain a modicum of reasoning up in this rotting melon on top of my shoulders. You’re not your mother. Down there in the cellar working day and night—your mother never did that. Spent most of her time lazing around with these artsy characters she started bringing home. So for you, this art school thing—it might just turn out differently. As long as you stop destroying every damned thing you make.”

She leaned forward to hug him, but he swatted her gesture away. “Now, now. Don’t get all sappy or I’ll think about it harder and have to ground you.”

“Good luck with that, Mister,” she said. “I’m nearly twenty-one.”

“I’m nearly fifty-four, and as you can see…” He got up and walked toward the window, unsnapped a lock and pushed it open a few inches. The frame clanked against an iron barrier painted the same seashell pink as the lobby walls. “…being grounded is always a possibility.”

“Dad…”

He held up his hand. “No. I asked for this. No regrets here.”

A male nurse wearing chocolate brown scrubs came in with the tray. Victor waved him away before he got halfway across the room. “No pills from you, either,” he roared. “Doesn’t anybody around here listen?”

Lila reprimanded him. Told him if he was too bossy, they might ship him off to prison. He smiled, completely
unconcerned, and Lila informed him he was a crotchety old bugger. He smiled wider.

“I’ve been wondering. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He stood to adjust his hair in the brass mirror.

“Didn’t you feel me hating you? And idealizing her?”

“I did.”

“Then why?”

Settling himself in his chair, he cleared his throat and looked at his daughter. “She’s still your mother.”

Even in the face of that terrible accusation, he’d been unwilling to tarnish Elisabeth as a parent. Lila leaned over him, held down his arms, and forced a kiss to his cheek.

The door swung open and a third nurse walked in with a tray. She placed it on the counter and brought a paper cup and a glass of water to where they sat. A pretty woman, with short brown hair, tiny marshmallow nose, plump lips and cheeks. “I hear you’re causing trouble again.” With mock sternness, she handed him his pills.

“Me? Never.” Victor tossed the contents of the cup into his mouth.

She set about fluffing the pillow behind him and laying a throw across his lap.

“There you go. Can’t have my favorite patient getting chilly knees, can I?”

Victor blushed fiercely and reached out to pat her hand.

“You’re still an old rascal.” As she stood up straight, Lila noticed her nametag said genevieve. She looked at Lila. “You must be Victor’s daughter. Lila, is it? I’ve been hearing about you since you moved out here, what? A dozen years ago?” She held out her hand, which Lila shook, confused.

“I’m Gen.”

Gen.

“Your dad never could get enough of this place.”

Gen
.

She wasn’t made up. She’d really been deserving of donuts.

“It’s kind of nice to have him here full time. We’ll take extra good care of Victor, I can promise you that.”

Victor reached out to pinch her arm and she playfully swatted him away. When Gen walked out of the room, Victor sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and smiled.

The old trickster—Lila could practically see his black-tipped tail twitching.

Some things never changed. Victor Mack always got his girl.

After dinner she took the bus over to South Pomona. Went straight around the back of the bungalow, snaking her way through massive hydrangea bushes with thick waxy leaves and glowing flower heads so huge they could have been human heads nodding as she passed. It wasn’t fully dusk, but the lights in his studio were already on, spilling into the dense shade of the yard.

As always, the glass doors stood wide open. Through them, she could see Adam, bent over, piling handful after handful of paint tubes into a carton.

She stepped inside and leaned against the doorframe where she watched for a moment.

“If you want to come, it’s too late,” he said, not looking up. “I didn’t book you a seat.”

“That’s not why I’m here. It’s just…it’s possible I’ve been a bitch.”

He looked up, his expression unsympathetic. “You think?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been…” She wandered in and perched on a stool. “You know.”

“I do.”

He sealed up the box, then placed a stack of drawings on a huge, badly cut piece of cardboard, before sandwiching the artwork with more cardboard that appeared to be cut with a plastic knife. She watched while he taped up the edges, then brought out the kraft paper and started to wrap it up like a gift.

“I’m sorry about the magazine thing,” he said. “Who could have predicted all that?”

There’d been an article in
Vanity Fair
about Norma Reeves and her ad campaign of painted nudes and very little denim. Specifically about Lila’s buttocks. Rumors had been flying around that it was Keira Knightley’s posterior, but her camp had denied it. Adam had been not only named as the artist, but Norma had been asked to reveal his model’s identity. Adam had refused to name Lila.

So she’d made it into
Vanity Fair
after all, ironically, with absolute anonymity. But the speculation had passed as quickly as it began, and nude models everywhere could now return to their usual and preferred state of elegant obscurity.

“Doesn’t matter. Not your fault,” she said, looking around the room. “I thought you weren’t leaving until after Christmas break.”

“Nikki’s getting married.”

“No.”

“I found out online. She posted a moment-by-moment recap of her engagement night. From a single white rose to
a table by the window at Bellini’s, to crème caramel, to two carats—marquise-cut diamond set in platinum.”

Lila grunted. “Classy. And intimate.”

“Yeah. Her, him, and all three hundred and fifty-eight of her closest followers.”

They were silent for a moment while he scrawled New York addresses on his packages. The marker, which appeared to have no lid, went dry, and he had to dig through a desk drawer for another.

“So you’re really going.”

“This time next week, I’ll be outta here.”

“You’re sure you’re going?”

He sat back on his knees and blinked at her, then pulled his NyQuil from his pocket and tossed it into an open box.

“Kind of looks that way.”

She walked around the room, peering into boxes, stepping over packing supplies, leaning over to inspect the remains of a takeout burger. After crinkling her nose, she wandered back over to where he sat and stared at him.

“Actually it doesn’t. It looks an awful lot like you’re running to New York, not going. There’s a difference.”

Standing abruptly, he left the room, returning with an unzipped duffel bag bursting with clothing. A shoe fell out onto the floor. “That’s your opinion. You’re allowed one.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway, you’d be the expert on running. You’re so ready to bolt, you wear short shorts no matter what the weather. God forbid a pair of pants should slow you down. Not that I’m bitter.” He bent over to dump a basket of folded laundry into the bag, his shirt riding up his back, revealing the waistband of blue plaid boxers. The same ones he was wearing the night they were together. A girl doesn’t
forget the first pair of underwear she tugs down a guy’s thighs.

Suddenly, she wanted to touch his legs again. Feel their solidity and warmth pressed against her. To feel him all over her—his hands, his mouth, his arms—needing her like he had that night.

She could go. Elisabeth and Kieran were all set up at the cabin. She could make arrangements for appropriate after-school care for her sister, throw a few things in a bag, and escape what remained of her life. Start fresh with Adam. Come up with a hip artist’s name, maybe even start wearing long pants. Wake up next to Adam and, instead of feeling suffocated by his feelings for her, take a deep breath and luxuriate in them.

Would he still have her? “Adam…”

He turned around and pointed. “Grab that little vinyl case behind you, would you, Nik?”

Nik.

She tossed him the black case.

“Sorry. It was her case. Her name was on my brain…”

“Yeah. That’s the trouble, isn’t it?”

“You’ve got it wrong. I’m over her.”

Lila laughed and turned around.

“It isn’t her, Lila. It isn’t Nikki I’m running from…”

But she was already out the doors, marching down the steps into the yard.

“It wasn’t Nikki who left so fast she forgot her socks!”

“Good-bye, Adam.”

It was warm for mid-January, even for Los Angeles. Lila put down her art bag, tugged off her jean jacket, and tied it around her waist—she had two and a half hours free until she needed to pick up Kieran at school. She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and checked the numbers on the buildings. Halfway up the block, she came to a one-story building, adobe style, with buttery clay exterior and a wooden door with oversize hinges in rusted iron. A small sign, oval with hand-painted letters, to the right said, the artists’ space. She pushed blond strands from her face and wandered inside.

It wasn’t fancy. Just a foyer with a vending machine sorely in need of refilling; a metal coat rack, unused but for two or three light jackets; and a huge open space dotted with stools and easels. At the far end, a counter with a steel coffee
pot, mismatched mugs, and a carton of milk. She’d found this group through a classified ad in the
L.A. Times
. Just a bunch of art lovers who funded a tiny school through car washes and garage sales and private donations. Prominent local artists stopped by, sometimes to speak, other times to draw or paint. Models were paid from a hat that was passed around the studio at the end of a session.

A fifty-something man, red-faced with a wide nose, stood at the door and nodded to regulars, checked the roster for names of the newcomers. Lila approached him. “Hi. I spoke to you on the phone?”

He looked at his list. “What’s your name?”

She’d made a decision. Mack was no longer. Neither was Lovett. She wasn’t either one of those people anymore. It would take some time to figure out who she was. For now, she was just the daughter of a man who loved her more than his own freedom and a mother who had suffered more than any parent ever should. She was the sister of an eight-yearold in desperate need of a childhood. For now, that was enough.

Still, the man with the clipboard wanted an answer.

“It’s Delilah. Delilah Blue.”

“Righto. Here you are, Miss Blue.” He pointed toward the room. “Welcome. Feel free to get yourself set up. We start in fifteen minutes. Glad to have you on board.”

She poked her head inside. About twenty or more adults were standing, sitting, unpacking, sharing a laugh with someone nearby. Portfolio in hand, she crossed the room and set her case down next to a stool by the front window. She unzipped her case and pulled out her blue silk robe. After slipping into the bathroom to change, she returned to the little red carpet square by the window and looked out.

She smiled. There. Across the street, above a flower shop, was Adam’s painting. In billboard form. A reclined nude looking up, copper hair tumbling down her back, a pair of faded jeans draped across her hip.

Nude with jeans.

Naked and anonymous, bare and concealed.

There were worse things to be.

The man from the foyer nodded for her to begin, and Delilah stepped onto the carpet where sun poured in from a skylight directly overhead and dropped her robe. But before she assumed her pose, she reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of bent, child-size fairy wings. After reshaping the wire framing—still lavender, but missing some of their sparkle, drowsy from a lifetime of Lila’s dreams—she slipped her arms through the satin straps. She planted her feet, hugged herself with arms crossed, rested her chin on her right hand and shoulder, and gazed out above the heads of the artists. Then came the best sound of all. The creaking, squeaking, crunchy-cold snow sound of sharpened pencil on paper.

For now, the feel of their eyes on her skin, on her wings, was all she could handle. Art school could wait. Not forever, but long enough to settle Kieran into her classroom at Rykert Public School and for all of them to get used to the new taste of their lives. For now, this seemed just right.

There. At the back. A latecomer walked in.

Lichty.

Their eyes met and she stopped breathing for a moment, unsure what to do. Leave maybe. Before he announced to the class that they were sketching a thief.

No.

I’m here, she thought. Enough with the running, the
hiding. Truth is, I’m here now. Drenched in sunshine, this is me.

Delilah shot him a glance that said this is my pose.

Deal with it.

Lichty stared at her for a moment, listening. Then he lowered himself onto a stool, closed his eyes for a moment and nodded as if saying, “Okay.”

He pulled out a pad and started to draw.

O
NCE IT WAS
over, the students put down their pencils and looked around the room, blinking as if lost and finally found. Smiling, sighing, stretching backs taut with ninety minutes of concentration. A few packed up to make a quick exit; others were more inclined to linger, chat, compare sketches.

Delilah rubbed her neck and shook out her arms. The stillness, the focus, had been just what she’d needed. She’d missed it. And she’d made a decision. Still unclothed, still winged, she folded down to the floor and reached into her bag. Pulled out her phone. Dialed.

A click.

The roar of New York traffic.

His voice. “Hello?”

“Come home.”