See What I See (14 page)

“I'm going to try. I really want to, but right now I don't see how.”

“You sound like an old lady. Girl, you're only eighteen. You've got a life ahead of you, not behind you. Anyhow you've got to come back and see my new place.”

We hug and I promise. She sends me away with one of the blouses.

That evening Thomas comes over. “Dad told me you were leaving.”

I tell him how Anita thinks Dad wants me to go because he doesn't want me to see him get sicker and sicker and die.

“Anita is probably right. I've never seen anyone as determined to control things as your dad.”

“I can't leave him.” I start to cry. Thomas's arms go around me, and I smell the wool of his sweater, something he uses on his hair, and just a whiff of hospital. I haven't really been able to cry, and now I can't stop. Thomas digs out a handful of crumpled Kleenex, but I have my own. The harsh kitchen lights shine on my red eyes and nose. I'm sure my face is all blotchy.

“I just wish I had your father's guts,” Thomas says. “I wish I were as certain and as brave as he is about what to do with my life. What about you?”

“I don't know. I still want to paint, but it's so connected with Dad now. Before I can come back to school, I'll need to work awhile to get the money for a place to stay anyhow.”

“I'll look for your paintings one of these days at the Art Institute.” He gives me a hug and then he's gone.

*  *  *

I'm not taking the bus up north. Dad insists on my flying back. My suitcase and backpack and a couple of small canvases I've been working on are stacked at the door, waiting for the taxi that will take me to the airport and the plane that will fly me home. Only I'm not sure what home is anymore. It's been a thousand years since I dragged my things into this house, with Dad standing there furious, telling me I couldn't stay. What if I had left the next morning, like he wanted me to? Even now I don't know where I got the courage to defy him. How different my life would have been if I had left. No Thomas, no Erlita, or Lila or Ruth, and no paintings of mine hanging on the Tergiversate walls. A whole chunk of my life never lived. The worst thing that can happen isn't failing; it's not trying.

I ask Anita if she'll feed the cat. “That's a nasty cat,” she says. “I don't know why you want it around.” But she promises.

I go to say good-bye to Dad. We love each other, but it's angry love. I resent his caring about his work more than he cared about me, but I have to take what I can get, and I guess it's better than nothing.

Dad is propped up in bed. “Get out,” he says to Anita. “I want to talk to my daughter.” Anita and I exchange a knowing look, and she stalks out of the studio.

“You think I'm selfish,” Dad says.

“I don't know what to think about you,” I say. “It'll probably take me the rest of my life to figure you out.”

“I hope you'll have better things to think about. Like your painting.”

“You said it was no good.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn't want my daughter competing with me. Because I wanted to spare you the heartbreak I've had, and any good artist has, of always falling short of what you want to accomplish. The better you are, the higher the expectation gets. You never win.”

“But it's not a game,” I say. “It's just what you have to do.”

All this talking is hard for Dad. He begins to cough, a choking cough that scares me. I call Anita, who reaches for the oxygen mask at Dad's bedside. He gulps air. Looking out the window, I see the taxi pull up. I take Dad's hand. His fingers close over mine. “Let me stay,” I beg.

He shakes his head and gives me one of his wicked smiles.

Anita says, “Time to go.”

Dad pulls away the mask. “Kate Quinn,” he whispers. “Be Kate Quinn.”

W
hen I get home, Mom throws her arms around me like I've survived some scary life-threatening catastrophe. I guess I have. Of course she is devastated when I tell her I haven't been going to school. She's furious with Dad and doesn't want to hear a word about him. The only argument we have is when I tell her I'm changing my name to Kate Quinn.

“It's not fair,” she says. “All these years he never gave you a thought.” When that doesn't make me change my mind, she warns, “People will think you're trading on his name.”

“I can't help what other people think. Anyhow, there aren't going to be any more paintings of Dad's. He wants to think of more paintings with the name Quinn on them. You're my mom and I love you, but you've got me; he's got nothing.”

The next day I begin to ease back into my old life. I get up and look for something to have for breakfast, keeping quiet so I don't wake up Mom. This morning I find some croissants she's brought home from the restaurant and I have one with my coffee. There was a fog last night, and this morning when the sun comes out, I see that the drops of moisture on the branches have frozen into a thousand crystals of ice, glistening like shiny knives in the sun. I pull on my jacket and boots and head outside with the shovel to clear a path to Mom's car. I get the broom and sweep the light snow from the car's roof. Everything glitters and glistens. The most amazing thing is the silence. There is no silence like this in the city, only a constant background of hum and roar that leaks into your life and smothers your thoughts. I'm more sure than ever that when I finish school, this is where I'll settle down. You don't have to go to New York to be an artist. You need to paint where your heart is.

Dad died the day after his show opened. The Detroit papers had articles about “the famous recluse.” The
New York Times
had a long obituary. Mom's name was there, and she hated it. So was mine. It called me Kate Quinn and said I was an aspiring artist. The obituary talked about how Dad had dropped out of the art scene and about his drinking problem. But most of the article was about the new show, with quotes from museum curators. The
New York Times
's own art critic wrote of how brilliantly Dad's work illustrated the emptiness of a world where cars and houses and computers take the place of relationships with people.

There is one exception in all the article's praise. The writer says, “Some critics attack the ugliness and the anger in the paintings; other critics say that is Quinn's strength. Quinn is not simply critical of what the world has become, but his paintings suggest he doesn't know what he would put in its place.”

Morgan has kept in touch. The show has sold out, except for a couple of paintings Morgan is keeping for himself. He says they're an investment, because with no more Dalton Quinn paintings, the prices are sure to go up.

We learn from Mr. Krull that Dad wanted to be buried here in Larch. Mom and I are both shocked. “He won't leave us alone,” Mom says. My guess is he didn't want a celebrity funeral with photographers and gossip. Or was he saying, “I'm finally coming back,” and asking Mom and me to forgive him? Or maybe there was just no place else to go. I don't know.

At first Mom says she won't go to the funeral. “Why should I? I haven't seen him in years. He doesn't mean anything to me, and look how he used you.”

“He didn't use me,” I tell her. “I stayed because I wanted to.” I can't help adding, “If you don't feel anything for Dad after all these years, why are you still so bitter?”

Mom gives me an angry look and goes into the tiny cubbyhole that is her bedroom, slamming the door after her. Trailer doors are too flimsy to really slam, but I get the idea. An hour later when she comes out, she says, “Maybe you're right—maybe it's time for me to let go. Anyhow, I don't want you to have to go to the funeral alone.”

We go to our church together to explain to the pastor the complicated relationships among Dad and Mom and me, but Pastor Hoyer says of course he'll do the funeral. Anything for Mom, who has been active in the church. So it's Mom who gets Dad his funeral. “I hope Dalton appreciates it,” Mom says with a rueful smile. It's the first time that Mom has ever accompanied Dad's name with a smile, even a skimpy one.

It's a small affair, just me and Mom and Mrs. Smouse, who goes to all the funerals at the church as a kind of entertainment, and some friends of Mom's from the resort and her bridge group. There are a few curious townspeople too. Mr. Krull comes up from Detroit, and there's a local reporter from the
Larch Chronicle
. The surprising thing is that Morgan flies in. It's amazing meeting him in person after all the hundreds of calls and emails. He isn't at all like I pictured. He's short, with a shaved head and sad eyes, and he's dressed in New York City black: black turtleneck, black blazer, and black trench coat. New Yorkers are always ready for a funeral. After an awkward expression of sympathy Morgan looks around at the modest church and sprinkling of mourners.

“We could have given Dalton a terrific send-off,” he says. “The papers would have covered it.” He keeps looking around as if he can't believe Dad came from so small a town, as if a mistake has been made or something is being hidden from him. Finally he goes over to the reporter from the
Larch Chronicle
and starts to give her a lecture on Dad's painting in relation to contemporary art. She is startled and then a little desperate to get away from him, but Morgan isn't going to miss an opportunity.

The pastor has never met Dad and only knows he was once married to Mom and that he grew up here. In his remarks the pastor quotes a passage from the Bible: “Where my treasure is, there will my heart be also.” He says how the places where we grew up and the people we love stay with us all our lives. I thought about how Dad had run from Larch and about how much he left behind.

Immediately after the service Morgan takes off in a hired limousine for the airport in Traverse City. His last words as he makes his getaway: “Dalton must have seen something here I don't.”

Mr. Krull asks to go back to our home with us. He seems surprised to find home is a trailer. Mom makes coffee for him. We want to be hospitable, and we appreciate his coming up for the service, but we really just want to be alone to deal with our feelings: my saying good-bye to Dad and Mom trying to figure out if there's a little bit of Dad she can forgive.

Mr. Krull sips his coffee, refusing the store-bought cookies I offer. He looks around doubtfully and says, “I don't suppose you'll be unhappy to find something a little more spacious.”

In a frosty voice Mom says, “I don't know what you mean. We've been very happy here.”

“Yes, yes, of course. It's very cozy.” He reaches for his briefcase and reads Dad's will like he's a CEO giving a report to his board of directors. There's a lot of money from the sale of Dad's paintings. The show was a great success. Dad has left most of his money to the art school in Detroit for scholarships for students, but he's also left me money, enough to buy Mom a house and to put myself through school. Mr. Krull will be my trustee until I'm twenty-one to see that I don't blow it all on a trip around the world.

Before I can say anything, Mom says, “I've never taken a cent from Dalton and I won't now.”

In a quiet voice Mr. Krull corrects her. “I understand how you feel, but he didn't leave it to you. He left it to Kate. It's for her to decide.”

Mom stares at me. “He's a little late in considering you. I don't think you should accept his money.”

I see Mom isn't going to forgive Dad after all. I think of how much of her life has been spent on this grudge, and it breaks my heart. But that's how she feels, not how I feel. I don't want to be disloyal, but I do want to make up my own mind. I say, “I want to go back to school, Mom.”

“We'll find a way. We don't need his money. I'm making enough.”

“Mom, I'm going to use what Dad left me. I don't want to be a part of your fight with Dad. I'm not taking sides. Just because I accept something from Dad doesn't mean I love you less.”

“Take it if you want to, but I'm not going to move into a house paid for with Dalton's money. It's too late for him to make amends.”

Mr. Krull looks at her and says in a quiet voice, “I often think the most generous person is the one receiving, not the one bestowing the gift.”

Mom looks like someone hit her.

I sign papers and have things explained to me. Mr. Krull gives me his card with his office phone, his cell, his fax, and his email. Evidently we're going to have a lot of things to talk about. He shakes our hands politely and climbs back into his car, a modest black number, and backs slowly out of the driveway; although a car or two an hour on this road is the max, he looks carefully both ways. I'm sure my money will be well cared for and suspect he'll keep it under his mattress.

The next week Justin comes down from the Upper Peninsula for semester break. He tells me about his life up there in that north country, how they make the best of all the cold and snow by having a lot of festivals. They have dog races and ice-sculpture contests. He goes ice fishing and cross-country skiing. He loves school. He's entered some sort of math competition among university students across the country, and he's representing his college.