Summer in the Invisible City (8 page)

The night before I'm going to see Allan at his gallery, I can't sleep. Outside my window, the sky is clotted with clouds. We're in a cycle of hot muggy days and even hotter stormy ones.

It's been a week since the party at Justin's and I haven't heard from Sam yet. I wonder if he changed his mind about wanting to be my friend. Every night, I stare at my phone and will it to light up with his name, but it remains dark.

I told myself I wouldn't do this, but I can't help it. I login to Facebook. I don't know Sam's last name but I find a Sam who is friends with Justin Chang pretty quickly and his hometown is in New Hampshire.

Sam's profile picture is a sloppy, low-res picture of a figure from faraway in the snow. I can't tell if it's a picture of him or someone else. And the rest of his profile is equally lazy and untended. He doesn't have any other pictures of himself and it looks like he never logs in, because the posts on his page are a mix of spam and advertisements. But there is one girl who has posted a lot to his wall. The most recent post is dated in January, but as I skim down his timeline, I can see that they span back in time for years.

I click on her name and find myself on her page. Amanda Muller from Newberg, New Hampshire.

She has tons of pictures and tons of friends. She has strawberry blond hair and big dark brown eyes. She has her septum pierced with a shiny dumbbell, but other than that she has sort of a plain style. The more pictures I look at her though, the prettier she gets. Even the nose piercing sort of grows on me. It's so hard and tough looking that it makes her face look even more angelic in contrast.

And then I see something that makes me stop.

I'm staring at a series of webcam pictures of Amanda and Sam together. In the first one, they're sitting side by side. Sam looks a lot younger. His hair is blonder, probably from the sun, and so long that it's tucked behind his ears and a little natty. I look at the date. These were posted two years ago. Sam was fifteen. Amanda is looking right at the camera and Sam is staring off into space. In the next one, Sam is leaning so close to the camera that the computer lights up all the crystals in his eyes. In that one, Amanda is behind him, laughing and covering her face with her hands. She has peeling black nail polish on her pale fingers and a woven bracelet on her wrist. In the next photo from the series, Amanda is sitting on Sam's lap. I can't see their bodies, but I can tell because her head is higher than his, and his chin rests on her shoulder. And in the last one he's holding her head in his hands in a play-fighting move, and she's squirming and laughing.

I know Sam said they broke up, but you can tell that at the instant that this picture was taken, they were in love. I
think about what Benji said earlier: photography can fake intimacy. A half a second of love can turn into something that lasts forever. Looking at this picture, I know I might be seeing something that didn't really exist, but it looks so real it's blinding.

I snap my computer closed and stare up at the ceiling, neon bulbs floating around my field of vision.

What am I trying to find? When I'm walking around with my camera on, I feel this constant itch as if I'm longing for something I've never seen. Something I've only dreamed of. But with the Internet it's the opposite, the way it sucks me into holes instead of leading me to new parts of the world. So often, I go online and scroll around until I find something that hurts me enough to turn it off. I wonder if that's what I'm looking for: someone to pinch me and wake me up.

—

The next morning I get ready with a zinging flutter in my chest. Today, I'm going to see Allan at his gallery after class.

My mom is making coffee when I emerge from the shower.

“I'm done early today if you want to do something,” she says. “We can go to the movies. Or I could take you to a museum? You could show me what you've been learning.”

My hands grow hot and sweaty in my pockets as I try to casually shrug. “I can't, actually. I have to stay late today.”

In the stairwell outside our apartment, I sink against the wall and close my eyes. Lying makes me feel sick. I know I should go back inside and tell her the truth.

But I don
't.

—

The neighborhood Allan's gallery is in, Chelsea, is quiet and bright when I arrive there after class. Some galleries boast big flashy signs, and some are discreet, unmarked.

Allan's gallery, Kaplan and White, is an old, prestigious gallery, with a location here and another one in Switzerland (thank you, Google). The only other time I've been here was when I was nine, when my mom and I came to see a screening of the film I narrated. I don't remember the art, or even Allan from that night. I just remember the stuffy room packed with too many people. I remember black high heels and red lipstick and sweat. I remember burying my face in my mom's dress when she tried to introduce me to someone.

Now that I'm here, I see it's bigger than I remembered. The gallery takes up almost half of a block on Twenty-Seventh Street, stretching all the way to the corner of Eleventh Avenue, where the city gives way to the wide highway.

When I reach the door, I hesitate. The door is open and two guys in hoodies haul a ladder out, not noticing me. I peer inside. I can see a few people milling around the enormous, bleached rooms. One of them is Allan. His back is to me, but I recognize him right away. Even from far away and behind, he looks smaller and older than I remember, his hair more gray than brown.

He turns in my direction but he doesn't notice me. Seeing his face makes my heart pound between my ears. I'm suddenly dizzy. Why didn't I bring my mom? I should have done this with her. I shouldn't be here alone.

“Can I help you?”

A stylish woman steps out of the gallery. She has shiny blue-black hair, and she wears a green-patterned dress that looks vintage.

I comb my hair nervously with my fingers. “Um. Yeah. I'm here to see Allan Bell?”

I say it like a question, even though it's not a question.

Her expression reveals no understanding. She smiles intimidatingly and says, “Is he expecting you?”

“I think so,” I say. “I'm his daughter.”

“This way,” she says, her neat smile staying perfectly in place.

I walk with this woman through the space back to where Allan is examining a few pieces of paper that he's arranged on the concrete gallery floor. Her high heels
click-clack
loudly in the almost empty rooms.

“Allan. There's someone here for you,” the gallery girl says.

Allan uncrosses his arms and then turns and sees me. When his eyes clasp on to mine he stays perfectly still for a moment while the woman walks quickly away.

I'm frozen in place. It's taking so much effort for me to try to smile naturally that I don't even have the ability to say hello or walk toward him.

“
Sadie,
” he finally says. “Wow. You look really well.”

He stands there, staring.

“Hi,” I manage.

And then he steps toward me and gives me a long, firm hug.

“So, this is all new work,” Allan says, gesturing broadly
to the cardboard boxes that are leaning against the walls. “We're just unpacking now. I haven't shown these pieces anywhere.”

“Cool,” I say.

Allan continues. “I think it's going to be good. I mean, what I really wanted to do was have the dancers that Marla and I have been working with in LA come out here and do a performance. But that's not going to happen. Elaine doesn't think it will work in this space.”

“Oh, really,” I say, as if I know what he's talking about.

“Do you remember Elaine? You may have met her years ago,” he says.

“
I don
't think so,” I say, smiling eagerly.

“She's my dealer,” he says. “She's going to be back in a minute; you'll meet her. She just had a lunch.”

“Oh, okay,” I say.

“Do you want to have a cup of coffee in the office? You can leave your backpack here. No one will take it,” Allan says.

“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. I let my backpack slide off and drop it gently on the floor. The Leica is buried in there, wrapped in a sweatshirt for safety. I didn't want to wear it around my neck today because I didn't want to seem like I was trying too hard.

I follow Allan to the back of the gallery where there is a small room attached to the main space. Inside, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are lined with art books. More art books than I could have ever have dreamed of in one space. The beautiful gallery girl sits behind one of the
three sleek desks, typing on her computer. She ignores us as we walk past her.

Allan sits down at an adjacent desk. He pours us each a cup of coffee from the pot that's sitting there.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to another desk chair that's positioned sort of awkwardly between the two desks.

“So,” Allan says, looking at me across the desk. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and places it on the desk. He looks at me, and then immediately picks up his phone and flips it over so the screen is facedown. He's nervous. So am I.

“So, are you excited about the show?” I ask. My voice is about an octave higher than normal. I hate that the gallery girl is still sitting within earshot, even if she's pretending she can't hear us.

“I think so. We have a lot of work to do between now and Saturday,” he says.

“That's cool,” I say, for the millionth time.

“How's Johanna?” he asks.

“She's good,” I say.

“Is she dancing at all anymore?” he says.

“No,” I say.

“That's too bad. She was a really interesting dancer. Too intense for ballet,” he says. Then he sinks back into his chair and wipes his hands over his face. “Why am I telling you about Johanna? You know her.”

“No, it's okay, it's interesting,” I say. “I like hearing you talk about her.”

Allan looks at me, maybe surprised that I reassured him, and he smiles. He lets out a long, whistle of breath. It might
be the first time he's seemed even a little relaxed since I got here.

The landline rings and the gallery girl answers promptly. “Kaplan and White . . . Hi, Elaine . . . I'll tell him . . . Okay.”

She hangs up and turns to Allan. “Elaine is going to be here in five minutes and she's bringing the Shulmans.”

Allan stands up. “Okay, then. Sadie, I have to get ready for these people who are coming by. I'll walk you out.”

I sit for a moment, stunned that our visit is over so quickly. Blindly, I follow Allan away from the desk.

I pick up my backpack from the gallery floor and Allan walks me out.

“You've really grown up,” he says, when we're outside. For the first time, we are safely out of earshot of the lurking gallery girl.

“Thank you?”

“I can't wrap my mind around how much you've changed since I saw you last summer,” he says.

“You mean two summers ago,” I say.

Allan shakes his head. “No. I saw you last summer in LA. I took you and your mom out to lunch. I picked you up at her friend's house in Hancock Park.”

“Yeah, that was two years ago,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “That was the summer after ninth grade.”

Allan's phone beeps and he reads a text. Then he looks back up at me.

“I'm sure I saw you last year,” he says firmly.

“Oh, okay, maybe,” I say, forcing a smile.

“Anyway. Listen, sorry today was so short. I know Marla
would like to see you. Can you meet us for lunch tomorrow?” he asks.

“Um, yeah,” I say. “I have class, so it will have to be a late lunch. I'm taking advanced photography. I actually wanted to tell you about it.”

Allan's phone beeps again and this time he types a text. When he's done, he looks back at me. “So, tomorrow? Late lunch. I'll e-mail you later when Marla tells me what her schedule is.”

“Right. Okay. Great,” I say with a smile, trying to show just the right amount of enthusiasm.

—

I'm trembling as I walk back toward the C train. My nerves unwind slowly as I get farther away from the gallery.
That was good
, I tell myself over and over.
That went well.

—

That night, my mom drags her fabric samples out of the closet and places them on our couch. Whenever she has a little free time, my mom likes to daydream about reupholstering our couch. I kind of think she'll never do it, she just enjoys the project.

“I like the green one,” she purrs, taking a sip of her tea.

“I like the red one,” I say, playing along. I can't believe she doesn't know I saw Allan. I can't believe I'm really not going to tell her.

“You're right,” she says, frowning. “The red. I want the red.”

“You're crazy.” I smile.

I wonder if she and Allan ever spent time like this—just puttering around their apartment, talking about nothing.
It's strange to have almost no memories of my parents being together. Imagining them interacting is like imagining how a celebrity couple might behave when no one is watching. If I didn'
t exist, I don
't know if I'd even believe they were ever together.

—

Later, I climb into bed beside my mom. She has her ruby earrings on and gold bangles circling her wrists even now. My mom sleeps in jewelry; she wears it like tattoos.

I burrow into her side and she wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.

“Why did you and Allan break up?” I ask.

“Why are you thinking of that right now?” she asks.

“
I just am,
” I reply.

“You know why it ended,” she says.

“Tell me again.”

She sighs. “Fine. But the story hasn't changed. There's no secret about me and Allan: We were together, I got pregnant, and I was thrilled. I'd always wanted a baby and I didn't think I could have one. Getting pregnant was the best thing that ever happened to me. I didn't care that Allan and I were already kind of over. It didn't matter.”