Where You End (21 page)

forty-five

Every house on my block has at least one light on. Upstairs or downstairs, people are wrapping up their day, stretching on their couches, checking the movie times, not doing the dishes yet. Most jack-o'-lanterns are still out, and the fake cotton webs are all sagging from last night's rain. My chest won't decide whether it feels light or heavy, but either way, I feel like something is pulling me home. I look back at the street, but their car is gone. Our mailbox is open, and when I reach inside, I find Eva's key. She didn't give me my camera either. It's too late to go after her, and I don't want to bother everybody right now. She knows where I am. I slip the key back in my pocket and make a mental note to put it somewhere safe when I get upstairs. I stop at the door and peek through my window before going in.

The Shabbat candles are lit on the dining room table and Mom, Dad, and Adam are sitting around a pile of pizza delivery boxes. Friday's come and gone, but the special olive plate is out and covered in plastic hot sauce containers. There's an extra place setting, for me. Their faces look softer in the light; Adam's napkin across his lap, Mom's rings, Dad's plate still clean. I blink my eyes like a lens, because I know everything changes. When my mother answers the door, I collapse in her arms, babbling between sobs that I'm sorry I'm late, that I should have lit the candles last Friday. My father and my friend wait patiently behind us, and Adam suggests maybe he should go home, but I tell him he doesn't have to, that I'm sorry about him too. My father tells us all to settle down and stop being sorry and eat some Shabbat pizza instead, and so we do, talking and laughing and ripping our hair out about how the hell does a sculpture just fall when you push it.

epilogue

To: Kathryn Lowell, Associate Curator,
Hirshhorn Museum

From: Miriam Ariel Feldman

Dear Se
ñ
or Picasso,

My name is Miriam Feldman, and I pushed your sculpture at the Hirshhorn. Perhaps you are wondering why anybody would do such a thing, but I think you of all people can understand, given that you married twice, had many mistresses, drove everybody crazy, and, in every portrait of you I have ever seen, you look like you never blink. As far as I can tell, you spent your life pushing things. Still, as my mother would say, that doesn't mean that's what I should be doing, and your sculpture certainly wasn't mine to break. Also, since you are now the most famous artist in history, your work has gotten really expensive, and one can't just go around knocking down expensive things every time one is mad.

Which brings me to the next part: why I did it. I have been thinking about this a lot, and it's hard to put it into words, so I thought I would use pictures. I chose five pictures for you because my school counselor (who you would probably want to sleep with) asked me for five, and I thought it was a good number. I hope all the pictures together will tell the story of what happened. It helped me understand. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I thought I owed you the truth, artist to artist, if I may.

When we get critiqued, our photo teacher makes us say no more than three words about our work, but we can't name anything that's in there. Here goes.

The first is about falling in love.

The second is about losing.

The third is about holding on.

The fourth is about the truth.

The fifth is about hope.

I welcome whatever you bring my way, be it a life-long curse or a flood of insults, and I am ready to face it with grace, humor, and quite a bit of strength. You see, Se
ñ
or Picasso, I know this may sound dramatic, but I think I was dying there for a while, or at least disappearing, and your sculpture changed everything. I am the one who pushed it, yes, but you are the one who made it. For that, you crazy bronze bender, I am forever grateful and at your service.

Yours, Miriam

Acknowledgments

Grazie mamma and papa
, who filled our house with books and photographs and taught me to keep my heart and mind open, especially when it's hard.

My
fratello
and
sorelle
, who are my favorite characters in real life.

My
nonni
, whose spirits nudged me along.

My friends, who get it, and share, and look for me when I hide.

There's not enough room for the number of times I'd like to thank Kate McKean, for her guidance, patience, perseverance, and sense of humor. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you, Brian, for taking Miriam on and helping me say what I mean, the ultimate goal (see Mr. Kite).

Thank you, Sandy, for aligning time, space, and language. Your work is priceless. And Mallory, for handing the book to the readers.

Thank you, Lanie and Dolores, who made it possible for me to sit and write.

A friend once told me a story about a girl who knocked over a Picasso on the National Mall. Thank you, Kerri, for giving me that seed. I've never met the girl, but thank you, wherever you are, for inspiring me with your moment.

My high school copy of Pablo Neruda's
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
(trans. W. S. Merwin)
came back for Eva while writing this book. I'm grateful I could experience his words again.

I am indebted to the following people who read the early, terrible, long-buried versions of this book, especially Meaghan, Erum, and Allison. I hope you like this one better. Also, Erika Mailman, who made me write an outline.

To Mr. Kite, who told me to
cut the crap
and
say what you mean
. Best advice ever.

To my students, whose courage and tenacity gave me zero excuses.

To my three beautiful children, who make and break my heart every day.

This book is dedicated to my husband, Benjamin, for all of it.

About the Author

Anna Pellicioli was born in Italy, the third of five children.
Since then, she has moved to seven different countries, in-cluding France, Nepal, and Russia. She graduated from Barnard College and taught high school English and Lit-
eracy before starting to write books. She now lives in Istanbul with her husband and three children. Her other loves include walking in the woods, swimming in the ocean, and reading picture books aloud.