“I think you dropped this.”
Amanda glanced up at the person speaking to her: a short, skinny man with black glasses. They were in the same sculpture class, which had just ended. Now she was hurrying to clean up her materials so she could see Ethan. But this guy stood in front of her, holding a piece of paper out to her.
“Thanks.” She took the paper, which maybe had fallen out of her pocket or book bag, and started walking away. A few steps out of the classroom, it hit her: her painting class assignment. She removed the paper from her pocket and, unraveling it, read: Portrait of a Mother.
Today was Wednesday. The assignment was to make a preliminary sketch of the master painting by tomorrow.
“Hey!” Ethan stood in front of her, grinning. “How’s it going?”
“Uh, pretty good, I guess. I just remembered that I have to do an assignment this afternoon.”
“The sketch for Michael’s class?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s the semester project, so it’s pretty important.”
“I’d tag along to the Met with you, but I just got called into work for the rest of the day. There’s a special project they want everyone working on. That reminds me … are you still planning on coming to the big NCP rally tomorrow? I’d love for you to join us. It’s the perfect introduction to the party. What do you say?”
“Besides Michael’s class in the morning, I should be free. So, yeah—I’ll come.”
“Great! See you then.”
They kissed and parted ways.
Amanda buried her hands deep into her jeans pockets, her right hand clenching the slip of paper, and then began her trek to the Met. It was a beautiful day in the city. The sun shone above the skyline, light filtering down to the pedestrians below. White, fluffy clouds dotted the autumn day, and the crispness of fall was in the air. A horse and carriage trotted past her—a telltale sign that she was close to Central Park. A couple, riding inside the carriage, laughed together. Central Park would always remind her of Ethan now. Maybe, as long as she kept him in mind, this assignment wouldn’t be so difficult.
The Met was a dominating building, the massive white structure easily noticeable. Its Romanesque style with tall columns was impressive. She reached the bottom step and looked up toward the entrance. Tourists milled around, taking pictures and reviewing their purchases from the gift shop. A small group of young adults passed her on the stairs, laughing and talking together. She, in contrast, had no one with her. Maybe she should have told Ethan about her mother. At least then she wouldn’t feel so alone.
Taking a breath, she marched up the stairs, forcing herself to pass through the front door. She tried to buoy her spirit as she wandered the hallways searching for her destination: “European Paintings, 1250-1800.” She saw a sign for the Modern and Contemporary Art section and imagined Leila’s gloating face. Amanda had to do this assignment and do it well. She rounded a bend past the Greek and Roman art. There, just ahead, was the sign pointing to her section.
A face passed her on the left, the image flickering ever so briefly in her peripheral vision. The sight, although brief, stopped her in her tracks. Stunned, she began weighing if her eyes had deceived her. Was it him? Or just someone who looked like him? He turned into the European Paintings exhibit and disappeared.
She could let it go; she was probably mistaken anyway. Yet a feeling gnawed at her—she had to know. Without another second’s debate, she plunged into the crowd, hoping to spot the stranger who, perhaps, wasn’t quite a stranger. She passed through the entrance to pursue her target, ignoring the world-renowned paintings on the walls. She was gaining on him …
“Sorry!” She collided with a school group, gathered in front of one of the Baroque paintings. She emerged from the ruckus, her objective that much farther away. Determined more than ever, she doubled her speed to just short of running. “Wait!”
He didn’t seem to hear her calling, but a family a few feet away turned and stared at her. Thankfully, the person she pursued had slowed and was looking at one of the exhibits.
She rushed upon him, his back to her. She grabbed his arm, simultaneously appalled at her own uncharacteristic forwardness even as she blurted out, “Hi!”
He turned around, and for a split second, it seemed like she had the wrong person. Nausea arose within her. Had she done all this, only to find out that she had mistaken him for someone else? Then he fully faced her and she was certain.
“I was right! It is you.” She smiled, relief wiping away any social conventions of introductions or explanations.
He looked at her, smiling back.
When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “I know you. I mean, we know each other. You probably think I’m crazy. … We’ve met before, right?”
“Yes, we do know each other.” His voice sounded familiar. It brought memories of home with it.
“Right. We went to Valor Academy together. We were in the same class. You helped me at our graduation—you rescued me. Do you remember?” If he were anything like her, the memory of their graduation was something he could never forget. Maybe the screams of those helpless victims haunted him too.
“Yes, I remember it perfectly. You were there with your father and sister.”
They began to stroll together through the exhibit.
“Exactly!” she said.
He looked the same as that May morning. His hair was combed across his forehead, not a strand out of place. His blue eyes were dazzling, so light in color that they appeared almost translucent. He even wore something similar to what he’d been wearing at graduation: brown khakis and a white dress shirt. No tie this time, however.
“This is amazing. I mean, I just caught you out of the corner of my eye.” She stared at him, still in disbelief. “When did you come to the city?”
“Very recently, actually. I’ve been here about two weeks now.” He was genteel in his manners, his voice soft and peaceful.
“Yeah, me too—pretty much the same.” She paused, studying him. “It’s strange … I know I’ve seen you lots of times at Valor. But I can’t remember what class we took together.” She laughed. “Do we even know each other’s names?”
“Well, you’re Amanda Burrow.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s impressive.” She scratched her head, trying to remember his name. Chris? Alex? “I’m not too good at names. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. We haven’t spoken in quite a while. I’m Morgan.”
“Oh yeah! Morgan. How did I forget that? Your name fits you.”
“Thank you! I like to think so as well. So what brings you to the city, Amanda?”
“I’m attending the Graduate Academy of Fine Art. It was always a dream of mine.” Her response came readily: talking to him felt as comfortable as pulling on an old pair of sweats.
“Art is your gift. I always enjoyed seeing your work at Valor. How are your classes?”
“They’re mostly good. My painting class has been challenging. That’s why I’m here. I was assigned a work of art in the Met that I’m supposed to replicate. I would have preferred any other painting besides this one.”
“I know the Met well. What painting are you assigned?”
“Portrait of a Mother.”
“That’s my favorite painting!”
“Really? Why?”
“If I tell you what the painting means to me, it will prevent you from seeing it with fresh eyes. You have to discover its beauty for yourself. Actually, we’re right beside it now. What do you think?”
They had indeed wandered to Portrait of a Mother. Amanda turned to gaze at it. The Florentine, naturalistic portrait of a mother and her child was much larger than she had anticipated. It was a landscape: above, the sky in gradient shades of blue—glowing colors made possible with oil painting; below, a flowering meadow; and encompassing the whole image, an early-dawn illumination. The mother was in the foreground, seated on the grass and facing the viewer. Her bright eyes stared forward, and her long forehead gave her a look of intelligence. Her golden hair was swept up and covered with a sheer veil, accentuated with tiny pearls along the edge. Pink hues softened her cheeks of fair skin. She wore a delicate blue brocade gown, embroidered with tiny gold filigree, which draped voluminously to her feet. The sleeves of the dress were slashed, revealing scarlet silk material underneath. On her lap sat her baby—a naked, plump boy. He had light curls on his round head, which he rested against his mother’s chest. He stared upward at her, wide eyes and thick eyelashes. A tiny hand extended toward his mother’s face, as though playfully trying to grasp her. His whole face seemed to smile with joy.
Amanda sunk down onto a nearby bench, facing the painting. That relationship between mother and child—it didn’t matter that this painting was done hundreds of years ago … the bond that existed between the two remained something timeless and unchanging. But it was a bond that had been broken for Amanda.
“You seem sad. Is everything alright?” Morgan sat beside her.
“I just … This is just a subject I don’t like to think about.”
“A mother and her child?”
“A mother.”
He was silent for a moment. “It evokes some strong feelings for you?”
“Yeah. Time doesn’t heal all wounds.”
“It is hardest when the hurt is very deep.” He was quiet for a moment. “Did something happen to your mother?”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.” His simple words rang with sincerity. “Did she pass away recently?”
“No. When I was twelve.”
“That’s young to have lost a parent. How did she die?”
She glanced sideways at him. She could share this with him, couldn’t she? There was a wonderful anonymity here, like a therapist perched behind a desk whose sole job was to listen. Morgan was safely distant. Nothing of great consequence hung in the space between him and her. Yet at the same time, it felt like they had somehow known each other for years.
She stared at the floor, and her words tumbled out. “It was my twelfth birthday, the day she died. I remember being so excited. I was going to have a huge party. I went down to the kitchen that morning to help my dad blow up the balloons, and my mom was there with my five-year-old sister, baking my birthday cake. Every year on my birthday, she made my favorite chocolate fudge cake.”
“Your mother sounds like a very caring person.”
“Yeah, she was. She was my best friend.”
“And then what happened?”
A lump rose in her throat. “My mom was mixing the icing, but she ran out of powdered sugar. She gave me a kiss on the top of my head and said, ‘Don’t worry, birthday girl. I’ll run to the store and be back in just a few minutes.’ I … I’ll never forget those words. It was the last thing she ever said to me.” She took a deep breath. “She got in a car accident. Some waste of life ran the red light and smashed into my mom’s sedan. She died right there, at the intersection.”
“You never got to say goodbye.”
Amanda shook her head. The words came more easily now; the hardest part was over. “After that morning, my life changed. I put away everything that reminded me of my mom—the perfume, dresses, pocketbooks. The memories were the hardest. I shoved them away, pretended they didn’t exist, repressed them. They just hurt too much. I never laughed or joked like I used to, so I didn’t really have close friends anymore. I hated special occasions. I still do. If it hadn’t been my birthday, my mom would still be alive, right? I brought everyone else down. Anger, loneliness, grief, pain—they became my new companions.”
“So studying this particular painting is painful for you?”
“How can I paint something … the one thing … I did everything possible to forget?” She turned away from the painting and faced Morgan. “I don’t expect you to tell me the answer. I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you.”
“It’s alright. Thank you for sharing it with me. I’m sorry you have walked through life with so much hurt in your heart. Maybe doing this sketch will be therapeutic for you.”
“If therapy means digging deeper into the wound, then, yeah, I guess.”
“Remembering doesn’t have to be a kind of curse.”
“My memories are all that I have left of my mom. Death is final. She’s gone. No happily ever after. These broken fragments of times past—they’re beggar’s scraps. Death has stolen her from me. Permanently.”
“Your mom would want you to be happy, Amanda.”
“And I would want her to be alive.”
“Consider this, though: perspective in art changes an image in its entirety, giving depth and space. The same is true in life. Maybe your perspective is too shortsighted.”
She folded her arms. “Perspective is an illusion, Morgan. It’s an art technique that fools the eye into believing that a three-dimensional world is present on a two-dimensional surface. Any perspective that tells me that my mom is somehow still alive, floating on a fluffy cloud surrounded by a choir of angels, is just a delusion.”
“All I mean is that remembering your mother shouldn’t bring pain and suffering exclusively. There is still sweetness in the bitter.”
“I guess that’s true.” She studied him—his placid face, the neatly pressed khakis, the calm and unhurried gestures of his hands. “It’s strange. I don’t know … there’s some uncanny feeling between us … I’m not certain how to explain it.”
“I understand what you mean. We could call it a connection of sorts.”
“Right. We have a connection.” She smiled at him through her sadness. “You know, I’m really not crazy. I don’t go around sharing these personal things with anyone who is willing to listen.”
“I never thought you were crazy. I find that it’s very easy to talk with you too.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re going to start telling me your deepest secrets now.”
“Well, everyone has secrets.”
“Why don’t you keep them to yourself, at least for now. I think I have all I can handle for today.” She opened her book bag and pulled out her sketchbook and a charcoal pencil. “I better get to work on my assignment.”
“Yes, I agree. Now you must come to know this mother—the one in the painting.”
She squinted, focusing on the shapes and movement. “That’s always the first step. Study your subject: shape, color, design, value.”
“It’s more than that, though. The greatest works of art all start with an emotional response, not an analytical one. If you’re going to paint someone, you have to go beyond his or her exterior: you have to find a way to illuminate the person within. If you are going to paint this mother, you have to try to understand her.”
“What, are you an artist yourself?” She drew a sweeping, curved line, approximating the length of the mother’s arm that cradled the baby. “You sure have enough recommendations to make it seem like you are.”
“No, not exactly.”
“What do you do?”
“Right now, I have some temporary work in the city. I don’t imagine I will be here too long, but things are always apt to change.”
They sat there together, and the hours passed. She blocked in all of the abstract shapes of the painting, carefully proportioning them in relation to each other. It was a simple start, but it was nevertheless an inchoate image of the painting before her. Over and over, through drawing lines, erasing them, and adjusting, she refined the block-in to make it ever more accurate. Renaissance artists often sought the secret geometric design in the natural world; now she was similarly seeking the geometric patterns in this work of art. She was dealing with simple shapes, but she would still have to make it more complex and realistic.
She glanced at her watch. Nearly five o’clock. Only fifteen minutes left until the Met closed. “I’m going to have to be done for today.” She frowned. Her sketch was far from being complete. “I can’t show up with this tomorrow. Maybe I could stop back at the Met again in the morning, before class, just to make a few more adjustments.”
“I come here often. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”
“Yeah, that would be nice. Bye, Morgan. Thank you for everything.”
“See you soon, Amanda!”
At the doorway, she glanced once more over her shoulder. He still sat on the bench, staring at Portrait of a Mother, a smile on his serene face.