Chapter 20

ROONEY

Mom and I left three hours early for the art show, and we arrived minutes before it started. This city is too much sometimes. We’re among hundreds of others waiting for Arlo Hart to make his appearance. The son of a famous photographer, Arlo is a twenty-year-old aerial photographer whose work goes for five figures and hangs on the walls of celebrities’ homes. People love sharing on social media that they own one of Arlo Hart’s pieces.

Mom and I stand shoulder to shoulder on Santa Monica Beach, a beautiful location for a show of this size. The warm October air hasn’t gotten the memo that fall is here. In front of us, a helicopter makes lazy circles over the ocean.

“Quite the showman, isn’t he?” Mom asks. “Has the ocean always been this loud?” Waves crash down in front of us, leaving a reflective seismogram of foam as the water pulls away from land.

“This is what nature sounds like. You’ve gotten too used to sirens and honking,” I say.

“At this point, that’s white noise. This is a different beast entirely.”

“The noise is relaxing. It’s supposed to be good for your brain,” I inform her. “You know people pay hard-earned money to have machines that make this sound for them.”

“I’ll take the sound of a screeching subway any day,” she says.

“Spoken like a true New Yorker.” Another wave rolls in, folding in on itself before splashing down on the sand.

Bobbing on the surface of the ocean are thousands of flowers in full bloom. The stems have been trimmed and weighted down so the head of the flowers face up toward the sky, where Arlo will be ready with his camera to get the perfect shots during golden hour. The flowers are guided to shore on the bubbling waves and quickly pulled back out to sea when the water retreats. A rope floats fifty feet from shore so they don’t float out too far.

Apparently, Arlo purposely chose this beach and time because of its incredible sunsets. Minus the traffic, the West Coast may be starting to grow on me, especially when there are pastel blues and oranges coloring the sky like an oil painting. Or a nebula.

As soon as I make this interstellar connection, my phone dings with a text message from Jack. Attached to it is a photo of a thin, wispy cloud that looks like string. I respond with my own photo of the nebula-esque sunset. I go back to my photo gallery and sneak a look at the photo of Jack at the butterfly exhibit. He’s relaxed, caught in the moment in his navy shirt with an orange butterfly on the neckline. Catching him mid-laugh was like photographing an erratic butterfly, rare and magical. I keep my phone in my hand, as though Jack were here with me. He’s just a text away.

I startle at the crowd’s “oohs” and “ahs” as the door to the helicopter slides open. Everyone angles their head up to catch a glimpse of the artist at work.

Arlo’s show begins with him taking photos of the flowers from the sky while nature creates its arrangement. As he does this, his voice booms out of speakers strategically placed around the beach. It sounds prerecorded, the sounds of the helicopter absent.

“Every year, an estimated eight million metric tons of plastic are dumped into the ocean,” Arlo’s voice says. “There are three thousand six hundred and twenty-nine flowers in front of you. Each flower represents two thousand two hundred and five pounds. Now take a look at the flowers on the table.”

Set up in the sand is a folding table with vases containing the same flowers from the water. I lift one from a large round bowl and hold its weight in my hands, only to learn that they’re not actually flowers. This one’s a sunflower made of plastic. Its petals are shiny from what must have been chip bags, the center a navy blue spiky rubber ball cut through the middle.

Arlo’s voice continues, “What you see in front of you doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what’s out there right now, floating around sea creatures who also call this planet home. Every flower you see was made from plastic found this past year alone. If we don’t take action today, right now, this number will increase. These flowers are for you to take home with you as a reminder.”

“Well, this is depressing,” Mom says, picking up a bundle of purple Mardi Gras beads shaped to look like a lilac.

“I think it’s compelling,” I say. “Without seeing this physical representation, big numbers like that are hard to visualize. People will remember seeing this.”

Mom snorts. “They’ll remember, but it won’t stop them from using a straw with their iced pumpkin spice oat milk lattes.”

I sigh. “You’re still going to buy a photo, aren’t you?”

“He’s my friend’s son. Of course I am,” Mom says with a shrug.

I lift a rose made of the remains of red plastic cups and have an idea for Fate Test 6. I ask the volunteer for a permanent marker and write my phone number on one of the petals.

For proof, I snap a picture and send it to Jack with the message, If I put it up to my ear will I hear the sound of ping pong balls splashing into ale?

Jack responds within seconds. A rose by any other name would smell just like beer.

I mix the plastic rose back into the flowers and leave it for someone to grab. Fate can take it from here. I’ve officially completed Red String Theory. The moment doesn’t feel as grand as I had hoped. No epiphanies come to me. Maybe my muse is stuck in traffic.

I feel no different until Mom asks how the fundraising is going. Now I feel anxious again.

“My pieces are hardly selling,” I admit. “I had higher expectations.”

Mom knowingly raises her eyebrows. “The higher the expectation, the lower you feel when reality doesn’t align.”

I kick at the sand with my sandal. “With half of the NASA payment, a few recently sold commissions, and what little savings I have, I’m sitting at, like, sixteen thousand dollars. That’s not even half of what I’ll probably need for the auction.”

“Have galleries or museums been in touch? Having the NASA name behind you should help. I can make some calls.”

“No, thank you,” I say a little too quickly. “I appreciate your offer, but I want to do this on my own.”

“Roo, there’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

I reach for a daisy made of pull tabs and beverage caps to keep my hands busy. “I don’t want a handout or someone to pretend to like my work because you called in a favor. If—when—I can make money as a working artist, I want to know it was because of my talent and not because people agreed since you’re my mom. Because of who you are, if I accept even just one phone call, that will stay with me for my entire career.” I pull at the plastic flower petals one by one until the whole thing falls apart in my hands. “You have confidence because you know your success is because of you.”

“It’s because I went big. I took risks. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn’t,” Mom says, adjusting part of my bangs that are sticking straight up from the wind. “You can play it safe or go after what you want. These days it’s harder to stand out. You have to get yourself noticed.”

I make a face. “That’s what I’m trying to do with my large installations.”

“Even if you do everything completely on your own, there will be people who think you got to where you are because of your name,” Mom says. “They might even think that’s how you got your current gig, even though we know that’s not true.”

I move the deconstructed daisy parts from one hand to the other. “But to be fair, I wouldn’t have ever been in the position to do Entangled without my previous experiences, going to art school, or being exposed to art and traveling with you. I had time to create, to even think that I could do art as a career. I am privileged. I’ll never deny that.”

“That’s important to recognize. I worked hard and made connections for myself, but also for you. If you won’t accept that, then I hope you’ll hear my advice,” Mom says as she looks out in the distance. “I don’t regret my work. Everything I’ve done had its time and place.”

“It paid off for you.”

“It doesn’t for everyone.” Mom turns back to me. “You know, when you pulled that paintbrush as a baby, the first emotion I felt wasn’t excitement or pride. I felt dread,” she divulges. “Not because I didn’t want you to be an artist or that I didn’t think you would be one of a kind, but because this industry can be unrelenting, especially for women. Ageism is real. Sexism is real. Our work is still valued less than men’s, touring is stimulating but exhausting, and it can be hard to be away from home for long periods of time.”

I let her words wash over me as I process them. “Really? Do you still feel dread?”

She frowns. “Mostly no. Slowly, over time, I saw how interested you actually were in art. How hard you worked to be good. It was then I felt hope, like you were really going to make a difference and do things your way. Part of me worried you were only ever interested in art because of me.”

“Maybe it was a combination of fate, you, and me. Fate was the seed, you helped me grow, and now I’m keeping that interest alive,” I say.

“You’re much more self-aware than I was at your age,” she reveals. “You sure you still don’t want to go half and half on the auction?”

I shake my head. “If you give me money to take care of my problems, that defeats the entire point of me being in control of my own career. Besides, the last thing you should be doing is spending money on something you don’t even want.”

Mom twirls the fake lilac in her palm. “It’s a waste for either of us to spend money on Baby Being Born. The video has literally been out there for as long as you’ve been alive.”

“For a long time, Baby Being Born defined me, and I would love for it not to also define my future. And right now it’s in private hands, but who knows who will buy it. And you know what that means.”

“That my work will increase in value,” Mom says bluntly. “Maybe I should come out of retirement.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Let’s be honest. You never retired.”

Mom shrugs. “Inspiration did strike recently. I’ll probably never be able to stop.”

“I know,” I say, nudging her. “And thanks, but taking your money doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m not going to press it. I can’t force you to do anything,” Mom finally says.

The helicopter flies lower to the water, the waves below rippling outward. An extra-long rope is thrown from the side as Arlo leans out of the helicopter, a shadowy silhouette against the setting sun. The audience gasps as Arlo dives headfirst into the ocean. He grabs the end of the rope floating on the surface and ties it to something clipped to one of the yellow buoys dotting the surface of the water. He effortlessly swims the thirty feet or so back to shore and emerges from the waves.

“The ocean renews us, and we have a responsibility to renew it from us,” Arlo says, ending the show with a parting statement. He signals something in the air, and the rope tightens, moving back up toward the helicopter. As the rotorcraft flies higher, the plastic flowers are pulled from the ocean, lifting higher and higher in the sky until every last one dangles in an upside-down bouquet held together by string. “Leave no trace. The fate of the ocean is in your hands. And yours. And yes, yours,” he continues, going one by one through the crowd until he reaches me and Mom.

“Is it in ours, too?” Mom asks, looking at her hands.

Arlo laughs and runs his hands back through his wet hair. “You both made it.”

“Congratulations on a thought-provoking show,” Mom says. “The photos came out nicely?”

Arlo breathes in. “Oh, yes. Mother Nature was good to me today. The moon created just enough pull,” he says, closing his palms together and shaking them toward the purple sky in gratitude.

“You put on quite the show,” I say as he rings out ocean water from his T-shirt.

He extends both of his arms out. “Art is entertainment,” he says.

“There’s no doubt you made an impression,” I say, nodding toward a group waiting to talk to him and take photos. “Was that wax rope?”

Arlo nods, and water drips from his hair down his face. “Exactly. Gathering up all of the plastic like that is what helped convince the city to even let me do the show here. It took so long to get permits and approvals.”

I swallow down this information. If I want to do something public, it will take months to do it. I don’t have that kind of time. I unknowingly ball my hands into fists, the aluminum “petals” digging into my palms.

Arlo clasps his hands together. “I have to meet and greet, but it means a lot that you two are here.” He makes his first stop at the group, who immediately turn their phones around for selfies.

Mom and I walk down the beach, away from the crowd. “Is that type of show what you mean when you say go big?” I ask.

“It makes a statement, and it’s memorable,” she says.

And Arlo doesn’t have to be anonymous to do it. He’s out there with his first and last name, taking photos with people, talking to them about the bigger themes of his work. My types of conversations with people are one-sided. I release an artist statement and tell them what the inspiration was. There’s never a dialogue.

“How has working with Jack been?” Mom asks.

“He’s been a great partner throughout all of this,” I say. “Very inspirational.”

“You two are getting along?” Mom says with a hint of reserve in her voice.

I smile at the thought of Jack. “I’d say so.”

Mom looks preoccupied with a thought. “I’ll say this once, then I’ll leave it alone, but be careful, Roo,” she says. “Don’t let him cloud your judgment.”

“What do you mean? My judgment isn’t clouded,” I tell her. “We’re getting to know each other.”

“You have a trip together next week, right?” Mom says skeptically.

“We do,” I say slowly, wondering where she’s going with this. “More suit-ups.”

“Roo, when you’re there, do one thing for me? Remember that you work with the man. You’re a professional. So is he. You live three thousand miles away from each other. At the end of the day, it comes down to one thing: don’t sleep with people you work with.”

I give her a look. “Are you saying this because of what happened with you and JR?”

“That is exactly why I’m saying this,” she says. “When it comes to people you work with, don’t have relationships with them, don’t marry them, and definitely don’t sleep with them.”

“What else? Don’t have kids with them?” I joke.

“Certainly don’t have kids with them. But you’re a treasure,” Mom says with a smirk before she pats me on the back.

“Gee, thanks,” I say with a roll of my eyes. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her in against me, knowing she despises affection.

“I mean it though, Roo, protect your heart,” Mom says, her face growing serious.

“You’re always telling me to stop being so careful in work. Why doesn’t that apply to love? Wasn’t it you who said that I have to test the strength of my string? Why the change of heart?”

When I look into her dark brown eyes, I can tell there’s more to the story of her and JR. My eyebrows lift in surprise.

“You—you loved him,” I say, stunned by this realization. “I can’t believe it.”

“Ah, love. I was forty-one. I was young,” she says.

“Wait. Did you think he was the man on the other end of your red string?” I ask.

Mom starts to say something but then stops herself. “I misread the signs. Our professional proximity confused me. I was wrong. I know you don’t want what JR and I had. I don’t want that for you, either. You’re looking for real love, for your stringmate, but don’t let proximity confuse you, too.”

So she had loved him. All this time I thought their relationship had been platonic until the night they got together, but it wasn’t like that for her. She thought JR was The One.

“Let’s say when you one day do have feelings for someone and you see the signs, then what?” Mom asks.

Exactly. Then what? It’s the question I’ve wondered for a long time.

Then she speaks my feelings out loud. “Do you think you’ll scare the person away?”

I look at her surprised. “Yes. How did you—oh.”

She returns my expression. “Oh what?”

“I’ll be careful,” I tell her. “When you start to be less careful.”

The wind whips our hair around our faces. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.

I cross my arms around my body as the temperature drops with the sun. The pink sky plays off the teal water, a giant mirror reflecting the particles in the atmosphere.

“I just mean, it’s never too late for love.”

For a moment, I think I glimpse disappointment in her expression, but she quickly brushes it off. Even in a moment that allows for vulnerability, Mom’s attitude remains unchanged, her beliefs an armor from more heartbreak.

“Wǒ ài nǐ. I’ve been practicing my rarely used language,” she says, thinking for a moment. “Maybe too rare.”

“The tones sound good. And I love you, too. Maybe you also need to go big,” I continue before hearing what I’ve said out loud. I groan. “I did not mean it like that!”

Mom waves me off. “I think I’ve reached the end of my string.”

I dig my heels deeper into the sand, thinking of all the supernovas required to create this beach. “Do you think you’ll scare someone off because of the Red Thread of Fate or because of, well, you?”

Mom grunts. “Both.”

A wave rushes higher up the beach, cutting off our path. We take it as a sign that we’ve gone far enough and make a U-turn back to where we started.

“The thread will never break,” I remind her. “Maybe yours has just been tangled for a while. Likely used for inappropriate things and stretched out a bit. Maybe it will be for a little longer, but it’s still there.”

She sighs. “If you say so.”

I reach around Mom’s shoulders to hug her. “It’s not up to me.”