Chapter 38: With Hope

“That was interesting.” I say, buckling my seatbelt. I’m still shivering from the walk from the Planet. The sun is bright but it does little to counter the chilly day.

“Yeah, interesting.” Shane chuckles softly.

She is looking behind her, head turned around to check behind us, as if she doesn’t quite trust the rearview mirror in the new Jeep. Her eyes are alert, bright, clear; a warm soft gray in this light. A small smile on her lips. I watch her, drinking in the sight of her. She clears the car behind us, backing out.

It’s like slow motion as she catches me watching her. Something in her eyes flashes and we connect, and there is something live and electric between us.

She kisses me, fluid like quicksilver, lips soft and warm. Bliss. Want to touch her, run my fingers through her messy hair, so soft, tangled on my fingertips, and her tongue is slipping, flickering against my mouth-

Someone behind us honks. She pulls away as if burned, and wipes her lips with a grin. I grin as she carefully pulls out into traffic.

We’re quiet for a while. “I don’t think Dana and Tonya are gonna last long,” she says.

“I hope not. Tonya's an ass munch.”

“Poor Dane.”

“Yeah.” I watch her hands as she smoothly clicks on her turn signal while merging into a left turning lane. Long fingers, spare and simple. I burn just from looking at her. I have to look away.

“You okay?” she asks as we come to a stop at the red light.

I look at her. How can I not be okay, when she looks at me with that warmth, that softness in her eyes?

I just smile. No need for words.

.

Later we are inside, the gallery smell of floor polish and paint is faint, the light of halogen and sunshine bright. I reach for Shane’s hand and she gladly twines her fingers in mine. We fit, and her lanky ambling works in tandem with my own smooth gait.

The first piece is a painting, mixed media, mostly black and white text dashed with different colors of red. It has a startling dimension to it and I cock my head sideways, realizing that it is deep, and that there are several layers of plexiglass, paint and black text.

“That is so cool,” Shane says.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Conflagration. Plexiglass, newsprint, oil paint,” she reads.

“That is so neat. I love the depth.”

“Yeah.”

We keep walking. The title of the exhibit is “Recovery and the Uncovered”. I look down at the program as we walk among the sculptures and installations. “All of these artists are mentally ill,” I say.

“What?” She says, so quickly that it’s odd. She looks somewhat startled. In this light her eyes are green.

I read: “‘Recovery’ Is an exhibit of American artists, all of whom have a diagnosis of serious mental illness. Organized by activist and schizophrenia sufferer Merle Johnston, the exhibit has traveled around the world, and the California Arts Center is proud to host it. Proceeds go to programs helping the mentally ill.”

“Oh,” she says, rubbing her arm with her free hand. Looks away and scratches her head. Something is wrong here. Our step remains unbroken, slow and almost leisurely, but I sense that there was a giant disconnect with her.

We step into the next room and find Jenny, Robin, and Alice. Dana and Tonya have apparently opted out of this particular gathering. We greet the others and stand together chatting.

I glance at Shane. She’s quiet, a stock smile on her face, and something is different in her carriage, something only I can see. There is a practiced quality to her stance, as if she were a stranger doing their best impression of Shane’s slouch.

Then, before she can notice that I noticed, I glance away.

We scatter and flow through the rest of the exhibit, I lose track of Shane but when I come back to the beginning I see her staring at a painting.

“Hottie?” I ask, quietly. Gingerly. She looks at me and I see pain in those beautiful eyes. She puts her arm around me, wordless. Not for closeness but to stop me from looking at her. I don’t need to look to know that she’s still staring at the painting.

It’s disturbing. It’s gray, all shades of gray and taupe, a man leaning against a wall in a straitjacket. His eyes are closed. He seems spent, docile. The restraint seems redundant. The light is warm and even, almost soothing. It confuses me.

“You wanna get out of here?” I ask her. Flying by instinct.

“Yeah.” Her eyes flicker to me, and I squeeze her hand.

We pass the girls in the lobby, talking to Bette. She greets us, glancing at the place where our fingers tangle together. “Hello,” she says. “So glad you could make it, ladies.”

“It’s a great exhibit, Bette,” I say. I hope that if I say it heartily enough Shane won’t feel the need to say anything else.

“I’m so honored to curate it. These artists are people who would have been locked up in institutions thirty years ago.” she says. Beside me, I can feel Shane becoming very still.

“We’re gonna get going, guys, I don’t feel so well,” I say. Shane turns to look at me.

We’re in the jeep, driving back to my place, when she speaks. She’s staring straight ahead, fingers hard on the wheel.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re not feeling well?”

“I feel fine, honey.” I watch the shop windows pass by, already decked out for Christmas though it isn’t even Thanksgiving.

“Then why’d you say you didn’t?”

“Because I thought you wanted to leave. Was I wrong?”

She meets my eyes, that unfathomable look, and I know that I’ve hit some sort of truth. But she doesn’t answer.

As she drives more and the silence grows I start to become anxious, afraid I’ve fucked up somehow. I hope that she isn’t planning on dropping me off. I hope that because I need to hold her, touch her, feel the naked length of her body against my own. Still, she’s quiet.

“My mom’s schizophrenic.”

I turn to stare at her, and for a second I get the sense that she is a wax statue, that she never spoke at all. She doesn’t move a muscle. Then the light turns green, and she drives through the intersection.

“Oh.” That explains a lot. Her inability to talk about her past. I sit there for a long time, staring at the Nevada license plate of the car in front of us. What to say? “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Yeah,” she says, and I don’t have to look to know how hard her face is.

“When did you see her last?” I ask delicately.

“I was four.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand, then let go. Four. “Wow.” I try to picture a four year old Shane, and can’t. So little.

Silence. No words. I wait.

“So, that’s why you didn’t grow up with her?”

“Yeah.”

I want to touch her, but something in me screams not to dare.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I dunno.”

“Okay.” She is quiet for blocks. Palm trees whir by, houses and sidewalks.

“You wanna come over?” I ask, hoping it’s my least intrusive voice.

“Sure.”

I nod, wordless. I’m frustrated that this gives me so much relief. Sometimes it’s hard to navigate her.

I remain quiet for a minute, trying so hard to imagine a four year old Shane. Try to imagine her strong features softened by childhood. Was she beautiful, the way she is now? Or did that only come with age and grace?

“Have you considered trying to contact her again?” I ask quietly, looking at my hand resting on my knee.

“Every day.”

The simple way she says it takes my breath away. The words resonate with so many things that I am shocked at the emotions in them. And here I thought all this time that she was a lone wolf, with no ties to anyone from her childhood, pushing memories away for her own sanity. And all this time, she’s thought every day about her mother.

What does she think when she thinks of a reunion? Does she fantasize about a loving, stable woman? Does she fear the possible insanity? Does she even let herself think about it?

Just before she turns onto my street, she speaks again. “I only met her once. She came to my dad’s funeral. She frightened me. She smelled. She had glitter eyeshadow and she was so scary beautiful.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“She was in state hospitals, from before I was even born. My dad raised me, and the whole time she was in... this state hospital. She could still be in the hospital, locked up. I don’t even know.”

“I’m sorry.”

She turns into my driveway. We get out of the car and she follows me inside. But she doesn’t come into the house. She stands there, close to the door.

“Why don’t you fucking say something?”

Her tone is suddenly angry, acidic. Shocked, I look up at her. There is only hurting in her eyes. Drop my purse on the table.

“Because I don’t know if you want me to.” I say quietly, moving toward her. I put my arms around her. I can feel the cold of the outdoors on her jacket, feel the harsh lines of her body in fear and anger. I move my hands up underneath, feeling the warmth radiating from her skin. She can’t quite look at me. She looks down, and all I see is dark eyeliner around her eyes.

“I’m so sorry you had such a painful childhood. It breaks my heart that you didn’t have your mom. The idea of you all alone as a child... I love you, honey.”

She shrugs me off like an unwanted touch. “I was born in the Billings State Hospital. Mental hospital. What does that say about me?”

And then I get it. Her fear. The things she muttered when she was feverish. I’m sure she mentioned Billings. Montana?

What does that say about her? She’s my sweet, perfect Shane, scarred but intact. “Nothing. It says nothing.” She looks at me, eyes wary as if she’s not quite sure she believes me.

“At least,” I say, carefully spreading my fingers over her shoulder blades, “that’s what I think. What do you think it means?”

I breathe in her pause, the scent of detergent on her shirt. Her skin below the open collar.

“Let’s go to bed,” she says.

“Sure. It’s cold here.”

So I follow her up the stairs to my bedroom, I watch as she shrugs out of the jacket, the shirt, her nipples pebbled, even though it’s warm in here. A column of sunlight has warmed the bed. I strip and from opposite sides we slip in, move to each other. I’m not quite sure what she wants, whether it’s sex or to be held, or to talk. I pull her close, so that she’s laying on my shoulder. My hands warm. I run one up her side, and she relaxes into me.

“I keep... waiting for it to happen to me. The waiting itself drives me crazy.”

“You keep waiting for what?”

“To lose my mind, the way she lost hers. Wondering if I’ll start hearing voices that aren’t there.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

“Why not?” Bitterness is in her voice.

“Because it usually hits earlier. And I think if it was gonna happen, it would have happened when you were young and getting high every day.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it usually starts.” I stroke her hair back, so gentle, with the back of my hand. “You’re too old now.”

“They say it’s hereditary.”

“Partially. And you’re your dad’s daughter too, right?”

“Yeah.”

A beat. She seems tense, bones held tight. I keep stroking her, unchanged.

“What was he like?”

“I dunno. I tried to forget him.”

“Why? Did he hurt you?” I feel myself tense, force myself to breathe deep.

“No. No, he loved me.” She blinks twice fast, and I see tears there. Relief, oh, god, he loved her, thank god. I cup her face, hold the sacred arc of her jaw, her mouth, her being. Beautiful.

“How could he not?” I say, unable to keep from saying it.

She just looks at me in complex gratitude, strokes my cheek. Kisses me. I let her drink reassurance from my lips; I open wide to give it to her. I think of going back in time and being her mother. Sustaining her, loving her. But all I can give is in the now. I give it without restraint, with tears not quite shed. With hope, with love.