As if smiling is really my thing.
“Mention how your mother’s pieces, created on behalf of the government, influenced your own creations.”
So basically, lie.
“Tell him how you want to use your art the way she did—to celebrate our society and to do your part to keep the country safe and strong and prosperous.”
Finally something I can say without feeling like an impostor. “Okay.”
“And don’t gnaw on the ends of your hair.”
I drop the strands of damp hair from my mouth and put my hands back in my lap.
“Lay off,” Isaac says as he steers around a cab that is letting a passenger out. “You’re making her nuts, Rose.”
“Meri knows I’m just being helpful.”
“Meri knows you are pushy and is too nice to tell you that you sound like one of the spokespeople for Dad’s office.”
“I’m not that nice,” I say, even though Isaac’s right. Rose does sort of sound like the talking heads on one of the country’s two news channels. They all smile in a way that, in recent months, totally grates on my nerves.
“But I am trying to focus,” I admit. “That might be easier if I just have a little space to think.”
“See.” Isaac smiles at his rearview mirror. Rose sighs but is quiet for the next several blocks. We drive across the Chicago River, sparkling gray blue as it snakes through the city. Isaac honks to get the cars in front of him moving, and my stomach flips when I see Liberty Tower—the building where my mother used to work—come into view. A large screen shows the projects that the department housed inside has worked on throughout the year. It’s a reminder to everyone how far we have come since the days when Chicago was the most dangerous city in the country.
Isaac maneuvers the car to the curb in front of the rust-colored stone building that Mom told me was one of the most historic in the city—built after the Great Chicago Fire on the site of the old City Hall.
“Good luck,” Isaac says as he brings the car to a stop. “Call us when you are ready to be picked up.”
Rose frowns. “But—”
“She can handle this part alone,” Isaac cuts off his sister. “Right, Meri?”
I nod, hoping he’s right. Rose shouts good luck to me and reminds me again about my hair as I walk down the sidewalk toward the arching stone entryway and gold doors that shine in the late-afternoon sun. Other than the required billboard-sized screen above the front doors, the outside of the building is stately and beautiful in its construction. But it is the lobby that once again takes my breath away. White marble columns and walls all etched with gold greet me. I clutch my tablet tight to my chest as I walk under the words “THE ROOKERY” toward a security official ensconced in a white-and-gold marble nook.
I give him my name and nervously wait as he calls up to the head of the City Art Program to see if I am expected.
“Mr. Beschloss will be leaving soon, but he says I can let you up.” He pushes out of his chair with a wince.
“You don’t have to get up,” I say. “I know where the elevator is. My mother used to work here.”
He shakes his head and ambles down the hallway. “Mr. Beschloss is on the eighth floor.” When the gold elevator door opens, he holds up a red-and-white identification badge marked “CSS,” then waves it in front of a small black scanner. “The elevator won’t take you to that floor without this. He’s in suite 802. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I look toward the atrium that Mom loved, before stepping onto the elevator. A week after she died, the guard on duty felt sorry for me and let me sit in the atrium, staring at the glass ceiling and the sweeping staircases. The building was known for them. The City Pride Department took over the building mainly because of the historically beautifully architecture. The head of the department claimed it was only fitting the group be housed in a place designed to inspire.
The elevator dings, and I exit. Unlike the floor where my mother worked, whose halls were filled with murals of their previous projects and displays of working models of redesigned buildings, the eighth floor is stark. It has bare white walls and metal-gray floors. Aside from the whoosh of the elevator doors behind me, everything is dead quiet.
The few times I came to the office with Mom, there was always the hum of conversation or music playing from someone’s speakers, giving the place a sense of life. There are no voices behind the closed steel doors on this floor. It feels sterile. Vacant. Unwelcoming.
Clutching my tablet tight to my chest, I take three slow steps down the hall, then stop in front of a door marked “ARCHIVES.” It has a black scanner box next to the handle of the door, similar to the one the guard operated in order for me to get to this floor. The high security was another difference from Mom’s level.
“Merriel Beckley?”
I jump and spin at the sound of my name. A red-haired man with a fussy-looking goatee stands in the middle of the hall. He is wearing a dark blue suit with black shoes that shine as if they were bought at the store today. A door that was closed just moments before now stands open not far from him.
“You are Merriel Beckley?”
I swallow hard and nod.
“It is good to meet you. I’m Victor Beschloss. Marcus Webster explained to me your interest in the City Art Program. I’m glad you found the time to come by. It must be hard to be back in the building where your mother worked.”
I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I’ve never been to this floor before. It’s . . . quiet.”
Mr. Beschloss smiles. “The offices on this floor are utilitarian by nature. We’re not the creative types up here.” His smile fades. “Your mother was very talented and very . . . driven.”
Driven. It isn’t the first word I would have associated with my mother, but I suppose that trait would be important to the people on this floor.
He sighs and turns toward the open door. “I’m sorry to say I don’t have much time. So if you would please follow me . . .”
My footsteps echo in the hallway as I trail behind him into an office lined with windows on the far side. There are large tablet screens on each of the other walls—all displaying one of the two news channels with the volume muted. There is also a dark gray couch that runs along the wall next to the door. In front of it is a glass coffee table. If the decorator wanted to make this office look as intimidating as possible, he definitely succeeded.
“Have a seat.” Mr. Beschloss steps behind the wide black desk that takes up the middle of the office and gestures toward the two high-backed silver chairs across from him. “So Marcus Webster informed me of your interest in the City Art Program and pursuing a career as a national artist. He said the trauma of your mother’s death derailed your ability to focus on your application, but that you are still passionate about your work and your future.”
He hits a button on the console of his desk, and the screens on the walls turn on. Drawings—my drawings—the projects Rose must have given to her father—suddenly surround me on three sides. One is a color portrait I did of Rose—her smile open and warm, but her eyes narrowed with the steely resolve I admire. Another is of Navy Pier with the Ferris wheel, the ride I went on at least a dozen times with my parents, soaring above the boardwalk, surrounded by the glistening lake that the country worked so hard to make fresh and clean again.