Okay, well, she did have a point or two there. Even I could see that.
She wasn’t done. “I mean, all these people who assume I need a child to feel complete . . . doesn’t that say something about their marriages? Shouldn’t it be enough to be madly in love with your husband or wife? I get my fix of kids at work anyway. Not that I won’t be the most amazing aunt to Sullivan’s kid . . . and yours, in the future.”
I was silent. I could have tried explaining all the reasons children were essential and amazing, but unlike Kendra’s arguments, mine weren’t purely logical. Her point of view made sense. My desire was more than a feeling—I was certain that one of my purposes on earth was to be a mother. Not that I was going to let Kendra—or anyone else—know the depths of how badly I wanted that. I thought what Sullivan was doing—adopting on her own—was incredibly brave.
Kendra changed the subject. “So how’s school been for you?”
“There’s this one student I worry about . . . ,” I began.
Kendra rolled her eyes playfully. “Here comes Savior Dodie again. Always trying to help others, regardless of the cost to her wallet, reputation, or sanity.”
I put my hands on my hips in mock anger. We both laughed.
“Elmira Pelle needs my help,” I insisted.
Kendra knew me so well, even though I had only been in Chatsworth a few months. She and Sullivan had grown up there together, and we had become friends by proxy.
I owed a lot to Sullivan and couldn’t wait to offer my babysitting skills when she was ready for them. If it hadn’t been for her, I might still have been in New York trying to make it as an artist and failing instead of falling more and more in love with this town and the people in it. I also might have found art school a lot lonelier if not for her. There had been this weird sense of competition between a lot of the students, and Sullivan wasn’t having any of that. Her work happened to be some of the most captivating of anyone’s: these gorgeous photo-realistic paintings that captured the subject’s personality and mood so vividly you felt like you knew them.
I had gone up to her one day after our studio class. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Nice work, by the way.” She gestured to my canvas.
“Thanks,” I said, though my cheerful portrait seemed juvenile beside hers. “How do you listen so well with your eyes?”
Sullivan laughed, then—realizing I was serious—cocked her head at me. I fidgeted under the directness of her gaze.
“You are . . . quirky,” she said after a moment.
It may not have been the first time I’d been called that. But no one had actually called me out in such a straightforward way. “I don’t know if I would describe myself as quirky.”
“How many pairs of shoes do you have that aren’t brown or black?”
I started counting in my head. I was still tallying when she interrupted. “How many times have you brought homemade baked goods to parties? And have you been to Disney World more than three times as an adult . . . by choice?”
I grinned at her.
“Yep, okay, that’s what I thought,” she said.
“So now that we’ve established I’m quirky, are you going to share your secret with me?”
“There’s no secret. Whenever I can, I do a lot of talking with the subjects before we start. I guess I just look at what’s really there instead of what I want to see or what the subject wants me to see.”
“Oh,” I said, glancing back at the sketch in front of me. I had drawn the model as though she had starry eyes. It was kind of my signature. But now it felt like I was imposing something on her instead of capturing her.
Sullivan seemed to sense my disappointment in myself because she quickly said, “This is beautiful. I love the suggestion of light in her eyes.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, still unconvinced. Sullivan had made me look at things in a new way; it hadn’t occurred to me that I could see if the models would be willing to talk to me and that what they said could inform my portraits.
“Listen, there’s a group of us who get drinks every Friday night at the Shaggy Dog Pub around seven. Will you come this week?”
“I’d love to.”
We ended up staying out till midnight that night and many others. Finally, I was getting to know other students who were passionate about art—who fiercely debated about how to fix the issue of art programs being cut in public schools or whether performance art was pretentious or who the greatest Renaissance painter was.
After that Sullivan and I always set up our easels next to each other. Sometimes when class ended, we stayed to keep drawing or painting. I could still remember the intense resiny smell of the studio and the squish of the brush into a fresh dollop of paint. In those years, painting always felt like potential.
By senior year, the faculty members had started to commission Sullivan to paint family portraits and to recommend her to their friends. She mounted a few small shows with other artists and sold all her paintings.
“You’re going to make a go of this!” I said to her the day after one show over celebratory croissants.
“Do, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“You got a solo show in Chelsea, didn’t you?” A little flair of jealousy disappeared into my happiness for her.
“No. I’m moving back home.”
“Wait, what?”
She was making it in New York. That was so rare.
“I miss small-town life. I’ve had enough of the ninety-nine-cent slice for dinner and mysterious, deafening neighbor noises and seeing rats on the subway and feeling like one myself every time I have to go somewhere at rush hour.”
“Okay, that’s fair.” I couldn’t deny that I felt the same way, more and more often. “But you’re doing so well. Don’t you want to give it a few more months here?”
Sullivan was silent. Then she said, “There’s this house I’ve always loved. It’s a little Colonial with an amazing yard bordered by a creek, and I used to pass it on my way to school every day. It’s for sale, and I know I’ll kick myself if I don’t go for it. It’s exactly how I’d want to use the money I’ve earned here from my gallery shows.”
For the love of a house . . . I understood. I scanned the real estate pages every week even though I wasn’t in the market.
“What will you do there? Will you still paint and keep representation here for your work?”
“Yes and no. I’d like to make a go of it as a portrait painter in Chatsworth. My elementary school art teacher has been doing that for years as a side career, but she’s decided to give it up, which leaves an opening for me since she was pretty much the only game in town.”
It sounded so much smaller . . . but wonderful. “I’m going to miss you a ton, but I’m happy for you. It’s obvious it’s what you want.”
“Thanks, Do.” Sullivan hugged me. “And who knows? Maybe when you get sick of this place, I can convince you to move to Chatsworth too.”
Like pretty much everyone, I’d had my ups and downs with New York. But I couldn’t imagine actually leaving. I would definitely have to visit Sullivan and see the town’s charm for myself, though.