I don’t know. Late probably. Love you xox
I wait a moment for a reply but none comes, so I slip the phone back in my bag and grab the box wine from the passenger seat. I know where the key is kept, and with a bit of luck it will still be there. There’s a code to get in downstairs which I have to look up in my notes on my phone. I punch in the numbers and the heavy door opens with a click. I take the elevator—one of those enormous cargo lifts—to Luis’s studio.
I find the spare key in its usual place, between two bricks where the mortar has crumbled away. It’s small and flat, round at the top, and looks completely wrong for the big metal door. It feels gritty in my hand, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. It catches in the lock and looks like it might not work after all, and suddenly I feel desperate to get in, to wait for him. I give it one more twist and it gets past the snaggy bit, and suddenly, I am in.
I haven’t been in Luis’s studio in months, but the smell is the same: a mix of turpentine and glue, or something like that. I flick the switch by the door and the fluorescent tubes flicker into life, and I gasp.
In the center of the room is a giant bird’s nest made of twigs and feathers and bits of hay, and suspended by cabling so thin as to be invisible. I run my fingertips over a small part of it and realize it’s not twigs and feathers but bits of recycled plastic made to look like them. Inside are two small, strange creatures emerging from their giant eggshells, their eyes pleading, and I have to look away.
Other than bits of materials on a trestle table, the place is surprisingly tidy. But Luis is always tidy. Very organized.
I take my box wine to the kitchenette at the far end of the room. It’s just a sink set into a white tiled bench, one cupboard hanging on the wall above, and a small one below. I put the box on the bench and reach up to get a glass, then notice two of them lying in the drying rack. Wine glasses, too. I don’t remember Luis’s studio being stocked up in wine glasses. I check the cupboards and find two pretty blue and white bowls, the kind you’d serve olives or nuts in. The chipped, mismatched china plates he used to use have been replaced by a set of six ceramic dishes, sand colored on the outside, and handmade by the looks of it. Next to them on the shelf sits a set of matching cups, shaped like goblets. What on earth is this stuff doing here? It sure doesn’t look like the kind of thing Luis would buy for himself. He doesn’t care what he drinks out of when he’s working. I search around for the battered old campfire mug with the Cleveland Browns logo on it that he’s always holding and spot it on top of a milk crate, along with empty pickle jars and old newspapers.
My skin feels clammy. It’s too stuffy in here. The windows in this studio are sealed shut except for the ones at the top. Luis has welded a hook to one end of a long steel rod to open and close them, and I find it leaning against the wall. I manage to hook it around the latch and tug a top pane open. A light breeze makes the long white feathers on the sculpture flutter.
I pick up a wine glass, admire its elegant design and pour myself a generous serve of wine just as the goods lift rattles into life outside. The knowledge he is here is like a warm wave of relief and I immediately pour the second glass for him, lean back against the counter, already smiling at the thought of surprising him. But after a few moments, the elevator clanks to a stop one floor above, followed by the sound of a door closing, then footsteps somewhere above my head, then nothing. I gulp the wine down and start on the second glass.
There’s a small round marble table next to the sofa, reminiscent of a Parisian café. On it is a fat candle in a saucer and a box of matches. I light the candle, the match almost burning down to my fingers, then turn off the harsh overhead lighting and sit on the sofa. The giant nest casts a strange shadow onto the wall opposite. I lean back and close my eyes, empty my mind. I pretend I am in a bubble where nothing can touch me, let the sounds of the city wash over me, and wait for Luis to return.
When I open my eyes again, I am shivering. My heart is beating too fast. I was dreaming of Alex and for a confused moment I thought he was here, too. I sit up, feeling groggy and disoriented. The candle has gone out and the room is dark except for the streetlight seeping in through the windows. I pad my way over to where I left my bag and scramble for my phone. No messages from Luis. And it’s 9:23 p.m. I try him one more time, but again am directed to his voicemail so I don’t bother leaving another message. I turn on the lights once more to tidy up. I’ve had three glasses of wine which probably put me over the limit, even though I’ve slept some of it off. I rinse the glasses and return them to the rack, wipe the tiled counter and pick up my box of wine.
Then I put the key back in its hiding place and go home.
The kids have left all the lights on, even though they’ve both gone to their rooms. I check in on Mateo first and find him at his desk, playing some kind of computer game, wearing a pair of headphones almost as big as his head. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Mom, please?” he whines.
“It’s almost ten o’clock…” But obviously he doesn’t hear me. I tug at the headphones and he pushes me away. I grab a pen and piece of paper and scribble, 15 minutes then bed! I put it on the desk right under his nose. He nods and grunts something that might have been “Okay.”
Carla is already asleep. She’s like me in that way. She goes to bed early and wakes up early. She has the blanket all the way up to her chin but when I kiss her cheek softly, she stirs.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Nothing. Go to sleep.”
I sit at the kitchen table waiting for Luis, my phone in front of me. I keep wondering, What’s the first thing that would happen if someone suspected I was there when Alex died? The cops would call me, surely. But there are no calls like that yet. No messages, no emails. I know, I’ve checked.
I pour myself another full glass of red wine even though it’s making my stomach lurch. Where the hell is Luis? Did something happen to him? And what the heck are those wine glasses doing there? I think about Mila, and Geoff, and work, and I drop my forehead on my forearms and start to cry because I am just so very, very tired.
Then Luis walks in. “What are you still doing up?” he says. I wipe my tears with the back of my hand and he comes to my side, pulls out a chair next to me. “What’s wrong, Anna? The kids—”
“The kids are fine. They’re in bed.”
He puts his arm around my shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
I lean against him, my head on his chest, feeling the cold of his leather jacket against my cheek. He must have ridden his bike. I tell him about Alex, I speak through snot and tears. I’ve had so much wine by now I’m crying drunk.
“You should have called me.”
“I did, I left a bunch of messages,” I wail.
He quickly pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m sorry. I forgot to turn it back on.”
“Where were you?”
“Oh, honey! At the studio! Did you forget? We talked about this, remember?” He brings me close again. “No, of course you don’t. No wonder, with everything that’s happened.”
My head is fuzzy with all the wine I’ve consumed. It’s sloshing inside me and I think I’m going to be sick. I should have eaten something, that’s my problem.