But two things happened to change all that. First, Maggie’s Cancer Videos lured new people to the gallery. Not the usual seasoned contemporary art or photography enthusiasts, but tourists from places like Tennessee and Ohio, people who’d begun to follow Maggie on Instagram and YouTube because they felt a connection to her. Some of them had become actual fans of her photography, but a lot of them simply wanted to meet her or buy one of her signed prints as a keepsake. The phone began to ring off the hook with orders from random locations around the country, and additional orders poured in through the website. It was all Maggie and Luanne could do to keep up, and last year, they’d made the decision to keep the gallery open through the holidays because the crowds kept coming. Then Maggie learned she’d soon have to begin chemotherapy, which meant she wouldn’t be able to help at the gallery for months. It was clear that they needed to hire an additional employee, and when Maggie broached the subject with Trinity, he agreed on the spot. As fate would have it, the following day, a young man named Mark Price walked into the gallery and asked to speak with her, an event that at the time struck her as almost too good to be true.
* * *
Mark Price was a recent college graduate who could have passed for a high schooler. Maggie initially assumed he was another “cancer groupie,” but she was only partially correct. He admitted he had become familiar with her work through her popular online presence—he was especially fond of her videos, he volunteered—but he’d also come in with a résumé. He explained that he was looking for employment and the idea of working in the art world strongly appealed to him. Art and photography, he’d added, allowed for the communication of new ideas, often in ways that words did not.
Despite her misgivings about hiring a fan, Maggie sat down with him the same day, and it became clear that he’d done his homework. He knew a great deal about Trinity and his work; he mentioned a specific installation that was currently on display at MoMA and another at the New School, drawing comparisons to some of Robert Rauschenberg’s later work in a knowledgeable but unpretentious way. Though it didn’t surprise her, he also had a deep and impressive familiarity with her own body of work. And yet, though he’d answered all her questions satisfactorily, she remained a little uneasy; she couldn’t quite figure out whether he was serious about his desire to work in a gallery, or just another person who wanted to witness her own tragedy up close.
As their meeting drew to a close, she told him that they weren’t currently interviewing—though technically true, it was only a matter of time—to which he responded by asking politely whether she would nonetheless be willing to receive his résumé. It was, she thought in retrospect, the way he’d phrased his request that charmed her. “Would you nonetheless be willing to receive my résumé?” It struck her as old-fashioned and courtly and she couldn’t help smiling as she held out her hand for the document.
Later that same week, Maggie had uploaded a job posting to some art-related industry sites and called several contacts at other galleries, letting them know she was hiring. Résumés and inquiries flooded the inbox and Luanne met with six candidates while Maggie, either nauseated or vomiting from her first infusion, recuperated at home. Only one candidate made it past the first interview, but when she didn’t show up for the second, she was scratched as well. Frustrated, Luanne visited Maggie at home to update her. Maggie hadn’t left her apartment in days and was lying on the couch, sipping the fruit-and-ice-cream smoothie Luanne had brought with her, one of the few things Maggie could still force down.
“It’s hard to believe we can’t find anyone qualified to work in the gallery.” Maggie shook her head.
“They have no experience and don’t know anything about art,” Luanne huffed.
Neither did you, Maggie could have pointed out, but she remained silent, fully aware that Luanne had turned out to be a treasure as both a friend and an employee, the luckiest of breaks. Warm and unflappable, Luanne had long ago ceased being a mere colleague.
“I trust your judgment, Luanne. We’ll just start over.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t anyone else in the pool worth meeting?” Luanne’s tone was plaintive.
For whatever reason, Maggie’s mind flashed to Mark Price, inquiring ever so politely whether she would be willing to receive his résumé.
“You’re smiling,” Luanne said.
“No, I’m not.”
“I know a smile when I see one. What were you just thinking about?”
Maggie took another sip of the smoothie, buying time, until finally deciding to come out with it. “A young man came in before we listed the position,” she admitted, before proceeding to describe the meeting. “I’m still not sure about him,” she concluded, “but his résumé is probably somewhere on my desk in the office.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s even available at this point.”
When Luanne probed the origins of Mark’s interest in the job, she frowned. Luanne understood the makeup of the gallery crowds better than anyone and recognized that people who’d seen Maggie’s videos often viewed her as their confidante, someone who would both empathize and sympathize. They frequently longed to share their own stories, the suffering they had endured, and the losses. And as much as Maggie wanted to offer them comfort, it was often too much to support them emotionally when she felt like she was barely holding it together herself. Luanne did her best to shield her from the more aggressive contact seekers.
“Let me review his résumé and I’ll speak with him,” she said. “After that, we’ll take it one step at a time.”
Luanne contacted Mark the following week. Their first conversation led to two more formal interviews, including one with Trinity. When she later spoke with Maggie, her praise for Mark was effusive, but Maggie insisted on meeting with him again, just to be certain. It took four more days before she had the energy to make it to the gallery. Mark Price was on time, dressed in a suit and holding a slim binder as he stepped into her office. She felt sick as a dog as she studied his résumé, noting that he was from Elkhart, Indiana, and when she saw his graduation date from Northwestern, she did a quick mental calculation.
“You’re twenty-two years old?”
“Yes.”
With his neatly parted hair, blue eyes, and baby face, he looked like a well-groomed teenager, ready for the prom. “And you majored in theology?”
“I did,” he said.
“Why theology?”
“My father is a pastor,” he said. “Eventually I want to get a master’s in divinity as well. To follow in his footsteps.”
As soon as he said it, she realized it didn’t surprise her in the slightest. “Then why the interest in art if you intend to go into the ministry?”
He brought his fingertips together, as though wanting to choose his words with care. “I’ve always believed that art and faith have much in common. Both allow people to explore the subtlety of their own emotions and to find their own answers as to what the art represents to them. Your work and Trinity’s always make me think, and more importantly, they make me feel in ways that often lead to a sense of wonder. Just like faith.”