It would be too much for anyone.
I turned my gaze away. I had to pull myself together. I knew I was off the rails, hurtling toward disaster. I’d taken a leave of absence from the hospital, claiming I needed to manage Albert’s estate. But really, I couldn’t focus on anything else. Albert’s puzzle felt like my puzzle. It was the only thing I wanted to think about.
I forced myself out of the room and into the hall, only to spin around and go back before I had walked even ten steps away.
The afternoon light pouring in showed the dust on everything other than the desk I had cleaned before placing the sculpture there. I could fix that, tidy the room. It would give me an excuse to stay.
The dust wipes were by the door. I could pick them up. Do the job.
But I sat on the cold sofa instead, my gaze riveted on the woman. Albert had never told me about the statue. We’d reviewed the contents of the studio, and he had told me the names of his assistant and a couple students who might have works in there, so I’d always assumed this sculpture was someone else’s. Only Corabelle had made the connection.
It was too late to ask him now. Last week, I tried again to locate the assistant, Carly something-or-other. After a tussle with the college campus, I had finally gotten a cell phone number. She clearly didn’t want to talk to me, though, as she never called back, and I had quit trying after the third call rolled straight to her voice mail.
I wasn’t mad at her. If I’d seen Albert on the floor in front of a blood-spattered canvas, I’d have probably freaked out too. I didn’t blame her for posting that he was dead when he wasn’t.
But maybe there was more to it. Maybe she’d stolen something or embezzled money. I’d probably uncover something later.
I didn’t care about that. I wanted information. I wanted to know more. But she wasn’t giving me the chance to ask.
My fingers ached and I realized I’d been clutching the sofa cushion with an iron grip. I let go. Calm down, Tina.
I left the room again, this time forcing myself back to the studio. I had cleaned up another section, although my heart wasn’t in the effort. I wanted to preserve the way it had been, how it had looked when Albert was last there. I took endless pictures, documenting and cataloging. I knew his will called for this space being offered to young artists. I knew I could run a program myself or I could pay someone. It was all specified in the estate documents.
But I wasn’t ready. This was Albert’s place. Where he worked. Where he lived and almost died.
I wanted it for myself.
I’d left my bag and my phone on a stool and felt a pang of guilt at the half-dozen text messages that had come through while I brooded in the study.
Corabelle. Jenny. Darion. My important people. Checking in. Worrying. I typed something merry sounding to Jenny, let Corabelle know I was working, and told Darion I’d be home before his shift was over.
Then I circled the room again, trailing my hand along the easels, straightening small things. This always calmed me.
I sat on a stool in front of a blank canvas. I tried to imagine what would go on it. My image of me and Peanut on the cliff was still incomplete, but I no longer felt the urge to work on it.
I wanted to spatter paint on the pristine white, red and black and silver. I realized those were the colors a long-ago ex-boyfriend had always worked in and felt horror. He was the father of Peanut, who’d ditched me after the baby died. I hated that my mind was turning to that.
Each loss was every loss.
I fed people that line back in the days when I did the suicide-talk circuit. Every time something bad happened, you revisited all your bad things. This was the cycle that led you down a path to despair. Your view of life became one of those optical illusions where you could see two faces or a vase, but now you could see only the one that scared you more. It wouldn’t even occur to you to try to refocus, to see anything else.
I turned away from the blank canvas. I should get out of here, carry on, hire someone to do this work. It was dragging me down, killing me.
But instead, I picked up the outrageous key ring to try again to match up locks with keys. An entire section of cabinets was still inaccessible, and it took patience and perseverance to try each key in each lock and document which was which.
This last section was too high to reach without help. I dragged a step stool over. I pushed aside the keys that had been identified and started with the ones that hadn’t opened anything yet. Sixteen in all, and after several painstaking minutes, none of them fit the large wide cabinet I was going for.