And it had not only been a beautiful failure, that lead me to share more of myself with Nick. He understood my choices, and I think believed them to be more right than I do. Even approving of my decision to try to take the winery from my mother, and unbidden, that thought has my mind trying to skip over Nick and go back to that night when my mother died. It is not a gentle memory and I reject it, throwing off the blanket, and sitting up, swinging my legs to the floor, feet settling on the ground. I really need my feet on the ground, but it’s not enough to keep the past at bay.
I’m there, living it, my fingers curling on the edge of Nick’s mattress, my eyes shutting as I return to the winery and that brutal night. I’d just finished being humiliated by a bill collector in front of several staff members. Furious, I’d sought out my mother, and found her in her gardens on her knees, fussing over the ground around a cluster of some sort of white flowers. And the past is so vivid right now that I can almost smell the flowers, bitter and sweet in the same inhaled breath.
“Where is the money, Mother?” I demand.
Of course, she knows what I’m talking about but choses to play dumb, glancing up at me and saying, “What are we talking about, dear?” which only serves to infuriate me more.
“Where is all the money we’re making?”
She pushes to her feet, pulling off her gloves, her hands settling on her slender blue jean-clad hips. “You need to go back to L.A. and let Macom take care of you, because you clearly cannot handle the pressure here. And this is my winery anyway.”
“It will be mine one day and I’ll inherit the debt and problems you’re creating.”
“Oh, so that’s it?” she demands. “This is all about protecting your money. Wouldn’t your father be proud? You finally give a damn about the winery and it’s about money.”
“I have no choice but to care about the debts I will inherit.”
“Like I said,” she bites out. “Go back to your rich artist boyfriend and let him take care of you. This is my world, not yours. I bet your father turned over in his grave when you sued me.”
“He’s in his grave because you fucked my uncle and everyone else that would have you.”
She laughs. “You didn’t even know your father,” she says. “He liked watching me with other men.”
“He did not,” I spit back. “He did not.”
“He did,” she insists, turning away from me and she seems to take a step forward before she falls face first into all of those dozens of white flowers.
My thoughts shift at that point to the place they always go after that memory: The funeral, and as expected, the grave site, and the final goodbye. There are rows of filled seats surrounding me, people lined up beside and behind me while rain splatters down atop a sea of umbrellas. Appropriate actually, since my mother loved the rain. It also saves me when I didn’t save her, because no one knows that I’m not crying. But I know. I know so many things I don’t want anyone else to know. Like the fact that as the preacher speaks, I’m wondering how many of the random men here that I don’t know slept with my mother. And how many did my father know, too? Did he like to watch? God. Is that why he tolerated her?
I shiver, wishing I had a jacket, my thin black dress doing little to offer me shelter. There just isn’t shelter I can find anywhere. My grip tightens on the umbrella I’m holding, which someone gave me. I don’t know who. I don’t even remember how it got into my hand. I just keep remembering the moments before my mother had died. The speech and time ticks on for what feels like an eternity, while time has now ended for my mother and my father. I’m alone in this world, and as the rain begins to fall with a fierceness rarely rivaled, the crowd scatters, a few people try to speak to me, but soon, I am alone here now, too.
Everyone is gone, and I walk to the casket and just stare at it. I go back to then, to those moments in time, reliving the fight with my mother, the moment she’d tumbled forward. My knees are weak and so is my arm and I can’t seem to hold onto it. I don’t want to hold it anymore so I don’t. I just can’t. I drop to the ground and let the force of the rain hit me, my black dress instantly wet, my hair…
“Faith.”
At the sound of my name I turn and Josh stands there. “Josh? How are you here?”
“I wanted to be here for you.”
“Where’s Macom?”
“I’m sorry, Faith. He’s not coming.”
“Good,” I say, “I told him not to come. I don’t want him here.” And knowing how he operates all too well, I add, “Being my agent doesn’t require that you do funeral duty. I don’t like that kind of plastic friendship and I don’t want it in my life or career.”
“Faith—”
“Go home, Josh,” I say and needing to escape the obligatory sympathy from him and everyone else, I start to run toward my car.
My cellphone rings, jerking me back to the present, and I grab it to ironically discover Macom’s number on caller ID, feeling as if I’ve willed a ghost of my past into the present. I hit decline, noting this as his third call and I really want to block the number. I’m about to do just that when my cell rings in my hand and this time it’s Josh’s number. I answer immediately, “Why is my agent calling me on a Sunday?”
“To tell you not to answer Macom’s call.”
“You’re a little late since he’s called three times.”
“Holy hell. Please tell me he didn’t get in your head about the L.A. Forum show.”
“I didn’t talk to him,” I say, well aware of why he is concerned, since Macom pretty much declared my work an embarrassment the last time I wanted to submit. To protect me, of course. “And even if I had, I’m in the show.”
“And I’d prefer you get there feeling confident.”
“Why exactly is Macom calling me?”
“To give you advice you don’t need.”
My mind goes back two years, to me standing in my workspace, in the home I’d shared with Macom, while I’d proudly revealed new paintings. Certain that my work on the three pieces would finally capture the L.A. Forum’s attention.
“Stunning,” Josh had said, motioning to a Sonoma mountain shot I’d so loved. “This one,” he’d said. “It’s one of your best yet.”
“Absolutely not,” Macom had said, shoving his hand through his spiky dark brown hair before motioning to the three paintings. “These are not what they’re looking for. None of them. You’ll look like a fool.”
The words had been like knives in my heart, and I’d instantly doubted myself, questioning why I was even picking up a paintbrush any longer.
“I respectfully disagree,” Josh had argued, daring to go against his moneymaker Macom.
Macom’s gray eyes had flashed. “Who is the star of that show for the second year running? Not my fucking agent, I’ll tell you that. I’ll help Faith pick her submission.”
“Faith?”
At the sound of Josh’s voice, I snap back to the present. “He doesn’t get to shove me back down a rabbit hole, Josh,” I say vehemently. “I’m not that girl anymore. I was never that girl. I was simply lost in Macom’s translation.”
“Yet you let him choose your show submissions over and over, and you received a rejection in response over and over.”
I think back to every rejection I’d gotten and Macom’s replayed response: It doesn’t matter, baby. Paint for you, not them. I pay the bills. You don’t need them. You have me. Like I didn’t need my own success because I had his.
“That man shuts you down,” Josh adds. “You didn’t paint after you left him. Not until a few days ago.”