She reached the end of the show. Her inevitable disappointment overcame her like a warm murkiness, a thickness to the air. Everything slowed. She looked at the last picture. A distorted landscape of a country road beneath a vast swirling sky, a pair of children holding hands—were they siblings?—faces blurry, unclear. Two Children on a Road, it was called, painted in 1942.
She knew how Soutine’s story ended. By 1942, the painter was living in the French countryside, moving from village to village, trying to avoid detection by the Gestapo. He suffered from ulcers. A particularly ugly bout left him writhing in pain, bleeding. His girlfriend urged him to return to Paris to see a doctor. They took a circuitous route to evade officials. The trip took more than twenty-four hours. By the time Soutine arrived, his condition was dire. He died on the operating table.
Rose’s breath felt shallow, not at all sufficient for her body. She shouldn’t be here. There was nothing to find. Why did she ever think otherwise?
She hurried back through the exhibit, past a black-and-white photograph of Soutine himself, smoking, taken in profile, handsomer than his self-portraits would suggest.
Then she saw another portrait that she had somehow missed; she slowed down. The painting was of a woman, an elegant, sharp-eyed woman, her dark hair cut in a fashionable bob. She wore a sumptuous red dress, and a fur cloaked her shoulders. The woman’s legs were stylishly crossed at her ankles, her fingers lightly touching in her lap. There was a wryness to her gaze that made Rose think she was tolerating the painter, humoring him. She had better places to be. Portrait of Madame Castaing, the card said; she was a patron of Soutine’s. Rose had seen reproductions of it before. But now, seeing it in person, Rose’s skin went icy. There was something in that knowing gaze that Rose recognized. She couldn’t shake the thought: it reminded her of her mother.
A great swell of nausea overtook her. Rose hurried out of the museum into the bright California light. She blinked and took in the fresh air, but she felt a bilious heave, a sour, metallic taste curdling in her mouth. She leaned into a nearby bush and vomited what little food was in her body.
“Love, you all right?” She heard a woman with a thick Scottish accent behind her.
“Yes, thank you.” She tried to sound convincing. Rose thought of the Scottish woman who used to man the tea counter near her apartment in Belsize, and this reminder of England brought her to the brink of tears. She wiped her mouth on the cotton sleeve of her dress, trying to rid herself of that awful metallic taste.
“Oh, dearie, you most certainly are not.” The woman handed Rose a handkerchief, produced a cup of water from who knew where. It tasted deliciously cool and sweet.
“I’m fine,” Rose said, “I’m fine.” And this little kindness from a stranger made it so.
Rose was on the couch when Thomas came home that night. “How you feeling?”
“Okay,” she said. Thomas studied her. “Not great,” she allowed.
“Poor thing.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “Still the stomach?”
She nodded. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“I’m going to put the kettle on; want some?” She shook her head. Speaking made her feel more nauseated. “Where’s the boy?” Thomas asked.
“Out.”
“May I ask you a question? Has he actually been on any auditions?” He said it lightly, but Rose knew where it was leading.
“I have no idea,” she said with considerable effort. She had little interest in monitoring her nephew’s whereabouts when she was feeling her best, and absolutely none now.
“I never realized how low the ceilings in our apartment were until he moved in. How long did we say he could stay?”
“A month,” she said. “And it’s been two weeks. Please don’t start.” They had the extra room. Harry went to the grocery store for her, he took the bus down to the mechanic’s on East Vernon the other day to pick up her car without complaining. She liked having her nephew around. How much of an imposition was he on Thomas?
“I’m not starting.” He sat at the edge of the couch, played with the crocheted throw at her feet. “What can I get you? Maybe a scramble? Have you eaten anything all day?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want anything.” The nausea, which had retreated, had snuck back with force. She despaired that she might remain on the edge of vomiting for a good while. When she called in sick, the school secretary had told her that three girls were out with the stomach flu.
“It’s not good for you not to eat,” Thomas said.
“I know. In a bit.”
“If you feel this rotten tomorrow, you should see the doctor.”
“It comes and it goes. There’s a virus going around at school. There’s no need.”
“So he’ll confirm it. You always put it off, going to the doctor; then you go, and you feel better.”
The thought of going to the doctor made her feel worse. “I was feeling better earlier,” she decided to say. “I went to the County.”
“Museum? When you were feeling this ill?”
“I was feeling better then. There was an exhibit.” She paused, looking up at the ceiling. “A Soutine exhibit.” She pulled the blanket off, swung her legs over, sat up. It took significant effort. She walked to the sink, slowly.
“I’m confused. An exhibit of his paintings opened? How did you know?”
“I saw something. In the paper.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”
“I know.” She filled a glass. Tepid water. Maybe that would calm the upset. She shook her head, took a sip. “The Bellhop wasn’t there. Of course.”
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said with a hand to her shoulder. Gingerly she walked off, made her way back to the couch, water in hand. It made him nervous when she spoke about the Soutine. Thomas knew that the missing painting, and all it represented, made her unhappy, and he knew he couldn’t fix it. Rose understood that he wished more than anything that he could, but he couldn’t. It was Thomas’s frustration that he couldn’t make her feel better, Rose had long decided, that wedged between them, and not her past itself.
She reached the couch. She felt as if she were moving through sludge.
Thomas came over. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she said to the ceiling. “I am not. I feel awful. On many levels.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It must have been disappointing.”
“It was. And it was strange. Awful and strange.”
“I wish I could have been there with you.”
“I know, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t say that. It does matter—to me, at least. And I hope to you.”
She nodded, took his hand. She held it, felt the rise of his knuckles, bone, the pulsating warmth of his skin.
“You do things on your own,” Thomas said. “But then you’re upset that you’re on your own.”
“I know,” she said, feeling worse than before. “But not today. Please. No lecturing, not now.” She stood, uncertain.
“What?” Thomas said.
“I have to—” She pushed past him, nausea overtaking her.