Palm trees welcome me with gentle waves as we drive by. Warm air flows in through the windows. Sylvie hums softly to herself. émile points out things as we pass: the old fort, the Promenade des Anglais, rows of blue umbrellas on the beach. As if I haven’t seen them before. And every so often, he repeats a number to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “Two and a half million,” he says, with a funny expression. That’s how much someone paid for Marguerite’s portrait at an auction. Mrs. Thackeray is still haggling with the art museum over the Gauguin. It’s supposed to be worth even more.
émile and Sylvie smile at each other often. I guess the money Mrs. Thackeray got from selling Marguerite’s painting made her feel generous about the apartments and she didn’t adjust anyone’s rent. She also didn’t hand everything over to her son. He’d have a hard time taking care of it all from prison, anyway. Mrs. T. confided in Sylvie, who confided in me. Apparently her son has anger management issues. Thomas had served some time in England for assault but was on parole. He missed checking in with his “offender manager” while he was busy looking for lost jewels and bullying me. So, he’s back behind bars in England. Jolly good.
Well, the best news of all is that the building is going co-op. After having lived there for so long, Sylvie and émile will only have to pay a few more years before they own their apartment and the shop.
The studio behind the shop is in disarray. Workers are pounding hammers, painting and even installing a bathroom, complete with a special tub that has a door on the side. Everything is for Ansel. “We can all paint together,” Sylvie says with a twinkling smile.
Soon I’m back in my borrowed bedroom. My bedroom. The hole in the wall is sealed. The door is painted shut. Ansel’s ocean is angry and dark, but I notice for the first time that there’s a glimmer up high near the ceiling, where painted stars peek out from behind the gloom. A bare patch catches my attention. I wonder if Ansel ever planned to fill it in. I hope he won’t mind if I do.
I form the Milky Way in miniature high up on the wall with tiny gold and white dots of paint. Finished, I lie down on the bed to admire my work. It’s not bad. Maybe I do have an artist’s eyes. At least I have my own, unique way of seeing the world. I trace the lines on my palm and remember the day, not long ago, when I broke the bottle and cut myself. In my mind, the sparkling grains of sand swirl like a glittering galaxy on my skin.
Tomorrow I go to a new school in a foreign country where they speak a different language. I can’t even speak my own language that well. I told Mom I was sure this was what I wanted, but . . . is it, really?
My insides quiver. I squeeze my eyes shut and hug myself to keep from shaking. I hate what it’s like when I meet new people. I hate the confused looks. I hate the mockery. And most of all I hate the pity. But Marguerite didn’t let any of that stop her. Google told me.
I smile at my galaxy. Marguerite acted all her life; until her death at the age of ninety-three. She moved to America and kept working. She was even in one of the first “talkies,” or movies with sound. I watched it on YouTube.
Nothing stopped her. I won’t let anything stop me.
And I finally understand something. Maybe what matters the most isn’t how I say anything. What truly matters is what I say.
The painted galaxy glitters above me. Fat Cat purrs at my feet.
I’m still scared. Maybe I always will be, at least a little, but I won’t back down. I can bring it. After all, I once held a tiny piece of the universe in the palm of my hand.