“So you like him?” I ask, topping up dad’s water glass and taking a sip myself.
“Oh, yes. An intelligent man.” Dad takes a thoughtful mouthful of wine. “I could see that at the exhibition the other week. He doesn’t say much, but that just goes to show how deeply he’s thinking about my work. Most people chatter, chatter, chatter, more interested in themselves and their gossip. It’s deplorable.”
He says this with a smile, and I know he doesn’t really mind it at all. Dad loves noisy rooms full of people at his events.
“Stian Blomqvist actually takes the time to listen,” dad tells us. “A rare quality in anyone.”
I can’t argue with that. Maybe it’s his stony gaze, but I never feel like I’m being judged by Mr. Blomqvist. He must have figured out by now that I’m not completely well, but I’ve never detected any wariness or unease from him when he’s been confronted by my unusual behaviors.
“Do you like him, Lacey?” mum asks.
Am I being paranoid, or do a detect more than casual interest in her question? I take a slow sip from dad’s water glass again, striving for nonchalance. “Oh, yes, he’s fine. He received an invitation to Malcolm Hesse’s exhibition the other day,” I say, changing the subject.
Dad’s eyes immediately sharpen. He and Hesse are great friends, but also great rivals. “Oh? And will Stian be going?”
“I don’t think so. The flyer didn’t seem to appeal to him.”
Dad roars with laughter and thumps the table with his fist. “Did I not say he was a man of taste and intelligence?”
The next day at lunchtime I contemplate Mr. Blomqvist’s bonsai. It’s wonderful to be able to focus on the leaves and delicate stems while I chew, even if it’s only in flashes. I eat the same things for lunch that I have for the last six months. I’m afraid of switching to new foods and what the voice will have to say about them. Any change I make in my life has to be done so, so carefully, in case I accidentally dislodge the lid and my old friend comes flying out, screaming in triumph.
I wonder what it’s like having everything you need to thrive, no more, no less. To have someone give that to you with two large, strong hands. From within her box, I hear the voice mutter darkly about small and perfect; that I’m neither and I never will be unless I do exactly what she says. With some effort, I’m able to push her cruelty away. Besides, that’s not the small and perfect I mean.
Little…at heart really. Joyful. Carefree. Like a child. Sometimes my therapist encourages me to do coloring in when I talk to her because it helps me focus. I told her it reminds me of being a kid, nine years old or so, and lying on my belly on the living room floor with my coloring-in book, watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. Doctor Loftin said that was good as I was remembering a time before I had an eating disorder. That’s a comforting way to put it because some days it feels like I’ve never not had it.
When Mr. Blomqvist comes back from the gym, I finish my lunch and then stand up to go, but he calls out to me.
“I have to go down to the vault. Have you got a moment to come with me? I want to show you something.”
He never talks to me at lunchtime, as if we’re both pretending I’m not here, so it takes me a moment to get over my surprise. “Oh—sure.”
The vaults are in the basement and they house all the artifacts that the museum owns which aren’t currently on display. It’s cool and silent when we step out of the elevator, and Mr. Blomqvist walks me through a series of rooms filled with neat shelves.
Going to a cabinet, he pulls open a large, flat drawer, and then steps back to show me the contents. I see a shield with three wings, the bronze green with age, with a grotesque Medusa head at the center.
I lean closer excitedly. “Oh, my goodness! Is that a gorgoneion?”
I’ve only ever seen photographs of these shields, and I didn’t realize how big they were, nearly a meter across.
“Yes. You mentioned your thesis topic, and I remembered we had this.” He hands me a pair of cotton gloves, and I realize I’m allowed to touch it. I put on the gloves, still studying the artifact. It’s nearly three thousand years old, and I carefully trace the thin edges of the wings and the ghastly Medusa face. I don’t dare do more, but that small contact is enough. I’ve felt it with my own hands.
Medusa’s expression is furious and frightening, but I gaze down at her, smiling. “She’s always been a favorite of mine.”