“With your mother?”
“No. She probably wouldn’t want to go with me.” I tried talking to her about this particular artist a few weeks ago, when I first heard about the showing, but she wasn’t interested.
She’s rarely interested in anything I do lately.
His voice turns stern. “I don’t want you going alone.”
“Why not? I’ve gone to showings around there before. I’m familiar with the area.” It’s in Tribeca, and not in a terrible neighborhood or anything, but for my father, every neighborhood is bad when it comes to me.
“Never by yourself. I’ll arrange for a car for you. You just call the office tomorrow whenever you’re ready to be picked up and they’ll come get you.”
“Daddy. I can just take an Uber—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Absolutely not. You’ll use my car service.” By the tone of his voice, I know he won’t allow me to do anything else.
“All right.” My voice is soft, and I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I was brave enough to tell him I’ll do whatever I want.
But I don’t. I never do.
“Is your mother home?” he asks.
“No. She’s having dinner with friends.”
He makes a harumphing noise. “Friends. I’m sure. Well, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon. I get in around two.”
“Wait a minute, you’re not even here?”
“I’m in Florida. I’ll be back tomorrow.” A lilting, feminine voice says something in the background, and I can hear my father muffle the phone, so he can speak to her. “I’ve got to go, Wren. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
He ends the call before I can respond.
I toss the phone onto the couch and tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling. At the elaborate and very expensive light fixture that shines above my head. Everything in this house is expensive. Some items are even priceless.
It’s like I can’t touch any of it. Too scared I might break something that’s irreplaceable. Art. Objects. Things are more important to my mother, my father.
Me? Their daughter? Sometimes I wonder if I matter. If I’ve become nothing but another object they like to show off.
A piece of art that still needs plenty of molding.
I push myself off the couch and wander through the house. Down the hall, past the giant paintings that hang on the walls. The ones with the lights shining upon them, illuminating them perfectly so everyone on the street can see them as they walk past. Those who appreciate fine art would die to enter this house. To catch even a brief glimpse of the paintings and sculptures and pieces that fill our apartment.
I don’t even see them anymore. They’re meaningless.
Like me.
I lock myself away in my room and try to examine it with a critical eye. There’s no color. My mother did that on purpose, so it wouldn’t clash with any of the art she might choose to show in here. Because yes, even my bedroom is a potential showcase for her art. The piece my father bought me last year for my birthday hangs on the wall. It’s a canvas with lipstick prints, though not nearly as many as the coveted piece I truly want, along with vibrantly colored already chewed gum stuck on it in random spots. It’s kind of gross.
I had to pretend I loved it when he gave it to me.
Turning away from the piece, I stare at the white duvet cover on my bed. The black and steel gray pillows stacked against the silver metal headboard. The white furniture. The black and white photos on the walls, all of them from a different time. When I was younger and had real friends. Before we all changed and grew up and grew apart.
Now we talk on Instagram via comments and the occasional DM. They’ve all moved while I feel stuck.
I catch my gaze in the reflection of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall and I go to it, staring at myself. I changed into jeans and a black sweatshirt before I left campus, and if my mother saw me right now, she’d say I looked sloppy.
Maybe I do. But at least I’m comfortable.
I tear off the sweatshirt first, my gaze dropping to my breasts and I can’t help but frown. I hate the way they strain against my plain white cotton T-shirt. My mother is constantly on me to go on a diet, but I don’t think it’s going to help. In the end, I’ll still have my breasts, which are nothing like hers. She’s flat. Her body is almost boyish, and she works hard to keep it that way.