Noelle August - Boomerang

“That was in . . . It was . . .” She bends a little toward Mia and whispers, “What was the name of the place?”

“Selma,” Mia offers gently. “Selma, Alabama.”

Nana nods, and I can tell she’s disappointed with herself for not remembering. Then I see her make an effort to smile.

“Stan looks so young there. Doesn’t he, Mia?” She looks past us, into the room. “Where is Stan? Isn’t he coming to dinner?”

Aw, no. Mia told me her grandfather passed away when she was a kid.

“He can’t come tonight,” Mia says, squeezing her grandma’s hand. “But we’re going to have a great night anyway.”

“What on earth could be so important that he can’t come to dinner?”

“Nana, he’s . . .” Mia bites her bottom lip. “Grandpa is . . .”

Watching this is brutal. What do you say? Your husband died years ago? How many times does this woman have to relive the death of the man she still loves? How many times does Mia need to watch her go through that?

“I’m sorry he can’t be here,” I say, needing to help somehow, “but it’s a lucky thing for me. See, I came here dateless, and I’m hoping you’ll agree to join me, Evie.” I stand and extend my hand to her. “Will you come to dinner with me tonight?”

Nana’s smile returns. “Yes,” she says, taking my hand. “Thank you, Ethan. I will. But don’t try anything. Stan gets jealous easily.”

“I’ll try to behave myself.”

I loop her arm into mine and offer my free hand to Mia, who takes it.

As we leave the room, Mia lets go and I feel her arm come around me. She presses close, squeezing my ribs. “Thank you,” she whispers.

And just like that, my night is made.

In the dining room, Adam and Mia’s father sit at the table, deep in conversation. Adam swirls a glass of red wine absently as he listens. I’m a little envious of the attention Mr. Galliano is getting until I notice the sparrow perched on the back of one of the other chairs.

An actual real live bird.

It ruffles its feathers and does that quick head-tilt thing birds do, looking like it’s just as surprised to see me.

“We leave the patio doors open a lot,” Mia explains. She let go of my hand somewhere along the hallway, which sucked, but Adam’s here. “Baudelaire sort of adopted our family.”

“You have a sparrow named Baudelaire for a pet?” I ask, helping Nana into a chair. “How have you not mentioned this to me yet?”

“Shhh,” Mia says. “He’s very sensitive about that word.”

“What word?”

“Pet. He finds it demeaning.”

“Sorry, Baudelaire.”

“He forgives you.”

“Great.”

I know we’re both just making words. Prolonging this small moment where we’re close and focused on each other. I can see her every eyelash. Her lipstick is peach, like her dress, and if I were to bend forward just a little, I could kiss her.

Mia licks her lips and a jolt shoots through me. We’re thinking the same thing right now.

“What’s for dinner?” Nana asks. “It stinks.”

Mia jerks away, our connection severed. “Dad, dinner?” she asks, a little panicked.

Her father looks up from his heart-to-heart with Adam and winks at her. “Under control. Should be ready in ten minutes.”

I don’t see how that comforts Mia. Nana’s right. Whatever we’re eating smells like road kill, but she visibly relaxes.

“Drinks?” she asks, heading toward the bar. “Nana, the usual? Ethan?”

“Anything,” I say, “but I was hoping to see your mother’s studio first.”

“Yeah, too bad about that,” she says over her shoulder as she pours a glass of wine. “Maybe some other time.”

I’m not sure I follow. “Why some other time?”

“How about now?” Mia’s mom sweeps into the room. The woman has some stage presence, but Mia’s father just keeps talking, clearly used to his wife’s big personality. “Now sounds wonderful!”

She refills her wine glass almost to the brim, grabs the one Mia poured and tips her head, summoning me to join her. “Come along, come along! Next tour departs immediately!”

Adam breaks off with Mia’s father and catches my eye. “You’re definitely going to want to check it out.”

At the same moment, Mia takes off like an Olympic sprinter, shooting past her mom and disappearing into the hallway. Two thoughts pop into my head. One, the girl claims she’s not an athlete, but she can definitely move and she looks good doing it. And two, I’m obviously missing something.

“Thank you,” I say, joining Pearl. “I was disappointed when I thought I’d missed out.”

“Nonsense.” Pearl hands me a very full glass of red wine. “This way.” Then she loops an arm through mine.

“Whoa.” I bobble my wine glass a little, but thankfully don’t spill.

Pearl laughs. “Sorry. We’re a touchy family. Sometimes, I forget it’s uncomfortable for people.”

“No . . . It’s okay. I just didn’t expect that.”

Pearl smiles. “Unexpected things are my favorite.”

I like unexpected too, but this night is starting to feel like I’m on Space Mountain: in the dark and totally unable to anticipate turns.

Pearl is short like Mia, but she walks briskly and I have to lengthen my stride to stay even with her and not spill wine. Also because everywhere I look are pictures, each one more interesting than the one before it.

“You know, Ethan,” Pearl says, “Mia has told us a lot about her internship.”

“It’s a great opportunity.” I don’t add for only one of us.

Pearl stops in front of a carved wooden door that’s different from the others in the house. It’s all warped and weathered, like it was pulled up from a shipwreck.

She squares herself to me and grows very still. After a second or two, not even the wine in her glass moves.

I feel like it’s the first time she’s really seeing me and it’s intense. I have to force myself to just stand there and take her eagle-eyed scrutiny. Retreating under her gaze would feel like losing, somehow.

“You have fantastic bone structure, a gorgeous Bernini-esque physique, and I’m absolutely mad for the cleft in your chin,” she says.

What. The. Fuck?

I’m suddenly sweating like Rhett, but I manage to answer like I’m taking this all in stride. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank your parents.”

“Okay.”

“And probably your exercise regimen. Sports?”

“Soccer.”

“Ah.”

She nods, taking that in.

“I have not heard a peep about you from my daughter.”

“I . . . didn’t know that.”

“Well, how would you?”

“Right.”

Is she trying to mess with my head? I have never felt so wrong-footed around another human being before.

Pearl tilts her head like Baudelaire did earlier. “Do you know what that makes you, Ethan?”

“Unexpected?”

She breaks into a big smile, and I feel like I’ve just passed a huge test. “Yes,” she says, emphatically. “And extremely unique.”

She swings the wood door open, leaving me with that little riddle to puzzle over. Thoughtful of her, since I didn’t already have enough to try to contend with tonight.

I follow her into a huge studio space with soaring ceilings. One end looks like part laboratory, part factory, with a cluster of oversized computer monitors and industrial-looking equipment that I can only imagine is for enlarging and transferring photographs.

Above the equipment, the walls are crowded with prints of all sizes. Amazing stuff. My eyes go to a shot of high heels with sparkling sequins and a bow. I recognize them as the Wizard of Oz slippers, except they have a killer four-inch heel, the tip of which is pressing into a curve of smooth flesh.

It’s the body part that’s so arresting. I can’t look away. I can’t figure out if it’s a breast or a back, or a calf, and that’s how every single piece is. You look at it, and you want to know more. You have to.

The other end of the studio is much more open, with a drop cloth, a variety of backdrops, some props like wigs and umbrellas and angel wings, a few stools. Beyond that, huge glass doors lead to an outdoor patio and one of the most incredible views I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” Mia says.

“Oh, there you are,” her mother says, whirling. Then she shakes her head disapprovingly. “Really, Mia?”

That’s when I notice the sheets dropped over some frames resting against the wall.

“What are those?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Mia says. “Nothing at all.”

Mia

Q: How do you handle a crisis?

Of course, my mother proceeds to whip the sheet off the frames like she’s unveiling a new car. I don’t even know why I tried.

The largest of them, and probably the most eye-catching, is a massive triptych my mom did, based on a Modigliani nude. I’m reclining on a red velvet chaise, arms up over my head, a white silk sheet weaving beneath my body to spill across my thighs. My skin looks burnished, almost amber. And because it’s my mother, my body is sliced into thin spirals, like I’ve been through an apple peeler.

She pulls those away from the wall and sets them beside all the others I tried to hide: martini glass Mia, many-nippled Mia, avenging goddess Mia, with eight arms, a halo of detached eyeballs, and blue flames where one might normally locate my girl bits.

“As you can see,” my mother tells Ethan. “My daughter’s my muse.”

From Ethan’s perspective it probably looks more like shrooms are my mother’s muse, though as far as I know she’s never done a drug in her life.