Capturing You

Chapter 34: Choices

The night of the gallery showing in New Orleans, I remembered watching my mom from afar while I sipped on some sweet tea in the corner. Somehow I had become the ward of the other kids at the gallery despite being a teenager, but I was hardly paying attention, only selectively listening for any hard thuds or wailing. While most other adults made rounds to whoever they knew at events like this, my mom was different; people flocked to her as if she was magnetized, asking about her work, taking pictures with her, thanking her for being there. I knew she was famous, but only on paper, if that makes any sense. It was a whole other thing to watch her be doted on in person, especially given she wasn't in the movies or a famous singer–she was just my mom, a painter.

After a summer of taking photographs, I thought about whether I'd ever be as good as her, and whether or not I would know it. My mom was hardworking, but humble. She put so much time and care into her work, sometimes losing sleep either just to finish a painting or pencil an idea down. But, what was confusing to me at the time–and still is–was that she would be the very same person to turn around and downplay her work like, "It's only decent." Or, "I could have done better." And she would definitely overanalyze her work, even after it was already hanging at the local gallery: "Ugh, Jamie," I would overhear her telling my dad. "Look at that speck. Look at that speck!" To which my dad would chortle and say, "Pumpkin, it's like... an artistic speck, yanno?"

Did she know how admired she was back then, despite all the specks she thought she saw? Did she know that no one else really saw the specks except for her, and that when you looked at the painting in its entirety, those so-called "specks" would disappear? I couldn't even pick out the flaws if she pointed them to me.

What was it that I inherited from her? Her button nose and dark hair, sure. Her attention to detail, absolutely. I wondered whether I'd follow in her footsteps completely; give up my dream job for the person I loved.

"And that's my daughter, Avery," she would point me out in the crowd. I would wave back, awkwardly, to whoever she was speaking with. "You should look at her photographs."

"Oh, she's just as talented as you are," the stranger would say. Then, they'd joke: "Good thing she got the art bug from you, and not the football bug from her dad."

I would look over at my dad who was never in these conversations when this sort of stuff was said. He was almost always hovering over the hors d'oeuvres, doing something totally out of place and goofy and embarrassing. He was being himself.

As much as I loved my mom and saw her as a role model, I didn't like hearing people make fun of my dad. Though he was different–and their paths probably shouldn't have crossed–they at least loved each other, and that meant more than having everything in the world in common.

-

Mr. DuPont gave me two weeks to decide whether I'd want to put in an application for the opening at Le Bon Voyage. He assured me that, like my fellowship, there would be a formal process–the application, the interview, the evaluation. Everything would probably take at least two months, so around my birthday I would find out whether or not I had the job. Before all that, though, I needed to seriously consider what I wanted to do.

Trish and Spencer both told me I should try it.

"You're crazy for not being totally in love with Paris right now," Trish said in one of our many three-way phone calls since I left. "If I were you, I'd be like, au revoir, Joey boy!"

Though I couldn't see it, I knew Spencer was rolling his eyes over the phone. "Don't listen to her. What she means is... Have you even let yourself stop missing home, and missing Joe? Like, have you let yourself enjoy all there is to the job so far?"