Summer in the Invisible City Read online

  When I reach the door, I hesitate. The door is open and two guys in hoodies haul a ladder out, not noticing me. I peer inside. I can see a few people milling around the enormous, bleached rooms. One of them is Allan. His back is to me, but I recognize him right away. Even from far away and behind, he looks smaller and older than I remember, his hair more gray than brown.

  He turns in my direction but he doesn’t notice me. Seeing his face makes my heart pound between my ears. I’m suddenly dizzy. Why didn’t I bring my mom? I should have done this with her. I shouldn’t be here alone.

  “Can I help you?”

  A stylish woman steps out of the gallery. She has shiny blue-black hair, and she wears a green-patterned dress that looks vintage.

  I comb my hair nervously with my fingers. “Um. Yeah. I’m here to see Allan Bell?”

  I say it like a question, even though it’s not a question.

  Her expression reveals no understanding. She smiles intimidatingly and says, “Is he expecting you?”

  “I think so,” I say. “I’m his daughter.”

  “This way,” she says, her neat smile staying perfectly in place.

  I walk with this woman through the space back to where Allan is examining a few pieces of paper that he’s arranged on the concrete gallery floor. Her high heels click-clack loudly in the almost empty rooms.

  “Allan. There’s someone here for you,” the gallery girl says.

  Allan uncrosses his arms and then turns and sees me. When his eyes clasp on to mine he stays perfectly still for a moment while the woman walks quickly away.

  I’m frozen in place. It’s taking so much effort for me to try to smile naturally that I don’t even have the ability to say hello or walk toward him.

  “Sadie,” he finally says. “Wow. You look really well.”

  He stands there, staring.

  “Hi,” I manage.

  And then he steps toward me and gives me a long, firm hug.

  “So, this is all new work,” Allan says, gesturing broadly to the cardboard boxes that are leaning against the walls. “We’re just unpacking now. I haven’t shown these pieces anywhere.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  Allan continues. “I think it’s going to be good. I mean, what I really wanted to do was have the dancers that Marla and I have been working with in LA come out here and do a performance. But that’s not going to happen. Elaine doesn’t think it will work in this space.”

  “Oh, really,” I say, as if I know what he’s talking about.

  “Do you remember Elaine? You may have met her years ago,” he says.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, smiling eagerly.

  “She’s my dealer,” he says. “She’s going to be back in a minute; you’ll meet her. She just had a lunch.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say.

  “Do you want to have a cup of coffee in the office? You can leave your backpack here. No one will take it,” Allan says.

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly. I let my backpack slide off and drop it gently on the floor. The Leica is buried in there, wrapped in a sweatshirt for safety. I didn’t want to wear it around my neck today because I didn’t want to seem like I was trying too hard.

  I follow Allan to the back of the gallery where there is a small room attached to the main space. Inside, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are lined with art books. More art books than I could have ever have dreamed of in one space. The beautiful gallery girl sits behind one of the three sleek desks, typing on her computer. She ignores us as we walk past her.

  Allan sits down at an adjacent desk. He pours us each a cup of coffee from the pot that’s sitting there.

  “Sit,” he says, pointing to another desk chair that’s positioned sort of awkwardly between the two desks.

  “So,” Allan says, looking at me across the desk. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and places it on the desk. He looks at me, and then immediately picks up his phone and flips it over so the screen is facedown. He’s nervous. So am I.

  “So, are you excited about the show?” I ask. My voice is about an octave higher than normal. I hate that the gallery girl is still sitting within earshot, even if she’s pretending she can’t hear us.

  “I think so. We have a lot of work to do between now and Saturday,” he says.

  “That’s cool,” I say, for the millionth time.

  “How’s Johanna?” he asks.

  “She’s good,” I say.

  “Is she dancing at all anymore?” he says.

  “No,” I say.

  “That’s too bad. She was a really interesting dancer. Too intense for ballet,” he says. Then he sinks back into his chair and wipes his hands over his face. “Why am I telling you about Johanna? You know her.”

  “No, it’s okay, it’s interesting,” I say. “I like hearing you talk about her.”

  Allan looks at me, maybe surprised that I reassured him, and he smiles. He lets out a long, whistle of breath. It might be the first time he’s seemed even a little relaxed since I got here.

  The landline rings and the gallery girl answers promptly. “Kaplan and White . . . Hi, Elaine . . . I’ll tell him . . . Okay.”

  She hangs up and turns to Allan. “Elaine is going to be here in five minutes and she’s bringing the Shulmans.”

  Allan stands up. “Okay, then. Sadie, I have to get ready for these people who are coming by. I’ll walk you out.”

  I sit for a moment, stunned that our visit is over so quickly. Blindly, I follow Allan away from the desk.

  I pick up my backpack from the gallery floor and Allan walks me out.

  “You’ve really grown up,” he says, when we’re outside. For the first time, we are safely out of earshot of the lurking gallery girl.

  “Thank you?”

  “I can’t wrap my mind around how much you’ve changed since I saw you last summer,” he says.

  “You mean two summers ago,” I say.

  Allan shakes his head. “No. I saw you last summer in LA. I took you and your mom out to lunch. I picked you up at her friend’s house in Hancock Park.”

  “Yeah, that was two years ago,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “That was the summer after ninth grade.”

  Allan’s phone beeps and he reads a text. Then he looks back up at me.

  “I’m sure I saw you last year,” he says firmly.

  “Oh, okay, maybe,” I say, forcing a smile.

  “Anyway. Listen, sorry today was so short. I know Marla would like to see you. Can you meet us for lunch tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “I have class, so it will have to be a late lunch. I’m taking advanced photography. I actually wanted to tell you about it.”

  Allan’s phone beeps again and this time he types a text. When he’s done, he looks back at me. “So, tomorrow? Late lunch. I’ll e-mail you later when Marla tells me what her schedule is.”

  “Right. Okay. Great,” I say with a smile, trying to show just the right amount of enthusiasm.

  —

  I’m trembling as I walk back toward the C train. My nerves unwind slowly as I get farther away from the gallery. That was good, I tell myself over and over. That went well.

  —

  That night, my mom drags her fabric samples out of the closet and places them on our couch. Whenever she has a little free time, my mom likes to daydream about reupholstering our couch. I kind of think she’ll never do it, she just enjoys the project.

  “I like the green one,” she purrs, taking a sip of her tea.

  “I like the red one,” I say, playing along. I can’t believe she doesn’t know I saw Allan. I can’t believe I’m really not going to tell her.

  “You’re right,” she says, frowning. “The red. I want the red.”

  “You’re crazy.” I smile.

  I
wonder if she and Allan ever spent time like this—just puttering around their apartment, talking about nothing. It’s strange to have almost no memories of my parents being together. Imagining them interacting is like imagining how a celebrity couple might behave when no one is watching. If I didn’t exist, I don’t know if I’d even believe they were ever together.

  —

  Later, I climb into bed beside my mom. She has her ruby earrings on and gold bangles circling her wrists even now. My mom sleeps in jewelry; she wears it like tattoos.

  I burrow into her side and she wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.

  “Why did you and Allan break up?” I ask.

  “Why are you thinking of that right now?” she asks.

  “I just am,” I reply.

  “You know why it ended,” she says.

  “Tell me again.”

  She sighs. “Fine. But the story hasn’t changed. There’s no secret about me and Allan: We were together, I got pregnant, and I was thrilled. I’d always wanted a baby and I didn’t think I could have one. Getting pregnant was the best thing that ever happened to me. I didn’t care that Allan and I were already kind of over. It didn’t matter.”

  I’ve heard this a million times but it always feels like something is missing.

  “Over how?” I ask. “Like not in love anymore?”

  “You could say that,” she says. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Did you fight a lot?”

  “Constantly,” she replies quickly. “And when we weren’t arguing, we were just ignoring each other.”

  “So you ended it. And you and me moved out of his place.” I know the story. “But what about before? You must have had some good times, or why were you even together?”

  My mom pauses, and then when she speaks, her tone is firm. “What is this really about?”

  Allan is here.

  “I think I might like someone,” I say instead. “Like like him.”

  Which is part of the truth. The whole truth is that it took me forever to stop liking someone who rejected me over and over again, and now I like someone who thinks I’m just a friend. The truth is that my heart might be cursed.

  “Well, I guess you could say what I liked about Allan was that he was incredibly smart. Which is probably why you are so smart, too. I’ve always had a lot of respect for smart people,” she says. “So, that was a good thing about us.”

  I stare at my mom’s left hand, resting on top of the blanket, her fingers absently combing over a loose thread in the fabric. My mom’s skin is as young looking as someone her age’s skin can be. But still, it’s starting to soften and wrinkle, like crushed silk.

  —

  Back in my room, I pull out the one photograph I have of my mom and Allan together. My mom’s friend took it before she got pregnant with me. In it, Allan’s hand is resting on my mom’s back and she is staring up at him. She isn’t smiling but she’s looking at him like she adores him. I know she did. She loved him. Why can’t she just say that? Why can’t she just admit that they had something good and that she made a mistake by giving up on him so quickly?

  I wish I could travel back in time to the moment this photo was taken and see them together that day. What did they talk about? Did they laugh? If my mother hadn’t had me, would they still have drifted apart?

  The longer I stare at the picture, the more frustrated I become. No matter how hard I look at it, I can’t figure out what I want to know.

  Chapter 20

  The next day, I find Allan and Marla at a table in the back of the Japanese restaurant where we are meeting for lunch. They stand up to greet me.

  “Sadie, you remember my partner, Marla, right?” Allan asks.

  “Hi, Sadie,” Marla says, looking even more mousy and unremarkable than I remember. She gives me a small, brittle hug. She feels like a pebble.

  Marla must be in her mid-thirties because I know she’s about twenty years younger than Allan. But Marla isn’t a cliché younger woman. She’s more old-ladyish than my mom.

  They sit down and hold each other’s hands on top of the table.

  “It’s sushi and small plates,” Marla says.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say. I know how to read, Marla.

  Allan studies the menu carefully and then looks up at her.

  “I think I just want soup,” he announces.

  “Fine,” she says.

  Allan is dressed plain, same as yesterday, wearing a beige polo shirt and an odd, lightweight, neon green Windbreaker. He has a strangely simple style. Nothing like the artists you see in movies with their black turtlenecks. Allan is dressed like a regular guy.

  Marla has more of an intellectual look, with her makeup-free face, messy hair knotted on top of her head, and loose- fitting maroon blouse.

  “Tell us about your summer, Sadie,” Marla says. “Are you going to camp?”

  I laugh, and then stop myself at the look on her face. “Sorry. It’s just, I’m seventeen.”

  “I went to camp until I was nineteen,” Marla replies calmly. “I was a counselor.”

  “Well, I never went to camp, not even when I was little,” I say. Then I drag my gaze forcefully away from Marla’s and look right at Allan. “I’m taking an advanced black-and-white photography class this summer.”

  “At your school?” Marla says.

  I don’t respond because I wasn’t talking to her.

  “How is IACA?” I ask Allan.

  “Good,” he says, taking a sip of tea.

  “Do you teach the same classes every year?” I ask.

  “Pretty much,” he responds.

  “Do you think IACA is a good school?” I ask. This would be the perfect time to tell Allan that I want to go to IACA for college, but I don’t want to say it in front of Marla.

  “Of course,” he says. “Right, Marla?”

  Marla nods.

  “What are you learning in your photography class?” Marla asks. “I’ve taught a few undergrad photography classes over the years. Does your teacher talk about contemporary issues or is it more of a technical class?”

  I wish it was Allan who asked, but I’m glad to have the chance to tell them about Benji.

  “It’s both,” I say. “Benji’s really into making us print good quality pictures. The only thing he gets mad about is when people have bad darkroom techniques. But he also talks a lot about what stuff means.”

  “I can’t imagine teaching darkroom photography today,” Allan says. “It’s so outdated.”

  “Yeah, but that’s part of what’s cool about it,” I say. “It feels ancient.”

  That makes Marla laugh, and, as if Marla’s laughter gives Allan permission, he laughs, too.

  “What are your assignments like?” Marla asks.

  “They’re different every week,” I tell them. “We did portraits last week. And I think we’re gonna do landscapes next week. Usually, we have to shoot over the weekend and we print during the week.”

  Marla’s eyes glaze over but she forces a smile. “Great. Do you have any of your pictures with you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I put my backpack on my lap and riffle through all the junk in there to try to find my photos. I place a few things on the table, two unopened rolls of film, my cell phone, the I LOVE NY souvenir postcard I’ve kept in there for years.

  Allan picks up the postcard. “What is this?”

  “Oh, nothing, just a random cheesy postcard.” I blush. “I collect them.”

  Finally, I find the manila folder where I keep all the pictures I’ve taken and place it on the table in front of Allan.

  But Allan is still holding the postcard, staring at it.

  “So, these are just test prints, but you can see what I’m up to,” I say, nudging the folder closer to him.

  Allan ignores it
. He says, “You have a landscape assignment coming up?”

  I nod.

  “You know what I would do if I were you?” He smirks. “I would just hand in this postcard.”

  Marla claps her hands together and laughs.

  “Yes! That would be brilliant,” Marla agrees.

  “But, I didn’t even take the picture,” I say softly. “I don’t even know who did . . . it’s just a postcard.”

  “Don’t worry about that. That’s all part of the piece,” Allan says.

  He hands the postcard back to me and sinks back into his chair.

  “I don’t know if my teacher would be okay with it if I just handed in a postcard,” I say.

  “He’ll love it. And if he doesn’t, tell him artists are supposed to challenge ideas of authorship,” Allan says. “It helps prevent the constant commodification of ideas.”

  “You think?” I ask.

  Allan and Marla are glowing, awake with the energy of their creativity.

  “I’m going to order a beer,” Allan announces, looking right at Marla.

  “You think you should drink?” she asks. “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I’m fine. I think it’s fine,” he says. Then he turns to me. “Do you want a beer?”

  “Um, okay?”

  Marla crinkles her forehead disapprovingly. “She’s seventeen.”

  “She’s mature. Right, Sadie?” he says, and he gives me an almost conspiratorial wink.

  I’ve never had a drink while it was still light out, and when I step outside after lunch, I feel fizzy and woozy. Allan offers to walk me home. He tells Marla he’ll see her later.

  Allan and Marla kiss quickly. She’s not as homely as I first thought. When she was talking about art, she lit up. I get why Allan likes her. I guess I like her, too. And liking her feels a lot better than hating her.

  —

  Walking down the street with Allan, I get that feeling I haven’t had since I was little and he lived here for that summer. That intoxicating “just me and my dad” feeling.

  “Everyone complains about New York being so different now, but I love it,” Allan muses as we walk past another fancy boutique. “Does Johanna like it?”