Dad’s show opens to the public at eight p.m. I walk through the back doors of the gallery with two minutes to spare. It’s a spectacular space. The walls are white, the floors are wood, and the ceilings are unfinished, making it look like we’re inside a chic factory.
I walk through the large, open room in amazement as Dad’s artwork stares at me from all sides. Literally.
The series is called “Portals.”
Dad takes these mind-blowing photographs of people’s eyes. Although you would never really know it when you first look at them. The pictures are so zoomed in and enlarged, they no longer look like eyes. They turn into completely other things. Forests. Rivers. Blades of grass. Sunrises. Solar systems.
Different people see different things. That’s the beauty of what Dad does.
It’s like a really psychedelic Rorschach test.
I stop when I see the photograph that I captioned this morning, giggling slightly when I remember that Dad thought it looked like varicose veins. Instead, I chose to caption it “Purple Rain,” because it resembles violet-colored lightning streaking across the sky, and also because my dad loves that song by Prince. Apparently it was playing when my parents first met in a bar during Dad’s “edgy phase.” It’s kind of ironic that this particular eye belongs to our garbageman—the epitome of suburban living and the polar opposite of an “edgy phase.”
I continue down the wall, smiling at the photographs, remembering the subject behind each one. I pass my mom’s eye, which looks like a sunflower; Dad’s eye, which looks like planet Earth from space; Frankie’s eye, which looks like a galaxy—no surprise there—until I finally get to my own eye. It’s a bright, almost electric blue, with spindly white threads dancing across it, like a spiderweb strung across a cloudless blue sky.
I beam proudly when I read the small white placard underneath.
Make a wish.
I wrote that caption as a little inside joke between Dad and me. He always thought spiderwebs were lucky, and when I was a kid I used to make wishes on them. He took the photograph a few months ago, and the next day he found out he was getting this show. “See?” he said to me that day. “I always knew you were lucky. There’s the proof. Right there.”
“So?” Dad says, coming up behind me. “What do you think?”
I turn and smile at him. “It’s amazing, Dad. It’s…” But I can’t even finish the thought because my voice cracks and I feel tears welling up. I’m just so proud of him. He’s been waiting so long for this moment.
Dad seems to get the point anyway and pulls me into a hug. “Thanks, kiddo.”
The doors to the gallery open, and from that moment on there’s a constant stream of people coming and going, chattering excitedly about my dad’s art. I stand in the corner and just watch the whole thing. Everyone is agog at the photos. They tilt their heads and move back and forth from the walls, trying to see the various pictures hidden within each piece. Dad spends the evening bustling about, explaining his intention with each one and changing people’s perspective.
By the time the clock hits eleven, every single piece in this gallery has been sold. The art dealer said she’s never seen anything like it from a new artist. I want to tell her that my dad isn’t a new artist. He’s been doing this for years. This is just the first time you dumbos have taken notice.
I watch as my dad delivers the news to my mom, who’s dressed in her typical black work suit, sipping champagne as she makes polite small talk with some snobby art critic. As soon as he tells her, all of her professionalism and lawyerly composure goes right out the window and she turns into a teenage girl at a rock concert. She squeals and leaps into his arms. Dad twirls her around and then she kisses him hard on the lips.
“Yuck,” Frankie says next to me, averting his eyes, and I laugh. I know you’re supposed to be grossed out seeing your parents display affection for each other, and normally I am. But not now. Now, I’m just fascinated by it. And so inspired.
My dad hasn’t earned a dime since my mother met him. Sure, he takes care of everything at home. He makes us breakfast and dinner and does the laundry and helps us with our homework—well, he helps me. Frankie stopped needing help when he was in second grade. But he’s turned down every single job offer those stupid Jeffrey and Associates people have sent him. He’s refused to sell out and become a corporate photographer in exchange for a steady paycheck. Because he believed in his art. And so did my mom. She supported him—and us—completely on her own, without ever complaining about it.
And now it’s finally paid off.
Frankie buries his face in my jacket and I ruffle his hair. “Is it over?” he asks.
I watch Mom jump back down, keeping her arms tightly around my dad. “Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s over.”
He lifts his head and gags. “In a parallel universe that never happened.”
“I think it’s nice,” I tell him, “that Mom is so supportive. It’s important to him and she gets that…”
My voice trails off as I remember my conversation with Austin in the hallway today. How quickly I dismissed his comedy show for being lame and juvenile. He loves that show. He’s been looking forward to the new season for eight months. Sure, it may not be a photography exhibit at an art gallery, but it’s important to him. And I haven’t been supportive at all.
While my parents are talking to the art dealer, I slip out the back door and get into my car. I check the clock on the dash. It’s a little after eleven thirty. There are eight episodes in the season and they’re each an hour long. Austin said the episodes were being released at seven. That means, if I hurry, I can still watch the last few with him and Laney.
I speed the entire way there, feeling a small prick of excitement as I park the car in Austin’s driveway and tiptoe toward the basement door. I know he’ll be in there. That’s where he always watches TV. The idea of surprising him is making my heart start to hammer.
It’s kind of romantic. Me showing up for him at the last minute. Zooming across town to be a loving, supportive girlfriend and show him that I really do care about his interests. Even the ones that don’t interest me.
As I ease open the door into the main area of the basement, I can hear Tom What’s-his-butt cracking one of his signature fart jokes from the TV room next door. “The key to farting in public,” he says, “is making sure you have a fart scapegoat nearby.” The audience roars with laughter. I wait to hear Austin’s loud booming laugh and Laney’s signature chipmunk giggle-snort. They’ll definitely find that stupid joke funny. But there’s absolute silence in the next room. That’s weird. Maybe they went upstairs to get a snack. But then, why wouldn’t they pause the show?
I creep through the basement toward the TV room, listening intently. I can definitely hear something. But it’s not laughter.
It almost sounds like—
OH. MY. GOD.
I screech to a halt in the doorway as I take in the heart-ripping, gut-wrenching, life-changing sight that lies in front of me.
The TV is on. Tom Who-the-heck-cares is still cracking one lewd joke after another, but Laney and Austin aren’t catching a single word he says.
Because they’re too busy kissing.