The Gallery of Lost Species by Nina Berkhout

Author:Nina Berkhout
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250085085
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

TWENTY-EIGHT

ON THE SEVENTEENTH FLOOR of Sunset Towers, the door flew open and my mother drew me into her cloud of rosewater perfume while Mira yipped at my ankles. I pushed the dog away with my foot.

“Where is your sister?” She glanced down the hall.

“No idea.”

This was a lie. I’d seen Viv hanging out at the Lafayette since she’d left my place. The drinking tavern was a few blocks from the Gallery on a seedy corner in the Market. From the sidewalk the scent of warm hops emanated over vendors’ stalls of strawberries and tomatoes. Getting produce there on my lunch break, I’d gone by the Laff and spotted my sister inside at least a half-dozen times, sitting on the vinyl bench against the wall. I never went in. Instead, I rushed by, hoping Viv wouldn’t see me.

“Ah.” Con’s face dropped. She recovered with a radiant smile. “Next time!”

I eased myself onto the peach couch in the living room and slipped off my shoes, running my toes along the shag rug. Mira hopped into my lap, turning circles before settling. A children’s barrette secured the dog’s hair in a spurt between her ears.

My mother was tanned and thin. Her new hairstyle, an upsweep of blond and grey tints in a loose chignon, suited her, showing off her dancer’s neck.

“And how is Liam?” she called out.

“Gone.”

“Non! Le maudit.”

She came over to the couch and sat down beside me. When I stifled a sob, she took my hands in hers.

“En amour, it is better to be with someone who loves you more than you love them,” she said with conviction.

Suitcases were stacked beneath the pearly mantelpiece cluttered with framed pictures. My eyes fell on the blackand-white shot of a voluptuous Constance on Henry’s lap in a smoky Greenwich Village café. She kept these old ones up like artifacts among those of her and Pierre on beaches and in yacht clubs. Maybe at a certain age widowers incited each other to display their past selves. This was me in my other life. Look what I did. Look what I had.

There was a picture of me and Viv up there too, from when we were maybe four and seven. Lodged into the rocking chair on the porch, wearing cowboy hats our father found at a yard sale. We wore those hats until the straw dried up and crumbled.

There was also a shot of my teenaged sister on the mantel, in the backyard assembling an easel. In it, Viv was deep in concentration, kneeling in the grass with her chin on her knee and pieces of wood all around her. Our father’s shadow projected along the pavement. There was a strong breeze that day. You could see it in the way the uncut grass bent, and the striped curtains from my bedroom blew like signalling flags. I lay on the bed reading. Through my open window I heard our father say, “You have a gift, Vivienne, use it.” They didn’t see me peek out, as Constance put her arm around my sister.

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