Inescapable, p.13
Inescapable, page 13
Bear grinned. “Depends what you mean by crazy,” he said. “I mean, when I was sixteen, I went on my first vision quest. I saw things when I was fasting—real things—that had meaning for me. Things that changed who I became.”
Aimee stared at him. “A vision quest?”
Bear nodded. “A spirit journey. It’s an altered state where you get guidance from the Creator and the spirit world. It’s a rite of passage—at least it is with the Tsuut’ina—that signifies your transition into adulthood.”
“Messages from the spirit world. How does that work?”
“Well, there are different rites for different tribes, but in almost all of them you fast, you pray, and—hopefully—you see things during the journey.”
“Do you mean see them physically?”
“My great-grandmother used to describe it this way: We all have two eyes. One lets you see what’s there. The other lets you see what you feel.”
“The artist, Paul Klee, said that too.”
“He did?”
Aimee nodded. “One eye sees, the other feels.” She reached out, laying her hand open on the table next to his. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “It means a lot to me.”
Bear slid his fingers into hers, his body reacting to the connection. Two palms together, warm and cool, nothing more; but something changed in that moment.
He nodded. “Same.”
—
Aimee slid the key into the lock, a faint smile lingering on the curve of her lips. Lunch with Bear had been unexpectedly good. If he called her again to get a third interview—and there was a secret voice inside her that kept shouting that he would—she knew she’d say ‘yes’ without delay. Today had been a turning point. A step forward. Aimee had wanted Bear’s company, and he wanted hers too.
Aimee pushed the door of the condo open and stepped inside, the smile widening into a grin. She’d felt alive while she and Bear had talked. Real. It felt like she’d been sleeping, and today, for the first time in months, she’d finally awoken. She looked up, and her expression froze.
George’s ghost waited in the foyer, foot tapping.
“You’re late,” he growled, the raw scent of alcohol wafting forward.
Aimee looked away, chest tightening. She hadn’t thought about George in the last half hour or so, but here he was.
“Go away,” she said. “You’re not really here.” Aimee tugged off her coat and reached for a hanger.
“I bloody well am here,” George snapped. “And you’re late.”
Aimee hung up her coat, and lifted her gaze. “Go away,” she repeated firmly.
The apparition stepped nearer.
“No.”
Aimee’s hands curled into fists, heart pounding. “Go away, George. You’re not—”
“Why are you late?!” he barked.
Aimee took a step backward. “I had a meeting.”
“What kind of meeting?”
He swirled the glass he carried, ice cubes clinking.
“I was meeting with a writer,” she said evenly. “Someone doing a book about you.”
That stopped him, but not for long.
“A man?” he snarled.
“Yes, a man,” Aimee said, lifting her chin. “What of it?”
Aimee stepped past George and headed to the kitchen. She could walk through him—she’d seen David Arturo do it—but something held her back.
A second later, George followed. “Who was he?” he taunted. “Someone I know? Someone you’ve been chasing around with while I’m here at home?”
She knew those words. Their intonation was so close to the fights they’d had before George had taken off to New York that long-ago winter. Aimee’s throat closed and she fought to breathe. She hadn’t believed he’d return to her that time, but he had.
“He’s a writer. A very good one, actually.”
George’s mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. “You fucked him yet?”
“No!”
“But you want to.”
“He’s an author,” she said. “He’s writing a book about you. That’s all.” She turned her back to the apparition, breathing hard. Her ears were ringing, body tense. “This isn’t real,” she said shakily. “This is all in my mind. When I turn around, the room is going to be empty. George will be gone, and I’m—”
George stepped in front of her, and she yelped.
“You always knew how to turn heads,” he sneered. “Did it with me too. You’ve lowered your standards!”
“Stop it!”
George’s lips twisted angrily. She could smell the alcohol, could feel the warmth of his breath when he shouted: “He’s talented, huh? That must get you nice and wet!”
Aimee took a step back and George followed. “It’s nothing like that. Nothing like that at all.”
“You think?”
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “Yes, I do. I’m doing this—” Her voice broke. “I’m doing this for you, George. For your legacy. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Guilt has a face, sunshine.” He lifted the drink in silent toast. “And you’re the one wearing it.”
Aimee opened her mouth and closed it again, her attempted calm crumbling under the weight of his accusation. The trembling of her hands had grown in intensity; the room around her was inexplicably icy cold.
“Not true.”
“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?!”
“I’m not,” she said. “But even if I was, it wouldn’t be wrong. You’re dead, George. Dead.”
George smiled darkly, baring even white teeth. “Might be,” he said, looming nearer. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
He lunged.
With a scream, Aimee bolted past him, heading out of the condo.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Aimee walked the downtown streets, too upset to return. He’s not real, her mind screamed. George is dead. He can’t be back! But there was another part of her mind which wasn’t so certain. The part that remembered another conversation that had taken place on the floor of the kitchen in the cabin in Banff:
“Don’t go. Stay with me, George. Stay.”
“I’ll try.”
If he was real—If! her mind shouted, he was a poltergeist, and not just a figment of her imagination—then she was the cause. The two voices went round and round in her mind until she was weak and weary. If George wasn’t real, then she was creating this, the way she imagined the artists whose works she repaired. If George WAS real, then she was cheating, or would be, if things progressed with Bear. Aimee had no idea which option was true, but long after her tears had dried, the threat of George’s temper kept her away.
Walking without direction, her feet fell into a well-worn path and she found herself standing before the side entrance to the Glenbow. It was long past nightfall. She could hear the vacuums of the night custodial crew, the honk of passing cars on the street. Aimee glanced at her phone: 10:52 p.m.; far too late to call her mother. And she wouldn’t be able to sleep even if she went over. With a sigh, she pulled out her key fob and swiped the door to buzz herself inside.
In minutes she was ensconced in her office. The scent of mildew wrapped her in a cloak, the faint whir of the fans running in the depths of the basement a steady hum. The unsettled emotions—the terror of that truth she didn’t want to face: that she might really be going crazy; that this may indeed be a mental break, one she couldn’t control—all disappeared as she picked up a cleaned, but unrepaired artwork. It was a Warhol print from 1963: synthetic polymer paint and silkscreen ink on canvas. The mud had dulled the bright whites of Elizabeth Taylor’s celebrity smile, though the darker, brighter colours remained firm. It was a simple repair, and soon Aimee was matching the undamaged pigment with her own acrylic mixture. She painted a series of lines along a test board, then leaned back to wait. Colours changed ever so slightly when pigment was dry, and she needed to be sure.
“That looks good.”
Aimee turned to the door, expecting to find Steve or one of the other night security guards watching her, but the door was closed. She ran a hand over her face. Should head home to get some sleep, she thought, I’m starting to hear things.
“Yes, surprisingly good actually,” the voice added. “I like it. Like it a lot.”
Aimee squeaked. She turned the other direction to discover Andy Warhol lounging on one of the stools, one leg thrown jauntily over his knee.
“Andy Warhol,” Aimee murmured. She usually enjoyed her unexpected visions, but tonight she was unusually sensitive to her mind’s tricks. “I wasn’t expecting you.” She frowned. Why would he show up if she wasn’t trying to call him to mind? That wasn’t how it worked.
The ghost unfolded his legs, stepping off the stool with the ungainly motions of a stork. “Could have used you in the studio,” he said, nodding to her work. “Would have saved so much time, having someone who was able to match colours like that.”
“Thanks.” She stared at him with wary eyes, focusing on the edges of his form—not quite solid—which grew, like layers of smoke, into opacity near the centre. Could she make him disappear? Aimee narrowed her gaze and focused. Long seconds passed.
Andy stayed.
“You’ve got an eye for colour,” he said.
Aimee put the brush back against the canvas, silently cursing. She used to be able to get rid of them, but lately it seemed like her visions were the ones in charge. “Go away,” she muttered, but the apparition came closer. “I don’t want to talk.”
“Are you art school trained?” he asked.
Aimee scowled.
“I said, are you trained?”
She glanced up. “Yes. I took a post-graduate restorations degree at Queens University.”
“No, not restoration,” he said, waving away her words with his hand. “I mean, are you an artist?”
“I was,” Aimee said wearily. She lifted the brush, adding another daub of paint to the canvas and spreading it in thin layers across the surface.
Andy stood beside her, nodding. “But not anymore?”
“No, Andy. Not in a long time.”
She leaned in, scanning for damage. Andy cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Aimee said.
“There’s a spot there,” he said, pointing to a smudge of grey near the corner. “Just a small one, but still.”
“Thanks,” she muttered.
Aimee loaded the brush again, covering the faded marks. Every so often she peered up at the apparition through a fringe of lashes. Blue jeans and boots, a black turtleneck and leather jacket. She could see he wasn’t real if she looked right at him, but if she ignored him, the vision took on solid form. Next time, I’ll try that with George, she thought grimly.
“Ah. That’s very good,” Andy said with a laugh. “Almost better than the original.”
“Hardly,” Aimee snorted. “It’s not your work anymore.”
Bright laughter followed her statement. She lowered her brush, setting it into the tray alongside the paints.
“What?”
“You must be kidding,” Andy snorted.
“About what?”
The ghost ran a hand through the grey tousle of his wig, leaving bits of it standing on end. “I hardly touched any of my work. They were factory produced. Factory made. I was part of that, of course.” He tapped his temple, giving her a mischievous grin. “But I didn’t necessarily create them with my own hands.”
“Right,” Aimee muttered. “I knew that.”
“Of course you did. And don’t feel bad,” Andy said, reaching out to pat her shoulder. “I forget myself sometimes.”
She shivered. There was no pressure to his touch, but she felt colder somehow. George’s ghost flickered in the back of her mind. George had never tried to touch her, but what if he did? Would she feel that? She wrapped her arms around her, fighting the ice that seemed to grow inside her.
Andy stepped back from the canvas, inspecting it from another angle. “That’s the secret, you know. It’s the connections we make.” The ghost’s smile widened. “It’s what we do with them that matter. Not the actual person who puts the brush on the page—you or me, or anyone else—but it’s how we create: Artists, poets, writers.”
Aimee frowned, remembering the argument—real or imagined—with George about her meeting with Barrett Cardinal.
“But what if those connections mean hurting someone we love?”
“Then it happens,” he said.
“It doesn’t bother you to hurt someone you care for?” she asked. “Not by purposefully being cruel or anything, but by connecting with someone else.”
The ghost’s expression shifted. He no longer seemed like the slick pop art deal-maker most people knew, but an aging artist wearing a ridiculous wig. “Oh, I know a little bit about that,” he said.
Aimee could feel the name on the tip of her tongue, but Andy answered the unspoken question before she could even say it.
“Jed never understood my need to be with other creatives: Artists, actors, street kids and the like. To experience life, all parts of it. The good and bad. I wanted to know it all.”
A line appeared between Aimee’s brows. “You sound a bit like George.”
“George who?”
“Westerberg. My late husband.”
Andy laughed. “You mean George Westerberg, the Canadian ex-pat?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Ol’ Georgie!” Andy threw his head back, laughing happily. “Guy was a firecracker back when I knew him. A drinker and a fighter, even if he was the art world’s latest up and comer! Always off on some crazy scheme, drinking until all hours then showing up at the studio to argue with me about the meaning of life. Never thought I’d see the day he settled down.”
“He did,” Aimee said dryly. “Twice, actually.”
“That surprises me.” Warhol smirked. “Congratulations, I suppose.”
“Thanks, but not all of our marriage was happy.”
“Are they ever?”
“Some are,” she said with a sigh. “My parents’ marriage certainly was.”
“But not yours.”
She sat with that thought for a long time, silent as the old pain filled her chest, then eased as something else appeared. Hard truth. While she and George’s passion had been a wildfire, it had burned as much as warmed them. There were too many painful moments to ignore, too many troubles dotted in amongst the laughter and joy and sexual exploits. Aimee’s shoulders slumped.
“Most of the time things were fine, but George wanted what he wanted. And since I was younger than him, he just assumed I’d be the one who’d give in.” She reached out to straighten the line of brushes as she spoke. “He never really understood me or my needs. I had things that I wanted too. Hopes and dreams, but George never gave me space to do them. Just expected me to put them aside.”
Andy leaned forward, his bony elbows resting on skinny knees. “So what’s stopping you from doing all those things now?”
“I—” Aimee frowned. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Artists do what they need to do.” He straightened his jacket and gave her an enigmatic smile. “You should too.”
—
When Aimee stumbled out of her office mid-morning, she found the Glenbow buzzing with activity. Workmen carried sheets of drywall past her and hammering echoed through the hallway. Aimee skirted them and plodded slowly up the busy stairwell to the main lobby. Sometime in the last hour, the morning staff had arrived. Bright bands of sunlight poured through the front windows, the first clear day in a month. She squinted against the glare.
“Morning!” Niha said. “Heading out to grab a coffee?”
“Heading home, actually.” Aimee forced a smile. “I worked late.”
“Late,” Niha laughed. “Honey, it’s almost ten in the morning. You worked all night!”
“Yes, but I got the Warhol finished.”
“Really? That’s awesome.”
Aimee stretched her back. “Thanks. If you could let Luis know, that’d be great.”
“I will,” Niha said, “but you should get some sleep. You’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t.”
Aimee stumbled to the front door. “Just tell Luis. Alright?”
By the time she walked the five blocks to the condo, Aimee was so tired she could barely think. She struggled with the key in the lock, only discovering after a minute of cursing that she was using the cabin key rather than the apartment key. She switched keys and staggered through the door. The lights were still on, the answering machine flashing.
No sign of George.
She pressed play and pulled her jacket off before dropping it on the floor. The machine beeped, and a well-known voice echoed from the speaker.
“Hi, Aimee. It’s Bear. I was wondering if you had time to talk again. I know, I know, I said two interviews.” Warm laughter broke through his words and she smiled at the sound. “But after I wrote up some of the things you said, I thought we should talk again. Three times the charm, right?” Aimee kicked off her shoes, staring at the answering machine as she waited for him to continue. “I’d feel better if you took a look at what I wrote in your chapter before I go any further. I was serious about letting you have a voice in how you’re portrayed. Anyhow, if you have a minute I thought we could get together again.” He cleared his throat. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I liked talking with you the other day and I’d like to do it again.”
Heart pounding, Aimee glanced furtively around the foyer, but it was empty. George was gone. Alone, a knowing smile curled her lips. Bear liked talking to me.
The answering machine beeped, pulling her back to the present. She waited through two more messages: due to its position on the mountain, the cabin in Banff was safe from flooding, but David figured it would impact the price, given that the gardens were completely waterlogged. The second was from her lawyer. Jacqueline was demanding that Aimee pass over a list of items she considered “family heirlooms”. Would Aimee have time to look at the list, as a sign of good faith?
