Chapter 4 - The Invitation Nobody Wanted Remembered
“Four people and the dog.”
I repeated the words because I needed to hear what they sounded like outside my brother's mouth.
Four people.
My father.
My mother.
My brother.
My sister.
And Baxter.
There was no mistake in that number.
No scheduling confusion.
No misunderstanding about whether I was available.
Someone had made a decision about where I belonged.
And they had made it without me.
Mom lifted her eyes.
“Rebecca, I never meant for you to find out this way.”
I looked at her.
“Would another way have made it better?”
She began to answer, then stopped.
Dad set the microphone on the head table.
The sudden absence of amplification made his next words strangely ordinary.
“This has gone far enough.”
He looked toward the banquet manager.
“We'll finish the evening privately.”
Several guests immediately began gathering their purses and coats.
Nobody seemed to know whether leaving was rude or staying was worse.
I didn't care anymore.
My legs felt unsteady.
Ethan slipped an arm around my shoulders.
“Let's get your painting,” he said.
Dad stepped into our path.
“That painting stays here.”
I stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“It was supposed to be our anniversary gift.”
“It was.”
“You can't publicly insult your parents and then take back their present.”
For a moment, I couldn't believe he was serious.
He wanted to keep the painting.
Not because he understood it.
Not because he loved it.
Because he believed receiving a gift gave him the right to control what happened to it.
I looked at the painted window.
“Dad, you called my work a hobby for fifteen years. You told everyone I wasn't really a Miller. Tonight, you asked me to cover my own painting because it embarrassed you.”
He folded his arms.
“And?”
“And I don't think you should own something you refuse to look at.”
Ruth appeared beside us.
She wore her familiar turquoise earrings and the sensible shoes she'd been wearing since dinner began.
“I'll help carry it,” she said.
Dad stared at his older sister.
“Ruth, stay out of this.”
She looked at him without blinking.
“I stayed out of it for too long.”
With Ethan on one side and Ruth on the other, we lifted the painting from its easel.
My father didn't stop us.
But as we passed, he said something I couldn't ignore.
“You always were determined to make your childhood sound worse than it was.”
I turned.
“No, Dad. For twenty-one years, I made it sound better.”
That was the last thing I said inside the banquet hall.
Outside, the night air was cold enough to make my eyes water.
Ethan loaded the painting into his truck while Ruth stood beside me.
From inside the building came the muffled sound of plates being cleared.
I wondered whether anyone had managed to eat dessert.
Then I wondered why I still cared.
Ruth touched my sleeve.
“There's something else you need to know.”
I felt exhausted.
“Please don't tell me another story about Dad's childhood.”
“It's about yours.”
I looked at her.
She seemed uncertain for the first time all evening.
“Do you remember the statewide art competition when you were sixteen?”
“Of course.”
“You painted the mountains at dusk.”
I nodded.
I could still remember struggling to mix the right shade of violet for the distant ridge.
“That painting won first place.”
“Yes.”
“And Karen was your teacher.”
“Yes, Ruth. What's this about?”
She glanced toward the parking lot.
“After that competition, there was a summer arts program in Taos. Young artists were invited to work with professional painters for several weeks.”
I remembered hearing about it.
I'd kept the brochure under my pillow for days.
When I asked Mom whether I could apply, she told me the program had lost its funding.
I'd been disappointed, but eventually I accepted it.
“That program was canceled,” I said.
Ruth looked at me.
“No, honey.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“It wasn't canceled.”
I stared at her.
She continued carefully.
“Karen mentioned it to me at your gallery opening. She said she still remembered how disappointed she was when you didn't attend.”
I tried to understand.
“I wasn't invited.”
Ruth's expression changed.
“That isn't what she told me.”
Behind us, Ethan finished securing the painting.
He came over, saw my face, and stopped.
“What's wrong?”
I looked at Ruth.
“Are you telling me I had a place in that program?”
She didn't answer immediately.
And somehow, that silence frightened me more than anything that had happened at dinner.
“I don't know all the details,” she said. “I thought you'd turned it down. Your father said you wanted to stay home that summer.”
“I wanted to go.”
My voice came out so quietly that Ethan leaned closer.
“I wanted to go more than anything.”
Ruth closed her eyes.
“I should have asked you.”
For the first time that night, I felt real anger toward her.
“You knew about this?”
“I knew there had been an invitation. I didn't know you'd been told the program was canceled.”
I pulled away.
“Why didn't anyone ever ask me what I wanted?”
Ruth accepted the question without defending herself.
“That's something we should all have asked.”
The next morning, I drove to my old high school.
Karen had retired from full-time teaching but still volunteered twice a week in the art department.
I'd called ahead.
When she saw me, she immediately noticed how little sleep I'd gotten.
We sat in the same classroom where she'd taught me about negative space.
The wooden stools had been replaced.
The big windows hadn't changed.
I told her about the anniversary.
About the photograph.
About Ruth's memory of the Taos program.
Karen listened with both hands folded on her desk.
Then she unlocked a cabinet containing old exhibition catalogs and school art records.
She found a thin blue folder with my name on the tab.
Inside were photographs from the statewide competition.
My mountain painting.
My sixteen-year-old smile.
And a printed list of students selected for the Taos summer program.
My name was third.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Karen rested a hand on the folder.
“Rebecca,” she said, “the program wasn't canceled. They held your place for three weeks after the acceptance deadline.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
May you like
Her eyes filled with regret.
“Because I kept asking your parents to reconsider.”
