Looking Glass (reposted)

Chapter Two


It had been difficult to clear her schedule to meet with Thomas that afternoon, but she had managed it. There were several people, artists and buyers, rather angry with her right now, but Deirdre was well aware of her status in the art community and was more than willing to utilize it on this one occasion.

He was dying. Thomas, her mentor, was dying. He had always seemed so strong, so invincible. It was his hands that had given the impression. They had always been wide and roped with tendons and veins and smothered in paint or clay. Deirdre wasn’t sure she wanted to know how those hands had degenerated over the years. She hadn’t even known he was ill. She felt guilty about that. Even after Noah, Thomas had been kind and supportive. But he had passed those strong hands on to his son, and Deirdre hadn’t been able to watch them create, knowing a pair so similar would never touch her again. Of course, Noah had touched her, once more, but that incident wasn’t worth dwelling on. The fact was, her best friend was dying and had asked to see her.

She left the office early, giving herself plenty of time to get to the hospital. She raised her hand at the corner and heard a car pull up. She opened the door of the taxi and was about to slide in when the driver said, “Oh, no, lady. You can’t have no dog in my taxi. He’ll shit everywhere and my car’ll smell.”

Deirdre opened her mouth to say that by law any place, including transportation, that was open to the public was required to allow service animals. Instead she politely closed the door. The driver sped off, muttering. Deirdre shrugged and walked to the bus stop. It would be cheaper anyway, and she had plenty of time.

“Do not worry about it, Josie, that man is an asshole anyway.”

She carefully climbed the steps of the bus and paid her fare. She stopped at every seat until Josie let her know one was open. She sat down and concentrated on not remembering the last time she had been to Northland Community Hospital, when all the lights in her life went out. But no, she wasn’t going to dwell on it.

The bus driver politely announced her stop and Deirdre suddenly found herself standing outside the giant hospital. She had never wanted to come back here. She had moved afterwards to a part of town partially to escape the looming presence of this dominating building. She straightened her back even more and walked into the lobby. A young man at the reception desk offered to escort her to Thomas’s room, and she accepted, though reluctantly. She had never stopped hating her dependence on others for help.

The young man, whose name was James, chatted amiably with Deirdre as they made their way to the fourth floor. He was an art student, he said, a sculptor, working as an orderly here to finance his schooling. Deirdre mentioned that he should stop by her office with some sketches or photographs of his larger projects, and maybe a small sculpture or two. She gave him directions to her office, and the young man nearly went into hysterics.

“No way! No way! You’re Deirdre Steel? Seriously? Oh man, I never dreamed I would get to meet you. You would consider putting me in one of your galleries? Seriously? If I’m good enough, I mean? Wow. Oh, wow, thanks so much!”

Deirdre chuckled. “Bring some examples by. I’ll have someone look at them.” It filled her with a quiet pride to know her name was recognized in the art community. She had rebuilt herself around her empire of quality art galleries; to respect the art that was sold in her galleries was to respect a version of herself she had sculpted meticulously and tirelessly.

James brought her to Thomas’s door and left with another plethora of gratitude. Deirdre knocked softly and entered, her spine straight and her chin high.

“Deirdre? Hello, darling,” a voice boomed from the hospital bed that dominated the sparsely furnished room. “Damnation, but it’s been awhile. I hear you’ve made quite a name for yourself. I’d have stopped by to see your big fancy office if I weren’t all but chained to this blasted bed.”

Deirdre headed toward the bed, immediately recognizing the form beneath the blankets as her Thomas. She sat in the chair beside the bed and reached for his hand. Like his voice, it was still big and strong, showing no signs of the sickness that riddled his body. She had the impulse to hold it to her cheek, but she resisted.

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” she said quietly instead.

Thomas snorted. “Bah! You’ve been busy with your own life. You always warned me I would regret smoking three packs a day.”

Deirdre held back a sigh. So it was cancer. She had thought as much.

Thomas laughed. “But I can’t tell you you’re right. I don’t regret a single lung-clogging cigarette. Damn, but they made life worth living. Now, now I am ready to die: they won’t let me have my cigarettes. Just the time I think I have managed successfully to have a pack snuck in, just the time I think I have managed to pull the wool over their eyes—bam! Nursezilla catches me and makes an angry call to Noah. Noah! Bah! He’s a boy, and they call him as if I were his son. Just ask me what I think of this system!”

Deirdre smiled but said nothing. Thomas would not have called her here if he had only wanted to talk about the lack of respect for the elderly.

“I have missed you, Deirdre. I have missed your color in my life.”

A small, ironic smile pushed its way to Deirdre’s lips. “Didn’t you hear? There is no color in my life.”

“Bah! Stupid girl! There is no color in your eyes. You could have allowed color in your life.” Thomas saw those eyes go ever-so-slightly harder. If he hadn’t known her for so many years, he wouldn’t even have seen that tiny reaction, wouldn’t have recognized it as hurt. He gentled his tone. “But then, I don’t know what caused the darkness to fall.”

When Deirdre remained silent, Thomas worried that he had pushed her too far. Even before, she had guarded her privacy very closely. He knew very few details of her life before he had met her. He had questioned her in the beginning, and she had locked herself in her room for a week, just working on her art. The sculpture she had finished in that single week was one of her most poignant.

Deirdre dropped his hand. He deserved to know. She had always known it was selfish to keep it from him, but she had assumed that what he didn’t surmise, Noah would tell. Apparently that was not the case. She was amazed that Thomas had been left unknowing for so long and hadn’t insisted she tell him. She wasn’t surprised that his curiosity had gotten the better of him now that he knew his life was drawing to a close—his desire to know was greater than that of the proverbial cat.

Another proverb struck her once again at that moment: the eyes are the windows to the soul. She couldn’t see, but she closed her eyes anyway, unwilling to let Thomas see in when she couldn’t see out. It was a pathetic attempt to retain a small measure of her privacy. She would tell him her story somehow, but she couldn’t let him see it as well. She closed her windows and opened the door to the past.