Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [119]
I read: muscle, puppeteer of bone, and it struck me. My stories.
These were my phrases, bits of sentences I had cobbled together taken from their context and planted in haphazard rows like crops for some magical harvest.
When I reached the end of the garden I stooped down to examine a sign propped in the corner. It stood in a five-inch pool of light, illuminated by the smallest of the glass lights, which hung over the bit of paper like a miniature streetlight. The label listed six artists who had collaborated on the installation. Above the other artists listed, the name Eli Morretti, and above his name, the title:
Amy (Inspired)
I stared at our names printed together, as surprised by my reaction as I was astonished by the extravagance of the installation. Where I should have felt ownership over these words and some indignation at their being taken from me without my permission, I only felt a childlike wonder. I had stepped through the looking glass into a bizarre dream world. Everywhere I turned I found my own thoughts winking back at me, full of mystery. Something I’d said, something I’d done had in a way created this. No one had ever paid me a higher compliment.
I don’t know how long Eli stood watching me before he said my name.
Startled, I turned to find him walking down the aisle toward me.
“I didn’t expect you to come,” he said.
“I’m here.”
I threw my arms out, let them fall back to my sides; I crossed them to hide the kick of nerves rioting in my stomach. Here he was in all the detail my memory and imagination combined had tried and failed to reproduce to satisfaction: the exact flecking of color in his eyes, the fringe of his beard grown thick and curly in the humidity, his skin dark and redolent from hours soaked in sun.
“What are you doing here?”
He asked without pleasure and without judgment—he almost looked worried. I didn’t know how to interpret his reaction so I answered matter-of-factly, “I got your postcard. I wanted to see the show.”
“Did you fly?”
“I drove.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It’s nine hours.”
“Eleven if you drive like a grandma and pee like a racehorse.”
It was as awkward as a meeting between two people who’d once felt something for each other could possibly be.
“Amy Inspired?” I asked, trying to sound playful. I quickly scanned the courtyard for another watching woman, for the date he’d brought and was now hiding.
“It’s a working title,” he replied, bowing his head almost bashfully, running his hand through his hair. “It was Punjab’s doing, the lights—I’ll have to introduce you to him—but the idea was mine. Well, yours of course. Remember what you’d said about inspiration? Like light bulbs going off? That stuck with me for some reason.”
I’d never seen him self-conscious about his work before, and the work I’d seen to date had been amateur at best. Now he was awkward to the point of embarrassment.
“I’m just so shocked that you’re here,” he fumbled on. “I feel like I owe you an apology. I didn’t think you’d come, not that that’s an excuse. I should’ve asked you. I thought about calling you a hundred times.”
“Eli,” I said, “it’s stunning.”
He glanced up. “You think so?”
“Of course. I can’t believe a person could put something like this together in only six weeks.”
“It felt like a lot longer than six weeks.”
“Good,” I replied quickly, “because it felt like about twelve for me.”
His anxiety seemed to vanish. He laughed, a nervous, hopeful laugh.
“Show me the rest of the work,” I said.
We walked through and around the garden. He explained the mechanics of the sculpture, knelt with me to examine each handcrafted lamp closely. We lay belly flat on the sidewalk to peer through the forest of wires, not caring that everyone had to step over us to walk the path.
As he continued the tour through the emptying galleries, the awkwardness between us vanished. How many