The Children(56)

“Anyway, I went to LA. When I got to Marla’s place she was up, on something, dancing around with her USC friends, making a joke of it when I tried to talk to her alone. If I weren’t dead broke, flying on my parents’ miles, I’d have gotten a hotel room or changed my flight. I couldn’t, so I stayed.

“We had Door Museum tickets for the next night. Marla slept all day, and when her friends came back, they all took something the minute I left the room. Like I was their RA. I asked if it would mess with her prescriptions, and I was right. She’d stopped taking them.”

Nisha dipped her head, addressed the table. “There’s this thing I can’t stop thinking about? This moment when her friends were out picking up their forties of green juice or whatever and we were alone. And Marla looked at me and her face was just empty.

“She started to talk really fast. She told me she’d been writing this screenplay. It was going so well, she’d been so happy. But ever since she went to The Door Museum, she hadn’t written a word. She said it was gone. Whatever she reached for when she wrote, it wasn’t there. I reminded her she’d been through this before with a dozen other obsessions, and she got really angry. She told me she wasn’t obsessed with Ennis Sharpe, she hated him. Then her friends came back, and she put her fake face on, and it was horrible once I’d seen what was under it. But I didn’t call her parents.”

Nisha said the last part hoarsely, almost in a whisper. Started to say more and shook her head. Cleared her throat.

“I promised we’d find whatever she was looking for. I knew it was metaphorical, I figured it’d be like a, I don’t know. Ritual of reclaiming, some Cali shit. Marla was a big ritual person. Except they separated us at the door. And you’re not allowed to bring your phone into an Ennis Sharpe show, so . . .”

She slanted a look at Guin, as if remembering who she was talking to.

“I was worried about Marla, but you can’t rush through it. You’re in for as long as you’re in. And I actually really liked it. The show. Installation, whatever. Walking through all these interconnected places, all these doors, brought up memories in me that I’d entirely forgotten.” She sniffed. “It almost felt like a detox. Like an acupuncture needle, releasing things I’d been holding on to.

“I was in there maybe an hour and a half? I don’t know whether I really had a bad feeling or if it’s hindsight. But I think I knew. Way before they brought her out, I think I knew something awful had happened.”

Guin let the silence sit for a respectful moment. Then delicately she said, “What if it wasn’t a metaphor? What if she’d really lost something inside? What if—”

“Don’t,” Nisha said loudly, over her. “Please. I can’t think that way. It doesn’t help me, or Marla, and anyway, it’s not a thing. I’ve read the articles. The fawning ones and the conspiracy theories and the ones written by people who hate your brother’s guts. Because he’s a charlatan, or an asshole, or an irresponsible prick who should’ve had higher railings.

“The truth is, art is powerful. Artists hack people’s brains, that’s their entire point. You don’t sign a waiver before you go to a play or read a book or put on an album. Is it Lana Del Rey’s fault I did nothing my entire freshman year except listen to Ultraviolence and cry? Like, maybe. It could have been a different artist, though. Ennis Sharpe—he was incidental. Marla was the constant.”

Guin said, “He’s opening another show. In Brooklyn, on Wednesday.”

“I know.” Nisha gave a small shrug, defiant. “I’ll probably go. Aversion therapy, or something.”

“Don’t.” Guin spoke sharply, abandoning caution.

“Why not?”

“Just—don’t.”

Nisha looked fascinated. “Do you think something’s going to happen?” When Guin didn’t reply, she leaned in. “You do. You do think that. What’s gonna happen?”

“I don’t know,” Guin slapped a hand on the table, “why I’m here. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Why he’s putting on this show. Why the name of it, why now.” Panic sent a Novocain weakness down her arms, made her fingers tremble. “But if I do nothing, and something happens again . . .”

“Again.” Nisha repeated it, face stricken. “As in, after Marla? Or again like . . . after something else?”

Guin peered at Nisha, unable to get her hands around what she herself had said. What she’d meant when she said it. The young woman’s expression softened, coloring with pity and surprise.

“You know you’re not his keeper, right?” She shook her head slowly. “Damn. You had a pretty fucked-up childhood, didn’t you?”

Grim, half joking, Guin said, “Of course. Didn’t we all?”

Nisha lifted one shoulder. “No?”

Horribly, Guin’s eyes filled with tears. The younger woman put a hand on hers.

“I think you’re using Marla’s death to be mad at your brother for other things.” Her voice brimmed with diagnostic wisdom. “Like, transference.”

The audacity! Guin’s tears dried at the source. Hastily Nisha retracted her hand.

“That’s your business.” She checked her ponytail, slipped her phone into her pocket. “I’ve said what I came here to say. You can let go of your guilt about Marla.” She gave Guin a shrewd look, twisting her lips. “I don’t know, though. Maybe you’re holding on to guilt about something else.”