“Yes, very. They picked my work for the student showcase, did I tell you that?”
“You didn’t! But I’m not surprised, you’re very talented.”
Regan scoffed. “You’ve only seen one painting.”
“Take the compliment,” suggested the doctor. “It’s better for both of us if you do.”
“Is that doctor’s orders?”
“Call it a professional assessment,” the doctor said, though she moved on quickly. “How are your moods?”
“Fine, mostly. I’ve been working a lot, trying to finish up my piece for the showcase.”
“So, your sleep patterns…？”
“Not much sleep. But by choice,” Regan said quickly. “Only until the piece is finished. Which it is, nearly.”
“Ah, I see. And how about this birthday party for your father? Any concerns about that?”
“Nothing new,” Regan said, shuddering. “I’m really trying to be positive about it, just to keep Aldo calm. Besides,” she added, deciding to shrug on a casual optimism, like a coat that matched her blouse, “I think you’re right. Having him there will be helpful.”
“And why do you think that is?”
Regan had spent months adjusting to those questions, finding them less obtrusive now.
“Well, when he’s there, I feel more … like me, I guess. Like I finally have something to be proud of. I’m in love with someone I think highly of, and I have my work in an actual art show. A real one, not one my daddy bought me.” She exhaled swiftly, “It just feels new, I guess. In a good way.”
The doctor half-smiled. “Do you like new things?”
“Yes, almost always, but not like this. This feels like a new-old thing.”
“Oh? Explain that.”
“Well, it’s not new in a shocking way. Does that make sense? I think I used to crave newness—No, wait,” she corrected herself, shaking her head, “No, not crave it. Aldo says there’s a difference between cravings and compulsions, and I think he’s right. I used to have this compulsion for newness,” she explained, and the doctor nodded, “but this particular newness is slower, steadier. I actually worked on my technique, you know?” A shrug. “I created something I’m proud of. I’m with someone who makes me feel, I don’t know. Good.”
“Makes sense,” the doctor said. “When is the party?”
“Next week.”
“Oh, soon. And the art show is…？”
“The Monday after, actually.”
“And have you told Aldo yet?”
“No, not yet, I want to surprise him.” Regan paused for a moment, half-smiling, and said, “You know, this is the first time in my life that I actually feel like an artist.”
“Oh?” asked the doctor.
“Yeah. I mean, Aldo tells me I am all the time,” she said with a laugh, “but it really doesn’t mean anything when he says it. Well, no,” she amended quickly, “that’s not true. I don’t think I would have started if he hadn’t said it.”
“Then why keep it a surprise?”
“Well, because—” She grimaced. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him. For as long as I keep it a secret, it’s mine, you know? My thing to accomplish or fail.”
“And are you afraid of failing?”
“I’m … not exactly. I think—”
She paused for a moment.
“I think it’s the idea of an ending,” Regan said. “I feel like I’ve been going in circles for most of my life, just repeating the same patterns. This is the first time it feels different, and it’s not like I’m afraid, exactly, it’s just that I don’t know how it will feel. I’ve never done it before,” she admitted, “and it’s scary, I guess, but I’m not afraid.”
“Do you think Aldo knows that?”
Regan considered it for several long moments.
“Maybe,” she said.
She would remember that she said it because it was the only lie she told that day. She used them, her lies, sparingly these days. She found they were like old coping mechanisms, like the old pair of crutches she’d had when she was eight; something she’d kept around, just in case, until her mother had cleaned the basement and decided to throw them away.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN REGAN’S MOTHER who invited Marc to her father’s birthday party, which was a typical Helen move. The more Regan thought about it, the more she realized she should have known it would happen. She shouldn’t have brought Aldo to the dinner at all. The longer she went about replaying her choices, the more selfish a decision it seemed. She knew, for example, that Aldo disliked crowds. His introversion was fiercer than her extroversion, which was something she’d learned quickly and should therefore theoretically understand. He disliked conflict and confrontation because of course he did—he had been raised by Masso, who was gentle and soft-spoken and kind. Regan wondered if anyone had ever shouted at Aldo, or even raised their voice at him. She doubted it, and that, like everything else, was something she should have known.