Page 28 of Starry Tides
En route to the front door, Helena checked her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked skinny but tan from her long hours in the sun and far better than she had back in South Carolina. She almost looked healthy. Almost. When she opened the door to find an elegant-looking woman nearing her sixties, Helena offered a generous smile and said, “Thank you for coming by.”
Hilary walked regally into the foyer. She had the air of someone who’d grown up in royalty rather than simple wealth. Helena learned later that Hilary’s mother had been a famous Swedish actress who’d moved to the United States later in life. Hilary’s daughter was also a famous actress, leaving Hilary as the strange woman in the in-between. But she was also a customer for the movies in her own right. Helena wondered what that felt like to be around such fame and not have it.
Still, she seemed to have more money than she knew what to do with.
But Hilary was warm and kind-hearted and terribly excited about Helena’s paintings. Helena had gathered the curated collection on the patio, where they now stood, quietly assessing each of the five paintings. Helena tried to see them throughHilary’s eyes. Were they really four thousand dollars’ worth? What did that even mean?
Hilary shook her head and seemed to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “They’re truly something else. They open me up emotionally in ways I didn’t think possible. I was talking to a few friends about your work the other day, and the same thing happened. I just—poof—burst into tears. Do you have that effect on everyone?”
Helena didn’t want to give away the fact that she’d hardly ever sold any paintings. She’d certainly never sold any paintings like this. So she said, “There have been reports, yes. Of crying? But I don’t always have access to people’s emotional centers. I appreciate that they find something within my work that speaks to them. That’s all I can really say.”
Hilary seemed pleased with her response. Helena breathed a private sigh of relief.
It was a much calmer and more intimate time with Hilary than Helena had expected. When Hilary left that afternoon, she had with her three additional paintings, besides the one of Matteo that had initially led her to call Helena. Because two of the paintings were larger than the Matteo painting, Helena felt Hilary almost expected her to ask for higher prices. She’d had to come up with them on the spot, cursing herself for not thinking more about it prior to Hilary’s arrival. She’d actually told Hilary that one of them was ten grand in total, which was insane.
But Hilary said, “Of course.”
All told, along with the Matteo painting, Helena made out like a bandit that week. She earned twenty-five thousand dollars, all from Hilary Salt.
“And three friends want to come by to see your stuff,” Hilary said as she and Helena piled the wrapped paintings into the back of Hilary’s car. “Do you have anything else?”
Helena was stumped about what to say. “I do,” she admitted finally. “And I’m in the process of making some major works. I also take commissions.”
“Fabulous. That’s how you make your money,” Hilary said. “Rich people think they know what they want. After they describe it to you, you have to give it to them. And then, when they figure out that’s not what they actually wanted, you have to give them what they didn’t know they wanted. You have to have that ready.”
Helena wasn’t following, but she pretended she understood perfectly. “That’s always the way,” she said, as though she’d dealt with numerous wealthy people. As though this was a world she dipped into often.
As Hilary backed out of her driveway, Helena remained in the garage doorway, watching. As soon as Hilary was down the road and out of sight, Helena did a little dance for herself, then immediately went inside, closed the curtains, took off her dress, and crashed into bed. All that socializing had taken everything out of her.
When she woke up, however, the first thought that came to her mind was: twenty-five thousand dollars. It was so much extra money, extra money that dared her to ask: what did a dying woman like her really want with the time she had left?
She thought about “make a wish” situations. She thought about children who wished for a trip to Disney World. What was her wish? She closed her eyes and tried to envision it.
But the face that came into her mind wasn’t Mickey Mouse’s.
It was Matteo’s.
She opened her eyes again, cursing herself. That was something she couldn’t wish for. She got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make a big pot of coffee and begin another long day of painting. She had maybe fifteen paintings already stashed away for Hilary’s friends—women Hilary called the Salt Sistersfor a reason that Hilary hadn’t explained—to look at. But Helena wanted more. She wanted to elevate her vision. She wanted to push herself, both creatively and on social media.
Around the end of July, Hilary Salt’s friends Stella, Robby, and Rose came by to see Helena’s collection. They weren’t as wealthy or as regal as Hilary, and they cracked jokes easily and asked Helena a number of questions about her life, questions Helena had to dodge as they felt too sensitive. When they left, each took a painting. Rose had a smaller one, only two thousand dollars, but Robby sprang for a large eight-thousand-dollar painting, and Stella got one that was nearly six grand.
They didn’t seem to bat an eye, as though paying that much for art was an expected thing to do around here. Helena was getting better at pretending not to be surprised.
With the money coming in over the past two weeks and the euphoria that came with being recognized, Helena felt a rush of vitality she hadn’t experienced since before the pandemic. A few nights a week, she even slept fewer than ten hours, as though she were eager to get up and do things. As though her body had found a treasure trove of strength that she hadn’t imagined possible.
And then, almost without realizing what she was doing, she began to research health insurance plans. She dipped her toe in, assessing costs. Obviously, she was a risk for any major insurance company. But if she went with a private one, one that was a bit more expensive and a bit “fancier,” she guessed they wouldn’t turn her away. When she finally got up the nerve to call one, she burst into tears when she talked to the operator. She had to clean herself up and call back ten minutes later. The woman who answered was not the same one who’d answered before, which was a godsend. She didn’t want to have to explain herself.
But all at once, Helena was enrolled in health insurance.
All at once, she was protected—and insured—for a future death that awaited her.
When would it be? She didn’t know. For the first time since her diagnosis, she had the guts to push back against it. She wasn’t naive enough to think she could beat it. But maybe she had to try.
16
By mid-August, Helena’s art career was bigger than she ever could have dreamed. She was working on three commissions, two for Nantucket locals and one for a guy in Manhattan who’d reached out after seeing the pieces Hilary Salt had purchased. Helena had to get organized, setting up a calendar to structure her days and ensure she could get her paintings done by the time they needed to be shipped. Like always, she very rarely left the house. But unlike before, she found herself escaping the prison of her body and entering the fantastical worlds on her canvases.
Although it had grown incredibly hot this late in the summer season, Helena made sure to spend as much time as she could on the patio, watching the orange sunlight dance through the waves. She had groceries delivered twice per week: fresh fruits and vegetables that she usually ate on the table outside. She was tanner than she’d ever been, including the years when she’d been a ragtag southern child, running through the streets of Orangeburg. And privately, she’d begun to research various short-term treatments for her liver disease: pills and things that might give her worlds of energy during the time she had left.
