find a scrunched-up Kleenex in the bottom of my purse and check it. It’s stained with something vaguely oily, vaguely yellow. Chicken korma from the other night, I bet. I use the least stained corner of it to wipe my cheeks clean and add a small packet of tissues from the counter to my purchase.
Luis’s studio is in an old industrial warehouse on the west side of the city. He occupies half of the third floor, which is huge. It’s perfect for him, with massive windows, exposed red bricks and high ceilings.
I park outside and automatically look up, expecting the light to be on, but his windows are dark. Could I have missed him? I check the time on the dashboard—ten to six. I pull out my phone and try his number again but still get voicemail. I text Carla.
Hi honey, is Dad home?
No. When r u coming home?
I don’t know. Late probably. Love you xox
I wait a moment for a reply but none comes, so I slip the phone back in my bag and grab the box wine from the passenger seat. I know where the key is kept, and with a bit of luck it will still be there. There’s a code to get in downstairs which I have to look up in my notes on my phone. I punch in the numbers and the heavy door opens with a click. I take the elevator—one of those enormous cargo lifts—to Luis’s studio.
I find the spare key in its usual place, between two bricks where the mortar has crumbled away. It’s small and flat, round at the top, and looks completely wrong for the big metal door. It feels gritty in my hand, like it hasn’t been used in a long time. It catches in the lock and looks like it might not work after all, and suddenly I feel desperate to get in, to wait for him. I give it one more twist and it gets past the snaggy bit, and suddenly, I am in.
I haven’t been in Luis’s studio in months, but the smell is the same: a mix of turpentine and glue, or something like that. I flick the switch by the door and the fluorescent tubes flicker into life, and I gasp.
In the center of the room is a giant bird’s nest made of twigs and feathers and bits of hay, and suspended by cabling so thin as to be invisible. I run my fingertips over a small part of it and realize it’s not twigs and feathers but bits of recycled plastic made to look like them. Inside are two small, strange creatures emerging from their giant eggshells, their eyes pleading, and I have to look away.
Other than bits of materials on a trestle table, the place is surprisingly tidy. But Luis is always tidy. Very organized.
I take my box wine to the kitchenette at the far end of the room. It’s just a sink set into a white tiled bench, one cupboard hanging on the wall above, and a small one below. I put the box on the bench and reach up to get a glass, then notice two of them lying in the drying rack. Wine glasses, too. I don’t remember Luis’s studio being stocked up in wine glasses. I check the cupboards and find two pretty blue and white bowls, the kind you’d serve olives or nuts in. The chipped, mismatched china plates he used to use have been replaced by a set of six ceramic dishes, sand colored on the outside, and handmade by the looks of it. Next to them on the shelf sits a set of matching cups, shaped like goblets. What on earth is this stuff doing here? It sure doesn’t look like the kind of thing Luis would buy for himself. He doesn’t care what he drinks out of when he’s working. I search around for the battered old campfire mug with the Cleveland Browns logo on it that he’s always holding and spot it on top of a milk crate, along with empty pickle jars and old newspapers.
My skin feels clammy. It’s too stuffy in here. The windows in this studio are sealed shut except for the ones at the top. Luis has welded a hook to one end of a long steel rod to open and close them, and I find it leaning against the wall. I manage to hook it around the latch and tug a top pane open. A light breeze makes