October came.
The garden died again. The tomatoes stopped. The basil turned brown. The morning glories dropped their seeds.
Maya cleared the soil. She turned the dirt. She covered it with a tarp.
The courtyard looked empty. Barren. The broken birdbath stood in the corner.
Leo came down. He stood next to her.
"It'll grow back," he said.
"In the spring."
"In the spring."
They went upstairs. The apartment was quiet.
---
Maya received an email on a Tuesday.
Dear Ms. Reyes,
We are pleased to invite you to submit work for a group exhibition at the Brooklyn Waterfront Arts Center. The theme is "Home." Submissions due November 15th. Exhibition runs December 1-31.
We have been following your portfolio. Your drawings of the old building on Franklin Avenue are exceptional. We hope you will participate.
Sincerely,
Dr. Elena Vasquez (no relation to your mother)
Curator
Maya read the email three times.
"Leo," she called.
He came out of the bedroom. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Read this."
He read the email. His face changed. A smile. Wide.
"This is amazing," he said.
"I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't know? This is a gallery. A real gallery."
"I've never shown my work before."
"Then start."
She looked at the email. "Home."
"That's the theme."
"I don't know what to submit."
He took her hand. "The old building. The roof. The garden. Mrs. Patterson. That's home."
"That's gone."
"It's not gone. It's in your sketchbooks."
She sat on the floor. The hardwood was cold.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of failing. Of people not liking my work. Of being told I'm not good enough."
Leo sat next to her. "You've been told that your whole life. By your mother. By the world. By yourself." He paused. "It's time to stop listening."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're not helpful."
"I'm not trying to be."
---
She spent the next month in the studio.
She went through every sketchbook. Every drawing. Every page.
She selected ten pieces. The water tank. The painted eye. The garden in the summer. The garden in the winter. Mrs. Patterson on the milk crate. The roof at dawn. The roof at dusk.
She framed them herself. Leo helped. They bought frames at a shop on Nostrand. The frames were cheap. The glass was thin.
"It's not professional," Maya said.
"It's real."
"That's not the same."
"It's better."
---
The exhibition opened on December 1st.
The Brooklyn Waterfront Arts Center was a large building. Brick. Old. Once a warehouse. Now a gallery.
Maya stood in the lobby. Her hands were cold. Her heart was fast.
Leo stood next to her. Marco was there. Jasmine was there. David was there. Mr. Chen had taken the bus from Florida. Vanessa was there. Irene was there.
Her mother was there.
"You came," Maya said.
"You invited me."
"I know."
They hugged. Her mother was thin. Her shoulder blades pressed against Maya's hands.
"I'm proud of you," her mother said.
"Wait until you see the drawings."
"I don't need to see them. I'm proud of you anyway."
---
The gallery was crowded.
People in nice clothes. Glasses of wine. Quiet voices.
Maya's drawings hung on the walls. The water tank. The painted eye. The garden. Mrs. Patterson.
People stopped in front of them. They pointed. They whispered.
Maya stood in the corner. She didn't know what to do with her hands.
Leo came up behind her. "They like them."
"How do you know?"
"Because they're not leaving."
She looked at the crowd. A woman in a red dress was staring at the drawing of Mrs. Patterson. Her hand was over her mouth.
"She's crying," Maya said.
"Your work made her cry."
"That's not good."
"It's honest."
---
Dr. Elena Vasquez found her after an hour.
The curator was tall. Grey hair. Glasses on a chain.
"Ms. Reyes," she said. "Your work is extraordinary."
"Thank you."
"The way you capture light. The way you capture memory. It's rare."
Maya didn't know what to say. "I just draw what I see."
"That's what all artists say. But most of them don't see what you see."
Dr. Vasquez handed her a business card. "I have a proposition. A solo show. Next fall. Same space. Would you be interested?"
Maya looked at the card. Her name. A phone number. An email.
"Yes," she said. "I'm interested."
"Excellent. I'll be in touch."
Dr. Vasquez walked away.
Leo was staring at her. "A solo show?"
"That's what she said."
"That's huge."
"I know."
"Why don't you look happy?"
Maya looked at the drawings on the wall. The water tank. The painted eye. Mrs. Patterson.
"I am happy," she said. "I'm also scared."
"Same thing."
"No. Not the same."
He took her hand. "You'll be fine."
"How do you know?"
"Because you've survived worse."
She kissed him. The gallery hummed. The wine glasses clinked.
---
After the exhibition, they went to the roof.
The roof of the arts center. It overlooked the water. The East River. The lights of Manhattan.
Maya stood at the railing. The wind was cold. The stars were bright.
"Mrs. Patterson would have loved this," she said.
"She would have said the wine was too expensive."
Maya almost smiled. "She would have drunk it anyway."
Leo stood next to her. "Your mother is proud of you."
"I know."
"Marco is proud of you."
"I know."
"Mr. Chen is proud of you."
"I know."
"I'm proud of you."
She looked at him. His eyes were brown. The kind of brown that caught light.
"I know," she said.
He kissed her. The river flowed. The city hummed.
---
They took the subway home.
The train was empty. They sat next to each other. Her head on his shoulder.
"Maya."
"Yeah."
E
"What's next?"
She thought about it. The solo show. The garden. The apartment. The drawings.
"More of the same," she said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He kissed her hair. The train rattled. The tunnels flashed past.