Free Gladly Beyond by Nichole van

question—”
    “Oh, good. I have a question for you too. Did I tell you about the installation, darling? The one with the Rockefellers?” Mom had this odd east coast accent that wasn’t completely American or British, but something in between. It should have been off-putting, but most people simply considered it bohemian.
    “Uhmmm, I think I heard someone mention it—”
    “It’s going to be brilliant. The music has taken us months to get right.”
    “Music? But, you guys don’t do music—”
    “I know, I know. We hired a composer. She’s brilliant, but I think your stepfather finds her brilliant in other ways. You know how he is.” Mom laughed her brittle laugh. The one that was anything but amused.
    Figured John-Baptista would be giving my mom fits.
    I had no memory of my real father, Tom, Grammy’s son. He had died in a car accident when I was three. Mom remarried JB when I was five. I called him Dad and we got along fine.
    Fortunately for me, my mom and Grammy had always had a close relationship, even after my biological father died. Grammy loved people so hard, you had no choice but to love her back.
    “Anyway, the music has to be timed with the gauze,” Mom continued, “and we just don’t have the resources—Micky, Micky! No! ”
    Mom’s voice drifted back to that low hum . . . I only caught the occasional word . . . too high . . . more flowy . . . not now . . .
    “Mom. Mom!” I tried to pull her attention back.
    Mom and her fabric. You can still find postcards of her Lady Liberty: Mourning in New York City even though the National Park Service only allowed the black cloth to remain on the statue for twenty-four hours.
    I studied the tourists window-shopping along the bridge, gawking at the goldsmith shops. Everyone looking for that special something.
    A metaphor for my life.
    “Mom!” I said one last time.
    “Oh, Claire.” She was breathless now. “Are you still there?”
    “Yes, but Mom—”
    “So you got all that about the Rockefellers, right?”
    “About the installation?”
    “Yes. The supplier and the media people need to be paid beforehand, and you know how JB is with money. Anyway, I’m sure you still have that inheritance Grammy left you . . .” Her voice trailed into hint, hint, hint.
    I sighed. There was no inheritance from Grammy. Just the house, which I had no intention of selling. Mom never listened to my explanations.
    “Mom, how much do you need?”
    She named a sum equal to about half my current month’s salary from the Colonel.
    I needed that money. Grammy’s house required repairs and after so many months without employment, I had plenty of credit card bills of my own. But . . .
    “I promise I’ll pay it all back as soon as the Rockefeller’s settle our invoice,” Mom said, correctly reading my hesitation.
    Right. And the day I believed that . . .
    “Promise you’ll pay it back?”
    “Of course, darling.”
    The lies we told each other.
    “Fine. I’ll transfer what I can into your account,” I said. Sometimes I hated that I loved my mom.
    I just had to get this job with the Colonel. There was no other option.
    “Thanks, Claire darling. I love you so much. I need to go—”
    “Wait, Mom. Did Grammy know Mr. Finster-Cline?”
    “Who?”
    “Adelaide. My father’s mother. The one you think had lots of money.”
    An exasperated noise. “Don’t be smart with me. I know who Grammy was. Who else did you say?”
    “Kenneth Finster-Cline. He’s a wealthy art collector I’m working with right now—”
    “The Colonel?”
    “Yes.”
    “I haven’t seen him in ages. Please tell him I said hi.”
    My mother would know the Colonel. “Okay, I will. But, Mom, he said he knew Grammy and—”
    “Does he want another painting?”
    “What?”
    “The Colonel has purchased a few of my—Micky! Not again!”
    The line went dead.
    Honestly, how could a five-minute phone conversation so thoroughly summarize my childhood? It was uncanny.
    Getting my mother to