Side Order

Vincent Lian ‘25

I’d like to think she ended up in one of those paintings, maybe one by Claude Monet, the serene lilies dotting the surface of the water top. She would walk on water the same way she would on stage, her dress barely glancing at the surface as she approached the piano.

But Mom was never a fan of Monet. Dad said his strokes were too messy for her liking, one that invited no room for clarity. I suppose being a trained practitioner of classical music, she had no taste for the blurry.

Did my dear daughter wait long? he asked as he sat down next to me. 1855, A Pic Nick by Jerome B. Thompson, a classic picnic painting. Have you taken an interest in classic American art?

A little bit, I replied. I just thought Mom would like this painting a lot.

It’s quite a peaceful image, and its composition is lovely, fitting the casual scene. It was added to our collection a century later after its creation.

Interesting.

Do you want this piece? I can produce a replica.

Isn’t that illegal?

Perhaps you prefer the actual piece here?

Isn’t that still illegal?

He laughed and produced a drink from a plastic bag. Taro with boba, he handed it to me.

I thought no drinks were allowed in the gallery. He produced another bubble tea from the bag and casually jammed the straw through the lid. You’re welcome.

Even after all those years, father was easy to read. Not an open book, but a painting, one that tried to hide its subject under layers of motifs. He now spent all his time in a studio apartment near the museum and joked that the art studio there would be his retirement home. He handed the keys to our old house to me, which I only visited when I needed to store some things or do some baking.

I still think you’d be a nice fit as an art professor, he said, sipping on his straw.

I’m quite busy with lab work. Busy enough to have time for Paris? How was it, by the by? Well, thanks to your European citizenship I got free access to the Louvre.

Your access ends when you’re twenty-five, you know. Thank you for that valuable information. What was your favorite piece?

I thought the Mona Lisa looked ugly. No eyebrows. Your mom said the same thing.

The seasons changed when I visited him again. The leaves opted to coat themselves in red, blending with the lazy sun. During fall, Dad loved to point out that the moment that the sun sets is the “golden hour,” the prime time for photography. He would drag Mom and me to the park and then explain in meticulous detail how to perfectly frame and capture the sunlight with the camera, and had mom be his muse, instructing her how to pose by bringing up various paintings. Pose like Mona Lisa, he would yell, or like Madame X. I was four and was busy chewing on a wooden stick that I picked up.

A different subject this time? he asked when he sat down next to me. His face looked a bit disheveled. His few strands of white hair were dully illuminated by the light above, the bulbs humming along with the theatre.

It’s well drawn. The fruits look pretty, I replied.

Oil painted - its rendering is superb. I believe Monet painted it in 1864, and it’s well known for its technical innovations. Strong bold brushstrokes make up most of this piece.

You sure do know your paintings.

I’m a curator for a reason. So, how did your application go?

I think the professor liked me. I handed over his name card to him. He said he knows you.

He still works there? he laughed. I thought he hated the younglings.

What do you mean?

You don’t remember him? You used to call him Sir Santa all the time when he visited our place.

Sir Santa? I asked.

Because of his round stomach.

Oh.

Always loved playing with you, that guy. I’ve been meaning to contact him.

How did you two lose touch?

He thought for a moment. Let’s just say I wasn’t in the best shape when all that happened.

I remembered - when her prognosis came out, he transferred me to boarding school and kept me in the dark about everything. Regardless, he continued, I think he wouldn’t mind if you called him Sir Santa.

I do have to give a mock presentation on a painting in front of him, you know.

So like a tour guide?

If you phrase it like that.

Need me to call Sir Santa to give you a pass?

I’m in my twenties, not two.

We moved out of the gallery and into the museum cafe, populated by a lone janitor. The museum was closed to visitors, but my Dad ordered us two cups of hot chocolate and a peach pie. You still remember? he asked.

About what?

Your mom’s sliced peaches.

Of course, I do.

She would apologize by leaving a plate of fruits by your door, he laughed.

I think it took her too many years to realize I had no talent for the piano.

It’s because she believed. She always thought you had talent. Well, she was wrong.

That’s just the way she loved you.

Life used to be lazy. I had spent my middle school afternoons walking around the neighborhood, trying to collect the most “pesticides sprayed” signs from the lawns so I could avoid the piano practice. My Dad and I would spend winter break watching Christmas Hallmark movies loaded on aged VCRs. Sometimes, at Mom’s insistence, Dad and I would watch old Chinese dramas instead, to “make up” for the lack of Chinese school over New Year’s.

Dad “compromised” by showing me artsy french art house films, translating play-by-play as I didn’t speak French. We ended and started movies between mom’s rare trips home from her concerts, and she would interrogate my Dad if I had continued to play the piano diligently in her absence. She gave me a list of things for my Dad to pay attention to: were my notes clear? Were the sixteenth notes played clearly? Was the rhythm on track with the metronome? Did I use the pedals effectively? She also requested my Dad send her audio files of my piano sessions, or if she was worried, she would call Dad and have him set his phone next to the piano as I played.

I ordered another slice of peach pie, but he decided to order the whole pie. For me to take home, he justified.

What have you been working on recently? he asked me.

It’s quite depressing.

I always want to hear what my daughter’s working on, he chuckled.

It’s called Chronic Wasting Disease. It’s a rare and contagious disease but only limited to deer and moose.

Interesting.

It happens when the protein misfolds and replicates, without being removed. Sort of like cancer.

What makes it different?

Well, the misfolded proteins, prions, can spread throughout the body. So proteins may start misfolding in the leg, so the deer starts limping, and then the eyes, so it goes blind.

And then the brain, he deducted.

Yep.

The body killing itself. Quite gruesome, he chuckled, and then he dug into the pie. Almost like her.

He slowly walked me to the museum’s front entrance, greeting his coworkers warmly, and then proceeded to gush about me to them if he could.

When’s the new gallery opening? I asked him.

Hopefully the next season.

Is it permanent?

He sighed. I have been talking it through with the director, but she’s not too optimistic about the reception of foreign art in the museum.

Ah. Well, I suppose it makes sense.

Don’t worry. Some of the art will be added to the main collection, some of your mom’s favorite ink paintings.

I’m quite busy at school.

I see. Well, know you’ll always have free admission. You always give me free admission.

Why shouldn’t I? Just like Mom.

Mom?

Yeah. It was the reason why she fell in love with me. You’re kidding.

It’s one way to a woman’s heart.

Ugh.

We met at the Louvre actually, he proudly boasted. He told me he will tell me the exact details when I have time.

Do you still have her number? he asked.

Mom’s?

He nodded.

I still call her sometimes, just to hear her. Her voicemail box is still active?

Yeah. It’s just nice to hear her voice.

Right, he paused. It has been a while. He handed me the plastic bag. I requested extra cinnamon.

You don’t want any?

No, you can have it all. As you always do.

I was finishing my lab report when he emailed me a long summary of how they met. She was on break from the orchestra tour, so she had time to explore Paris a bit, and dedicated her time to the museums. She was homesick, away from China, Dad said. She and Dad first met in the long lines in front of the Louvre Pyramid, and she was excited to meet someone who she could speak in her native tongue. He said they hit it off, had many dates in the Louvre, and in his words, it naturally evolved into something beautiful.

I called him later to ask for details.

It was snowing actually when I proposed to her, he started. You’re then going to tell me you two fell in love and were wearing green and red sweatshirts.

And we then shared a tender kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower and ate escargots and many delicious hors-d’œuvres.

And then you two had me under the Eiffel Tower?

We had you when we moved to America. And before, our seven-day honeymoon trip around Europe.

Just in Paris?

Go to all the restaurants, of course. And museums, he added. She said she wanted her child only to eat the most nutritious and amazing delicacies, so you will grow up to be wonderful and talented. His words, not mine.

He attached a recipe for Peach Clafoutis after he had finished sending his long summary.

She loved you a lot, more than me I would guess, he joked. She never gave me any sliced fruits.

I had not checked her page in years. Her Wikipedia page was the same, listing all her awards and recognition. The big photo plastered at the top was her wide smile, wrinkling her eyes into a crescent.

She is survived by her husband and one daughter.

I lay on my bed and called her number and waited, for her thick accent and meek English. The phone beeped, and beeped again and again, and fell silent.

I’m sorry, the person you are trying to reach has a voicemail box that has not been set up yet. Please try again later.

I imagined she was away, busy at a picnic. Her tender fingers picked away at the fuzzy peach skin, which she would then slice neatly, spreading them in a crescent shape on a plate.

“With cinnamon, your favorite.”