<< Go Back

After You're Gone

By Deborah Lynne

Order Now!

Chapter 1

Malila Vasquez, curator of The San Francisco Institution of Art, walked through the display of the new Native American Navajo art exhibit. The presentation she’d worked long and hard to see come to fruition was now ready for the public viewing. Pride swept over her. She felt as though this exhibition was her own child. She had pitched the idea to the director, searched and gathered the items now set for display, and arranged them pleasing to the eye of the spectator.
Native American basketries, pottery, jewelry, paintings, photographs, prints, sculptures, and charcoal drawings were displayed in the south wing of the museum—the museum for which she had worked the last five years. For six months she had been gathering these pieces, and now she showcased them for the exhibition. Her chest swelled with pride as she admired each piece. This symbolized her father’s heritage…hers too for that matter.
This was her job as curator, but it went beyond that. Her father, Mantunaaga Vasquez, Matt to friends and family, a full-blood Native American Navajo Indian, had taught her the history of her culture from the day she could crawl. She did this for him…to show her pride in their culture.
For the past five years, Malila had struggled to help grow this small museum in the San Francisco Bay area. With so many great museums featuring world-class art, she’d grappled to find something that would make their museum stand out from the crowd, or at least to draw the masses inside their establishment. This waterfront area of San Francisco charmed thousands of vacationers every year as she has tried to encourage the foot traffic of the holidaymakers to take a peek inside their doors.
She did her part in promoting the museum locally as well– giving talks to various groups, sharing all there was to see at the gallery. Malila wrote reviews of the museum’s pieces for the art section of the newspaper as well as catalogued and authenticated the works she brought into the museum. In fact, at her suggestion to the director, the institution extensively renovated the Art History section, making it grander and allowing for stronger, more massive exhibits of California and local history in the making. This drew in a larger number of the foot crowd that visited the wharf.
In the past couple of years, the museum carried exhibitions from the gold mines to the present-day artists in the San Francisco area. This latest exhibit of the Native American Navajo Indian’s World of Art made her heart pound with expectation. The turnout should be good, given the public’s Indian history. Even more, she thrilled at the possibility of one day her being included herself in this circle of artists.
“Malila, I must congratulate you on the exhibit. You’ve done it again,” a deep baritone voice said from behind.
Taking a quick breath, she cleared the thoughts and dreams vigorously swirling around in her mind. Laying her hand lightly on her chest, she turned on her heel. “Director Nicholson. I didn’t hear you come into the room. In fact, I didn’t even know you were here today.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear.” The balding man in the three-piece suit graced her with a smile. “I have news that I think you’ll be happy to hear, and I wanted to share it with you personally.” The tips of his thick fingers on his right hand smoothed the edge of his skillfully trimmed moustache.
A tingle of excitement stirred within. She expected Peter Nicholson, the director of the museum and her boss, to check out the massive display before the exhibit opened to the public this weekend, but he rarely dropped by unexpectedly in the middle of the day. So what was his news?
“Really, Sir? I’m listening. You’ve got my undivided attention.”
“I met with the board this morning, our regular Monday morning meeting, giving them more information on your display. In the course of our discussion, I mentioned your Indian artwork and how beautifully you depict your heritage in your paintings. I’ve seen the ones you have hanging in your office.”
“Well thank you, sir. I’m flattered you mentioned my artwork.”
He touched her shoulder lightly. “Malila, you are a wonderful artist—a special gift has been given to you. I’m proud of your work as an artist and as our curator.” Shaking his thick index finger in the air, he went on. “Anyway, the board decided to allow you to display a couple of your paintings next to the exhibit. Who knows what this could do for your career as an artist? It could be your big break, dear, something I know you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl.” Touching his moustache again, he tilted his chin into the air. “And I’m excited to be a stepping-stone for you, my dear.”
Heat rose up her neck to her face. This was a dream come true! She knew her artistic flair was a gift from God, and she was thankful. She’d dreamed that one day someone would take notice, never in a million years thinking it would be her own boss. It was all she could do to contain her excitement. Malila wanted to throw her arms around his neck and dance a jig but restrained herself.
Before she could thank him profusely, a soft voice called over the speakers in the museum, “Malila, line 2.”
She peered at the box in the corner of the ceiling. “I better get that.” Covering his hands with hers, she squeezed. “Director Nicholson, thank you so much for this opportunity. You don’t know how much it means to me to know you believe in me, in my paintings. I won’t let you down.” A grin split her face. My work is going to be in the show!
Spinning on her heel, she scurried away. Her feet barely touched the ground. My dreams are coming true! Thank You, Lord! These words played over and over in her mind as she ran through the museum, barely able to hold back her cries of jubilation. Malila wanted to sing and shout the joy from within. She wanted to jump into the air and click her heels together as she hurried through the hallways, but she kept herself in check. Unfortunately she couldn’t shut down her mind. Elation bounced off the walls of her brain as she glided through the museum.
Rounding the corner, she slipped down the hallway to the receptionist’s office. Slowing her steps, she sashayed into the room. “Which line was it?” she asked as she saw three lines blinking.
“Line 2,” Catherine said.
Lila slipped past her assistant’s desk and through the door that led into her office. The light on line 2 blinked rapidly. Pushing the button, she raised the receiver to her ear. “Malila Vasquez. May I help you?”
“Lil. Is that you?” A soft voice sounded in her ear. “It’s me, Vicky.”
Stunned to hear a familiar voice from so long ago, Malila gripped the phone. “Victoria Rodman? Is that you?”
Laughter trickled in Malila’s ear. “Did you forget I married three years ago? Victoria Elizabeth Rodman Hughes at your service.”
“Victoria…Vicky. It’s so nice to hear your voice. We haven’t spoken in what, ten years? Other than through e-mails, birthday cards and Christmas cards, that is.” The two of them hadn’t even connected after the death of Vicky’s husband or after the birth of her daughter. Only through e-mails and cards did they communicate. They didn’t even text one another. Vicky and Lila were friends, but never close. The long-distance friendship stemmed from being roommates in college, but the two were not actual friends during their school years. They simply stayed in touch after finishing their education, and a deeper friendship grew through time.
In Lila’s mind, ten years melted away. A picture of the last day in their dorm on Harvard’s campus as they said their good-byes appeared in her head instantly. For five years the two of them shared a dorm room, and it took every one of those years to become friends. In the beginning, a large chasm manifested between the two personalities. Through it all, Malila stayed true to her belief in God and tried to be a Christian influence on Victoria, pouring out His love to her overly spoiled rich roommate who had no idea who her Heavenly Father was, nor did she care to know.
“If we didn’t live…across the continent from one another, you on the west coast…and me on the east, I do believe…we could have become best friends,” Vicky said. “I know the words…you’ve shared through the cards and notes you sent me over the years…have spoken volumes…to my heart. And because of this, I’m calling to ask…a big favor of you now.”
Instinct grabbed Malila’s spirit. Vicky needed help. Not that she had ever asked for help of any kind before, but that she would ask now meant something serious was going on in Vicky’s life. “Of course, anything! You know my heart.”
Vicky drew in a raspy breath before responding and more between every four or five words. “Yes, I do Lil. That’s why I’m calling. I really need your help.” The silence on the line for a second or two was deafening, and then she whispered, “I’m dying.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back