Jodi had shown up a few weeks later.  They danced around one another for months thereafter, though Bette’s was more of a dervish and Jodi’s was a patient foxtrot. 

One quiet night, curled in bed after a gentle lovemaking session, just as Bette was fleeing once again into her self-doubt, Jodi had wrapped her arms tightly around Bette, as if her strength could keep Bette from retreating.  Eventually, she reached over and turned on the lamp, pulling Bette up so that they sat facing one another.

Jodi knew Bette was afraid that what she could offer wasn’t enough.  If she could reshape the world to her desires, Jodi would have reshaped it so that she would have more.  She was a realist, though, and would not dream for a perfection that could never exist.  Jodi took hold of Bette’s hands.  Despite the comforting movements of Jodi’s thumb rubbing her fingers, Bette looked at her nervously.

Jodi released Bette’s hands to sign, “Bette, it’s okay.  I know and it’s okay.”

When Bette did not understand, Jodi tried again.  “I know that I am not the love of your life.  I will be the love in your life.”

And Bette had felt freed.

When Jodi had wanted them to have another child, Bette was joyous. The first time she had touched Jodi’s stomach when the infant girl kicked, Bette was certain she felt the tug and pull as her heart stretched open to accommodate one more.  Jodi had suggested naming her Mekalya for the Archangel Michael but really for Angelica and Raphael, her angelic siblings.

More than twenty years later, Bette’s grudging acceptance of the symposium had assumed that Jodi would be present and the center of attention.  Now, instead, Bette was to be Jodi’s stand-in.  She was overwhelmed with and angry about the multiple roles she was expected to play.  She was the art world titan and eminence grise, comforting mother, bearer of the torch of Jodi’s reputation, hostess for attendees, mentor to the intern assisting her that weekend.  Her personal life, her loves and her mistakes from years ago, were interwoven into the sculpture in the woods.  Whenever they were discretely referenced by the speakers, the fans and scholars of Jodi’s work in attendance would all think they knew the details.  Even though Bette knew that they understood nothing, their surreptitious and intrusive glances would be disconcerting.  Worst, though, was her public role as grieving widow.  Bette knew that everyone had an understanding of what that was supposed to mean, though none of those understandings matched one another. She had perfected her gracious response to the sympathetic turn of the head and forearm touch, and was relieved that, so far, that ritualistic response was all that had been expected.

The multiple roles were exhausting and she wanted Jodi back but, since she couldn’t have that, she just wanted to go home.