When the gallery assistant pulled away the cloth, Miriam took a step backward.
The painted woman held a bright red suitcase.
Miriam knew the suitcase.
She had carried it into the city at nineteen, with two dresses, thirty pounds, and an address written on a piece of paper.
“That’s me.”
Beside her, her grandson, Oliver, looked from the painting to her face.
The exhibition featured work discovered in the studio of a recently deceased artist.
Miriam had agreed to come because Oliver was helping prepare the catalogue.
She hadn’t expected to find herself on the wall.
“You modeled for him?”
“For three afternoons.”
Oliver opened the folder he was carrying.
Inside was a photograph of Miriam beside the artist.
“I found this yesterday. I wasn’t sure.”
She touched the edge of the page.
“He paid enough for two weeks’ rent.”
“Did you stay in touch?”
“No.”
But she had wanted to.
The artist had encouraged her to apply to art school. She had shown him sketches made on the backs of shopping lists.
Then her father became ill, and she went home.
Oliver looked at her.
“You drew?”
“Everyone draws.”
“Not everyone keeps it secret for sixty years.”
At home, she found a tin containing pencils and a few folded sketches.
Oliver asked whether she would show them at a small event connected to the exhibition.
She refused twice.
The third time, she asked how many people would come.
On the evening of the event, Miriam stood beside the portrait with the red suitcase.
Someone asked whether she still drew.
She glanced toward Oliver.
“I started again last week.”
Later, he found her sitting on a bench, sketching the visitors.
She had already filled four pages.
End of Narrative
