Smart, determined and beautiful; college student and art model Nell seemed to be the girl who had it all. When she falls fast and hard for one of her art students, it feels like everything is falling into place. Unplanned pregnancy will change everything though, and she has to find a way to build a very different life than she envisioned. For thirteen years she and her son Charlie are a unit and her world is complete. That world will stop spinning though, when thereās a shooting at Charlieās school. As she reaches out via text in desperation, only the words and the animated ellipsis on the phone screen offer a buffer between life and death. Can she save the person on the other end of the messages in time, and in the process can she save herself too?
Smart, determined and beautiful; college student and art model Nell seemed to be the girl who had it all. When she falls fast and hard for one of her art students, it feels like everything is falling into place. Unplanned pregnancy will change everything though, and she has to find a way to build a very different life than she envisioned. For thirteen years she and her son Charlie are a unit and her world is complete. That world will stop spinning though, when thereās a shooting at Charlieās school. As she reaches out via text in desperation, only the words and the animated ellipsis on the phone screen offer a buffer between life and death. Can she save the person on the other end of the messages in time, and in the process can she save herself too?
Once, on a family trip to Tucson, I witnessed a blooming cereus cactus. The fragile snow-white flower bloomed just one night a year, stretching greedily for sunās rays it would never feel. I canāt help but wonder now, did it know about its short-lived fate, or did it preen with clueless vanity under the haughty glow of moonlight?
*****
The first time we met, I was nude and shivering on a gold tapestry covered settee. I spent most of the hour with my eyes squeezed shut against the blinding white lights overhead. No one ever protested; they werenāt interested in my eyes. The shadowy figures across the room existed in a hazy world I purposely distorted through the lash covered slits of my eyes. Wherever he sat in the room, I didnāt recognize him as anything other than yet another silhouette I purposely obscured into otherness. I preferred to think of the strangers that worked my image with paintbrushes as anonymous entities, something not quite human, shadowy forms not quite aware of my own humanity. It was less embarrassing that way.
As I lay there, I pretended I was rich; I was Onassis rich, soaking sun from a yacht deck somewhere in the Mediterranean. If theyād turned the heat up just a little, the fantasy might have been more believable. A cramp had screamed in earnest from some meaty place in the center of my back and I felt a small tickle that threatened to bloom into a full itch on the back of my scalp. I fought the distractions and remained immobile. Financially, I needed the gig to work out. Relief came only when the professor announced the session was complete for the day.
The eight students who had spent the previous hour studying me intimately were suddenly disinterested, as if they were oblivious to my existence. In an instant, Iād gone from observed to observer. I sat upright, draped myself in a large robe and watched them pack up their supplies. Small bits of casual conversation drifted to me as they made their way to the door. This was how these sessions always seemed to end. I was significant for 90 minutes, and then I was nothing again.
I was gathering my belongings, still shrouded in a large manās robe, when he ran back into the room. Weād almost collided as I walked past the doorway toward the changing curtain, and he stopped abruptly. The thing I remember most about that moment was the way our eyes locked, and his expression changed to one of surprise. It was as if heād never seen me before, never stared at my completely exposed body replicating it in some form on a canvas now stored in the back of the room. Then the moment passed, and I saw the recognition flicker.
āOops, hello,ā I said with as much faux cheer as I could muster.
He nodded seriously, and our eyes met again. I felt it, a tiny warning bell. I knew I could get lost in their dark depths. He broke the gaze first and stepped aside, motioning further into the classroom and explained, āI forgot my jacket.ā
He had an accent, one I couldnāt really place. It was vaguely Russian perhaps, but with a deeper, warmer subtext that hinted at Hebrew and French influences. He was becoming more interesting by the moment. I chuckled nervously. āYou donāt want to do that; itās a cold one.ā
That earned me a quizzical look. Iād later realize just how many common American colloquialisms Narek didnāt understand. His English was quite good, but commonly used expressions and turns of phrase sometimes escaped him. It was one trait that somehow stayed endearing, even when everything else became contemptible. This was before that though; this was when everything about him, from his black curly hair and his deep brown eyes to his paint-splattered t-shirt, drew me in. I wanted to touch the tiny delicate feathers of paint on his arm. Woah girl, I told myself, slow down.
āSorry, what is your name again?ā he asked.
āNell. How about you?ā
āNarek,ā he replied simply. The brief silence that followed felt a bit awkward and stilted, it was a moment where the most natural thing in the world would have been to nod and step aside, but I couldnāt just let the moment pass, I needed to know more about him.
He glanced toward a jacket hanging on the back of a chair as if he were about to grab it and go, but I didnāt want him to walk away yet. I wanted to know more about him, and I was still brave and unbroken then. On impulse, I asked if he wanted to grab a cup of coffee at The Bean Shack. That he might actually say no hadnāt really crossed my mind.
Heād tilted his head and looked at me curiously as if I were a cake on display. He was judging me, trying to decide if I might be worth the calories.
Finally, he said, āI will like that.ā
I smiled broadly and told him I would get dressed and be right back. At that, he averted his eyes as if he were suddenly aware of my state of undress beneath the robe and the fact heād already seen it all. Somehow, that made him all the more endearing.
I went behind the curtain in the back of the room and slipped into my comfortable yoga pants and tshirt, then leaned over the sink to peer into the mirror. Iād blown out my long, golden-brown hair that morning, and it still shined with the healthy post-heat glow. As was the custom at the art school, I wore no make-up for the session, so I took a moment to run mascara through my lashes, and the slightest hint of bronzer over my cheeks. Assessing myself frankly, I wasnāt displeased. If Iād only been blessed with another four to five inches in height, I might have had a shot at modeling with an actual agency instead of at an art school. Narek was the personification of tall, dark, and handsome, but I would be a worthy companion, I mused.
Over coffee, we hit the basics. To my surprise, he was 22, only three years older than me. He seemed so much older than most of the college boys I usually met. His serious nature presented as maturity, and I bit back my normal playful banter in response. When I asked where he was from and he answered Armenia, I leaned in across the table to learn more.
āOkay, I will admit I know pretty much nothing about Armenia. Itās in the Middle East, right?ā
Finally, he rewarded me with a grin. āYou start with a hard question. Armenia is perhaps Caucasus. Maybe European. Maybe Asian. Some Armenians would say we are Middle Eastern, but most would say we are not. We are white, even if some of us are perhaps more brown. We are Christian, we were the very first nation to establish Christianity as our national religion, in fact. This is what they will say.ā
He shrugged, as if what others said was not really important to him. I was intrigued.
āSo, everyone has an opinion? It sounds a little like asking anyone you meet in Virginia if they are Southern. The guy from Arlington probably has a very different answer than someone from Lynchburg.ā
He waved a hand slowly and said, āMaybe a little, but it is more complicated, I think.ā
I was fascinated by his accent and by his mouth as he formed each word. I prodded him with more questions to keep him talking. Heād landed in Richmond, almost by default. Heād applied to art schools in several major cities, with the ultimate dream of studying in New York. None of the New York schools had come through with funding, so when the Richmond School of Art and Design offered him an impressive grant, heād reluctantly accepted it. But Richmond seemed to suit him just fine. The city had enough of a unique vibe to keep him interested, he was enjoying the caliber of the school itself, and as he told me with another grin, Virginia women had quickly become his favorite.
I felt a quick thrill of pleasure at those words and winked at him before replying, āToo bad Iām a Michigan girl.ā
Now he looked eager to hear my own story, so I smiled and explained, āIām the all-American girl. Raised in northern Michigan, Dadās in manufacturing, Momās a housewife, sisterās a brat. My family is Lutheran; they all drive American made cars. I hate the cold and wanted to be somewhere more exciting, so here I am. Iām studying English now over at VCU but will ultimately go to law school. That's the short and short of it.ā
The truth was I sometimes felt almost embarrassed about my childhood and family. It was idyllic in a lot of ways. We lived in a world where conflict was recognized as character building, but my conflict had been limited to a somewhat rocky relationship with my younger sister and a few pouty breakups in high school. Iād been a voracious reader my whole life and the heroines in my books had such interesting lives compared to my own. Not very secretly, Iād yearned for more drama, more adventure. Finally, after 18 years in the same house, Iād set out to find it some 900 miles away from home. Now, I thought as I eyed the handsome man across from me, it seemed like things might finally become very interesting.
As we shared the stories of our own journeys to Richmond, he revealed that his had been launched with considerably less support than my own. As the youngest child of four and the only son, Narek had been doted on by both his parents and his grandmother, who lived in their household. Neither of his parents were thrilled he was pursuing an actual career in art, but theyād found some measure of acceptance because he was, after all, the baby of the family. That support had eroded considerably when he announced he wanted to study in America. They were devastated that he would go so far away, and only his promise of return after graduation gave them any solace.
It had only been a few hours since weād first spoken, yet his mention of returning to the place he called home made me feel unreasonably unhappy.
I tried to keep my voice light and cool. āSo thatās it? Finish your last year and a half here, then pack up and head back?ā
His jaw clenched and he shifted uncomfortably. āNo. I just haven't found the way to tell them yet that I plan to stay in America.ā At my raised eyebrow, he continued, āThere is much more than I can explain right now, but this is not an easy thing for them. I will wait until it is a right time.ā
As I finished the last sip of my second large coffee, I felt a pang of regret and wished it had taken more time. As if reading my mind, Narek asked, āWould you like to have dinner?ā
Our formality had dissipated over the caffeine and sugar, and dinner was a more relaxed affair. As our conversation bounced around a myriad of casual topics, we discovered the commonalities. By the time the check came, weād discovered mutual enjoyment of strong coffee at odd hours, pistachio ice cream, David Bowie, and riding trains. With each new revelation, I felt my excitement grow. I exclaimed, āOh my God, me too!ā more than once.
Almost more important than our mutual enjoyment of certain life pleasures was our shared dislike of winter. My top priorities in life were to breeze through college and then law school, and to avoid winter at all costs, and not necessarily in that order. He laughed as I described the arctic hell that was Northern Michigan in January and agreed vehemently that if there was a hell, it was likely filled with snow, not fire. This led to a more serious conversation, where he confessed that while his family was very religious, he identified as Agnostic. This was something else we had in common, yet another confirmation that our mutual attraction made sense.
As he walked me back to my campus, I glanced up to see the silhouette of his handsome face in the subtle lighting along the sidewalk. I was suddenly very thankful I had a single dorm room. When we reached my building, we paused and he leaned in for the kiss Iād fully expected.
Afterward, as I stood only a few inches from him, I asked softly, āDo you want to come up?ā
He grinned and said, āI love American girls.ā and then followed me up the stairs.
In Elipsis, Kirsty Mcginnis has a great style of writing and approaches love, heartbreak, strength and grief in a precise and engaging manner. The stories greatest asset is the unexpected storyline half way through which I wont spoil, it has pacing, it has tension and it has heart.
It starts off as a very different book about single parenthood and absent fathers and quickly evolves into something on an entirely different plane of emotion. There's some merit to this, but for me at least, it seemed too much of a jump in tone and there were also a couple more occassions in which I felt lost at which subplot was the most important to accompany the central theme. Almost as though Elipsis were 2 or 3 books in one.
As I said, this book is still well worth the read and we feel a connection to many of the characters. A couple characters, however, - likely because of trying to juggle too much - felt they deserved just a little more attention and development. Our central character is heavily characterised, but some like Ben and even Narek to an extent, feel a little vacant in parts. We want to feel sorry for Narek, but we haven't learnt enough to sympathise with and the slighly precarious use of a language barrier lost some distinction to his character as it didnt feel natural.
For a shorter novel, Elipsis packs a punch. One that hits right to the gut, but implores us to explore the context of pain rather than just to mourn the debris of its explosion. It swims between different genres and is largely ambitious, albeit with some sections that let it down.
Unfortunately, the subject of which Elipsis handles is still incredibly relevant and is one that provides the writer with a myriad of challenges in its portrayal. Given this and the slickness of the writing, I think McGinnis did a fine job.