THE MISSING PIECE

“You know, you shouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you sweat.”

I turned to face the unfamiliar voice that spoke out to me. It was a young blonde haired woman with piercing blue eyes. Her hair hung in a long single braid over her black floor length gown. “Oh no, I’m fine. I’m just in my head is all.” In truth, my anxiety had been eating away at me the whole night.

I just didn’t realize how obvious it was.

She extended her hand. “I’m Lana.”

I took a deep breath and shook her hand in return. “I’m Damien.”

She grabbed a flute of champagne from a server’s tray as he past and held it up so close to my nose that the aroma slightly stung my nostrils. “No I’m good, the last thing I need right now is to be slurring my words in front of New York’s one percenters.”

She shrugged, “Fine. More for me.”

It was the event of the season for any young aspiring artist. For those of whom were lucky enough to be selected to attend of course.

For one night a year, ten hopefuls from art institutes across New York State were invited to showcase their talents through a single piece. Be it a painting or a sculpture. A grand building was selected for the showing and a strict guest list that promised the attendance of only the most prominent individuals was concocted. For us, the students, the goal was simple: receive a pledge above five hundred dollars from one of the guests and earn an exclusive internship with an illustrious publication. However, when the host announced the fifth and final pledge, that was the end of a chance at the opportunity. One winner with the highest pledge is not only able to keep the amount attained but would also have their very own art campaign fully funded and published.

“So is this one yours?” She pointed at the large painting mounted behind us.

I nodded.

She took another sip then tilted her head. “What do you call it?”

“It’s called, the missing piece.”

Her brows raised.

“That’s an interesting name. What inspired it?”

Instead of going into the full story about my recurring nightmares of being ripped open on someone’s operating table or the dreaded scar just above my waist line, I resorted to the words I had rehearsed many nights before. “It’s symbolic. It represents a lack of wholeness and the...”, I was interrupted mid explanation.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

My eyes flew to the center of the room where the hostess stood. Whenever she spoke the room fell silent and time became slower than the beat of my own heart.

“I’m pleased to say that the third pledge of the night goes to none other than...” I wanted to curse as she struggled to unfold the note in her hand. “None other than Diana Lane from the School of Visual Arts for fifteen hundred dollars. Congratulations.” My deep exhale at the conclusion of her words was of both grief and relief from the pounding in my ears. I watched helplessly as the surrounding crowd returned to their chatter and dispersed into smaller groups once again. For most of them, this night wasn’t about the money but the notoriety. They had no idea how crucial this was for someone like me. For someone that literally came from nothing.

Lana nudged me.

“Hey, it’s not over yet. there’s still two more spots.” My anxiety was definitely more present than it had ever been that night but I anchored my sanity onto her consolation.

“I told you, I’m fine.” I smiled. I’d learned a long time ago that smiles make for the best masks.

“So, back to this incredible painting. It kinda looks like a scarred torso.” I squinted at her statement. She was half right. The foundation of my piece was a scarred torso. Mine. With ease and finesse I shifted the conversation. “Are you pledging or competing tonight?”

She took another sip of her champagne. “Neither actually, I just came here to meet someone. I was actually on my way out the door when I saw this piece. I just had to have a closer look at it.”

“Well, I hope you found it to your liking.”

She smiled.

“I did. It was also nice meeting you.” Her gaze had grabbed ahold of me and her eyes had begun telling me stories that her mouth hadn’t. In them, I saw sadness.

With a wink and a wave of her hand she turned on her heels and proceeded to leave the building.

“Everyone can I have your attention please.” The hostesses words rang throughout the building. “The fourth pledge of the night goes to Alan Clark from New York University, for one thousand dollars!”

It was almost over.

“Excuse me!” A woman dressed in over exaggerated fashions called to me as she raced over and gripped my forearm.

“What did she say?” She pleaded.

I was so confused.

“Who?”

“The blonde woman you were just speaking with!”

“Lana?”

The woman frowned.

“No, Leighton Morgan. The heiress to the Morgan hotels.”

“Heiress?” I repeated in disbelief but the women didn’t seem to hear me as she continued.

“I hate that I didn’t get a chance to speak with her. It’s such a shame about what happened to her parents last year. To make matters worse she had to deal with all those nasty rumors about her being responsible for their deaths. Of course that family could never seem to shake rumors for very long. Poor thing hasn’t shown her face since the incident, well until tonight that is. It’s so sad really.”

For a brief moment the woman’s gossip had consumed my mind. It was a welcomed distraction from the non stop emotional roller coaster, that was the night. However, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before reality set back in.

“Alright everyone, we have officially received our fifth and final pledge of the night.”

My anxiety grew once again and rushed over my body up until the point that it almost ached.

“The pledge goes to Lucinda Hall from The Juilliard School, for two thousand five hundred dollars. Congratulations!”

My heart sank.

“This means that our first pledge of the night, Pratt Institute’s Nina Romano, is the overall winner with the highest pledge of five thousand dollars!”

Blocking out the cheers and applause, I slowly turned to face my painting.

“Well, I guess that’s it then.” I whispered.

I walked closer and then let my fingers graze along the surface of the canvas, feeling the roughness of the dried paint.

I had spent maybe ten minutes standing in that spot. Staring at the image that had haunted me my whole life.

“Sir.”

A server gently tapped me on the shoulder.

“Yes?”

“I was told to give this to you.”

He held a small black notebook. I took it into my hands and examined it. Engraved on the back of it was the letter M. I wondered.

“Leighton Morgan.”

“What’s that sir?”

“Oh nothing, thank you for getting this to me.”

Retreating to a chair in a corner of the room, I sat down and opened the book. When I lifted the leather cover a slip of paper twirled down to the floor. It was a check made out to me for twenty thousand dollars. “Is this a joke?” I mumbled.

In search of an explanation, I opened the book to see a letter.

Dear Damien Locke,

My name is Leighton Morgan.

Please forgive me for lying to you about my real name. In truth, I wasn’t entirely sure that I’d even be in attendance tonight. For months I’ve went over and over in my head about what I’d say when the time finally came to meet you...or where I would start. I hope you don’t mind that, I found this was the easiest way for me to tell you everything, without leaving anything out.

At an early age I had heard many rumors, mostly whispers from the housekeepers, about the inhumane and monstrous things that my family had been accused of over the years. I was able to ignore most of them. Mostly because I was too busy in and out hospitals to even care. You see, I was born with a rare kidney disease and by age four I needed a kidney transplant. Growing up I had never cared about the details on how they found a donor so quickly for a person with an AB-negative blood type. I just figured that my parents didn’t lack the money so maybe that’s why it was so easy for them.

However, I discovered a year ago after losing them both in a boating incident, that they lacked something much more. Morality. Sorting through my father’s files in his office, I came across your information at the back of a locked file cabinet. Upon reading it I discovered that you were orphaned at the age of four, the same year I needed my first transplant. We also share the same rare blood type.

Digging further I then found a copy of a canceled check for twenty thousand dollars endorsed to the woman who at the time was your foster mother. There were no medical records in the file detailing any surgeries, however there was an empty envelope with, “FOR PRIVATE DOCTOR”, written on the outside. In an instant I became furious with the people that I had just been grieving for only minutes earlier. It was like confirmation that every horrific thing that I heard about them was just proven to be true.

I looked you up right after, uncertain if you even had a clue or cared about what happened to you all those years ago and then I came across your “dreams and nightmares” art collection online. It was when I saw the same painting that you had on display tonight, that I knew, apart of you knows what happened.

In a bout of shock, I placed my hand over the scar on my lower abdomen as I continued to read.

I can’t imagine the trauma you must feel. To make matters worse I suspect that the death of your parents was no accident. Although I can’t fully prove it yet; I do believe my parents had something to do with it.

You’re probably wondering why I would tell you all of this. I know I would be too...but the truth is I’m dying. My body has finally rejected the thing that has never belonged to me in the first place. I won’t have another procedure done. I’m tired. I know that nothing I can say will ever bring back everything that you lost but at the very least I hope it helps. The moment I take my last breath on this earth I’ve instructed my lawyer to contact you. They stole apart of you, so I’m giving you the biggest part of them. Everything that they ever worked for. It will all be yours. I only ask that you be better than they were.

Sincerely,

Leighton Morgan

I sat with my mouth agape and my heart heavy. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I held up the check.

My missing piece, had found me.