Today I headed for the wax room. This was an alcove the size of an elevator, located off the gallery that held Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party—the collection’s most famous painting. I felt for the switch. The little empty room sprang to life, its pitted coat of beeswax glowing like skin. Many a visitor stepped in and out again, complaining, “There’s nothing in there!”

When it was first installed, I had found the wax room oppressive; underneath the sweet smell of birthdays and Advent, something lay in wait that was feral and indifferent to the human world. Strange that I was drawn to it now. My sensory life had been reset in so many ways that I often found myself seeking out what used to repel me. I positioned my folding chair in the corner. Aside from anything else, the empty room was somewhere to think.

“Wasn’t it was up to Maddy to tell you?” My father had ventured the question cautiously, because he knew it was the crux of the matter. Maddy had chosen to find Antonio independent of me. There was no getting around that. I was starting to see that you can lose someone not just once, but over and over again. All these men who wooed her away from me! Jack, Antonio, and in a complicated way, my own father. Of course she needed the counsel and approval of men; of course she craved their love. I knew that. I accepted that. No doubt as adults she and I would have reclaimed our female solidarity and laughed together at the foibles of men. No doubt eventually I would have told her the full story of Antonio. I always planned to do that. We always planned to track him down once she turned eighteen. Plans!

When I emerged from the wax room, the main gallery lights were ablaze and Alison Ward, one of the attendants, was sitting on her hands, practicing her scowl for the day. Just before going on compassionate leave, I had put Alison on probation because of an incident in when she’d argued aggressively with an intern giving a public talk. Since my return she’d had the air of a child flaunting impeccable behavior while biding her time. Then last week a visitor had complained about Alison to one of the docents.

She saw me carrying the folding chair and raised her eyebrows. My watch said nearly ten. I had been in there longer than I’d intended.

“Good morning,” I said brusquely. “The cleaners told me something spilled in the wax room. They aren’t allowed to touch anything in there.”