Button turned. “Sara? I don’t imagine you will.”
“Right, but. Do you remember Grandpa Max? I mean, clearly?”
Button moved back into the room and sat back down on the foot of the bed. “Well, of course I do. He was my husband for almost thirty years.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and the tears started again.
“What are you sorry for, bubbalah?” Button asked, stroking her back.
“I don’t remember him.”
“Oh,” Button said, and Eve cried harder. “That’s all right. You were very young when he died.”
“I should remember him. It’s awful that I can’t.”
“You don’t remember anything at all?” Button asked.
“No. Well, I have one memory of him. We were at synagogue —”
“He used to take you to shul every Shabbos, so he could show you off to all his friends,” Button said.
“Did he?” She sniffed. “I remember that I was wearing a frilly dress, and I felt very pretty in it because the skirt would go out like a bell when I twirled. But it was scratchy against my skin, and I felt all itchy. And Grandpa lifted me up in his arms, and he carried me up the stairs to kiss the Torah scrolls.”
“Lovely,” Button said, still stroking her back.
“And they were huge, and wrapped in beautiful fabric and silver casing. The lights above them were so bright I had to squint. And I could see our reflection in the silver, me with my hair all curled around my head and Grandpa Max wearing his big black hat.”
She wiped her eyes and saw that her grandmother was smiling.
“He was a good man, my Max. A real mensch. And he loved you very much. Can you feel that?”
“Yes,” she said. “I don’t really remember him, but I still miss him.”
“I miss him, too. And I haven’t forgotten him, any more than you will forget Sara. But di tseit brengt vunden un hailt vunden, time brings wounds and heals them. It’s natural to let her go a little.”
Eve looked down at her lap. “Sometimes I can’t remember her face clearly anymore. Or what her voice sounded like. And then there are other times when she’s as clear to me as if she’s right there beside me. But I’m worried. What if …”
Button sighed. “What if she keeps fading away?”
“Right.”
“Hmm,” Button said, looking sad and thoughtful at the same time. “You could paint a portrait of her? Do you think that would help?”
“Maybe.”
“Or you could start a diary, write down things you remember about her. Or even write letters to her, telling her what you’re doing or how you’re feeling.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said, even though she knew she’d never do it. She couldn’t write with honesty because someone might read it.
Her grandmother smiled and patted her on the knee. “All right, then. I’ll go make you some eggs.”
Once Button had shut the door, she slipped her hands under her shirt and ran them across her breasts, which felt swollen and tender. She dug in her nails and twisted.
Not good enough.
She leaned over and tugged a small metal box out from between her mattress and box spring. She opened it and pulled out the razor nestled inside. She clamped it between her teeth and pulled up the sleeve of her pajama top. Her arm was covered with scabs in a cross-stitch pattern of grief and relief. She chose a clean spot and dug in with the tip of the razor, waiting for that pop of release. She watched in fascination as blood oozed from the wound. The surface pain was searing, but it soothed the deeper internal agony. She took a deep breath, pulled out the razor, and placed a tissue over the wound to stop the bleeding.
She could smell her breakfast cooking, so she hurried through her morning routine and made her way to the kitchen, tugging her sleeves down to cover her arms.
It was almost ten when she left the house, and though she had no intention of going to school, she still walked in that direction.
She paused at the entrance to the Crook, which sat green and silent in the fall chill. Labour Day had come and gone, taking the children with it. There was no one playing Seekers, or picking blackberries, or riding bikes along the Crook’s paths and mud-bogs. There was just her, a walking wound in the shape of a girl.
She could picture her classmates sitting in neat rows with their heads bent over their desks, hear the catcalls and chatter of the lunchroom and the slap of new shoes on polished floors when the bell rang at the end of the day.
No one seemed to care about the gaping black hole that had opened up and swallowed her best friend. No one seemed to notice the absence of light. In kid-time, Sara’s death was ancient history. So, they just kept laughing and chattering and flirting and bullying and learning, like everything was normal. Donna would say that life marched on, and she could either keep up with it or get trampled.
Well, she didn’t feel much like marching.
She crossed the railroad tracks, smelling the ghost of sunbaked resin. Tendrils of fog snaked up the path from the river. She let them swallow her, feeling the damp weight fill her throat and lungs. It was just as foggy as the day she and Sara stole what they thought was Annabeth’s bag, and the boys chased them into the Crook.
“We can foil them in the Foil.”
Now she walked the path to the river like a tourist. Here was where the man hit his head against the tree. Here was where the boys caught up with her and Sara and demanded their bag of contraband. Here’s where she escaped into the Foil.
Keeping to the path, she skirted along the edge of the quicksilver until she came to the high ground above the pond. This had been Sara’s favourite spot, but after that day Eve insisted they find somewhere new.
She moved down to the edge of the river, where the prickling grass grew unabated. She could hear the water lapping against the shore, but she couldn’t see it. Pulling off her backpack, she lay down. The grass punctured the fabric of her shirt and jeans, jabbing her like a million tiny needles. The fog rolled above and around her, kissing her with dampness.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m going to go to the police station this afternoon. To tell them what I saw.”
“Oh, Sara, I’m sorry.”
The only answer she received was the groaning of a tugboat somewhere on the river.
When she left the Crook, she turned in the direction of the Adlers’ home.
It was probably a bad idea. She hadn’t seen Mr. or Mrs. Adler in months. With each step she took, her anxiety grew. She made it as far as the sidewalk in front of their rambling green house, and froze there in indecision.
Both cars were in the driveway, and she could see the lights were on through the kitchen and living room windows. Despite the cloud of grief that seemed to permeate the air around the Adler home, she could still feel the warmth of the place. Filled to the brim with laughter and arguments and mess, it had always felt like a sanctuary from the cold quiet of her own home.
Would she still be welcome? And if not, could she bear the rejection?
She stepped back and was about to turn away when the front door opened. Mr. Adler stepped out onto the porch. He wore a tattered housecoat and slippers, and what was left of his hair puffed above his ears like cotton candy. Her first thought was that he’d shrunk. His chest caved inward as though half his internal organs had been removed.
“Eve.” He lifted a hand in greeting. It wasn’t exactly a welcome, but it was better than she’d hoped for.
Taking in a deep breath, she stepped onto the first paving stone, and the next, and the next, until she found herself at the bottom of the porch stairs. She’d bounded up and down them so many times over the years she’d ceased to notice them. There were six in total. The paint had worn away from the centre of each step, exposing the weather-beaten wood underneath. The porch listed like a ship in a storm, taking the stairs with it.
She couldn’t seem to get her legs to work, so Mr. Adler climbed down to meet her instead.
She re
membered when they’d redecorated Sara’s room. The man who stood before her bore little resemblance to the man who’d cussed a blue streak doing battle against drooping wallpaper and a lack of right angles. His eyes were rimmed with purple, like he’d been punched in the nose. His cheeks were covered in grey stubble.
“Mr. Adler,” she said. “I just wanted to …” She trailed off, not sure what she’d actually wanted to do. Apologize? Seek comfort? Go back in time?
“I wanted to see you.” She couldn’t meet his gaze.
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “How’s your grandmother?”
“She’s okay. She sends her love.”
“Tell her thank you.”
Eve nodded miserably.
“Well,” Mr. Adler said after another lengthy silence.
“Thanks for stopping by.” He turned and started back up the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
He paused for a heartbeat, and then continued up the stairs.
As he reached the porch, the screen door banged open and Mrs. Adler stomped out, followed by their remaining children. She hadn’t realized Leigh and Danielle were home from college.
“What do you want, Eve?” Mrs. Adler said.
“I just wanted to …”
“What?” Mrs. Adler said.
“Mom,” Leigh said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Danielle stepped forward, her pretty face twisted into an ugly snarl. “You have a lot of nerve, showing up here.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, backing away. “I’ll just go.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Adler said.
Eve turned and hustled down the path, feeling the burn of tears in her eyes.
She made it as far as her front yard before collapsing. She vomited half-digested eggs and toast, leaving a steaming pile of sick on the freshly cut lawn. Once there was nothing left inside her but burning shame, she curled into a ball and pressed her face against the wet grass, waiting for hell to open up and swallow her whole.
THIRTEEN
HER FINGERS TREMBLED on the paintbrush. It was from her favourite set, brought home from Paris. It was a high-quality mongoose brush, and only a few bristles had been lost in its decade of use. Since the accident, her memory had more holes than solid spaces. But as she thumbed at the layers of dry paint on the brush’s shaft, it occurred to her that each fleck of colour told a piece of her story. And those memories, perhaps because they’d been preserved on canvas, were still accessible.
Here was the burnt sienna she’d used when Leigh brought a girl home from medical school to introduce to his parents. She’d barely left her studio all week, obsessively working on the stark landscapes of her Desert on Fire series.
Here was the cerulean blue she’d used the summer after Donna’s death, when she’d created beach scenes of children splashing in ocean waves as puffy clouds rolled across perfect skies.
Her thumbnail scratched at the dark green she’d used to paint moss-covered trees — like the ones in the Crook, where secrets she could no longer recall were buried.
She frowned, trying to remember. It had something to do with Leigh. And Sara. Poor Sara, who hadn’t lived long enough to have a first kiss. But what had happened to her? From the fog of her brain, all that emerged was the lonely sound of water lapping against the shore.
Shivering, she pulled the zipper of her sweater up to her throat. Perhaps in time she’d grow used to the way the cold gnawed at her bones and slowed the flow of her blood. She turned her focus to the canvas she’d set upon her easel. It had been primed with two layers of gesso, and sat ready for whatever story her brush wanted to tell.
Minutes ticked by, and the canvas remained untouched. Shaking her head in frustration, she set aside the brush and picked up the palette knife. She dipped it into the blobs of paint, mixing colours in search of inspiration.
Button had warned her to be patient with herself. So had Leigh, when he stopped by to check on her that morning. But she’d sensed the hope hidden behind their words, the desire to see some spark of the old Eve.
Closing her eyes, she willed her hand to steady. “You can do this.”
The red light that filtered through her closed eyelids was soothing. She took several deep breaths, and without opening her eyes, continued to mix the paint until it felt right. Blindly, she reached for the brush. The soft squish under the bristles felt good, and her shoulders relaxed a little.
Perhaps it shouldn’t matter what she painted today. It was bound to be terrible, so why not let go of her expectations? Why not focus on the feel of paint on the tip of her brush and the smooth promise of it gliding across the canvas?
“For today, that’s good enough.”
Not daring to open her eyes, she lost herself in the rhythmic sweep of brush on canvas, letting her mind drift into an artist’s trance. Her eyes opened as the scene came to life before her: a pale summer sky, and below, the river was a grey snake with glistening green and blue scales. Along the trail edging the river, the brambles were plump with blackberries. Buckets in hand, children ran up and down, collecting fruit to be made into pies and jams. At dusk they’d haul their buckets home, arms scraped bloody and faces purple from blackberry juice.
“That’s good.”
The woman’s voice came like the tinkle of wind chimes outside her studio, and it didn’t startle her at all. It was nothing more than a conversation continued.
“It is, isn’t it?” She dabbed her brush into the paint and then lifted it back to the canvas. “I always loved blackberry season. If you pick them at the right time they aren’t even tart. Just sweet and juicy.”
As she painted, the light in the studio grew dim. She’d have to turn on the lights soon.
“Do you think this boy should be holding a kite?”
“A yellow one.”
The brush dipped. Humming, she continued to paint.
“More clouds in this corner?”
“Oh, yes.”
Later, she asked, “Should I add some pink to the sky?”
“Silver.”
“I don’t like silver,” she said, even as she grabbed the appropriate tubes and squeezed blobs onto her palette. She remembered when Hector brought the Escher collection into the gallery, how she’d obsessed over the reflective spheres.
She mixed ultramarine blue with cadmium yellow, and then added a drop of alizarin crimson. Once she was satisfied with the grey base, she began lightening with a bright white.
“What did Hector say about painting the colour silver?”
“That it should be painted like a reflection. I still don’t like it.” The brush touched canvas, adding delicate streaks of silver. She hated to admit it, but it was the right choice.
“Does it remind you of the Foil?”
“It makes me feel cold. Well, colder. But that’s the head injury, they said.”
“Who are they?”
She paused, brush held aloft. “It doesn’t matter.”
A bit of yellow ochre, a squeeze of black. She swirled the paint with her knife, watching the mossy green emerge. When she was satisfied, she dipped the brush and began to fill in the trees in the foreground.
“And who am I?”
She thought about it for a while, but felt her mind drifting. “Like Hector said, you’re a reflection. I think this green is wrong. Maybe I should add more brown?”
“Lovely.”
She was barely aware of the scraping sound as the studio door opened behind her.
“Eve,” Button said, “it’s pitch-dark in here.” The overhead light flicked on, blinding her.
She dropped the brush and slapped her hands over her eyes. “Button, what are you doing?”
“I could ask the same. You’ve been in here for ten hours without so much as a pee break. Have you eaten today?”
“Umm.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Why are you painting in the dark?”
She tried to peek between her finge
rs, but the light stabbed her eyes. “I didn’t realize it had gotten so dark.” Now she could feel the aching stiffness in her legs and lower back.
“Oh, Eve.” Button’s shoes thumped across the floor as she moved farther into the room. Then she yelped like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. “Vey is mir!”
“What?”
“Your painting.”
Dropping her hands, she squinted at the canvas. “Oh.”
Gone were the children, the blackberry bushes, and the hazy summer sky. At the top corner, the river still lapped peacefully to the shore. But as it continued down to the centre of the canvas, it transformed into a thick, silver snake. It coiled over and around itself, scales shimmering with hints of green and blue. Red droplets of blood sprayed from fangs to flank. Instead of a tongue, a human arm unfurled from its mouth like a nightmare party whistle. The hand was delicate, the fingernails shiny with dark polish.
“It was called Very Berry Black Cherry.”
“What was?” Button asked.
“Sara’s nail polish.” She turned away to retch.
* * *
“Well. It’s really good,” Leigh said. “I mean, disturbing. But really good.”
“Should I clean it off?” she asked, going for the mineral spirits. “The paint is still wet enough … I think I can get most of it.”
“Yes,” Button said.
“No,” Leigh said at the same time. “Why don’t you see how you feel about it in the morning?”
“But the paint will dry.”
“Worst-case scenario, you’ve wasted a canvas,” Leigh said.
She studied the coiling silver snake. “It’s really awful, isn’t it?”
Standing behind her, neither Button nor Leigh answered.
“I mean, it’s shockingly bad.”
“No.” Leigh placed his hands on her shoulders. The warmth of them was soothing, and she leaned into him without thought.
“It’s actually … stunning. I mean, the technique is — I’ve never seen anything like it. But the subject matter is …”
“Awful.” She wondered if Leigh grasped that it was his sister’s hand dangling from the serpent’s mouth.
The Day She Died Page 7