“Look,” I whispered to Lauren. “Look at the moon. It’s a face now…a girl…It’s a girl peering in the window, watching ev—”
“It’s not. It’s just the moon.”
“Look at how the headboards of the beds turn into tombstones. Oh my God, can you read this? She wrote…something…God, I wish I knew…Come here, Lauren. It’s okay. It’s just a painting.”
Moments later, I felt the warmth of Lauren’s arm against mine as we knelt, side by side, and stared.
“I can’t read it,” she said at last. “It’s too small.”
I leaned closer. “There’s something about the writing…”
“What?”
“I don’t know. It looks…it looks different, doesn’t it? Go get one of the other paintings. I want to compare.”
“Can we just—”
“It’s a date!” I exclaimed. “Oh, Lauren—did she know when she was going to die?”
“Stop,” Lauren said softly. “Stop. I don’t want to think about that.”
“This one here,” I said, reaching for one of the tombstones. “This date is…let’s see…September 1916. I think.”
“That’s an eight,” she corrected me. “It’s 1918.”
“It has to mean something,” I continued. “She wouldn’t paint a date on that tombstone for no reason. It has to mean something, right?”
Lauren didn’t answer.
“Just imagine,” I said, my breath catching in my throat. I hardly recognized my own voice. “Something terrible is happening to you…and you have to paint it. Your art is your voice. It’s your story. Your sister is dying…or maybe she’s already dead—”
“Seriously, can we—”
“Come on, Claude! Use your brain! I can’t figure this out by myself.”
“Enough, Julie! Stop!”
I blinked in surprise. It was too dark to see if Lauren was kidding. And I couldn’t tell from her voice.
“Stop what?”
“That Claude and Vince stuff. It’s so stupid. Why are we still using those old-man nicknames like we’re still in sixth grade?”
“Why are you freaking out? You called me Vince an hour ago.”
“Well, I don’t want to do it anymore,” Lauren said. “It’s stupid. And completely immature.”
I heard the swish of her skirt as she got up. Seconds later, my room was flooded with light. I blinked a few times as my eyes tried to adjust, as the rest of me tried to adjust to this strange shifting beneath my feet. Lauren was…she wasn’t looking at me, over by the door. She was—
“Are you mad at me?”
It wasn’t just a babyish thing I said. It was the way I said it, my voice high and hollow, already betraying how hurt I was.
“No. A little,” she admitted.
“What did I do?”
For a moment, Lauren paused, and I thought she would tell me. Then she shrugged and looked away. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
But I couldn’t let it go.
“What? Seriously, tell me. I want to know what I did.”
Her hands moved like she didn’t know what to do with them. “It’s just…Jules, what are you doing with these paintings?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, why are you so obsessed?”
I tried to laugh it off. “I am not!”
But Lauren didn’t laugh with me. “Julie. You want to compare the writing on them? Like you’re some kind of detective? I’m honestly worried about you. Even your mother is worried.”
“Please. She doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Yeah? Then how come she asked me to come over because you’ve spent literally days in the dark?”
Jesus, Mom, I thought. I hadn’t seen that one coming.
“So…why?” Lauren continued. “Why are you so obsessed with the paintings?”
Even if I knew the answer to Lauren’s question, I doubt I had the courage to say it aloud. I turned away from her and opened the box of antique paintbrushes I’d bought earlier. Some of them were so small, with just a few hairs, that it seemed incredible that anyone could paint with them.
As I dabbed one of the brushes in oil paint, Lauren really lost it. “What are you doing?” she asked incredulously. “Stop trying to become her, Julie. It’s pathetic.”
“I am not trying to become her!” I shot back. “I’m just trying to find out—”
“What? Exactly what are you trying to find out?”
“You know what,” I said, stalling for time as I tried to figure out how to answer. “How she did it. Why she did it. And…and…what happened to her.”
Lauren shook her head. “No, that’s not it. There’s something deeper going on. Something darker. Besides, you don’t know that anything happened to her. Maybe she was just some sick twist who was really into the macabre. Who got off on painting some really scary, really disturbing, really disgusting stuff. And, whatever, that’s cool and all, but that’s not who you are. Or is it?”
“Why are you attacking me?”
“I’m not—”
“You just called me sick and twisted!”
“No, I didn’t, Julie. I said the artist was sick and twisted. Not you. But you see what I mean? You’re taking everything about the paintings way too personally. This”—here she pointed at the paintings like she was accusing them of a crime—“is not interesting to me anymore. It’s creepy. It’s freaking me out. And, to be honest, so are you.”
“Listen, you don’t have to worry about me, or the paintings, anymore. Obviously you don’t understand them, and that’s fine. Honestly, I never expected you to.”
“’Cause I’m too stupid, right?” she sneered. “’Cause I’m not a real artist, like you?”
I shrugged, knowing that would hurt her more than anything I could say.
“God, Julie, when did you get so mean?” Lauren exploded. “Where is your gratitude? I have been the best friend to you! But these paintings come along, and you constantly blow me off for them. You care about these stupid canvases more than a living, breathing person—”
“Listen to yourself,” I interrupted. “How entitled. How spoiled. One thing in the world that was mine, one thing I could focus on, one thing that made my life matter, that pulled me out of this stupid, dead-end existence that’s going nowhere, and it’s killing you, isn’t it, that maybe there’s something you can’t buy on Mommy’s credit card.”
Amazingly, she smiled, as if everything suddenly made sense. “Well, I’d rather be spoiled than jealous,” she said.
“Why are you still here?” I demanded.
A heartbeat.
“I don’t even know anymore,” she replied. When she walked out, I didn’t try to stop her.
I wasn’t ready yet to see if my starscape would glow through the oil paint I’d applied that morning. Instead, I lay down on the bed and started to cry. I fumbled under my pillow for the diary and flipped through the pages.
2 April
I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.
“But you do care,” I whispered into the silence. “And so do I.”
Why was that a bad thing, exactly? Didn’t this whole hurting world deserve—no, need—a little more care? Never again, I promised myself, would I apologize for caring about something, and that was the thought that dried up my tears. Twilight shadows crept through my room. When I rolled onto my side, I could see all six paintings glowing. Waiting.
The skeletons at the graves—
The girl who’d lost her jaw—
The tombstones made of teeth—
The dancers with their shattered bones—
The faces in the buildings—
And the first one, the one that had started it all: the aviator and his girl, flying away from the withered blooms.
Nothing had change
d; they were the same as when I’d found them. And yet each painting sat there expectantly, like they were waiting for me to—
What?
“I don’t know what to do,” I said aloud, and still they glowed, still they stared, until at last I turned away and realized, all in a rush, that there was no other light in my room. My desk—and the canvas on it—was dark.
I had failed.
All those glowing stars that I’d painted were gone now, lost forever under a sticky layer of oil paint. In one morning, I’d wasted every drop of the paint Luke and I had made. I’d never see those stars shining again. I’d never know, now, how LG made her paintings.
I turned away from my failure, couldn’t stand to face it. I wanted to run from all of it, and that’s probably how I found the courage to go downstairs to the kitchen. To wait in the dark, crouching like an animal, for the confrontation that had been building for months.
Chapter 16
April 30, 1918
Dearest Walter,
I am sorry to report that Liza is no better. Indeed, she may be worse. Though her leg troubles her less, she is still unsteady on it, and I cannot discern if she is fearful of using it because she is out of the habit, or because there is a fundamental weakness in the bone. She takes such small, tentative steps, walking gingerly like a shriveled old woman. And yet it seems like only yesterday that she could run and dance with abandon.
But her leg is not the worst of it. Not by far. It is her mouth, which does not heal. The dentist visits us twice weekly now and is baffled by the disintegration he sees. Liza lost another tooth, and then a third; the empty sockets fester and fill with a putrid cream. Dr. Mackintosh doses her with ether until her eyes cloud, and then he debrides her jaw. Using a sharp curette he scrapes out soggy chunks of gum tissue, gray with disease, until the healthy pink flesh below is revealed. For a while, each operation seems to be a success, and indeed the gums surge forward in a fine display of regeneration. Liza is in such great spirits, and her optimism is contagious, so that we are all hopeful that she will at last be returned to health.
Then, without fail, Liza wakes up one morning to find a foul discharge dampening her pillow. A sticky black paste oozes from her mouth. She swallows with great displeasure, her lips twisted with disgust. If the rotten-garlic smell is any indication, the taste must be terrible. And so we send for Dr. Mackintosh again and he examines her jaw with great concern, as there is no obvious source for this infection, and yet it continues to recur.
Each night, I prepare a bowl of pudding for Liza so that she might benefit from the medicinal properties of Lumi-Nite, but I will admit that I have begun to doubt its healing qualities. If it is such a panacea, then why is she no better? As long as Dr. Mackintosh has no better suggestions, I suppose we must continue on as we have.
There have been changes at work. Mary Jane has left employ at ARC after developing an uncomfortable swelling beneath her chin, and I sorely miss her presence. She served as a “big sister” to all, and without her, we are out of sorts. There have also been changes on the second floor, where the chemists concoct Evr-Brite. They are now sporting heavy smocks over their clothes, and fine mesh masks over their mouths, and thick glass goggles that give them a decidedly owlish appearance.
It was a startling change to see them conduct their work in such getups, Walter. For what practical purpose would they need adornment like this? I mustered the courage to ask Mr. Mills, and he told me that their “uniforms,” as it were, are simply to assure the purity of the medicines they compound. So why, then, am I so unsettled at the sight of them? Certainly my discomfiture bears no small relation to the way gas masks haunt my dreams. But I think there may be another reason as well.
On payday last, I went to Dr. Mackintosh’s office after work so that I might settle Liza’s account, and to my great surprise, who do you think was knitting in the waiting room? Helen Anderson from ARC! How we missed each other on the walk over, I’ll never know. I was very sorry to learn that Helen has been suffering from a mild tenderness in her jaw; “more an annoyance than a trouble” were her exact words. I can guess what you are thinking, Walter: that I am assigning far more importance than necessary to a mere coincidence. I tried to push any connection from my own thoughts. After all, it should come as no surprise that a couple of girls from ARC happen to share a dentist.
There was little time for Helen and me to chat before I was called to the window, and while I was there, who should come out of the treatment room but Minnie Johnson? We shared a good laugh, though Minnie less so than Helen and me, because her mouth must have been sore from the treatment she had received. Her eyes were dull from painkillers, and there was a slackness in her cheeks, as if she had forgotten how to coordinate something as simple as closing her mouth. There was not much time for more than a quick “Hello!” among us, for Helen was immediately ushered into the treatment room. Minnie gave her arm a fast squeeze of solidarity as she passed. I am sure they have delayed care, despite their pain, to receive treatment on payday.
Minnie stood behind me as I finished my transaction, and then—I cannot tell you what compelled me to do this—I dawdled as I put on my hat and gathered my things, so that I was not ready to depart until Minnie had paid her bill, at which time we were poised to leave together.
Minnie’s demeanor toward Liza, Charlotte, and me has been decidedly chilly since I bested Eugenie for the job at ARC, and on any given day, I would be inclined to make sure our paths would cross no more than necessary. Yet on this day we found ourselves walking side by side in the sunset. Perhaps it was Minnie’s painkillers, or perhaps she felt it was finally time to bury an old grudge, but she was ever so genial toward me. I took pains to avoid divulging too much of Liza’s travails to Minnie, but I did learn that this is Minnie’s third visit to Dr. Mackintosh this month, and she is troubled by a similarly slow-to-heal wound in her mouth.
As we reached my street, blistering red sunbeams spangled across my eyes so that I found it difficult to see. This can be the only reason why I did not notice Mr. Mills standing in the doorway of our building until we were nearly on top of him, for if I had, I surely would have done anything to avoid the exchange that happened next.
It would have been peculiar for Mr. Mills to pay a visit to our apartment, and that alone would have alerted Minnie to an unusual circumstance, even in her addled state. What truly captured her attention, though, was the bouquet nestled in the crook of Mr. Mills’ arm—flawless rosebuds of the palest pink I’ve ever seen. A pretty chunk of his pay must have been spent on this fine bouquet. It was such an incongruous picture, Walter—oafish and oversize Mr. Mills, all stubby fingers and ruddy earnestness, cradling such delicate blossoms, and in our doorway, no less. Is it any wonder I was struck dumb?
Not so Minnie, I’m afraid.
She looked at me first with confusion, then with dawning understanding, and blurted out, “But what about your sweetheart overseas, Lydia? Oh, that would be a dirty trick to two-time him, and he in uniform!”
Would that I could’ve come up with some witty rejoinder and shepherded Minnie on her way! But Mr. Mills spoke up—why, I don’t know—and said that he was here to see Liza, and would I be kind enough to admit him?
The old scheming glitter returned to Minnie’s eyes. Of course there’s no way to be sure, but I sensed her innocence was entirely put on when she asked, “But what about her fine captain in New York? Has she thrown him aside, then?”
My laugh was too loud. “Oh, Minnie, hush!” I said, giving her a playful pinch but using far more force than necessary, as I wanted her to take it as a warning. “You’re ever so addled! Mr. Mills, if you will excuse us, I must see Minnie home. She’s been to the dentist, you see, and is quite incapable of finding the way herself. I shall return in just a few moments’ time, if you’ll be kind enough to wait for me.”
He nodded slowly, with a blankness on his face that I could not interpret. For one thing, I had not the time, as I was eager to whisk Minnie
away before she could say anything else so foolish. Her chatter was idle for the short walk to her building, but I could see her eyes still flashing, and it was with a great feeling of foreboding that I bid her good night.
I returned to our building as fast as I could, and yet not fast enough, for Mr. Mills was already inside, I assumed, and all that remained was a single rose petal on the dirty stoop. I took it inside to give to Liza, though I was sure she would have no use for it with such a fancy bouquet gracing her bureau.
The apartment was strangely silent when I entered, and then I realized that Mother and Charlotte were still at the grocer. Payday is such a busy day! I wondered if Liza had admitted Mr. Mills herself, and if, oh heavens, they were alone in her room! I paced the living room, quite unsure of the best course to take, for I dared not disturb them. Yet if Mother and Charlotte returned and discovered their dalliance, there would be such a catastrophe, Walter, that I was not sure I could bear it. Nor was I blameless. After all, I had enabled Liza to carry on such an ill-advised entanglement for months now. Her poor judgment had created the situation, but mine had sustained it. My only hope was for Mr. Mills to take his leave before Mother and Charlotte returned.
Which he did not do.
They bustled through the door as darkness fell, burdened with all sorts of brown-paper parcels from the butcher and the grocer, and asked me how Liza was feeling. I fibbed that she was resting and took my leave to see if she needed anything. There was a commotion in the kitchen as they were so late in starting the laundry and had to prepare supper and unload all the packages, so I was able to slip away unnoticed.
I approached the bedroom in a state of nervous agitation and tapped on the door so lightly that I was not surprised when no answer came. Like it or not, I had no choice but to interrupt them—but then, I told myself, I should feel no shame about it. They had no right to put me in such an uncomfortable position to begin with!
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