“Wonderful!” Mum cooed clapping her hands.
Amy stepped back and gazed at her mother. She sported an old pair of blue jeans and a grungy sweatshirt; something she would never wear in public. She had tied a rag around her head to keep her platinum blond hair from falling into her face even though a few wisps of it had escaped. If that weren’t enough of a clue, there were those hideous yellow rubber gloves on her hands.
“Mum,” Amy said, “are you cleaning again?”
“Well, of course, darling! I always know when your flat needs cleaning!”
Mum was from jolly old England. Though she’d been an American citizen for the better part of thirty years, she’d never lost the accent, still had afternoon tea complete with scones, of course, and continued to use quaint colloquialisms such as ‘flat’ instead of apartment.
“You know you don’t have to do that, Mum,” Amy chastised.
“Oh, I know that,” Mum said, dusting off the coffee table. “But I want to do something for you and this is the only thing you’ll allow me to do.”
“That’s because you do it without asking,” Amy said without malice. She tossed the remaining stack of mail onto the freshly dusted coffee table.
Mum winced and grabbed up the mail. “You really should have a place for this, Amelia.”
“I do,” Amelia laughed. “Right there.”
“Oh, bother,” mum said as she walked into the kitchen to drop the mail onto the counter with a loud plop. “I really wish you would let me help you reorganize the place.”
“But I like my place the way it is, Mum.”
“You know your father and I would be more than happy to help you find a better place to live.”
“I know that, Mum,” Amy said with affection. “But you know I want to succeed on my own. Besides, I like my little flat, thank you very much.”
“I understand you’re wanting to succeed on your own and it’s admirable. Truly it is. It’s just such a small place, darling.”
“But it’s big enough for all of my needs, Mum.”
“Well, maybe with the extra storage you’ll be able to spread out a little more. Maybe even make it into an art studio -”
“Extra storage,” Amy repeated. “What extra storage, Mum?”
Mum raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t know you have extra storage, darling?”
Amy shook her head.
“Come. Let me show you.”
The kitchen and living room area were side by side and of equal length, though the kitchen was not as wide as the living room. Amy had divided the living room into half. On the one side were the sofa, coffee table, and chairs. One chair had been placed into a corner as though in a time-out though not flush with the corner walls. Amy had once had a cat who had insisted upon sharpening her claws on the back of this one chair and Amy sat it there so the sagging, scratched back wasn’t evident.
The other side of the living room Amy had set up as her art studio. Various lamps stood in one corner and these Amy used to light her subjects for portraits or still life paintings. The easel stood in the center of the space with a stood before it and another tall free-standing lamp to the right of it which Amy used to light her easel while painting. Also to the right of the stool was a table which held Amy’s acrylic paints, paint brushes, several paint-crusted towels and a few empty cups.
The relatively short hallway which led to Amy’s bedroom had a bathroom on the left and a linen closet on the right.
The bedroom was what Amy had really liked about the apartment. Its width was the entire width of the apartment making it a rather large room. Being the last apartment in a line of such apartments, it was also slightly longer than the rest.
The bedroom itself allowed for plenty of space for Amy’s meager belongings: a queen-size bed and night table, bureau, chest of drawers and an exercise bike, yet it still allowed plenty of room for Amy to store even more of her paintings.
But the best feature of the bedroom was the large walk-in closet space.
It took up a little over one-third of the bedroom, but Amy didn’t mind. Two sets of fold-out doors revealed a very large and organized closet.
On the far left Amy had hung her coats and sweaters. Beside the hanging bar was a stack of shelves for shoes. Only a few of those shelves were dedicated to tennis shoes (two pair), a pair of boots, a pair of sandals, a pair of flip-flops and a pair of fuzzy black bedroom shoes. The remainder of the shelves held a few belts but the rest were empty.
On the far right hung the rest of Amy’s clothes: jeans, t-shirts, a few dress slacks and nice blouses and a few blazers. This side also had shelves but these were completely empty.
The center of the closet recessed inward. Mum had dubbed this space the “staging area” because it reminded her of the dressing rooms in the back of the theater where she had been acting in a play at the time she had met Amy’s father in London on business.
To the left was a large lighted mirror with counter space and drawers to hold make up and accessories. To the right was a full-length mirror and, beside that, yet another area, though much smaller, in which to hang clothing.
Usually this space was empty.
Today, it was not.
In the space there hung three wedding dresses. Three very old wedding dresses.
“Uh, Mum? Where did these come from?” Amy asked, eyeing the dresses warily.
“Well, they were in the extra storage, darling.”
“What extra -?” Amy stopped. She had turned as she spoke and there her mother stood, pointing at a door that had never been there before.
At least, not that Amy had noticed in the four years she had lived there since graduating from Georgia State with a major in Art History.
Amy quickly scanned her memory but found no recollection of noticing a door at the back of the staging area tucked between the small closet space and the lighted mirror. Nor could she call to mind any mention of an extra storage space at the time she viewed the apartment or signed the lease. Nor was there any mention of additional space at any of the subsequent lease renewals.
Yet, there it stood, open about a foot, her mother standing at it, a look of triumph on her face.
“You didn’t know this was here, Amelia?” Amy shrugged and gave her mother a goofy look. Mum laughed. “Oh, love. You really should spend less time up inside your own head.”
Amy chuckled nervously and walked over to get a closer look at this mysterious door.
She pushed on it, but it moved no further inward.
“Something’s blocking it,” Mum said.
“Then how -?” Amy asked, pointing to the dresses behind her.
“Oh, see?” Mum pointed to the left inside the door.
Just inside the door stood one end of a portable metal clothing rack. It was the only thing the light from the staging area illuminated.
“Mum, why did you take these dresses out?”
“Well, darling, I thought maybe I could squeeze my way in and see what all is in there. But it seems to be packed tighter than a drum in there.”
Amy looked her mother’s svelte frame up and down. “Mum, I don’t think even you could squeeze through that opening.”
Mum laughed softly. “Well, of course not! I took the dresses off the rack so they wouldn’t get damaged but the bloody rack won’t budge! Besides, did you see those dresses? They must be antique!”
Mum bristled past Amy who rolled her eyes. Her unattachment was always a point of debate between her mother and herself. Amy wouldn’t doubt it for a moment if displaying the wedding dresses in the staging area was not a subliminal reminder of Amy’s singleness.
“Just take a look at these, Amelia!”
Amy winced inwardly and, before going to stand beside her mother, she pulled the door firmly shut.
“They were probably stark white at one time,” Mum said, “but they’ve been exposed to the air. That’s why they’re this dingy off-white color.”
“It’s a wonder they’re not re
duced to threads,” Amy said wondrously.
Though she hated to admit it, her mother was right. The dresses were, indeed, very beautiful. They were all satin and retained their lustrous shine despite their discoloration.
One dress was covered in an intricate design of pearls along the bodice and neckline. A trail of pearls ran down along the arms. Little loops of cloth were at the end of each arm of the fabric: obviously, the loop went over one of the woman’s fingers on each hand so that it was almost as though she were wearing gloves. The fabric which would cover the top of the hand also had smaller pearls in an intricate design.
Another dress was accentuated with lace all over the bodice and along the shoulders. The lace gave this gown an almost feathery, airy appearance.
The last dress was embroidered with rosebuds along the shoulder, over the bodice and along the neckline.
Though Amy was in no rush to get to any altar, the artist in her admired the painstaking craftsmanship of each dress. The fact that each dress was still intact - not one pearl missing, not one single stitch snagged despite their apparent age - was testimony to the pride, quality and integrity of the maker.
“Mum, what on earth am I going to do with these wedding dresses?”
Mum raised her eyebrows, looked at Amy. “Wellll,” she said.
“Surely you don’t expect me to wear one of them someday?” Amy teased.
“Oh, heavens, no!” Mum laughed. “Your dress will be brand new. You can donate these.”
“To where? The Smithsonian?”
Mum shrugged. “A yard sale?”
Amy laughed. “I’ll take care of it, Mum.”
“Actually, maybe you could use one of them in a painting?” Mum suggested hopefully. “Say, maybe a self-portrait?”
Amy laughed outright. “Mum, self-portraits don’t pay the rent.”
Mum sighed, looked dejected for a moment, and then brightened. “Oh, come on, Amelia. We can figure out how to get into that room. There’s no telling what treasures might be in there. We could have it cleaned out in a day -”
“No, no, Mum. Not today. Celia’s coming over tomorrow for her portrait and I have to prep the canvas this afternoon.”
Mum looked so disappointed that Amy felt sorry for her.
“Tell you what, Mum. Come back on Friday and we’ll tackle that storage room.”
***
Swishhhhhhh. Swishhhhhh. Swishhhhhhh.
The soft rustle of fabric against fabric. A mere whisper of movement.
Swishhhhhhh. Swishhhhhh. Swishhhhhhh.
Amy awoke with a start. She expected to still hear the swishing noise as though it were external rather than something she had dreamed.
But she awoke to silence. A silence weighted with waiting. As though something had just stopped and was waiting to start again.
Amy sat up in her bed, listening. There was no sound. Not even the whirring of the refrigerator. The air itself was stuffed with cotton, so thick was the silence.
Amy shook her head and roused herself out of bed. She padded her way to the bathroom, flipping on the hallway light on her way. It was enough light to illuminate the bathroom as well as light the way to the kitchen.
Amy drank cold milk right out of the jug.
Only one of the advantages of being single.
She stepped out of the kitchen, headed down the hallway back to bed, glancing into the living room on her way.
She flipped off the switch to the hallway light. Took two steps. And stopped.
She’d just taken three swallows of cold milk. And now her mouth was bone-dry.
She took a few deep breaths. Straightened her spine and convinced herself she didn’t see what she thought she’d seen.
She turned the hallway light on again and back-tracked up the hallway. She cautiously looked around the wall of the living room, curving her head so she could look into her studio.
Her eyes had not betrayed her.
She stepped slowly into the living room and turned on the lamp she used when painting. It lit up the easel. And the canvas upon it.
Amy gasped; a quick intake of breath which she held.
She had prepped the canvas for Celia’s portrait, painting the background in readiness for the portrait itself. Knowing Celia’s dark russet-colored hair and peaches-and-cream complexion, Amy had used a pale peach for the background color and feathered it to blue around the outer edges. She had instructed Celia to wear a deep blue blouse and she’d planned on painting her friend holding a glass of deep red wine.
But that wasn’t on the canvas she was looking at.
Had she been painting in her sleep? Was that where the swishing sound had come from? She’d heard of sleep-walking. But sleep-painting?
The canvas on her easel had a background of complete ebony. But the ebony background worked. The beautiful pale, blond blue-eyed woman looked radiant against the dark background.
Amy released the breath she’d been holding and approached the canvas for a closer look.
The woman’s heart-shaped face was a little on the pale side, as though a bright light had shone upon her face. Deep blue eyes accentuated with crow’s feet sparkled, though Amy knew the sparkling effect was the expertise of the painter.
Whoever that may be.
The full red lips stretched into a wide euphoric smile, revealing even pearl-white teeth. Her face was smooth, rounded cheeks with a pale rosy hue, accentuated by a small straight nose. Blond tresses cascaded past the woman’s round shoulders and curled along the front of her chest.
There was an ethereal glow about the woman: this was obviously the happiest day of her life. But the glow gave her something of a surreal effect.
Even more surreal was the wedding dress she wore.
Each pearl was meticulously painted, white against white with small hints of shadow to accentuate each pearl. And each pearl was dotted with the most minute trace of luminescence so that it caught and reflected the light upon it.
Amy knew exactly which paint was used for that effect. It was a titanium paint but it was called pearl essence: almost a metallic paint it was created for the effect of reflecting light to give some paintings a shine wherever the paint was applied.
Amy felt an uncontrollable giggle making its way up her throat. She swallowed it back down. The last thing she wanted to do was give in to a fit of hysterics.
Heart pounding in her ears, Amy made her way down the hallway to the bedroom. She turned on the overhead light in the bedroom and opened the doors to the walk-in closet. She turned on every light within, including the lighted make-up mirror.
Amy looked at the closet space across from the make-up mirror where her mother had hung the wedding dresses.
Where she had hung three wedding dresses.
Where there now hung only two.
Though her hands trembled, Amy pushed one of the dresses back along the hanging rod to get a better look. The lace-covered dress looked just as it had when she’d first seen it.
So the dress with the embroidered rosebuds looked the same.
The dress with the pearls was gone.
Without knowing why, Amy looked at the door at the back of the closet; the door that led to the extra storage.
It was slightly ajar. Maybe an inch. Maybe a little more.
A cold chill ran the length of Amy’s spine and forced her to shudder.
She held her breath as she approached the door. When she was close enough, she grabbed the doorknob, slammed the door shut and locked it.
Was it her imagination or had she seen movement through that door crack? A bone-white withered hand reaching for the door from the other side?
And how odd the door should lock on Amy’s side.
Amy backed her way out of the closet, turning off lights along the way. She closed the closet doors but left the bedroom light on as she made her way back to the studio.
The painting still stood upon the easel.
Amy didn’t want to touch it.
She re
alized now that there was no way in hell she could have painted this portrait. First of all, she didn’t know the woman in the portrait, nor could she recall seeing anyone who looked like her.
Second of all, she couldn’t have painted the portrait in her sleep. She’d only been asleep for about seven hours. Portraits took days, sometimes weeks, to paint, not hours.
So where had this portrait come from?
Amy looked around her studio area. Nowhere did she see the canvas she had prepped for Celia’s portrait. With a sinking feeling, she suspected she knew where it was.
With trembling hands, Amy picked up a scraping knife from the table. She willed herself to hold the painting still by the upper left corner while she scraped a small amount of the black background paint.
Underneath was the pale blue Amy had painted around the outer edges of the peach background.
Amy tossed the knife onto the table and wiped the sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand.
She could paint over the portrait with some white primer paint and reuse the canvas.
But something told her that wouldn’t work. That if she simply painted over it, it would just.
Just what? Amy wondered. Return?
That thought was crazy.
But so was this portrait.
And the wedding dresses. And a storage room she didn’t know she had.
Amy stood still for a moment, unable to take her wide-open eyes off the painting, trying to determine what she should do.
***
Celia knocked on the door at nine sharp.
Amy had recovered by that time, tucking the painting behind the chair in the corner and prepping another canvas for the portrait.
She had also brewed a pot of strong coffee so she wouldn’t go back to sleep.
After the formalities of two friends greeting each other, Amy offered Celia a cup of coffee.
“No, no. I’m all coffee’d out,” Celia said. “Besides, klutz that I am, I’d probably spill it all over the place. All over me. Just show me where you want me to change.”
Amy led her to the closet where doors were wide open, all lights on.
“Wow,” Celia said. “It never ceases to amaze me how much closet space you have, Amy.”
“Yeah. It does come in handy,” Amy said. But her attention was focused on the door at the back of the staging area. It was still shut and locked as Amy had left it only a few hours before. “You get dressed in here. Just come on into the studio when you’re ready.”
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