by Mark Tufo
“Wow,” Allyson said.
Matt whistled. “Wonder why we’ve never heard of him. He sure could paint.”
“You don’t exactly travel in artist’s circles, Matt,” Emma said. “I’ll bet if we searched a bit we’d find out more about him.”
“We know he was alive in 1938,” Allyson said. “I’d say we’ve got some obituaries to search.”
Isabel nodded. “It is important for us to search out all of them. To know when they died would be very helpful to our quest.”
“This may sound stupid, but are we sure they’re all dead?” Peter asked.
“They are dead,” Isabel said without hesitation. “But there are others who know of them.”
Emma leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“Others who touched these lives and have not yet passed on. It’s inevitable that they exist. I may even know one of them.”
Peter knelt beside Isabel. “Who? If you know you have to tell us.”
“I will tell you when I am sure. It is someone I am very close to.”
Peter sighed. “Okay, what about the obits? Where do you think we should start?”
Isabel stood now, walking to the window. “Look in the months before your births, all of you. Ninety, a hundred days. Reincarnation can be immediate, or it can take some time.”
“To know how they died would be more interesting,” Emma said. “And a little eerie.”
Peter looked at the portrait of Ellen again, hesitated, then: “Do you think even this portrait would take us back?”
Isabel turned away from the window and shrugged. “Are you ready to see, Allyson? If your life force dwells within this canvas?”
“I am, but what about Peter? If he painted it, wouldn’t his life force be as integral a part of the picture as mine?”
Isabel closed her eyes and remained silent for nearly a minute. When she finally spoke, her eyes were filled with concern. “What I must say I say to all of you. I’m allowing you to direct your own futures, as well as your pasts. Since this has begun, I’ve had the sense that you must create the ideas and make the decisions yourselves that move you toward your pasts, and ultimately, your futures. I can help, but the more my influence is felt, the longer it may take.”
“But you have the ability to help us, Isabel,” Peter said. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, but I could lead you in the wrong direction, in spite of my ability to see things. For this reason, I believe it is important that all of you are only minimally influenced by outside forces, including me. I will only offer suggestions, so your decision to join Allyson in the portrait is just that. Yours.”
“I think we all trust your intuition, Isabel. I get the feeling we need to move on this thing. It’s weird, but I feel like we’re in a race with something. Time, or something – or someone -- else. I don’t like the feeling. It’s like I’m afraid we’re going to lose the opportunity forever if we don’t make some progress.”
“You use more of your senses than you realize, Peter,” Isabel said.
“Maybe. About the portrait, I want to do it, but I’d like to speak to Ally alone first,” Peter said. “Ally?”
She nodded. Isabel pointed to her small bedroom. “You’re welcome.”
Peter took Allyson’s hand and led her into the other room. The voices behind them, while not quite faint, were muffled.
“Ally, I realized something just now, and I have to tell you before we go back there again.”
Her eyes sparkled concern. “I’m not sure I want to hear this,” she said.
Peter sat on the single bed and pulled her down beside him. “Ally, it’s nothing bad, it’s just that each time I see Ellen Carver in that life, my feelings for you in this one seem to increase a hundredfold.” He squeezed her hands and shook his head. “It’s not only feelings of love . . . it’s a need to protect you. I don’t have any reason to believe you need protecting, but it’s overwhelming. I’m worried I’ll come back from our past sometime and never want to leave you alone.” Peter felt he was drowning in his inability to say what the hell he wanted to say. “If you don’t want that, I’d—”
Allyson leaned forward and kissed Peter. Her lips lingered there for a long moment, and Peter wished she would never pull away. When she finally did, she whispered, “It’s exactly the same for me. I feel Ellen’s fear but it’s okay, because I feel Chris’s love and that makes it easier to bear.” She squeezed Peter’s hand in hers. “But even when I return to the now and know it was someone else’s life, I’m drawn to you more.”
“You don’t know how glad I am it’s not just me. I was pretty sure I was on a path to fall so deeply in love with you that you’d collapse under the weight of it.”
“Well, Chris, or Peter, or Web, whatever your name is, you can rest assured that the feeling is mutual and parallel.” She kissed him again, this time just a quick peck.
“Let’s do the portrait then,” Peter said. “It ought to be interesting, at the very least.”
* * * * *
The studio was small, well lit. Paint spatters decorated the walls, floor, and most items near the easel in the tiny retreat, and the bed in the corner told Ellen that this was not only Chris’s studio, but his entire living quarters.
Sunlight streamed in through gaps in the ceiling that surely must allow the infrequent rain to come in, but there was no evidence of any damage.
The smell was a blend of the large bouquet of flowers combined with the many paints, as well as something that had a vague scent of wet wood.
How strange, Ellen thought, to have only one room. How strange to be in a man’s bedroom! She had not thought of it like that before. Oh, what her father would do if he knew. She tried to push the thought away. Chris was so intent on her that he would notice her change in mood, would see her nervousness immediately.
What was it like to live in one tiny room? All her life she had been given as much space as she needed—more, really. And yet, that was not entirely true. She was given the physical space, but emotionally she had been secluded, confined in her father’s world, seeing only what he allowed her to see, experiencing only what he put before her to experience. Much of that had been hatred.
That fact often surprised Ellen, when she took time to consider it. Considering her father’s methods of rearing a child, was there any explanation for how much she cared for others’ feelings, how much other people’s pain upset her? How had she been able to see and to live, almost exclusively, her father’s bitter hatred for practically everyone, and still be a caring person? Was there a deep abyss, void of light and feelings hiding somewhere within her, waiting to awaken, rise up and engulf the naïve, childlike girl the world knew now? Would she one day become just like her father due to some genetic code she could do nothing to hinder?
Things had changed since her relationship with Lilly Morris began. With her father’s dedication to accommodating Lilly’s every desire, things had opened up. She was now able to sense things she had never sensed; simple things like the pure joy behind a child’s laugh – things that in her own misery she was too numb to notice.
She had also begun to experience things she never would have dared dream of – the trips to the theater with Lilly came to mind – and had become brave enough to take risks that she would never have considered taking. Like being here now, in Chris’s studio. How long had she known him now? Six months?
She sat, her silk wrap falling off her shoulders as Chris had suggested—perhaps a bit lower than he had indicated — the lavender dress beneath more revealing than any she had ever worn. It would not leave this room. Lilly had bought it for her as a gift, knowing far in advance the surprise she had arranged with Chris. Lilly told Ellen she would someday be able to enjoy the portrait, and hiding it from her father would be easy. Lilly would keep it tucked away at her place.
“Chin up just a bit,” Chris said. “There. Beautiful.”
His eyes intent on the canvas, and alterna
tely, on her, the brush in his hand dabbed and danced over the canvas. Each time his eyes met hers, she smiled, but he often did not return the smile. He was a true artist, focused on his work, capturing whatever it was he saw in her soul—for clearly he was looking into her that deeply—and transferring it to the canvas before him.
He bit his lower lip, flicked the brush a couple more times, and then said, “There. Need a short break?”
Ellen shrugged. “I’m fine, but if you need one—”
“I think I do.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m never too sure of anything,” he hesitated, then laughed. “Well, there’s one thing I’m more certain of than I’ve ever been of anything.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“You, Ellen. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Ellen stood and removed her wrap. She moved next to Chris, and when he got up from his stool, he took her in his arms. “I’m in love with you, Ellen. It’s getting harder to say goodbye to you every time I have to do it.”
Ellen sighed, wrapping her arms around Chris. He held her and they kissed.
“You're crying,” he whispered in her ear.
“I’m afraid.”
Chris pulled back. “Afraid of what? I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You can’t do anything about it. My father controls my life, and he’ll never approve of you. Never.”
“Even if I’m famous one day? If I paint portraits of presidents and kings?”
Despite her tears, Ellen laughed. “You painted Lilly, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m sure he’s never seen it. Has he been to her home?”
“I don’t know. What he does is only his business. I’m the last person he’d share that with.”
“Maybe Lilly can put in a word for me.”
“I doubt it would do any good. Does rain come in here?”
“What?” Chris followed her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, the holes.” He smiled, the embarrassment manifesting itself in his flushed cheeks. “I put cans down to catch it and use sheets to protect my paintings. Maybe rain would help the flowers, though. With me as their keeper they won't last long.”
Ellen kissed his cheek and said, “I love everything you’ve done, and to see any of it destroyed would be a sin. It’s wonderful that you take care of it.”
“I’d like to take care of you someday, Ellen.” He released her and went to the door, where he looked out at the Pacific Ocean raging at the bottom of the bluff. He was silent for a long time before he finally spoke. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“Why not? We can dream, can’t we?”
Chris turned toward her. “Do you dream of it, too?”
So Chris really did not know her feelings, though Ellen had assumed her love for him was transparent. She had never felt this way about anyone before—never believed, even remotely, that she could ever hope to spend her life with a man like Chris. “Of course I dream of it. For the first time in my life, I do, and I even wonder—”
Chris stared at her. “You wonder what?”
Ellen walked back to the stool and turned toward him. “I wonder if it's suddenly possible . . . for us to be together. Like everyday people.”
Chris’s face lit up, and Ellen could almost see his heart begin to pump faster. Everything about him changed in an instant. “We could run away together, Ellen,” he said. “I can paint anywhere. Get work doing something to support us. I could, Ellen, easy.”
“Chris, slow down. I want that more than anything, but you must realize, my father would track me down, kill you, and the only thing that would be different is that I’d be without you forever.”
“I can’t stand this! I want to be with you, Ellen.”
“Why, suddenly, am I the one with the common sense? Darling, we have to wait. There is a way, if we think about it hard and then really plan carefully. Nothing impulsive will work. I’ve watched him for too many years to think it could.”
Chris paced away from her and stared at her portrait for a moment, as though lost in the blended colors of the canvas. “Your father is evil, isn’t he?”
Now his eyes met hers, and she knew lying would be pointless. Chris knew the truth as well as he did. “Yes, I believe he is. I didn’t . . . well, I didn’t realize it until I met people who were kind. You. Lilly. Oh, and Father Mattingly.”
“How could you not see it, Ellen? The way he treats you, locking you up like a prisoner.” Chris turned away again, but then turned around and took her by the shoulders. His hands were firm. “What happened to your mother, Ellen? I know she's dead, but how did it happen?”
“I need to change out of this dress. Will you please leave for a moment?”
“But—”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“He’s not here, Ellen. You can talk about it if you feel like it.”
“My mother asked me not to, Chris. While she was dying, she asked me—no, warned me—to leave it alone. She told me to try to escape when he was old. Too old to physically stop me. It was important to her that I escape before my life was over.”
“I can’t wait that long, Ellen. Your father seems to be growing more intolerant of me, more protective of you. Soon he’ll have bodyguards accompany you everywhere and we’ll never have the opportunity to be alone. He could be as old as Moses and you’d still be impossible to reach.”
Ellen’s tears fell unrestrained.
“How long ago did your mother tell you that?”
“She died when I was seventeen.”
“Let me finish painting you, at least. Before you leave. I never know when I’m going to see you again, and I can’t stand seeing you walk out of here.”
She looked at him, saw the passion and pain in his eyes, and lowered onto the stool. Adjusting her wrap, she said, “I’m sorry, I know it’s hard for you. For me, too.”
“Smile. I’ll be seeing more of this portrait than I will of you, and I want your happy side to show.”
Ellen smiled. “It’s the only side I have when I’m with you,”
* * * * *
Her father confronted her the moment she opened the door. He appeared a much larger man when angered than he really was, but perhaps it was because Ellen knew what that anger might unleash.
He was just shy of six feet tall and with an average build. He wore his brown hair slicked back on his head, and at the moment no hint of pleasure on his angular face. He stood before her as rain began to fall outside, the distant roll of thunder making his disapproving stare seem more ominous. His steel blue eyes revealed his irritation as he stepped aside to let her pass. He closed the door behind her.
“I want you to go to your room immediately and do not leave it.”
“But why, fath—”
“Just do it! Where have you been?”
“Lilly met me at the library and we—”
“That’s enough. Go to your room now. I have an errand to run. I’ll be home shortly.”
Ellen nodded and turned away to walk in silence down the long, dimly lit hall. The deep maroon wallpaper ran from a chair rail down to the floor throughout the entire length of it, and crystal chandeliers, spaced ten feet apart adorned the ceiling, projecting crystalline reflections along the walls and floor.
Looking at them reminded Ellen of her mother, who had told her they were tiny angels, sent to tickle her heart with light. Now these once fanciful reflections made her sad rather than happy, her mother no longer there to share the fantasy with. Together, in confidence, they had fantasized of a day when they would both be free of the man who tortured them.
Even her mother, as perfect as she had seemed, had dared dream of a day that would never come. Suzanne Carver had to have realized the unlikelihood of it all along, but chose to cling to a faint hope for the sake of her only daughter, perhaps to inspire her so that she might pursue the dream until it became a reality.
Ellen awoke the next morning early, shuffled t
o the bathroom, and brushed her teeth. She briefly thought of Chris and smiled at her reflection in the mirror.
She once again walked down the hall, the angels now sleeping in the light of day. She entered the foyer and stopped, frozen. Fear struck her. Chills ran up and down her spine, and she screamed aloud. Tears began to pour down her cheeks, and her body shuddered uncontrollably.
“You didn’t think you could lie to me, did you?”
She fell to her knees. “Oh, father.”
He gazed up at the portrait and smiled. “It’s lovely. He was very good.”
Ellen looked up at the portrait of herself. The word rang in her ears.
Was.
She leapt to her feet and charged toward her father, fists flailing. She pounded him in the chest, her screams drowning out her sorrow. Moments later Ellen felt herself flying through the air and slamming into the hard brick of the fireplace hearth. She had not seen her father hit her, but he must have.
She lay there, her breath coming in quick puffs. Her ribs hurt, and something else. Her head. The blurry image of her father quivered into focus and she heard his laughter.
“You deceived me, so Chris Wickham paid the price. When you look for someone to blame, look inward. If you ever lie to me again, you will not live to repeat the act.”
Sobs racked her wounded body. A strong smell of smoke, and a distant crackling came to her, as though from a long forgotten dream.
Fire. Somehow she knew what her father had done. In her mind's eye, Ellen saw the red-orange flames licking the inside of the small house, engulfing it, and envisioned Chris trying to escape their ferocity. “No, Father! No!”
“In the meantime, we can enjoy the portrait. You look wonderful in it.”
As Ellen looked up at the portrait again, her eyes filled with tears, she felt the deepest sorrow she had ever felt in her life..
But perhaps it matched the sorrow she felt at the news of her mother's death as a young girl.
Then something new caught her eye. The corners of her mouth, turning upward. Into a smile. Not hers, but . . . the portrait's.