Archetype

by M. D. Waters

CHAPTER 18

  I manage to contain my joy until I am alone and show very little even then because of the cameras. I am not pregnant. I want to cry from relief. Dr. Travista will no doubt tell Declan, who will be sad, but for now, I cannot care. I can only be happy that I have been given a few more weeks if my cycle remains true to its course. I am told there is no further chance until next month.

  Declan finds me painting in the lounge, and it is clear by the distant look in his eyes that he has already spoken to Dr. Travista.

  “I am sorry,” I say. I stand from my stool and embrace him.

  He kisses the top of my head. “For what, my love?”

  “He told you about the test. I am sorry for the result. You must be disappointed.”

  “No. There’s plenty of time.”

  I step out of his arms and nod at the painting. “I am almost finished. Do you mind waiting?”

  He sits and loosens his tie, squinting at my work. “This is very good, Emma.”

  I tilt my head and examine the mountain scene I have painted. It is the view from the living room, but what I imagine spring to look like. I am tired of snow. “Do you think so?”

  “Hm. I think this is already my favorite. We’ll have to hang this one at home.”

  “Oh no, I do not think it is that good.” It is not that special.

  “We can hang it over the fireplace.”

  I lay my paintbrush down and rise from the stool. “Never mind. I am finished.”

  He stands, still eyeing the painting. “You don’t like it?”

  I shake my head. “It is not right. I will start over tomorrow.”

  He takes my hand and we stroll toward the transporter room. “I have something to show you before we go home.”

  I eye him with curiosity. He speaks as if he is pleased with himself. “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  We step into the teleporter tube and he says, “The port number is 037-5138-1.”

  I commit this to memory with our home and the hospital port numbers. I cannot repeat it aloud because the spearmint fills the space and the outside room melts into an empty room with white walls. Not only the sidewalls but the ceiling and floor. Upon closer examination, I see the walls are not painted. The surface is a flat, screen-like material.

  In the middle of the room is a lonely cluster of art supplies that includes an easel and a small table with paint, brushes, and jars for water. Am I supposed to paint here? In this bare room with nothing to look at?

  I step out and spin slowly. “What is this place?”

  He must see the confusion on my face, because he chuckles and gathers up a small computer tablet from the stool in front of the easel. He presses the screen a few times and the room comes to life.

  “Holograms,” he says.

  I spin again, gaping. I stand in a desert complete with mountainous sand dunes and the brightest sun I can imagine. The scene changes a moment later and I stand in a jungle with dark roots twisting around my feet. Dark green vines hang from slender trees and water drips from the largest leaves I have ever seen. A snake slithers on a branch above me and I yelp.

  Declan runs a hand through a nearby tree trunk. “It isn’t real. You’re perfectly safe in the case of a jungle cat or some other predator appearing. I have no idea how extensive this is, but it’s the best money could buy.”

  He shows me a huge closet full of canvases in every size imaginable, every paint supply I will ever need, smocks, and drop cloths. In the room next to it, a bathroom complete with a small shower—in case I have a paint catastrophe.

  “Where is this room located? The hospital?” I ask. I do not think our house is big enough for this room.

  Declan looks around at the mountains I have keyed into the tablet. I am happy to see there is no snow. “We’re in Richmond. I had this room put into the basement of my main office building. I have an office upstairs.”

  I look around again. Other than the closet and bathroom, there are no other doors. “There is no exit.”

  “I didn’t put one in.” He cannot meet my eyes. “It’s for your protection. A door will allow others in, and while I trust a lot of people, I don’t trust all of them. You and I are the only two with the port number. Arthur’s only stipulation is that you alert him when you’re leaving, just as you would if you decide to go home.”

  I nod. “Yes, of course.”

  He pulls out a phone that resembles my tablet computer but is far smaller. “And, obviously, I’ll know where you are if you leave the hospital.”

  I do not need this reminder as if I did not hear the first twenty times he told me after he gave me the home port number, but I nod my understanding anyway. I will not complain when he has given me something so amazing.

  “Declan, this is the most thoughtful gift.” The sting of tears threatens my eyes and I turn from him. I try to focus on the range of mountains and the wildflowers blooming in the clearing around me. A wind blows through, rustling the grass, but I feel nothing but still, warm air.

  His arms come around me and his fingers tap over the menu on the tablet in my hand. “I made sure they put in this one in particular,” he whispers.

  Now I stand on a beach. Seagulls dance over the water and waves crash audibly on the shore. It takes my breath away.

  “One last thing,” he says. “If you approve, of course.”

  I turn in his arms and he folds me in. “I approve.”

  He laughs. “I haven’t told you anything yet.”

  “It does not matter. I will do anything.”

  “I was thinking,” he begins hesitantly, “you would like to have a show. Burke Enterprises owns an art gallery a few blocks from here. If you would like to do a series, we can have a show and maybe find some buyers. What do you think?”

  I am nearly speechless. “I am not that good.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Actually, the gentleman running the studio was very impressed with your work and asked to see more.” He places a finger over my lips when I begin to speak. “I sent in a man he wouldn’t know, and he didn’t tell him you were my wife, so there was no bias.”

  “I do not know what to say.” My heart pounds and I cannot tell if it is from excitement or fear. Maybe both.

  “Think about it,” he says and shrugs. “There’s no time limit on the offer and you aren’t obligated. I just thought your work was too good to simply sit in the hospital, and by the speed with which you paint, I’m going to have to rent space just so the work has a home.” He laughs. “Which I will absolutely do if the need arises.”

  I bite my lip because I am dangerously near tears. “What does Dr. Travista think?”

  He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “Not that it matters, but I got the idea from Arthur. He said in passing that he would consider buying your work if he’d seen it somewhere, so I decided to look into it. When I told him what the gallery manager said, he agreed it would be a positive experience for you.”

  “Will I have to be at the show?”

  “You would prefer not to be?”

  “I do not know. This is a lot to consider.”

  He nods. “It is, so think about it. Enjoy your new studio and paint your heart out. If you decide to go through with it, say the word. I’ll get my people on it right away.”

  I step away and look around the room. Behind Declan, the beach expands for what appears to be some distance and ends in a row of cliffs. It is really as if we stand on the shore.

  With some hesitation, I shut it down and the room returns to nothing more than white walls. I blink several times to adjust, even though I knew what I would see. The difference is still shocking.

  “You don’t have to come home right away,” Declan says. “I can always find something to do upstairs and we can order takeout later.”

  I lay the tablet down on the stool in front of the easel. “No, we can go home. It has been a long day.”

  Declan sweeps me off my feet and carries me into the teleporter. “I was
hoping you’d say that.”

  My entire body wakes in anticipation and I grin. “Something on your mind, Mr. Burke?”

  “Always, Mrs. Burke. Always.”

  His mouth slants over mine and I press into him as much as I can. When I get a moment to speak, I say, “We are going to need that takeout. Neither of us is leaving the bedroom tonight.”

  • • •

  His arm reached around and took the paintbrush from my hand. “This isn’t quite right.”

  He mixed and added a new color to the brush and, in a few strokes, altered the color of my sunset.

  I peered around the canvas and saw the change for myself. The sky beyond the ocean had turned a deeper shade of red and purple. “It didn’t look like that a few minutes ago.”

  He chuckled and returned the brush to my hand. “A lot can change in a few minutes.”

  I sent an elbow back into his gut, laughing. “And in a few more, it will be dark. What are your plans for my masterpiece then, huh?”

  His hand tapped my hip and he said, “I just thought of something to add. Get up.”

  I lifted and he slid under me, repositioning me on his lap so I faced the painting head-on. I held the board while he got a clean brush and then added the color I’d already mixed for the sand.

  I watched him add shadow to one corner of the canvas, altering the shape of the sand. “What are you doing?”

  “Signing it.”

  “But it’s my painting.”

  “I helped.”

  I shook my head and watched his final strokes paint in linked hearts. They were so well hidden in the shadow of the sand dune that no one would ever see them unless they specifically looked for them.

  He laid down the brush and kissed my shoulder. “There. What do you think? An original by Emma and—”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said, laughing. “You aren’t claiming my work. An original by Emma and Emma alone.”

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I would buy this original by Emma and Emma alone. I particularly like the colors you chose for the sunset.”

  • • •

  I rise from the stool so fast it falls and knocks against the floor with its hologram of sand dunes and beach grass. Not only do I stare at an exact replica of the dream’s painting with its hidden luckenbooth, but Wade has been given a first name.

  Mine.

  Now I understand the longing and grief I suffer over Tucker. Unless the name is a coincidence—God, let it be a coincidence—these dreams are not dreams at all, but memories. And because I have been married to Declan for eight years, the entirety of my adult life, this can mean only one thing.

  I have been unfaithful to my husband.

  CHAPTER 19

  Declan stands to take our dinner plates and I finally find the nerve to speak.

  “I decided to do it.”

  He laughs and returns to his seat. “You can’t hit me with a conversation without a topic first.”

  It has been more than a week since he gave me the studio, and though I spend a lot of time trying to reach a decision, we never talk about it.

  I give him a tilted smile. “Sorry. The show. For my paintings.”

  He sits up straighter and blinks at me in surprise.

  “I have waited too long to decide,” I say. “It is too late?”

  “No. No, of course not. I told you to take your time.” He smiles and takes my hand. “I assumed you didn’t want to because you didn’t answer right away, but I’m glad you decided to do it.”

  He stands again and turns away with our plates. “Did you decide on a theme?”

  I meet him at the sink and take the rinsed plates from him. I am sliding them into the dishwasher when I say, “You will not like it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  I avoid his eyes. “I want to paint the beaches.”

  The paintings are all I can think about. Them and Tucker, which adds to my guilt daily. I think I must paint the beaches to get them out of my system once and for all. A way of giving myself completely to my marriage. I think I paint them because each stroke of the brush brings me closer to the truth behind the dreams. Are they memories of a past I am better off without? I know I paint them because in them all my blank spaces are gone. Filled. Complete.

  Declan passes over the rinsed silverware in silence. After a few tense moments, he leans his hip into the counter and folds his arms. “It’s not that I don’t like them, Emma, but I wonder why you have such a fascination with them. And you put so much more time and care into them.”

  I force myself to meet his eyes. “It is nothing more than what I told you the first time. The photograph in my old room. Most of my earliest memories since waking from the accident are centered around it.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  I do not understand his disbelief in my words, though his distrust is completely justified. I will never tell him how I dream of another man on a beach. A man whom I may or may not have had an affair with.

  “What other reason would there be?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and turns away. “None, I guess. I’m just being paranoid.”

  I want him to elaborate why he feels this way, but I sense a warning from Her, though She has not voiced anything. I need to let this subject drop. I have gotten what I wanted and should leave it at that.

  I close the dishwasher and reach out to embrace him. “You know . . . in all this time, we have never made love in front of the fireplace.”

  His grin is quick and I am off my feet a heartbeat later. He carries me toward the blazing fire. “That’s a serious problem I intend to fix immediately.”

  • • •

  It is the first time outside air has touched my face since early winter, but this is not my biggest shock. It is seeing Richmond for the first time. It is well into the evening, but the city is bright enough to hide the night sky. Lights run along every corner and angle along every building in sight. Windows glow on every floor for hundreds of stories.

  The Christmas holiday is upon the city. Trees with lights or snowmen or snowflakes or angels decorate every street corner. More lights drape over entire intersections in wide arcs. Holiday carols play from a hidden speaker system over the nearly silent hum of traffic.

  I cannot walk because I want to soak everything up. Declan said we could port directly to the studio, but I wished to see the holiday lights. I am glad he relented, even with some nervousness on his part.

  Declan’s hand runs over my back. “You okay?”

  “It is beautiful.” My voice barely rises over a whisper.

  He scans the area. “Yes.” He squeezes my hand very briefly. “Come on. Remember to stay close, all right?”

  I nod and link my fingers through his. The sidewalk is thick with bodies—male bodies. There are women, but they are few and far between, and almost all of them tote small male children with them.

  The one common feature of both sexes is the hunched shoulders and tightening of coats against the brisk wind blowing down the street. The snow has melted, but the temperature is not better. The wind slapping my skin feels like it is loaded with icicles.

  While we stroll along, I take in more of the street details. Digital parking meters sit in front of diagonal spaces all along the row. A red glow in the boxes reads $10.25 PER HALF HOUR. Every space is full and the meters show varying minutes left.

  In the center of each block, attached to a pole in the ground, is a large square screen. On it is a picture of a newspaper booth with a sign that reads RICHMOND TIMES. Along the bottom, the screen reads $5 PER DOWNLOAD. A heading crosses the screen in bold letters: BURKE ENTERPRISES BACK UP AND RUNNING AFTER LARGEST ATTACK TO DATE. Under the caption is a picture of the glass-and-steel building we just came from.

  I glance up at Declan, who watches the thick cluster of people while maneuvering us through. Burke Enterprises was attacked? There must be some mistake, because he has not mentioned this.

  “Declan?”


  He glances down quickly and says, “Yes?”

  “What does that mean?” I point to the Times download center. “Is that about your company?”

  Declan does a double take when he reads the screen and purses his lips. A second later, I am moved to his other side and he curses under his breath.

  “It’s nothing,” he says. “Something that happened months ago. Around the time of your accident.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “Emma, I really don’t want to get into it.”

  I cast my gaze down. “Of course. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” His tone is angry underneath forced patience. “Damn it. I’m sorry. It’s just been a nightmare for months, but honestly, I’m not upset it happened. I mean, I am—the money lost was insurmountable—but it changed my life.” He looks at me with a softer expression. “I wish I could explain it to you.”

  “It is none of my business.” Down the block, the art gallery comes into view and I point, grateful I can change the subject. “Is that it?”

  Declan angles us toward the front of the building with a solid window front and an old-fashioned swing-open door and bell. It is toasty warm inside the large, open space. Long cushioned benches sit in front of every wall, perfectly centered under various pieces of art. Photographs hang as well as paintings. It is a mash-up of styles, and I love it.

  “Mr. Burke?” A man appears through a sliding door in the back, a wide smile flashing under a large salt-and-pepper mustache. “Right on time.”

  “Did you receive the piece I sent this afternoon?” Declan asks the man while shaking his hand.

  “Yes.” He glances at me, his smile twitching like he is having a hard time holding it. “Is this the artist?”

  “My wife, Emma. Emma, this is Harold Geist.”

  I shake his sweaty, plump palm and resist running my hand over my long coat. “Hello, Mr. Geist. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  His smile firms. “So polite.”

  “Mr. Geist,” Declan says, “why don’t you and I go talk while Emma looks around?”

  The two men leave me standing in the center of the room alone. I spin slowly, looking at several of the pieces hanging under long lights that illuminate each piece in a soft glow.