Blank Canvas

by Mere Joyce

  My captor. The Painter.

  I sit up and consider my closet door as Autumn’s words replay in my mind. I wish she were with me to give me strength. Slowly, I push off my bed and go to the closet, sliding open the door and peering in at my room’s former decorations. The paintings lean against the back, half-hidden under my hanging clothes and turned towards the wall so all I can see is the brown backing and black frames. I grab one at random, and lay it face down on the bed. I tug at my braid until it hurts my scalp, and then I flip the picture over.

  I haven’t seen any of these paintings since my return. My father took them down at my request, long before I stepped foot into the house. Looking at one now, the framed piece of canvas is both familiar and strange, a comfort and a disturbance to my straining nerves.

  This one is a girl, in shades of blue and purplish-grey.

  “Storm Watching,” I say, remembering the title I gave this piece five years ago when I painted it. My time spent away from home allows me now to see how childish the work is. I made this painting when I was eleven, and staring at it through sixteen-year-old eyes I’m desperate to fix the lines, the shading, the drop of shadow under the girl’s chin. I haven’t painted anything in three years, but still I feel like my ability has grown. I understand the harsh reality and darkness of the world better.

  This painting was meant to be moody, but it’s only moodiness from a hand of carefree innocence. I could do moody properly, now. A new version of this image sketches itself in my mind as I stand in the dark, my fingers itching to pick up a brush.

  But then the girl’s face starts to morph into something older, thinner … uglier. I step back and hit the wall behind me, eyes and throat stinging with the effort of stifling a cry. The girl is turning into The Painter, and before he takes control I have to leave the room. I rush to the door, throwing it open and hurrying down the stairs.

  I stop in the kitchen to catch my breath and wait for the tingling on the soles of my feet to give way. Everyone else has gone to bed, leaving me alone with my panic. In the dark, silent kitchen I groan in worry and anger, and then I busy myself with filling the kettle to make a cup of tea. Listening to the sizzling bubble of the water as it boils, I let the steam snake over my face, the moist heat a welcome caress.

  When I’ve stirred the tea bag and let the water dim to a deep black-brown, I grab my mug and slide open the back door leading onto the deck. The night is cold, so I go back and get a blanket from the family room to wrap around my shoulders. Then I return to the quiet outdoors.

  No one’s aware I do this. They believe the nighttime scares me because it’s when I was taken. But I missed the outdoors for years, and my own backyard is safer than the streets outside. Besides, as much as he still tortures me, I’m not afraid of being captured again. I didn’t escape by chance. I had to work hard to get away, and if The Painter wasn’t locked behind prison bars, if he were to round the side of the house this very instant, I’d throw my scalding tea in his face and walk calmly back inside.

  I settle in to listen to the crickets and the distance traffic of the highway. But it’s only a short moment before I hear a different sound instead.

  “Hi neighbor,” Wesley calls, and I look over the fence to the house on my left. Wesley sits on his back porch, the gel washed out of his hair, the still-damp strands dangling adorably over his eyes. In one hand he holds a pen, in the other, a notebook.

  He’s composing.

  “Hi,” I reply, the sight of him writing music so wonderfully unexpected my voice cracks with delight. “Want to come over?” I ask, and with a smirk reserved for late-night adventures under the gleam of the moon, Wesley gets up and hops over the fence into my backyard.

  Chapter Six

  We sit together on the porch swing, the blanket draped over our laps. I drink my tea, my legs drawn up as Wesley rocks his feet against the deck to sway us back and forth.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this,” he says after several minutes have drifted past. I’m so comfortable I want to lean my head against his shoulder and doze, the way I’ve done a thousand times before.

  “I didn’t think we’d ever get to do it again,” I confess, holding myself upright to avoid accidentally giving in to my urges. It’s strange, sitting here with the boy I grew up with, the boy I used to easily call my best friend. He probably has new friends now, people I used to know, people I’ve never met. But even through our awkwardness, Wesley’s still the best friend I’ve got, and my only real friend not counting my sister. I started going to school two months ago, when I could no longer deal with Mom’s worried glances at every hour of the day. In the hallways and classrooms of South Street High, I only had to deal with the wary glances of my classmates, most of which have faded as I’ve become one more invisible student. I like being invisible. It’s a nice change from the media coverage, the reporters and lawyers and people on the street wanting to take my picture. But being invisible has a built-in limit when it comes to friendship.

  “I didn’t, either,” Wesley agrees. His eyes, brown in the sun but nearly black in the weak light of his porch lamp next door, lock with mine until I duck my head. My cheeks warm with blush. Autumn never ceases taunting me about Wesley. But I wonder how Wesley honestly thinks of me after these last five months. He’s been around all this time, which has to mean something––but what, exactly? Am I a friend, a sister, a good cause?

  “Do you remember the summer we both fell asleep out here, and we had to sneak back in at six in the morning?” I ask, gripping my mostly empty tea mug.

  Wesley laughs. “I nearly got caught. My dad was already up for work.”

  In those days, Wesley’s dad worked at an insurance company downtown. Wesley’s parents divorced when he was only four, and his mom lives two hours away with her second husband and their two sons. Or at least, she did. I want to ask Wesley if his father’s still adjusting insurance claims, if his mother still works for the radio, if he still watches his step-brother Logan play basketball in the fall. I want to ask, but I don’t. I don’t feel close enough to Wesley to delve into questions about his family. I need to get through the uncertainties of Wesley himself first.

  “Autumn s-says you’re in a band,” I say carefully. I’m desperate to get on the subject of his music, but I don’t want to seem like I’m prying. Wesley stretches his legs out, and our rocking becomes gentler as he moves the heels of his sneakers to keep us going. He opens the notebook lying on his lap, and as I suspected, rows and rows of music score are scribbled in black ink.

  “It’s a way to pass the time,” he says with a shrug, but from the sensual way he runs his fingers over the pages, I can tell he loves it.

  “I’m so glad you still play,” I say. I don’t mention that sometimes, while I was away, I would imagine him playing, and it would help me fall into uneasy sleep. I don’t tell him his music was my lullaby, even before I disappeared.

  “It is kind of cool,” he breathes, flipping to the latest composition he’s been working on. “Gives me an excuse to practice outside of school. And I get to write music as part of a group. I’m learning a lot about other instruments, and I’m seriously thinking about studying music at university next year.”

  The statement is jarring. I forgot Wesley would be graduating in a month. How did I forget Wesley would be graduating in a month? I didn’t get an education in captivity, so my school days are comprised of remedial classes as I work my way through the ninth grade curriculum and take online courses in the hopes of catching up by next year. I’m supposed to be in grade eleven, beginning the post-secondary talk with my guidance counselor, my parents––my friends. But I’m not, and the surprise of realizing Wesley is going to be leaving so soon after my return is difficult to take in.

  He seems to read my thoughts. “I’m, um, I’m going to live at home,” he says quickly. “I’ve been accepted at Eastern. I just have to decide which program. I applied for a couple, but I think music is what I want to major in.�
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  “Oh,” I say, my face flushing with relief. “Yes, m-music. Definitely.” I bask in the joy of knowing Wesley won’t be leaving after all, until I remember we’re in the middle of a conversation. “That’s great, Wesley, about school. A-And the band. Are you working on something for them now?”

  Wesley eyes the unfinished arrangement, and then stares ahead out into the night, his body rigid beside me.

  “No, um,” he begins uneasily, and I let my legs fall to the wood slats of the deck, my stomach tightening. “This is actually for the Art Showcase.” His voice is so quiet it takes me a moment to understand what he’s said. When I do, sickness rushes through me, and I have to push the memories away with dizzying force.

  “Oh,” I say again, my fingers trembling against the ceramic mug.

  Wesley tries to fill up the horrible silence descending between us.

  “It’s just,” he splutters, his knee bouncing nervously, “well, you know. Scholarships. Thought I might try to get one. I’ve been working on this piece for a few months. I think it’s pretty good.” I look down at the notebook. I can’t read music, but I’ve studied enough of Wesley’s pieces to know this one is far more complex than anything I’ve seen him do before.

  “You should,” I say absently, staring with eyes half-closed at the music, the quarter notes, the rests, the sharps and flats and other symbols I don’t understand black and depressing against the sickly cream of the page. I blink once, twice, dragging myself out my wallowing stupor with each flutter of my eyelids. I blink until I’ve blinked away my own selfish concerns, and then I gaze up at him. “You should try for scholarships, Wes. You deserve them.” It’s the first time since my return I’ve called him Wes and not Wesley. The way his eyes light up when he hears the word makes my heart prickle with pleasure.

  “You could try for some, too,” he says gently.

  I lower my eyes. The Art Showcase takes place every spring, for all secondary school students, which in the town of Colwood Bay means grades eight through twelve. The younger kids just get to showcase their work, but students in grades eleven and twelve have the chance to win scholarships from visiting schools and local organizations. Even though I’m not taking eleventh grade classes, the school has technically labelled me as a conditional eleventh grader, so I could compete.

  Years ago, the heat of competition was what I craved. I dreamed of showcasing my painting, winning the top scholarship for visual art, and eventually attending a university with a strong arts program. But things are different now.

  “That’s not me anymore,” I whisper, and after a few seconds Wesley places a hand on my leg. His touch is warm, thrilling. I stare at the blanket, relishing the fact his hand is beneath it, firm against my thigh. I wish the blanket were gone, so I could see his fingers splayed against the thin material of my cherry red pajama pants. I relax beneath the easy comfort of his grasp, and when I bring my gaze up to his eyes, I’m prepared for something like fireworks to explode in the star-spotted sky.

  I’m greeted instead by a sad smile on Wesley’s face, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the curious smirk I’d been about to display.

  “Too bad,” he says, closing the notebook. “It was my favorite part of you.”

  The words fall from his mouth like jagged rocks tumbling down a hillside. Wesley doesn’t shy away from my wide-eyed surprise, nor does he apologize when my face crumples with hurt. I can’t believe he just said what he did, and I’m not sure how to respond to it.

  So I don’t. Without speaking, I get off the swing. I stare down at the mug clenched in one hand, the blanket gripped tight in the other, and I take a moment to compose myself. Then I walk back inside, locking the door behind me, leaving Wesley alone in my backyard. I don’t look back, not even once I’m safely indoors and have easy viewing access through the window. I have no idea how he reacted to my leaving, but he didn’t try to stop me, which says enough.

  I leave the mug in the kitchen sink and switch off the light before I go back to my room, the blanket cold and rough around my quivering shoulders.

  Chapter Seven

  I lay in the dark for some time after I return to my room, Wesley’s words still plaguing me. How could he say something so cruel? So I don’t want to be an artist anymore. Was artistry the only reason we were ever friends?

  No. It couldn’t be. And as much as I’m hurt by what he said, I know Wesley didn’t mean to offend me. He thinks, like everyone else, I’m missing a vital piece of myself by not painting. And maybe I am. But still, his words were uncalled for. I think. People are supposed to be kind to victims, helpful to those who are broken, not point out how much their new personalities fall short of the old ones … aren’t they?

  I don’t like trying to figure people out. Should I be angry Wesley’s not observant enough to understand I’m hurting, nor to realize bringing up the major point of my suffering only makes it worse? Or am I to blame for expecting him to keep his mouth shut when I’ve never told him about my fear of painting, never explained why thirteen-year-old and sixteen-year-old Maddie are two totally separate identities?

  I replay the conversation: the cozy minutes beforehand, and the terse silence after. I convince myself the incident proves I’ve been keeping Wesley on a pedestal, pretending he’s a perfect creature because I sincerely want just one perfect thing in my life. But then I backtrack, play it all through a second time, and decide I’ve overreacted. Wesley is my friend, he cares about me, and he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He meant no harm, and perhaps even thought he was saying something I would want to hear.

  And then I start the whole scene over again, until my muddled mind is finally lulled to sleep.

  I’m not sure how long it takes me to fall under the sandman’s spell. But once I do, I dream. I dream I’m sitting in the middle of my room, naked, with buckets of bright paint in a circle around me. The room is hazy, almost like it’s filled with fog, and I’m cold, shivering. The only things promising any warmth are the buckets of paint. I stand, and walk to the first bucket, with orange paint inside. I lift my leg and lower it into the paint, and then bring my other leg in so I’m dipped knee-deep in orange.

  The next bucket covers my arms with purple, the one after my face with pink, and then my torso with red. There’s a bucket of white meant for my hair, but before I can coat myself in it, I notice my room has changed. The blank walls are covered with impressions of my newly colorful limbs, as if I’ve rolled myself along them. I look down, and see the colors I’ve bathed in have all smudged together into a sickly grey shadow over my body.

  I want to cry. I look up again and my walls are not my walls at all. They’rehis walls, and I’m back in his house again. I drop to my knees, and my hair falls over my face in a floor-length, solid sheet of white. I hear something from beyond it, something from the far side of the room. Carefully I pull my hair back, and see a figure crouched low in one corner, painting. The brush is loud, like thick metal whacked hard against the wall.

  I gasp, and at the sound the figure turns to me. It’s him, I know it’s him, but I can’t make him out. He’s foggy, like the room, his hand and his brush clearly visible while the rest of him remains a blur.

  He stands and walks over to me. I beg him to stay away, my words incoherent yet totally sensible in the midst of the tilted room. He closes in on me, ignoring my pleas. With another sharp intake of breath I feel heat scorch my arm as he grabs hold of me with his free hand. I can’t see him. The fog is thick, and I can feel him grasping me, but I can’t see him, can’t even see myself.

  And then suddenly, I understand what the buckets of paint were for. As a black mass appears before my face, inches from the tip of my nose, I pull the colors together to make a fractured version of myself.

  Orange, the color of the ragged dress I found myself in when I woke in his room.

  Purple, the color of my hands when I first saw them roped to the door.

  Pink, the color of my limbs, after they we
re scrubbed with fury during my weekly bath.

  Red, the color of my blood, which thankfully stopped flowing a few months into my captivity.

  White, the color of my hair, my skin . . . my blank existence, after my time with him was done.

  The black mass before my face comes into focus through the fog. Icicle eyes stare out of the mist, so close the lashes nearly tangle in my own.

  I wake up in a sweat. My face is hot, my eyes sticky with sleep and tears.

  I can’t stay in bed. I can’t allow myself to cool off, let the dream and his eyes take over. I throw back my sheets and start pacing the floor, desperate to find something else to focus on. I turn on the lamp beside my bed, and the shine illuminates the books stacked on the shelf of my nightstand. I grab a book from the middle of the stack, a hardcover collection on John Singer Sargent, and take the black and gold journal from beneath it as well.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor beside my bed, and open the book to the table of contents, where a stash of postcards is tucked neatly in the crease of the page. The sight of them makes me smile, my nerves needlessly soothed to see they are just as I left them. I lay the collection out before me, and flip the latest three cards over so I can re-read the short messages. Then I open the journal to a fresh page, the edges of the previous torn pages comforting.

  After Ethan, the truck driver, picked me up from The Painter’s house, he drove me to the police station. He stayed there until my parents were called, and an ambulance was sent to transfer me to the hospital. Everything from the first few days of my escape is now either confused or lost in the recesses of my memory, so I don’t know exactly when I saw him last. I imagine he stayed behind at the police station, made a witness statement, and went home. The police probably questioned him again at some point to confirm his facts and rule him out as an accomplice, and then he likely fell back into his regular life.