by Mere Joyce
About five days after I was released from the hospital, it occurred to me I never thanked him. I didn’t even know his name. So when I got home, I went online and found an article hailing him as a hero, a sentiment I agreed with. I got his name, looked up his home address, and sent him a letter thanking him for all he did.
A couple of weeks later, I got the first postcard in the mail. It didn’t mention the incident, or anything about my story. All it said was, ‘Beautiful out here, but cold. Clear roads. People fishing on the lake.’ The postcard came from one of the cities on his driving route, and I laughed when I read it.
Another week passed, and I got another postcard. This one was from a different city, with a similar message as the first. ‘Storm last night, roads a mess this morning. Glad I’ve got hot coffee and good music to listen to.’
When I received the third postcard, I decided to write Ethan back. This time, I didn’t thank him, or talk about anything of real importance. I commented on the postcards, asked about the weather, and told him a warm front had moved in here, teasing us with a spring thaw which would probably soon freeze over again. I sent it to his home address, and within two weeks a new postcard came, answering my questions and telling me about his next trip out.
We’ve corresponded ever since, and I’ve learned a bit more about him. He’s married with two kids, a girl named Sarah who’s ten, and a boy, Jace, who’s seven. He likes bluegrass music and strong coffee. And whenever he’s on a run, he tries to find unusual candy to bring home to his kids, like cactus-flavored chewing gum or chocolate-coated chilli peppers.
I didn’t have any loose-leaf paper when I first wrote to Ethan. I only had this journal, so I wrote the letter in it and tore the page out. I could find better stationery if I wanted, but I feel like the journal paper is a part of our ritual I don’t want to change. Ethan’s never complained, and I doubt he ever would.
I take out the pen tucked in the journal’s front cover and begin writing a new letter. There’s not much to say. There never is. But despite the pointless nature of our letters and postcards, writing to Ethan is of crucial importance to me. I’ll never forget what he did for me the day of my escape, even if I’m sure he’d wave the subject away, claiming he just happened to be at the right place at the right time.
I spend a long while writing the letter. Not because I have an endless supply of words to scribble down, or because I can’t find a single thing to say. I take my time to make my time dwindle away, so when I’m finished, there is less of a gap between my letter being complete and the sun peeking up from beneath the horizon.
I didn’t bother to check my clock when I woke from the nightmare. But when I do finish the letter, once I’ve torn out the page and found an envelope to address and seal, after I’ve meticulously placed the postcards back inside my book and placed both the book and the journal back on my shelf, the view outside my window is early morning groggy grey.
I sleep better in the daylight. Not great, not comfortably, but better.
I slink back into bed, and place Ethan’s letter beside my still-shining lamp. I keep the light on as I drift back into a short sleep before school.
Chapter Eight
The posters for the Art Showcase are everywhere at school, and I’m not sure how I’ve managed to miss them up to this point. They are stuck on each pillar, on each classroom window … every available inch of wall space is covered. Art Showcase is a big deal in Colwood Bay, so I’m not surprised by the amount of advertising thrown into it. I’m just mildly panicking with the realization it’s all so close.
This year, the Showcase is on May 29th, only one day short of my kidnapping anniversary. My stomach is sticky with thick churnings as I study the colorful posters announcing next week’s date, the porridge I ate for breakfast sloshing about my insides like a boat riding a tidal wave.
If Wesley hadn’t mentioned the Showcase last night, I would still be oblivious to the storm brewing above my head this morning. I can’t decide if it’s better to be aware and prepared for an assault of unpleasant memories, or if I’d rather be ignorant until the whole event has slipped by unnoticed, until it has gone away and left me unharmed.
“Madison, hello!” I swing away from the column of posters to see Mrs. Hewitt, South Street’s art teacher, approaching me from across the forum.
“Mrs–Mrs. Hewitt,” I say, my voice uneven. I haven’t seen my former teacher since my return to school, and perhaps I should be hating this, but I’m not. Mrs. Hewitt is the best teacher I’ve ever had, and I’ve missed her. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You as well,” she replies, her lips curved in an easy smile. Mrs. Hewitt is beautiful. Her dark, smooth skin is flawless, her waist and her soft, pale lips both full and curvy. Her eyes, brown with amber glints, are deep and penetrating. When Mrs. Hewitt makes eye contact, she’s not looking at your iris, your pupil. She’s looking atyou, at your brain, at your heart.
I grip my bag to keep from throwing my arms around her in an embrace. Mrs. Hewitt nods towards the posters at my back.
“Are you entering anything this year?” she asks, her voice full of curiosity and unrestrained hope. I’m sure Mrs. Hewitt read an article or two, watched the news coverage airing repeatedly after I’d been found. But, like Tim, she’s probably clueless about the painting. In fact, she’s probably been wondering why I haven’t re-joined her art class. She might even be hurt I’ve moved on, when I was once so enamored with art I’d spend countless hours with her after school perfecting my technique.
Suddenly, I’m not worried about the tingling of my feet, or the sickly swell of my stomach. I’m concerned about Mrs. Hewitt. It’s a nice surprise to be more focused on someone else’s problems than my own.
“Oh, uh, no, I-I don’t think so,” I stutter, squeezing the woven strap of the bag between my fingers. “I-It’s been a while since I’ve painted anything. A few years, a-actually.” I even manage an insignificant laugh. I’m shocked at my own ability.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t enter,” Mrs. Hewitt replies. She reaches out a hand to touch my shoulder. “I’m sure you have stories to tell with your brush.” She says it without missing a beat, and my only response is an astonished stare. Most people shy away from mentioning the kidnapping, unless they’re asking how I’m doing or wondering what it was like to be held captive. No one has ever hinted at my time away so casually.
The bell rings, signaling the beginning of school and warning students they only have five minutes to get to class before they’re considered late. Mrs. Hewitt pulls her arm back to her side, and continues on as if I haven’t been standing before her in dumbfounded silence.
“Tell you what,” she says as the students swarm around us on their way to first period, “I’ll enter you myself. If you don’t come up with anything you want to show, it’s no big deal. But this way, you have the opportunity. And I’d think long and hard about seizing it.”
She gives me a wink, and steps off into the crowd before I have time to react.
I remain still as I watch her disappear. What just happened? In a matter of two minutes, my life has taken a hard turn. If I hadn’t been staring at the posters, would Mrs. Hewitt have approached me? I haven’t seen her around at all in the last couple of months. Is it total coincidence we met today? Or has she been keeping her eye on me, waiting for an appropriate moment to seek me out? The latter notion seems ludicrous, but a chance encounter on today of all days seems utterly impossible.
Because there’s been a change, since yesterday, since all the days of the past five months. A small twinkle of a change. Invisible, almost, but present all the same. I try to work out what it is, why it’s happened now. My former teacher just entered me in the event which was the starting point to my abduction. I should be furious with her for even suggesting the idea, but I’m only perplexed instead.
So what’s different?
There’s the phone call. The conversation I wish I never heard, the words Mom uttered in hushe
d tones while I stood on the bottom step of the staircase, my eyes wide and my hand shaking against the banister. Yes, the phone is likely a part of it. But it’s not the whole of it, not the sole reason for my whirling questions of art and scholarships and pretty boys on porch swings.
Last night’s episode with Wesley creeps to the forefront of my memory again. He hurt me because he said he liked the artist in me best, after I told him the artist was no more. But this morning Mrs. Hewitt’s done a remarkable thing. She’s spoken to me not as someone who needs to get part of herself back, but of someone who hasn’t been missing any of her parts in the first place. I think about her smile, her expectant proposal, and I can only imagine how I would’ve responded to her suggestion three years ago. I would have been so eager, so determined, so downright giddy and conceited about my entry Mrs. Hewitt would have laughed and told me to calm down.
I’ve changed, and in a dreadful way I’m glad to no longer have such a pompous conviction about my talent and my assuredly successful future. But all this time I’ve been so convinced I can’t paint anymore. And now, as I’m struck from behind by a group of bustling kids trying to get by my stiff figure, I realize Wesley’s words hurt because I agree with what he’s said. I no longer consider myself an artist. I no longer see painting as a piece of my identity.
But I want to.
Chapter Nine
At lunch, I find myself wandering through locker-lined hallways, until I reach the Arts department. I don’t talk to people much at school, so lunch is a fairly abysmal period, eating alone in the overcrowded cafeteria or escaping to the comfort of the library. Once upon a time, I ate my sandwiches or cold leftovers in Mrs. Hewitt’s room, and at first I tell myself it’s habit pushing my feet further and further into the department. Only, I’ve been habitually avoiding this section of the school since my return, so it’s unlikely I’ve made such a huge slip today.
When I reach the music hallway with its lockers, black and white like an enormous piano keyboard, I change my reasoning and tell myself I’m looking for Wesley. I want to apologize for abandoning him on my porch last night. His words may have hurt, but I can’t ignore the truth in them. And I can’t afford to lose Wesley’s company. He’s a rare bright spot in my otherwise dull existence, and I’ll take the odd unnecessary comment to keep him nearby.
But Wesley’s not in band. I pass the music room, and it’s empty, dark. Still, I keep walking. To the end of the hall, to the end of the next. It’s not long before I find myself turning the last corner into the art hall. The wildflower lockers, decorated in vibrant shades of green blooming into pink, indigo swirling into violet, make me feel like I’m in a dream.
I should hesitate. I should stop walking, realize where I am, and turn back. But I don’t. I keep going, as if this isn’t a big deal. My feet don’t tingle, don’t prick, don’t remind me of the horrible evenings when The Painter came to pay me particular attention. They move casually, almost confidently, until I’ve approached the door to Mrs. Hewitt’s room. There I stop, and peer through the small window in the classroom door.
There’s a girl inside. I see her thick curly hair tumbled across her back, dark locks swaying back and forth as the girl moves her right arm in arcs and scribbles. She’s standing before a canvas, a paint palette in her left hand. She dips her brush in a color . . . picks a second shade. Mixes the two. Then she adds it to her painting.
I know this girl. I recognize her painting style. I can’t see the whole thing, the girl’s body blocks a good portion of it, but I can tell it’s a landscape. And its creator is Shelia Blackstone, a girl my age. A girl I’ve often called my rival, sometimes even my nemesis.
“Good, isn’t she?” The voice startles me, and I jump as I pull my gaze from the window. A short, skinny Vietnamese girl stands next to me, her hair in a ponytail, smile full of grass-green braces.
“Y-Yeah, she is,” I say, even though it’s not a completely honest answer. Shelia and I have painted together before. She is good, her creations pretty, the type of thing people get put on postcards or calendars. If she’s asked to paint a lake, she’ll paint something picturesque. And she’ll be easily convinced the finished product is worthy of the highest praise.
I used to be jealous of Shelia’s ability. Portraits were my preferred subject matter, but I’d tried painting scenery a few times, without success. I thought Shelia had a remarkable gift, and so did she. She could take someone’s request, and make it appear on the canvas without any visual aid to guide her. Parks, meadows, streets, houses. I required a subject before me, someone to sit and model, or at least someone I knew well enough to visualize from memory. But not Shelia. She could paint something she’d never seen, based solely on a vague description.
It’s a talent, certainly, and it will take Shelia’s painting far. But now I see things differently. Shelia’s painting is lovely. Her technique has improved over the past three years, and from what I can see through the window, the spring valley she’s currently working on is flawless. I can envision it framed in someone’s living room, right over the sofa. Visitors will remark on how beautiful it is, and its owner will smugly agree.
But the piece lacks depth. It lacks emotion. It’s bland, just paint on a canvas. There’s no hint of passion, of sorrow, of longing, of ecstasy. There’s no story at all.
“She’s been working on it for months. It’s going to be her entry into the Art Showcase,” the girl beside me remarks. I don’t know who she is, which is hardly surprising. She looks younger than I am, and if I were to guess, I’d say she was in grade ten.
“Shelia’s entering the Showcase?”
I ask, though it’s a stupid question. Of course she is. And with the valley she’s painting, she’ll do well.
The thought rubs against my skin like rough fabric. It shouldn’t bother me, but the idea of Shelia earning a scholarship with such a boring creation is irritating. Schools will be scouting for prospective students at the Showcase. The entries should be raw, wild, and honest, not greeting card stock.
“Uh-huh. She signed up for the Showcase the first day she could,” the Vietnamese girl replies. She lets out a sigh of admiration as she glances at Shelia through the window. “I’d love to be as good as she is,” she says, and I purse my lips to keep from rolling my eyes. I don’t like hero worship. I’ve never believed anyone should strive to match the talents of someone else. Everyone should strive to be proud of his or her own ability, and uniqueness.
“Are you entering?” I ask. The girl looks surprised by my question, and her cheeks start to burn with blush.
“Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head and looking shyly down at her feet. “I mean, I’d love to, but I’m not good enough. Painting’s only a hobby. I’ll never be a real artist, not like Shelia.”
“But you like painting,” I say, tilting my head to one side as I study the girl. “You plan to keep doing it? You said yourself you’d like to be as good as Shelia.”
“I love painting,” she replies, looking back up at me with eyes shining in excitement. I recognize the look. I’ve seen it in Wesley’s stare before, in Shelia’s. In my own, as I stood before the mirror, getting ready to attend my first––and last––Art Showcase.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
The girl smiles. “Rosemarie.”
“Well, Rosemarie, it sounds like painting will never be ‘only a hobby’ to you,” I tell her. “If you love it, it will always be a part of your life. Nothing can change that. So why not try? It doesn’t matter if other people don’t like it. And they might, anyways. If it’s your passion,” I shrug, “there’s no use keeping it locked away.”
Rosemarie stares at me for a moment, and then she nods.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says at last, her green braces flashing in a grin. “Thanks, Madison.”
For a second I don’t understand how she’s guessed my name, and then I remember everyone at this school, everyone in this town, knows who I am. Rosemarie doesn’t act lik
e she’s heard it on TV or read it in the paper, though. She says it like we’re friends.
“I-It’s Maddie,” I correct her. Because Rosemarie is sweet, and I don’t want to be rude to one of the only people who’s bothered to have an actual conversation with me since my return.
“Right. Maddie.” Rosemarie nods again. “Well, I’d better be going,” she smiles, sparing one final glance at Shelia. “I was only passing on my way to the office when I saw you here.”
She gives me a meek little wave and walks away, a large knapsack bouncing against her back as she moves. I wonder what her paintings look like, and I genuinely hope she enters the Art Showcase. I meant what I said. People should never give up on their passions, no matter what.
I believe it for Rosemarie, and I believe it for anyone else. I just don’t quite believe it for me.
Chapter Ten
My parents are strict about our family eating dinner together at the kitchen table every night. I groaned about it for years, desperate to watch TV or text my friends instead of making conversation with the people I saw every day. But when I was gone, I missed these meals. I’d imagine them while I sat on my mattress at night, chewing stale peanut butter sandwiches forced down with tepid water. After eating whatever expired products The Painter had in his cupboards, fresh meals with my family are a miracle.
After school is over and the afternoon hours have fizzled into evening ones, Autumn sits across from me at the dinner table, babbling away about how she wants to join a summer fitness camp once school is out. She passes me a bowl of Caesar salad as she lists off the many reasons our parents should let her attend, and I relax in the comfort of her familiar voice rambling endlessly while Mom tries to interject and Dad shakes his head, periodically giving me a conspiratorial smile.
“Autumn, camp is just not in the cards this year,” Mom breaks in when Autumn stops talking long enough to shove a bite of baked potato into her mouth. She chews frantically when she hears the words, trying to swallow her food quickly so she can fire back one of the dozen or so arguments I’m sure she has banked away.