Blank Canvas

by Mere Joyce

  “Mom, it’s a great camp!” she whines as soon as she gets the potato down. “I want to own my own fitness studio someday. You know that. And this would be a fantastic opportunity for me to gain experience in the fitness community.”

  “Oh, honestly, Autumn!” Mom looks like she wants to be serious, but her mouth quivers as she fights back a laugh. “You talk like you’re twenty-five. Need I remind you you’re only thirteen? I hardly see how attending a summer camp now is going to provide you valuable experience in the fitness community.”

  “Because¸” Autumn says in a frustrated voice. “If I attend the camp now, it means I stand a way better chance of getting hired to run the camp in a couple of years––whichwill be useful. While I’m at the camp this summer, I can take note of the instructors. Ask questions. See how they work! Mom, please, you know how much I want this.”

  Our mother pauses for a moment, and an expression of guilt passes over her face.

  “No, Autumn, I’m sorry,” she says.

  “But I can pay for it myself! I’ve got plenty of babysitting money saved away, and you told me I could spend that money on whatever I wanted.”

  “Autumn,” Mom snaps, her voice momentarily harsh. I don’t understand her reaction, until Autumn speaks again.

  “It’s only half an hour away, Mom,” she says through gritted teeth. “And I could come home on the weekends. It’s only one month, and you’ll know where I’ll be the entire time.”

  I furrow my brows, taking in Autumn’s argument. She’s mentioned the camp before, but she’s never said anything about Mom’s refusal to let her attend. And now I’ve discovered why. Mom doesn’t want Autumn to be away from home for a month. She’s afraid of missing a daughter again.

  “Mom,” I say quickly, dropping my salad fork in my haste to make this right. It clatters noisily against my plate, but I ignore the sound. “Y-You’ve justgot to let Autumn go. It’s not the same thing, not the same thing at all. Y-You can’t keep her locked inside all summer, just b-because of what happened.”

  “Maddie,” Mom breathes, the sound like a whispered cry.

  “N-No.” I cut her off before she can say anything about how I don’t understand what it’s like for her. Because I don’t, and I’m sorry I can’t alleviate her pain. But I feel enough guilt over my family’s grief as it is, and I couldn’t stand to be the cause of any more of it. “Autumn needs to have this. She’s had a hard time, too. Y-You may have missed a daughter, but she missed a sister, and more than that, she had to endure the question of––of what if she had been abducted instead of me.”

  Autumn stares at me, and I can tell she’s wondering how I’ve guessed the truth. But it wasn’t a guess. I wondered it often enough, while I was away. It was one of the things keeping me going. I was glad it was me, and not Autumn, tied up in The Painter’s house.

  “Shewhat?” Mom is surprised. She’s clueless about her youngest daughter’s feelings. I suspect she’s been preoccupied with her own, her husband’s––mine. She honestly believed Autumn’s casual chatter was an indication her youngest girl doesn’t feel the weight of the situation like everyone else does. She doesn’t realize the casual chatter proves Autumn does feel it, shows even Autumn is crushed by the weight, just as much as we are.

  All of us have been holding the burden together. This is as good a time as ever to chip a bit of it away.

  “Autumn, is that true?” Mom looks at Autumn, and instead of responding, Autumn begins to cry. Mom and Dad both rise from the table, rushing to envelop her. I watch them gather, see my family join in a solemn embrace across from me. It’s not like it used to be, everyone light-eyed and bright, everyone smiling and laughing and taking the simplicity of our life for granted. It’s a damaged group on the other side of the table, like a puzzle worn from too many attempts at being put together the wrong way.

  But despite the tears, the crinkled edges, the missing piece I don’t know how to provide, a spark lights within me at the sight of them there. The picture is not as pretty as it should be, but enough of the original portrait remains to make me believe there’s a strong chance of someday restoring it to its former glory.

  Chapter Eleven

  Autumn has a long talk with our parents after dinner. I’m not a part of the discussion. I wish I could be, but I understand my sister needs a little time alone with Mom and Dad.

  Afterwards, Autumn finds me in my bedroom, where I’ve been trying to read a book but have really just been staring at the page, thinking about my family. Thinking about Wesley. Even thinking about Mrs. Hewitt and Klara and Tim, about Shelia and Rosemarie.

  “Hey,” she says, opening my door and peeking inside. I give her a smile, only somewhat forced, and close the book.

  “How did it go?” I ask. Autumn shrugs her shoulders, but then her face breaks out in a wide grin.

  “I get to go to camp,” she tells me, and without warning I find myself tackled as she rushes to my bed and embraces me tightly.

  “That’s great,” I choke out between struggling breaths as I try to pry her off. A laugh escapes my throat, and it only makes my sister grip me tighter. “Okay, okay … Autumn, get off!” I yell, pushing her away and giggling when she rolls off the edge of the bed.

  She sits up and glares at me for a second, before she’s back on her feet and grabbing happily at my arm.

  “Come on, I want to thank you,” she says, dragging me towards the door. I hadn’t planned on going anywhere outside of my room tonight. I’m already wearing polka dot pajama pants and a black nightshirt.

  “W-where are we going?” I ask, trying to break free of her grasp.

  “Out,” Autumn replies, and when she notices my outfit, she drags me instead to the closet to pick out some clothes.

  She makes me dress in jeans and a scarlet shirt, and then she brings me downstairs and tells Mom we’ll be back later. These days, our parents require fully detailed descriptions of where we’re going and why, with whom, and for how long. So Autumn must have already told them she was taking me somewhere, which means this is a planned trip.

  I’m excited, but nervous. I don’t go out, except to therapy sessions, school, and meetings with the lawyer. I’ve barely even been to the grocery store since my return, so an unexpected outing with my sister at seven on a school night is a big deal.

  We walk down the street and wait ten or so minutes for the bus to arrive. Autumn pays my fare, and we sit in the back as the bus jostles its way through the neighborhoods before heading downtown.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again, but Autumn pretends not to hear me. She stares out the window, her healthy hair yellow and bright in the lingering sun.

  “I love when it stays light out,” she says dreamily, “I hate the dark.”

  “I’ve never minded the dark,” I muse, but I can’t help relishing in the long days, either. Being outside, being with my sister––being free. My skin shivers with the anticipation of some unknown adventure.

  We’re on the bus for around twenty minutes before it finally pulls into the depot downtown. I wonder if Autumn was honest with Mom and Dad when she told them where we were going. It seems unlikely they’d let us take the bus when the sun is on its way down. Whenever we return home, it’s going to be night.

  We step off the bus, make our way through the depot, and walk along the shop-lined sidewalk for two blocks before Autumn takes my hand and leads me across the street. We approach a coffee shop called Jolly Joe’s, a new spot opened sometime in the past couple of years.

  “This is it,” Autumn says excitedly, and I give her a curious look, one eyebrow arched in confusion.

  “We’re having coffee?” I ask, and Autumn laughs.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” she replies sarcastically, pushing open the glass door.

  It’s warm inside, and even though it’s May, Jolly Joe’s makes me feel like I’m nestling away from the cold of a windy October day. The smells of coffee and spice are thick in the air, and everything in the shop,
from the red brick walls to the wooden-lined booths and the huge display of baked goods, is comfortably casual.

  “Take a seat. I’ll order us something. What do you want?” Autumn asks.

  “A tea,” I tell her. “Something black. You can choose which kind.”

  “One tea coming up.” Autumn turns towards the counter, but before she steps away I grab her arm.

  “You’re not allowed to get coffee,” I add in a rushed voice. Autumn rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smirk on her lips, like she’s secretly pleased to have a big sister warning her of the dangers of caffeine. She heads up to the counter while I find a small table for two along one wall.

  When Autumn returns, she has two teas in creamy white mugs, and a cinnamon bun for us to share which is probably big enough to satisfy our whole family.

  “This place is nice,” I comment as we tuck into our dessert.

  “The food’s good, way better than the stale stuff a lot of coffee places serve,” Autumn nods, ripping off a piece of the warm, sticky bun. I follow suit, and nearly moan as the icing glaze melts in my mouth. This might not be the best cinnamon bun I’ve ever tasted, but it’s the first one I’ve had in a number of years, which makes this moment magnificent. For most of my life I classified myself as a picky eater, but now I’ve learned to appreciate food. I probably won’t ever be able to eat peanut butter again, but it seems a small price to pay for the endless eats I’ve discovered exist in this world. One day, I want to travel the globe, just to taste the specialities of each region. For the moment, I’m more than satisfied to reacquaint my taste buds with familiar favorites.

  This cinnamon bun ranks high in my eating delight. I want to tell Autumn this, but she seems distracted, glancing over my shoulder to watch something happening behind me. I turn around in my chair, and see what I originally took for a shadowy corner of the coffee shop is actually a small stage, now lit with bright track lighting. A band is setting up, preparing to entertain the small crowd gathering around the nearby tables. According to a sign resting at the front of the stage, the band is called Watching Storms.

  The guitarist, a short guy with hair dyed a deep red, tunes his instrument, while the drummer adjusts the height of his seat. I watch them make their performance preparations, wondering if Autumn knew they would be playing here tonight. When the case, big and black and tarnished from years of use, appears at the side of the stage, I get my answer.

  Wesley lays down the case and unlatches it, and soon I see the sleek polished wood of his cello as he takes it out to play. My breath catches in my throat. I don’t know whether to kiss my sister, or kill her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wesley doesn’t notice us, and I’m glad. I move my chair to Autumn’s side of the table, and she leans into me as we eat our cinnamon bun and listen to Watching Storms warm up. A second guitarist and a violin player join the other three members of the group, and I’m intrigued about how this sound will come together. I can’t imagine Wesley playing in a band like this, even as I see him standing on the stage in a pair of grey slacks held up with suspenders, and a blue dress shirt to complement his vintage hair. After years of watching his recitals, he and I and all the other attendees formal and stiff, it’s weird to see him on stage in a coffee shop.

  He’s relaxed, though, a concept completely unfamiliar to me. I’m used to seeing the stern gaze of concentration, followed by the entranced look of someone lost in the music he loves. Wesley is so casual, standing there laughing at something the drummer says as he relaxes behind his cello in his gorgeous retro-ensemble, I feel like he’s getting out his instrument for show, not for any actual music-playing. It’s only when the group starts their first number I fully believe the sight before me.

  They’re good, this band. Not brilliant. Not as good as Wesley is on his own. I haven’t heard him play in years, but there’s no doubt in my mind he’s better than this. I can see it in the lazy way he moves his arms, hear it in the perfect vibrating pitches of his cello, which are not wholly matched by the other players’ instruments. But still, they’re good. I see why Wesley plays with them. It’s fun for him, a different experience than his classic competitions and the orchestral arrangements of school. This is about having a good time, about being able to smile while he plays.

  “Isn’t he awesome?” Autumn whispers to me after the first song, and I nod in agreement. He is. Standing up there, Wesley is awesome. And beautiful. I knew I still had lingering feelings for the boy of my childhood dreams, but now there’s no way for me not to admit I’m still mad for him. Wesley’s eyes are closed as he plays the second song in the set, and I find myself staring at his lips, and then at his hands. I have a thing for hands. I like––liked––working with mine, and as I sit here I love watching Wesley use his. They are solid, strong hands, long fingers with a pinkish birthmark on the left running the length of flesh from thumb to wrist.

  My skin tingles. Not my feet this time. Not in the way making me shudder with disgust. This time, it’s my whole body tingling, trembling with warmth and something like ecstasy.

  Jolly Joe’s is hot, and I find myself licking my lips as I ignore every member of Watching Storms except for Wesley. When I was thirteen, my preoccupation related mostly to fantasies of growing up and growing old with Wesley. I pictured our house, our wedding, and our lives as famous artists, sharing our fortune in some far-off beautiful place. Only in the summer before I disappeared did I start to think about Wesley in terms of holding hands, and kissing.

  And I’ve never thought of him like this before.

  All the confusion of last night’s conversation slides off me like droplets of sweat already sizzling to steam. I watch Wesley’s hands as he plucks the strings, and I imagine what his fingers would feel like against my bare skin. I watch his lips as he mouths the chorus of the song, and I wonder what his breath would taste like mingled with my own. I watch his closed eyes, and I dream of how it would be to see his eyes closed as he slept next to me, naked and exhausted from our time alone.

  The want is something new, and I relish its appearance.

  The song ends. Wesley stops plucking, stops bowing, opens his eyes, smiles out to the crowd. I wait breathlessly for the next song to begin, desperate to draw us both back into my private cavern of bliss.

  “Up next is our most popular song,” the other guitarist, an Indian guy with a newsboy cap and a red silk tie over his patchwork vest, informs the crowd. I grip my tea, half-drunk and mostly cold, and I stare at Wesley. The lights are probably too bright from where he stands for him to make us out, even as he looks among the tables. I’m content being lost among the crowd, so I don’t mind how his gaze never pauses on any one particular person, how his eyes never quite reach my own.

  Autumn loops her arm through mine, and I glance at her as the guitarist continues.

  “This is where it all started, folks,” he says, and there is a holler from a girl at one of the tables nearest the stage. The guy grins, and continues. “This is Watching Storms.”

  The crowd goes crazy. I gaze around at the tables, at the girls and the boys holding hands, drinking coffee, and leaning forward to listen more intently. I haven’t paid much attention to the songs so far, but I perk up with the audience’s response. Clearly, this is one of their best pieces, and it’s probably worth a listen, even if what I really want is to tune out and stare at the cellist some more.

  I expect a loud, upbeat number to fill the coffee shop, but the song is surprisingly slow and melancholy. The notes strike me with their uneven, almost grating quality. Quietly, the guitarist begins to sing in low tones, his voice deep and sexy. At first I think this is the reason for the song’s popularity. I’m sure this guy has a large legion of fans, female and male, who would love to sink into a pool of his warm words. But then, as the lyrics filter into my mind, I understand it’s the song itself creating such a buzz.

  It’s sad, a lonely tale about a girl waiting at the window for an unknown person to arrive home throug
h a storm. The song starts out fairly mellow, the girl impatient but not altogether bothered by the person’s absence, but as the verses progress, she gets more desperate, and the music darkens.

  I look to Wesley, and see a change come over him in time with the music. His eyes are no longer closed. For a while he looks down, watching his own fingers strike at the strings of his cello. But then, about halfway through the song, he looks up, out into the crowd. Directly at me. His eyes find mine immediately. He’s been aware of my presence this entire time.

  I want to smile at him, but I can’t. Because as soon as his gaze meets mine, I understand why this song makes me ache. The girl at the window, the missing person ––the dark, dark, darkness.

  It’s my painting. It’sStorm Watching.

  It’s my work.

  It’s not just my work.

  It’s me.

  This song is about me.

  The bridge crashes over the coffee shop, the song turning nearly chaotic with its dissonant chords and wailing vocals. The guitarist with the sexy voice sounds like he might cry on stage, his eyes pleading to an invisible presence as he repeats the lines of the chorus.

  Where are you? Don’t you know you where you’ve gone? Don’t you know you’ve brought the storm?

  What did I do wrong? Why can’t I find where you’ve gone?

  My mug clatters against the table as my hands begin to shake. I release the cup, bringing my fists to my mouth instead. When Wesley said he was writing music, this is not what I imagined.

  What did I do wrong? Why can’t I find where you’ve gone?

  Does Wesley feel guilty about my abduction? If he does, should I admire his devotion, or be annoyed by his stupidity?

  The song draws to a close, and with an unsteady breath I stand. Autumn doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. She stands with me, and in silence, we leave the shop. I can feel Wesley’s eyes on me the entire time, and it makes me want to cry, though I’m not entirely sure why.