by Mere Joyce
I get twelve cellos from my dough today. After each press of the cutter, I peel away the excess dough and transfer the cookie carefully to the lined baking sheet. I manage to move and fit all twelve onto the tray without breaking or deforming any of them, a satisfying feat. Once they’re arranged, I stick the tray in the oven. Then I sit before the oven door and watch them bake, desperate to ensure they don’t burn.
“Something smells good up there!” Dad yells up from the basement, about halfway through the baking time. I leave the oven for a brief moment so I can yell down the stairs back at him.
“I’ll bring you a couple when they’re done,” I tell him. “You can be my test subject.”
“Sounds either delectable or deadly,” Dad replies, and I laugh.
“M-Maybe it’s both,” I say, and I can hear him chuckling down in the office.
The cookies do smell good. As I walk back into the kitchen, I’m more aware of the warm scent of spicy gingerbread than when I was rooted next to the oven, spying on the baking cookies. It’s a wondrous smell and I suddenly regret not having made another batch to leave here for after dinner. As it is, Mom and Autumn will probably still smell the lingering memories of these morsels when they arrive home, and they’ll be sorely disappointed to have missed my productive venture in the kitchen.
But, these are for Wesley, not for them. And Dad can tell them the truth. He was simply in the right place at the right time.
When the cookies are done, I pull them out and let them cool on a wire rack while I work at whipping up some quick frosting. I don’t intend to draw anything fancy. I make the icing, combine drops of blue and green food coloring to make my favorite shade of teal, and use a piping bag to line the cellos with strings and dot them with tuning pegs. The cookies are a touch too warm when I ice them, and the frosting melts, making my thin lines thick and gooey. I don’t fret about their imperfect design, though. If they taste like they should, the look won’t matter.
I’m nervous when I pick one out for tasting. I haven’t had gingerbread since the Christmas before I was abducted, and I’m the tiniest bit afraid I won’t like it anymore. It’s strange, how tastes change over time. As a kid I loved cheese puffs, the bright orange kind that leave stained fingers, with their cheesy powder. But after a few years without them, I now find the crunchy puffs sit like powdered salt in my mouth. Of course, cheese puffs are probably not the worst thing for me to stop liking. But these gingerbread cookies are more than a replaceable snack.
They’re a memory, a good memory, a whole host of good memories.
I sink my teeth through the icing strings and into the gingerbread interior, the cookie warm and soft against my tongue. The deep, chewy molasses and the sharp kick of ginger meld together exactly as they’re supposed to. I let myself moan with delight and relief as I chew and swallow and take another bite.
I didn’t notice my heart speeding in anticipation of the taste-test, but after I finish my cookie, the thud begins to soften, returning to its normal rhythm. I close my eyes, waiting for it to even and slow. Then I take my father two cookies and a glass of milk, before I pack the others up into a small square tin box, deciding at the last minute to leave two cookies on the rack so Mom and Autumn can each have one.
I take the tin box with its Victorian Christmas scene on the lid, and I go out into the backyard. I expect the climb over Wesley’s fence to be troublesome, pulling myself up and over with clunky movements and panting breath, but I’m stronger than whenever I last fumbled over the wooden boards, and it doesn’t take me long to reach the Cole property.
A tabby cat basks in the sun on the grass by Wesley’s back door. He lifts his overweight, patchy-furred head as I approach, deems me to be no threat, and returns to his sunbathing.
“Hi Parsley,” I say, bending to give the cat, who belongs to Wesley’s other neighbor, a chef who runs a small bistro on the north end of town, a quick pat. Parsley purrs, rolling onto his back and letting me pet him a few times before a large paw swats me away. I smile at the cat, swoop in for one last quick scratch of his head, and then I stand and approach the house.
I peer through the back door’s window, into Wesley’s kitchen and through the hall leading to the front of the house. I don’t see anyone about, which is good. I don’t want to be discovered.
It’s a beautifully warm day outside, and I think, I’m sure, Wesley will be out composing tonight. So I lower the tin to the ground beside the door, and then I hurry back home.
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday passes by in a blur of routine actions and muddled musings. School is uneventful, my classes dull and my mind wandering at every opportunity to places more interesting, and less pleasant, than the quiet bore of fluorescent lighting and graffiti marred desks. After the final dismissal, I spend two hours doing online coursework, and then I lie to my parents, telling them I have more studying to do once I’ve finished my dinner. Back in my room, I spend another couple of hours working in secret on the gift I’ve planned for my family. It’s a tiny token of appreciation, insignificant compared to their struggles, but one I hope they’ll enjoy nonetheless.
When I’ve done as much as I can for the gift, I go through the motions of preparing for bed. Then, as I lay awake in the darkness of my room, I think about Wesley. I try to figure out if I’m flattered by his song, or disturbed by it. The effort he made to organize the concert in Grands Park is unquestionably wondrous. And to dedicate an entire song to me, and my work, goes way beyond the definition ofspecial. But is it generous to have promoted me in such a way? Or is it selfish to have gained popularity because of my abduction?
Wesley fills a good portion of my mind, but when I do manage to fleetingly slip away from my confused panic over his song and his intentions, my thoughts instead careen towards the Art Showcase. It’s a preposterous attempt at relief. I want nothing to do with the showcase, at school or in my head. I want to put it away forever, to pretend it never existed in my past, and will never appear in my future. But my brain betrays me, and without intending to I remember the oddity of Mrs. Hewitt’s casual words, the annoying simplicity of Shelia’s landscape. Against my own will, the space behind my eyes fills with conjured images of the portrait I would paint, until at last I begin to ponder if I could ever really do it: if I could enter the Showcase, and win back my old life.
But as soon as those ideas crest in my mind, the portrait I’ve dreamt up swiftly turns into a nightmare, and I shut the doors to as many creeping memories as I can.
Friday offers a brief break from the unending cycle of my wretched brooding. A storm cracks outside during lunch, and in the strange mood of the unsettled day, I find myself once again wandering towards Mrs. Hewitt’s classroom. It’s like a strange addiction. I’m supposed to be leaving the world of acrylics and canvas behind, but I continually find myself drifting back to the scene of my unfortunate despair.
Rosemarie’s in the classroom, this time. I see her through the window, her sleek hair twisted into an elaborately braided bun with loose wisps framing her thin face. She looks lovely, more mature with her braces covered by lips pursed in consideration of the piece she’s working on. I don’t want to disturb her, but she’s left the classroom door open, and I’m curious to see her art. I inch forward and peek my head inside.
The girl is not painting a landscape, like I suspected. Instead, Rosemarie is working on a full-bodied portrait of a woman in a silky dress of semi-transparent white, her long limbs draped over a lounging sofa, while nearby French doors open to reveal a vague but dismal cityscape. The background of the painting is done in shades of vibrant red, orange, yellow, the white of the dress and the grey of the dreary outdoors providing sharp contrasts. They’re passionate colors, mixing with the languid expression of the woman in the picture, her eyes half-closed and her chest heaved in some breathless endeavour.
“Wow,” I mumble, shocked at the risqué nature of the work. I’ve seen full-body portraits before, but not many this emotional. Th
e ones I’ve encountered have been done as studies of anatomy, not as true expressions of art. I never would have guessed something like this would come from the girl who now turns to me, her cheeks flaming with blush as she realizes she’s not alone.
“Maddie,” Rosemarie says, her voice high. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my own voice a low mumble. “I-I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted to see what you were painting, and I . . . I didn’t expect to see this.”
Rosemarie looks concerned. “Is it bad?” she asks, glancing over to the painting and then back at me. I shake my head quickly, and step into the room.
“N-No, it’s good,” I say honestly. “I just thought you painted landscapes. You said you wanted to be like Shelia.”
“I said I wanted to be as good as she is,” Rosemarie corrects me. “Her technique, I mean. My subjects are a little different.” She smiles, shyly at first, but then she lets out a breath of laughter and I see a flash of her bright green braces.
“I love painting people,” she says. “There is something so natural about the human form. Our culture is against the body being on display, but I’m fascinated by it.”
I nod, understanding what she means. I also love painting people. Not usually so full-bodied, though. I’ve never been comfortable enough to stare at someone’s flesh for hours on end. It’s immature, I guess, but I’d have to know someone well, even intimately, in order to gaze at their completeness, un-obscured.
Wesley appears in my mind, and I wonder if my own cheeks turn bright pink. I can imagine studying his form, painting his form. In another life, anyway. In another world, where the idea of painting sparks excitement, not dread.
I reign myself in, and approach Rosemarie’s canvas. I don’t like painting bodies, but I can appreciate someone else’s work on the subject. I chose to paint people because they are, all of them, so unique. They all have their own individual curves, angles, spots, dimples, imperfections, and perfections.
And I can see such details in Rosemarie’s work. Her technique is not perfect: a few areas have been smudged, and the woman’s arms are not as symmetrical as they likely should be. But her ankles are thick, her thighs soft, her torso and waist apple-shaped with ripples in the dress to suggest subtle pockets of fat. Her hair is chestnut brown, but there are hints of grey at the roots. Her eyes have lines at the edges, marking her age while accenting her beauty. This woman looks altogether real. Sensual and satisfied . . . and real.
“You should enter this into the Art Showcase,” I say, breathing in the smell of the pastels on the paper. I could quickly find myself lost in a dizzying whirlwind of memory in this room. The smells, the supplies, the paint splotches on the desks and the floors. They are lovely reminders of my former life, and dismal reminders of my new one.
“No, I don’t––well, maybe,” Rosemarie admits, admiring her piece. Her face grows serious as she contemplates the woman’s figure, and I wonder if she had a model for this work. The school would never pay a woman to sit for a student painting. There are local courses Rosemarie could have taken, but I’m not sure they’d let a minor attend. If the creation came from her imagination, I’m even more impressed. The detail is sharp, the picture vivid. All in all it’s a promising piece.
I stand up straight and face Rosemarie. “You should,” I repeat. There would be some objections, parents embarrassed or offended by the presence of a suggestive portrait in the school’s event, but I’m certain Mrs. Hewitt would fight for Rosemarie’s right to have her artwork shown. And if nothing else, controversy would make her entry popular.
“I told Mrs. Hewitt about meeting you,” Rosemarie says. “She said you’ve got a spot in the Showcase, too. Is that true?”
“W-What? O-Oh,” I stumble over my own tongue, flustered by the sudden question. The answer, clearly, is no. But I’m having trouble saying it, and before I can get the declaration from my vocal chords up to my lips, Rosemarie continues.
“Because that would be amazing, if you were,” she tells me, grinning a full-braces grin. “I would love to see what your current work looks like. Your pieceCrickets and C Major? It’s the first painting I saw when I had my first art class with Mrs. Hewitt.”
“M-My painting’s still here?” I ask, dumbfounded. Rosemarie nods, and hurries to the far end of the long art room. I follow in a daze, not believing her words.Crickets and C Majoris the painting I entered into the last Art Showcase. The entry I displayed the night I was kidnapped. I never asked what happened to the painting, but I’ve often wondered. It was my favorite of my own creations.
“Here,” Rosemarie says, waving me over to a glass display case mounted to the wall near Mrs. Hewitt’s desk. There are six paintings in the case, all from former students. When I last sat in this room as a pupil, there were five paintings here, and I can see all five still remain. There’s just an extra one, mine, in the lower right-hand corner.
“My painting,” I whisper, reaching a hand up to the glass. Before me is a small painting, about the size of two pieces of notebook paper laid side-by-side. It’s a portrait, set against the backdrop of a late-night sky. It’s a boy holding a cello, his eyes closed as he plays a midnight song.
Wesley.
I always liked painting people, but I loved painting Wesley. His body is mostly hidden by his instrument, but I remember how long I studied his neck, his arms, his hands. I particularly enjoyed the lengthy study of his hands.
My mind wanders the well-trod path leading to Tuesday night, the coffee shop, and Watching Storms. Wesley wrote a song about me, and I’m not sure if I should be grateful or not. But I didn’t think, didn’t consider, he was only doing what I’d already done myself. Wesley wrote a song about me, and I painted a picture of him. And I’m still not sure what any of it means, except I like this painting, and it’s the first one in a long time to bring me this kind of unburdened joy.
Chapter Twenty
“Mom?” I step into the kitchen, comforted by the smell of cheesy macaroni baking in the oven. My mother is wiping the counter, and it takes her a moment for my presence to register. At first, she only continues the slow, circular motion of wiping cloth against granite, her eyes staring blankly at the rag as she pushes it around. I wonder what she’s thinking about, curious if it has anything to do with Monday’s phone call.
Mom never used to space out. She prided herself on being a focused woman, forever quick-witted and sharp. Since my return, however, her personality has shifted. She’s not different, exactly. It’s just as if her way of being has been a little altered, like her whole existence has turned a bit sideways.
She’s like this because of me, and I hate being the cause of her blank stare, her prematurely greying hair, her aged face and consistently exhausted appearance. In my first few months of therapy with Klara, she worked to help me accept I’m not to blame, accept the abduction was not my fault. I get it, at its simplest level. But it doesn’t change how I feel. It doesn’t curb the guilt.
“Maddie, hi,” Mom says when she discovers I’m there. She smiles at me, and at least I can tell the smile is genuine. “I didn’t hear you come downstairs.” I’ve gotten good at being silent, at moving without being noticed.
“Dinner smells good,” I say, and Mom glances at the digital clock on the stove.
“Ready in about fifteen,” she replies. I nod, and almost lose my nerve to ask what I came down here for. It would be easy to walk away, slink into the living room or head back upstairs. Instead, I go to the cupboard and pull out the plates to set the table.
“M-Mom,” I say again, bracing myself against my own question, “w-would it be possible if this weekend, I chose our activity?”
Mom looks at me, surprised. Family activities were Tim’s idea. To help us bond, to help uslive, we do something as a family every weekend. Usually this means watching movies, cooking a nice dinner, or pushing the table out of the dining room so Autumn can lead us in a yoga class. We’re supposed to take turns choosin
g the activity, but I usually shrug my shoulders and defer my week to someone else. This week it’s technically Mom’s turn, but I have an idea I can’t shake.
It again takes my mother a moment to recover. “Well, yes, of course you can!” she exclaims, after a pause. She’s pleased, and I’m glad. “What do you want to do?”
I place four plates around the table, and get the wrought iron holder for the macaroni’s casserole dish. Then I gather some forks for dinner, and spoons for the chocolate mousse and strawberries we’re having for dessert.
I take my time answering.
“I-I’d like to go to––” I begin, straightening the cutlery and then facing my mother, “––the Reuben Gallery.”
A week ago I would have shuddered at the notion of being surrounded by artwork. But the Reuben Gallery of Art is, or was, my favorite place to think, and after seeing my old painting at school today, I need to work through some serious thoughts.
I’ve thoroughly stunned Mom this time, and I have to work to keep from smirking at her wide-eyed expression.
“You want to go to the art gallery?” she repeats, questioning. When I nod, she opens her mouth several times before she’s finally able to continue. “Well, of course! Of course we can, Maddie. But––are you sure?”
I’m not. But I’m determined, which is close enough.
“Yeah,” I reply. Mom doesn’t space out now. She stares at me intently, and it’s like I can see a fantasy unfurling in her mind. A longing for the past, a daydream that maybe this decision means I’m on the verge of bouncing back to my old self. Her expectation’s so strong I have to interject.