by Mere Joyce
I lean over the counter across from Mom, and shake my head.
“I-I’m not going to start creating again,” I say slowly. “I just, I-I can’t go the rest of my life without ever looking at a painting, can I? I want to see if I can learn to be around it, that’s all. Okay?”
I expect Mom to nod, disappointed but relieved I’ve given this serious consideration, set myself a realistic goal. I’m not prepared for what she says next.
“Maddie, what did he do to you?”
The question strikes me like lightning. It’s not like I haven’t been asked before. I’ve been asked dozens of times by dozens of people, but it’s been a few months. I thought we were past this. I thought everyone had decided to leave it alone.
He didn’t do the things she’s worried about. Which is what makes it so difficult to explain the things he did do. I’m stuck. It was hell, being with him. What he did made me sick over and over again. But I feel like I have to be grateful, have to count myself lucky. There are worse things he could have done to me. Compared to other girls taken by other men, I got off relatively easily. So I feel like I shouldn’t be as horrified as I am by my own memories of him. I don’t know how to explain my suffering, when my suffering could have been of a much different nature.
“Mom, I’ve told you before,” I say after a moment of tense silence. I lower my head and stare at my feet, imagining how they look beneath my socks. “He d-didn’t . . . I-I didn’t h-have to––”
“He did something,” Mom replies sternly. I raise my eyes to her, and see a fierceness in her tawny-brown gaze I’ve never noticed before. “He did something to make you this way.”
Like someone different. Not like the daughter she raised. Not like the daughter she lost.
Trying to carve a new personality, which upholds my mental stability and isn’t totally unlikable, is laborious work. I’m heavy with the effort of determining how much of my old self is salvageable. I just want life again. Normal, boring, everyday life. Which is exactly why I’ve decided to go to the Reuben Gallery.
“We can go to the gallery, then?” I ask, pleading with her to drop the uneasy subject. “Tomorrow?”
She stares at me with direct clarity, until slowly her eyes dim and I can almost see the cloud settling back into a haze over her mind.
“Of course we can,” she says. She smiles, sadly, and turns to the oven to check on the macaroni. I leave the counter and sit at the table, my face expressionless as I try to keep the memories tucked away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday is warm and foggy, a comfortable dreariness perfect for tranquility. My hands shake as I dress by the open window in my room, the moist air warm on my pale face. I want to do this. I have to keep reminding myself it was my idea to visit the Reuben Gallery. I want to go. So why am I so terrified? I should be looking forward to this step of my recovery, but as I slip a grey turtleneck sweater over my eyes, I can think only of a thousand excuses not to leave the house. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like this is a step towards recovery at all. It’s rather like I’m standing in the middle of a forest, flashes of lightning slamming against the trees lining my path home.
Autumn, at least, is excited.
“We haven’t been to the gallery in forever,” she says, coming into my room just as I buckle the black belt mandatory for keeping my once-tight jeans from sliding off my now decidedly more skeletal hips. She sits on my bed cross-legged, her golden hair held back from her face by a purple headband. She’s wearing matching purple yoga pants, and a green fitted zip-up sweater. I envy her relaxed posture, her bright, happy expression. She’s not wearing any make-up, and yet, her complexion is lovely, even with the splattering of blemishes across her forehead and chin. She’s sorealI sometimes think she must be a figment of my imagination.
“You could have gone without me,” I say, giving myself a dissatisfied once-over in the mirror as I pull my lank hair into a ponytail. The result is not casually elegant, like Autumn. My locks are beyond repair, and far too long. I need to get them cut. One of these days.
“Hardly,” Autumn breathes, hopping off the bed as I head for the door. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t let us. Well, not that I wanted to go without you. It was your place, after all.”
“I-I thought you hated going, anyways,” I say, careful to keep the conversation light. I don’t want any tears today, and I don’t want to force myself into shutdown mode just to keep everything inside. It will be difficult enough controlling my emotions once we’re at the gallery. I don’t need any early practice.
“I did,” Autumn smirks, passing me in the doorway and then bounding down the stairs in front of me. “I probably still do. It’s just a good memory, you know? Going to the gallery, and then getting smoothies afterwards––it was like a weird tradition.”
“Smoothies,” I sigh, as we reach the second floor and start down the next staircase, “I forgot all about those.” I can almost taste the rich chocolate-banana or tangy peach-mango smoothies I would get after a trip to the gallery. My stomach clenches with a pang of hunger, despite the fact I ate breakfast less than an hour ago.
Some days I eat a normal amount, but on others, I’m ravenous from dawn until dusk. Once, about a month after I returned, I ate three cheeseburgers, a large order of fries, and a large milkshake for lunch. Then, about three hours later, I sat down and had two helpings of lasagne for dinner, and still had room for tea and cookies afterwards. I’m sure Klara would suggest some deep-rooted psychological reason for my erratic appetite. But I spent a couple years of my life in a constant state of hunger, and honestly, I think I’m just making up for lost time.
“We’ll have to stop and get some after the gallery,” Dad says, ruffling the top of my head as I step onto the tiled floor of the entryway.
“Have to stop and get what?” Mom asks. Her car keys dangle from one finger, the keychain from our family vacation to a ski resort five winters ago hanging worn and scratched from the edges of the adjacent keys.
“Smoothies,” Autumn chirps, her voice as perky as her steps.
We leave the house and pile into the car, ready to head to the oldest part of Colwood Bay. As we pull onto the street and make our way towards the gallery, I stare out the window, trying to connect to the bustle of life around me. It’s busy, the sidewalks full of people and their dogs, the streets crammed with cars turning in and out of driveways and store parking lots. When we pass the lakefront, I see couples rollerblading, kids running about the playground, the foggy weather not enough of a deterrent to stop people from enjoying their weekend.
The gallery is busy, too. We pull into the parking lot fifteen minutes after leaving home, and manage to get one of the last available spaces.
“Popular place today,” Mom says, as we squeeze out of the car, careful not to hit the doors of the huge SUV parked close to the yellow line beside us.
“Glad to see people still coming here,” I say, smiling with false ease. I used to prefer when the gallery was empty, so I could feel like it was my own private space. Once, during a snowstorm, I arrived at the gallery just before the buses stopped running. I was the only member of the public there, and I couldn’t leave for three hours. It was one of the best afternoons I’ve ever spent, viewing the art alone and then sitting with the two staff members drinking hot chocolate as we watched the snow.
Today, however, I’m relieved there are others here. It makes this entire trip less personal.
We walk up to the white-stuccoed building. It’s difficult not to stop, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I want this to be as low-key as possible.
Mom pulls open the door and the familiar smell of the gallery, a woodsy scent of pine out of place in the bamboo-floored, modern furnished interior, wafts over me. My abdomen cramps, but I step inside. Autumn nudges my arm.
“I’m . . . I’m okay,” I mutter. If I keep repeating it, I might convince myself of its truth.
“Well,” Mom takes a deep breath, and I reali
ze she’s nervous. “What should we look at first?”
“Uh, c-could we separate? G-Go off alone and meet up later?” It’s a dumb question. The gallery only has three rooms, and none of them usually feature any more than five or six works. But still, this is a task I need to be alone for.
My mother and father hesitate. They’re not sure about this whole outing, and I can’t blame them. But Autumn kisses me on the cheek, and smiles like the suggestion makes perfect sense.
“We’ll meet you back here in 30 minutes?” she asks, and I nod. I love my sister. I wish I could be the one offering support, the one spurring her on and giving her kisses for comfort. But all things considered equal, I wouldn’t want Autumn to be any different than she is. I’ll miss her while she’s gone to camp this summer. I’d ask if I could attend with her, if I wasn’t already certain my parents would refuse.
I watch my family head into the first room, the yellow room. The walls of the Reuben Gallery are painted, a different color for each of the three rooms. One is a sunflower yellow, one a deep, melancholy blue, and one a fiery orange-red. My favorite thing about this gallery is how the pieces it features do not have fixed homes. They move around, swapping rooms and switching neighbors. It’s a fascinating exploration of interpretation. One painting or sculpture takes on a dozen or more personalities, depending on the room it’s in and the other works around it.
I go to the ‘fire room’first. Today, the room is totally fitted with sculptures, a garden of figures for me to meander through. There are some pieces I recognize, like the marble “Dancer” and the wire-and-fabricVisions of Foam. But there are new sculptures as well. I particularly like one made of carved wood painted in shades of green, its shape resembling something like a dripping rainbow. It doesn’t have a name, and the anonymity fits the piece well. In my happiest moods, I would have stared at it for ages, giving it a definitive explanation and titling it myself. As I study it now, I simply accept how the fluidity of the wood, and the complementary shades of green, are interesting. It’s a nice piece, and I feel no pressing urge to give the nameless creation any further analysis.
I’m calm in the sculpture garden. Despite the passionate color of the walls, the figures are set in such a way it’s like I’m touring some futuristic landscape, where the works I stop and admire are flowers or trees. There is even one piece stretching from ceiling to floor, its hanging fiber-optics giving the distinct impression of a weeping willow.
I’m tempted to use all my alone time here, but sculptures are not what I intended to look at today. Sculptures don’t send unwanted shivers through my veins, and the purpose of this visit is to confront the things that do.
I walk into the blue room next. There are paintings here, four today, and a crowd gathering in the middle of the exhibition space. I want to ignore the people and focus only on the works, but I can’t resist the hushed chattering of the group. They’re all facing inwards, towards the center of the room, and I have to push my way past a few tall men before I can see what they’re staring at.
It’s a performance painter, a woman with long salt-and-pepper hair who is painting a picture live before her audience. I’ve read about painters like this, but I’ve never seen one in action. I’m familiar with the deliberate act of painting, creation taking at least a few hours but easily occupying the space of several days, weeks, and months. I’m intrigued by the possibilities of forming an entire piece in the matter of a few slippery minutes.
The woman has only just started a new painting, and I worm my way through the crowd to get a better view. It’s fascinating to see her work. She dips her brush so quickly, splatters paint on the canvas, arches her brush and smears a paint splotch with her thumb. It’s all so quick and engrossing I forget the other people around me. This woman is frantic, and I wonder what it would be to paint like her, to forget planning or contemplation and just give into the fury of the picture.
Seeing my painting at school, and hearing about the Art Showcase, has drawn me further into the world of painting than I’ve been since my escape. Standing here, I feel like I’m making tentative peace with my craft. I liked Rosemarie’s work, and I like watching this. I don’t have to paint anymore. I can just observe, study, and appreciate. Or maybe I could paint like this woman, using a method altogether different, far-off from what I’ve ever done before. I could do it quick, without dwelling on the subject or the grisly memories brought on by the act itself.
My fingers itch with the desire to grab a brush, to choose a color, to bring an imagined picture to life on a page. It’s overwhelming. This woman, with her fast, short strokes of color blending together, her image undecipherable until she chooses to let us in on the secret. It’s making me hungry for action, for the only outlet to stress and creativity and unquenchable thirst I’ve ever known.
I smile, watch with eyes transfixed, even while my mind wanders into visions of my own creations. I think about how it could be, how everything could be, if I painted again. And I want it. I’m eager to go home, to find supplies, to get to work. I’m more than eager. I’m desperate. I’m aching.
Applause erupts, startling me. The woman gives a shallow bow as she steps away from her finished work. Still smiling, my eyes drift from the artist to the picture I expect to be a landscape or a still life. Instead, I see eyes. I step back, bumping into the people behind me. Demonic eyes stare out at me from the painting, eyes flashing with putrid amusement, eyes willing me to defy, eyes waiting with delight to punish my disobedience.
I blink. Blink. Blink. My lids flutter in panic, until the nightmare is washed away, and the painting shows itself to be not a madman, but an old man. A harmless old man, wrinkling and sun-spotted, and gleefully smiling without any teeth. But the sight of the eyes, so unexpected, so close, grips tight to my thudding heart and refuses to let go.
I turn, scrambling to get out of the crowd, tears blurring my vision. I can’t breathe. I try to swallow, but saliva sticks to my throat. Black spots appear before me, and I think I’m going to pass out. I want to pass out. I want to get out. I have to get out.
I break free of the crowd and run out of the room, out of the gallery. In the open air of the dull, humid day, I make it to our car and finally manage a few ragged, sobbing breaths.
“What was I thinking?” I whisper, bending down on the far side of the car, crouching into a ball so no one will see me. “What was I thinking?”
It’s a question I wish I could answer. All my daydreaming about painting again––my valiant effort to come back to the gallery.
Wasted.
Stupid.
Pointless.
What was I thinking, pretending my life could go back to the way it once was?
I’ll never be able to paint again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The fog clears away mid-day, but the sky grows darker, a cold front sweeping in to accompany my meltdown. By four, the rain begins, pattering to earth from an oddly illuminated sky of greyish-green. A storm is coming, but I sit outside anyway, my clothes soaked as I dangle my legs off the edge of the deck.
I thought I was getting somewhere. I thought, stupid me, going to the gallery would be beneficial, a step back towards normalcy. Instead, I feel like I’ve been stretched, pulled, and catapulted against a brick wall. My head throbs, my eyes burn, and I’m hollow inside. A lot of energy, squandered on nothing. It’s like I’ve gone right back to the beginning of this whole ordeal.
I don’t spend much of my own time thinking about my life with The Painter. I’ve got therapy sessions and nightmares to keep the subject current enough. But sitting here in the rain, I find myself remembering those days. Remembering one kind of day in particular. I didn’t have any windows in my room, but not being able to see the outdoors couldn’t stop me from hearing the wind or rain against the side of the house. I grew to love storms because I could hear them so clearly during my long hours of solitude as they howled, unabashedly, throwing the sky about. It was like I could temporarily glimp
se the world beyond my four walls.
When the storms came, I would close my eyes and imagine myself at a cottage, sitting on a dock leading out to a lake. In my mind I would see the trees lining the lake sway and bend in the misty gusts. I would watch water splash into water, the whole lake alive and shivering. And I would be something not happy, but close. Content. For a few minutes, half an hour, however long the storm continued, I would sit in my prison and be content.
I consider myself a city person. At one time I liked the idea of being surrounded by millions of people, millions of subjects just waiting to be studied. I imagined living in a studio apartment with windows for walls, complexes and skyscrapers my backyard. The vision still appeals to me, if only for the gigantic nightlight a city would provide, the streets and buildings forever busy, never leaving me alone with my dreams.
But there’s something about the lonesome cottage. It’s not somewhere I’ve ever been, but it’s a place I’d like to go. When I can handle being alone again, the cottage is where I’d like to exercise my newfound ability.
“Maddie?”
I push my damp hair back from my face and sit up straight as footsteps approach me from behind.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, as my father first kneels and then altogether sits beside me on the wet deck.
“Nice weather we’re having,” he says, raising his face to the rain. I smile, a part of me glad he hasn’t brought an umbrella out with him. Glad he’s willing to soak himself just to be close to me.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I mumble. Dad shakes his head, giving me a stern look.
“Don’t you ever apologize,” he says, and I nod, sure I’ll never listen to his advice. It’s not just inconvenient for my family to find me curled in a ball on the ground, weeping. It’s also embarrassing, for them and for me. I don’t want to make my family uncomfortable even if they insist they’re not.
“I-I just––” I begin, but Dad stops me.