“That’s me. Who am I speaking to?”
“Lovey, Rochelle here. Are you busy today? I need your help with a decoupage class.”
It took a moment for Isobel to place her. Aah, the crazy craft lady. “I’m sorry. I’ve got plans—”
“My dear, you don’t understand. This is an emergency. I simply can’t leave these people alone and unsupervised with sharp craft knives. They’ll be slicing their own fingertips off. They need you.”
Isobel found herself fighting the urge to giggle. Sliced fingertips, indeed.
“That’s a dire situation you have right there, Rochelle. I’ll have to postpone my plans then.” One morning wouldn’t make much difference; the boxes could wait for tomorrow. Maybe tonight she’d get some proper sleep, and packing would go even quicker.
“Good. I’ll see you at nine forty-five at my downtown studio. Address is in the phone book under The Artist’s Loft. Don’t be late.” She put the phone down cutting off the words poised on Isobel’s tongue.
“OK, then. I guess I’ll see you at nine forty-five.” She replaced the receiver and leaned back, resting her head on the wall.
This felt like some evil conspiracy.
****
Rochelle’s downtown studio was a second floor room big enough to comfortably handle a party of a few dozen rhinos. The ceiling boasted glass panels at regular intervals, letting in generous helpings of natural light.
Isobel let out a low whistle. Artists would bump each other off to work in a place like this. Stepping out of the lift for the first time, Isobel felt the flock of butterflies take flight in her belly.
This place was an oasis of inspiration. Scattered through the room, were original works of art, some complex and intricate, others breathtaking in their simplicity. Tables were set up in groups, with an entire wall dedicated to art supplies. Between that and the lift, the room buckled sideways into an alcove where an eclectic collection of works in various mediums and stages of completion dotted rows of shelves.
“You’re here. Good. Follow me.”
Without any ceremony, Isobel walked behind Rochelle, feeling a little in awe of this diminutive woman. In a flea market tent, she was a scatterbrained gypsy who peddled her talent to make a living. In this environment, she took on an entirely different persona: a true artist who had carved out the perfect space to create in.
“We’ve got ten minutes until the class arrives. Let me show you what’s what.” Rochelle moved through the space as if she were dancing to some strange beat in her head, hands gesturing toward this cupboard for cutting knives and boards, that one for decoupage medium and paint. Brushes lived in a tall cupboard by the window at the back of the room.
“The lesson is two hours. This is a new group so you’ll have to walk them through the process step by step. The theme for this morning is faeries and fantasies. I will be back at noon to wrap up. Any questions?”
“Yes, in fact I do have one.” Isobel thought about how to word this. “You don’t know me at all. You know nothing about me. How is it that you trust me to walk in here and take over? Don’t you need to see my résumé or something?”
Rochelle reached out and held Isobel’s chin with a hand that smelled like marshmallows and stared deeply into her eyes. “I am never wrong about people. You need to be here.” For the first time since they had met, Rochelle smiled. “You need to be here. Let’s leave it at that for now.” She patted Isobel’s cheek, picked up her ostrich leather bag, and waved once as she left.
Within minutes, the lift bell dinged nonstop as ladies arrived, filling the air with chatter.
Isobel soon had her hands full of moms stealing a few hours from their domestic kingdoms to come and explore their creative sides.
Savannah came straight from gym and kept wrinkling her nose at her armpits as if she should have showered.
Maggie wore grey and hunched in the corner.
Jules had everything in perfect order, each strand of pale hair, every nail, even her clothes seemed thoroughly obedient—no speck or wrinkle. Impressive for a mom of twin boys.
Mischa arrived eating a chocolate bar. She was almost as wide as she was tall. She smiled at Isobel and hugged her. “It’s so good to meet you.”
For a brief moment, Isobel froze but the overwhelming warmth from this short lady melted her reservations and she found herself grinning back.
Kez-lyn was as scatter-brained as a room full of chickens. Within moments of arriving, she’d misplaced her keys, dropped her phone on the floor, and forgotten Isobel’s name twice. She was also the first to commit fairy-cide.
Her mission was to decorate a tissue box for her fairy-besotted daughter, Kelsey. She’d chosen a willowy water fairy kneeling over a small pond from the pile of paper. Her blue hair was drawn up into a high pile on her head, with delicate ringlets trailing down her back. It was an exquisite image in every way, except for her neck. With the hair gone, it left her skinny little neck wide open to abuse. A slip of the craft knife was all it took to separate her head from her shoulders.
Isobel was leaning over Maggie’s gift box when she heard the shriek. The image of severed fingers filled Isobel’s mind as she swung around to see what happened.
“Oh, no! I’ve killed my fairy!” Kez-lyn’s eyes were bulging in horror.
“Kez! My heart nearly stopped! Don’t scream like that!” Savannah chided.
Maggie took it all in with a shake of her head and a wry smile.
Mischa was immediately sympathetic, “Oh, never mind, love. Plenty more where that one came from.”
“I know, but it took ages to cut her out. Now I’ll have to start again!”
Between them, they’d given Isobel enough time to recover. “Kez, we can fix it. Don’t worry.” With some careful use of the decoupage medium, Isobel managed to reunite Kez-lyn’s fairy with her head. The sprite once more gazed serenely at herself in the pond.
Jules examined the patch-up job, “You’re good. Seriously good.”
There were no more beheadings and the morning flew by in a blur.
True to her word, Rochelle was back by noon to see them all off.
The lift shut, cutting off the sounds of the last few ladies laughing and chatting on their way out.
“So, how was that?” All traces of that smile were gone.
Isobel couldn’t help feeling like a naughty schoolgirl caught in some misdemeanour. The feeling was so bizarre she fought hard not to laugh. “Actually that was great.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am. There hasn’t been much that I’ve enjoyed for a long time.”
“Good. Then you’ll come back tomorrow?”
Before Isobel could protest, Rochelle ferreted around in her bag and came out with a wad of notes. “Payment for the two lessons you’ve taught. Hereafter, I’ll pay you at the end of each week.”
Isobel stood with the notes in her hand, a touch shell-shocked. Two hours ago she was leaving, now here she was—semi-employed. How on earth?
“Well, put that away before I assume you don’t want it. Clean up and you’re free to go. Your class tomorrow will be at two. Be here by one forty-five.” She pressed a key into Isobel’s palm. “Keep this safe and lock up when you leave.”
Isobel didn’t know what to think. So she didn’t. She rinsed brushes and stacked them to dry, and then packed away paints. She took the unused brushes to the cupboard next to the back window.
Glancing out, her heart double-thumped. She could see the hospital staff parking lot clearly from her second-story vantage point, and there was no mistaking that red-haired bulldog walking to his car. She hid behind the cupboard feeling silly.
He would never be able to see her from down there, but she wasn’t taking any chances. If she did stay and take this job, it would require superhero skills to avoid that man.
7
Two weeks passed, and Isobel hadn’t gotten around to fetching empty boxes. Some days she’d jot it down on her to-do list,
but it was more out of habit than true intention. Every day now, she found herself at The Artist’s Loft taking on more of the craft classes that drew in people of every shape and size. She could feel her confidence growing with each passing day.
Constant interaction with people left her drained and exhausted for the first week, but by the second week, her energy levels seemed to recover. The classes were never boring as she tackled some things she’d never even thought of doing.
At the end of each day, Rochelle would brief her on the next day’s classes, tuck a few books in her hands, and send her home to prepare. That took care of her evenings, too.
Evenings at The Loft were Rochelle’s sacred dominion. That was when the true artists came out and launched themselves into the deep: learning the skills of true art, not paddling in the shallows of crafts.
Part of Isobel longed to be included in that tightly knit group, yet she’d felt no hint of invitation from Rochelle and had not enough guts to ask for one.
But it was Friday night, and she was grateful that tomorrow was free. She glanced briefly through the book on candle making that she needed to absorb by Monday, but her brain rebelled and she tossed it on the side table. The weariness in her limbs led her upstairs to her bed, instead.
Many things had changed since she’d started working again, particularly her vampire-like sleep patterns. To her delight, she found herself sleeping through the night and waking up to sheets that were barely creased. Everything felt better.
She pulled on her soft pink satin pj’s and wriggled beneath the duvet. On impulse, she leaned over and switched off her alarm clock. “I am going to sleep until I’m finished, and you”—she frowned at the clock—”are not going to stop me. So there!” She flicked the off switch on her lamp to end the conversation.
Talking to the objects in her house was one thing. Frowning and lecturing them? That just took on a whole new level of crazy. But as she lay back in the dark, soothing silence settling like downy feathers, she didn’t care. About being crazy, about her missing muse… none of it mattered anymore. She was content.
Sleep kissed her eyelids and she drifted off.
****
A sound filtered through her consciousness to her dreams. Woodpeckers dancing endless circles around holey trees. Men driving powerful jackhammers, cracking up entire pavements before moving on. Her mom knocking on her door, yelling in her don’t-be-late-voice, “Honey! It’s time for school! Get up!”
She shot up in bed, dazed images crashing around her bed like breaking glass before vanishing in the light of her dawning awareness.
Bang bang bang! The sound was coming from downstairs, persistent knocking on the door.
Sleep clung like a thick fog to her brain. She stumbled out of bed, didn’t think to throw on a gown, and clung to the balustrade to stop from falling. As she reached out to the handle, the banging started again.
Bang bang bang!
She jumped in fright. “I’m here! Stop banging…”
Liam Brigham stood on the porch, a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms. He pushed past her the moment she opened the door and bumped the door shut behind him with his rear.
She reached up to put on the light.
“No, leave it off.” His voice was sharp and he peered through the spyhole to check the street.
She squinted at the clock, the time just visible in the moonlight. “Two AM. Are you completely mad?”
“Bel, we’re out of options and out of time.”
“We? What are you talking about? There is no we. What are you doing here?”
“Here.” He handed over the bundle in the blanket.
A corner fell, she saw the tiny sleeping face and it clicked. “No—”
Liam held a finger to her lips, “Just listen—”
“No! You are not doing this to me!”
“Trust me when I say right now you are this little girl’s only hope.” Liam’s voice was a low whisper. “There isn’t time to explain. Keep her here. Please, Bel.” The look on his face told of twenty thoughts all crashing through his mind at once. None of them made it out his mouth. Instead, he exhaled sharply, gave her arm a brief squeeze, kissed sleeping Mia on the forehead, and let himself out.
“Oh God, what now?” she prayed. In an instant, Isobel was wide awake.
Mia stirred and moaned in her sleep.
Isobel’s arms protested against the dead weight. Not knowing what to do, she climbed the stairs to her room and tucked Mia into her bed. Her tiny body looked lost in a sea of duvet.
Isobel was at a complete loss. It didn’t feel right climbing into bed next to her, and it would be wrong to go sleep on the couch downstairs and leave her alone.
There was only one other option. She pulled the spare blanket off the end of her bed and propped herself up in the armchair in the corner with the blanket tucked under her chin. She watched the rise and fall of Mia’s chest for the longest time.
Thoughts scrambled through Isobel, like looters in a riot. None of them logical, not one stopped long enough to be considered. Just endless churning in her head and a cold knot in her stomach.
This could not be happening.
At some point, sleep settled thickly on her lids.
8
A loud wail tore through the bedroom.
Isobel shot up and fell off the chair. Her bum hitting the carpet woke her. She shook her head to clear it and winced as pain lanced down her neck and through her shoulder. Nothing like sleeping upright in a chair to give one a crick in the neck.
In the middle of the bed sat the source of the wailing. Enormous tears trailed down Mia’s cheeks. Red in the face from the effort of crying, she was inconsolable.
Isobel kneaded her neck and groaned. “So I guess you weren’t part of some awful dream then…” Isobel did the only thing that made any sense. She panicked.
She picked Mia up and ran down the stairs as quickly as she could without dropping her. She fumbled with the front door lock and managed to get it open on the third try, using one hand only. She ran down the path with her siren baby going full blast.
Melindi would know what to do.
Her hand reached for the gate latch and she froze. How was she going to explain this? She turned back. Maybe water would work. She ran to the kitchen and turned on the tap.
Mia’s back arched. She bellowed afresh and pushed away from the sink with both feet, toppling Isobel off balance.
She stumbled backwards, only just managing to keep the thrashing toddler in her arms. Still, Isobel’s back rammed into the counter, knocking her wind out and sending a bowl of fruit flying.
Mia stopped crying.
Isobel eased the child down in between gasps. She felt small hands lose grip of her leg as she clung to a barstool, willing the stars away and concentrating on sucking in each breath. It took a full minute to breathe normally again. As the blackness receded from her eyes, she heard silence.
No noise, no crying. Almost too scared to look, she peeped over her shoulder.
Mia was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. She had a squished banana in one hand and was smearing pulverised blobs of the sweet fruit into her mouth with the other.
Isobel sank to floor, sliding down the wooden knobbles of the barstool leg.
Mia finished the banana, dropped the peel on the tiles next to her, and held out her hand. “Taa!”
Isobel felt around for another magic, baby-silencing fruit, pulled the skin back, and held it out. Her heart was thumping in her ears.
Mia bum-shuffled forwards and took it out of Isobel’s hand.
Their gazes caught for a moment, but the banana won, and Mia focussed her full attention on getting as much of it into her mouth as she could. Her sunburned skin had turned to flakes across her forehead and nose, all down her arms. If humans shed their skin like snakes, it would look like Mia.
Isobel’s stomach twisted. “Slowly, baby. Don’t choke.”
Mia gagged as the banana pushed too far. She
pulled it out and resorted to squishing. No more made it to her mouth.
To Isobel’s horror, Mia seemed intent on massaging the entire banana into the kitchen tiles. I can’t do this. Isobel pushed herself off the floor, her eyes fixed on the living mess in the middle of her tidy life. She backed towards the fridge, pulled Liam’s business card out from under a grinning duck magnet, and then turned and ran from the kitchen.
The little girl started crying. Heartbroken, gulping sobs.
Isobel’s pulse raced. Her instincts warred within her—mostly she wanted to dive through the open lounge window and run as far and as hard as she could. Leave everything and get away. Yet she couldn’t ignore the tiniest sliver inside urging her to go back into the kitchen and make it all better.
She did neither. Picking up the handset, she forced her trembling fingers to punch in Liam’s number. Straight to voicemail. No!
She tried again. Still no answer.
The crying in the kitchen was getting louder.
She slammed the phone down, sank to the floor, and cried. Hugging her legs to her chest, she allowed hot tears of frustration to burn down her cheeks. This can’t be happening.
It felt like an eternity as she huddled on the floor, frustration and desperation taking turns to punch her in the belly. Somewhere in her storm of tears, without her realizing, quiet had settled over the place. The softest touch on her arm made her look up.
Mia had found her. She stood quiet, her sun-ravished skin wet with tears of her own. Stormy grey eyes regarded Isobel with fierce thoughts, thoughts too painful for one so small to form into words. Her arms slipped around Isobel’s neck and the child wriggled onto her lap.
Isobel froze. Banana assaulted her senses, slimy hands on her skin, sickly sweet stench clawed its way up her nostrils. She forced herself to breathe, to stay put.
Finding Mia Page 4