“Excuse me? Just how far are you with your investigations? How has ignoring us helped you? Hmm? Progress?”
He glared at her.
“I take it not very far.”
He knuckled his forehead and groaned. There was nothing to say.
13
Bel waited for the sun to peep through her kitchen windows before phoning Rochelle.
Liam was still tucked under a blanket on her couch downstairs, the door at the top of the stairs locked to satisfy her insides.
The first thing she had to do was quit her job with Rochelle.
If Liam’s instincts were right, Mia wouldn’t be safe at a playschool, and taking her to class didn’t work.
She braced herself and dialled.
“You’d better have a good reason for phoning so early.”
“Rochelle, I do. I need to come see you.”
“Well, that’s good because I need to see you, too. Meet me at the studio in half an hour.”
Isobel’s heart sank. Tiny blue handprints flashed in her mind. She had scrubbed off every last trace, but Rochelle must have found out. Well, I won’t be going back anyway, so getting fired doesn’t really matter. Knowing that, though, didn’t stop the stab of regret.
She woke Liam with coffee. He was a sleepy mess—dark-ringed eyes, hair a flaming muddle in every direction. She shoved away the impulse to hug him. They’d agreed that he would watch Mia so that she could meet with Rochelle.
“Here is her banana. If you get that in, everything else should be fine. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”
He peered at her through one half-opened eye, stretched with a yawn.
She couldn’t help laughing. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
He took the fruit and fell back on the couch, banana clutched on his chest like a bouquet in the hand of a corpse. He mumbled something unintelligible and waved her off.
“OK then. Have fun.”
More mumbles.
She shook her head and left.
Rochelle was waiting for her as the lift opened.
Isobel felt like a school girl who’d been caught cheating on a test.
“You’re here. Good.”
“I want to apo—”
Rochelle’s hand went up. “No, no. Allow me. I know what has been going on here.”
“I can expl—”
A single arched eyebrow evaporated Isobel’s words. She closed her mouth and braced herself for the tongue lashing.
“You, young lady, have single-handedly taken a bunch of woman whose collective talent didn’t amount to much, and brought some true art out of them.” Her fingers traced Kez-Lyn’s once-beheaded fairy and she nodded with approval. “You are doing good work, Isobel. I want you to join my evening class.”
What? Isobel stared as if Rochelle were speaking Russian. “So this isn’t about blue paint?”
“Dear girl, sometimes you make no sense at all. Tonight’s group has been together for a while, but I think it’s where you need to be. Seven PM. Just bring yourself and a mirror.”
Isobel thought her chest might pop. This was nothing short of a dream landing in her lap.
“I’ll be taking today’s classes. Rest today and I’ll see you at seven.”
Isobel walked right past the de-blued bit of room and felt the heat in her face. The quicker she left, the better. The lift button glowed as she pushed it. It seemed to be the only real thing in the room as everything else turned fuzzy, dreamlike.
There was no doubt in her mind that Rochelle’s class would shatter the awful blank canvas drought. Isobel’s dream was alive and it was coming for her. After years of chasing, beating life into something so dead it refused to quiver… it had sought her out. It had come to find her.
The lift was halfway to the ground floor when reality crashed in, rolling on the floor, laughing at her. She was halfway to her car when she realized she hadn’t resigned. With a groan, she thumped her forehead into her fist. There was no way she could go back now.
Besides, Liam surely needed her.
Mia would be up and yelling by now.
What a mess.
****
Isobel turned her key in the front door expecting to hear chaos. Instead, the sounds of giggling filtered through the fresh morning air. She followed the laughter to the lounge. There she found Liam, still on the couch.
Mia had joined him.
He had one arm around her and was walking teddy bear fingers on her palm with his free hand. Each step his finger-teddy took brought another delighted chuckle from the little blonde girl.
They looked up as she walked in.
Liam flipped the corner of the duvet back. “Come join us. There’s plenty room.”
Mia poked a finger in his chest and announced, “Mine.” Her face dimpled into a grin at Liam.
It was too much for Bel.
She fled upstairs, locked herself in the bathroom. Jealousy and anger played a murky game of tag inside. None of what she felt made sense, but that just made it all seem worse. She sank to the floor with her head between her knees.
A few minutes later, Liam knocked on the door. “Bel, let me in.”
“Go away.” She hugged her knees and buried her face in her arms.
He slid down next to her.
She was too shocked to keep crying. “How on earth?”
He had the decency to look sheepish as he held up a mauled wire coat hanger, a thin plastic cutting board from the kitchen and the bathroom key.
“You are incorrigible!”
“If I knew what that meant, I might agree with you.”
“Impossible. Awkward. Persistent. Actually—you’re a bully. A plain, straight bully. Where is Mia?”
“Downstairs. She’s fine. I gave her some things to play with. So what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. My life is perfect.”
“Bel, you are too old to sulk. Seriously.”
Bel shuffled closer to toilet, determined to expand the space between them. She bumped her head on the loo and he laughed. Laughed! “What is wrong with you? You are the most irritating person I have ever met. Ever.”
He shrugged. “Probably. But I’m not here to talk about me. What’s going on?” His voice soothed her. He’d be great around skittish race horses.
“I’m not a horse, do you hear me? So don’t think you can mesmerize me with all that charm.”
“What? What are you talking about?” His nose wrinkled as if he’d stepped in dog-doo. “You’ve lost me.” He actually looked apologetic.
And you are messing with my sanity. “Never mind. None of it matters.”
“Talk to me, Bel.”
There was a tone to his voice that picked the lock on her heart as easily as he had the bathroom door. Her words rushed out before she could stop them. “Rochelle has invited me to art class.” She closed her eyes to stop the tears, but they squeezed out anyway.
“That’s great, right?” He was still floundering.
She gave him ten out of ten for not giving up. “It would be if I could go.”
“Why can’t you?”
Do you actually have a brain? “Uh, Mia? Remember? Little blonde girl downstairs?”
He held up his hands. “OK, listen. I’ve been thinking. First, when is your class?”
“Tonight at seven.”
“That’s good. This is what we’re going to do. You are going to your class tonight. I am going to take a few days off. I’ll watch Mia for you. When you come home, we can make some plans. How’s that?” He was grinning as if he’d just solved the epic problem of world hunger.
****
A wave of nausea washed through her as she stared at the blank canvas in front of her. She was next to the window on the right of the class, second from the back.
Noise from the street below filtered up through the window. A fruit seller called out—peddling off her last few naartjies, a minibus taxi driver yelling over the thump-thump music playing from his van, recruiting pass
engers in the hopes of a full load. Real lives, tough lives.
She let it all wash over her, bringing her to the reality of the moment. Pencil on canvas? Not a real problem. Surely.
The sun was setting, washing her stark canvas in soft orange light. She couldn’t help feeling intimidated as she glanced around the room at the other twenty artists. There was none of the playful banter that marked her morning class, none of the camaraderie that she’d come to look forward to.
Each one was centred, focused, ready to create.
Isobel felt like a polar bear at a beach party.
Rochelle stepped out of the lift and did a quick headcount. There was no special attention or welcome for Isobel. She moved right ahead with the business of the night. “Right everyone. Set up your mirrors next to your canvas. This evening we will be producing two canvasses. You’ll have an hour for each one. Yes?”
A quiet murmur of agreement hummed through the room.
“Your first piece will be a simple self-portrait, a pencil sketch. Your one hour starts now.”
There was no time to think, no time to fret. Isobel picked up her pencil, breathed deeply, and turned to her pale face in the mirror.
What seemed like twenty minutes later, Rochelle stopped them. “Your hour is up. Pencils down. Fifteen minute tea break and we’ll start part two.”
Her voice filtered through to Isobel like an alarm clock penetrating a bizarre dream in which her muse had returned.
Isobel shook herself back to reality, stepped back to see what she’d done. The hour had flown. Strangely, having a short time seemed to work for Bel—her self-portrait was complete. And it was good. Her proportions needed some work, but the lines, the shading—it was all there. It was clearly her face.
She made her way to the tea table in a daze. I actually drew something.
A short man with a grey beard grabbed her hand and shook it with gusto. The top of his bald head was perfectly in line with her shoulder. “The name’s Harry Reid. Your first time?”
Isobel retrieved her hand from his clench and nodded. She reached for a cup and busied herself making tea. I drew! She wanted to laugh and hug someone.
Harry was standing so close that she bumped into him as she turned for the milk. His coffee slopped down the front of his shirt.
The hugging urge evaporated. “I’m so sorry!”
“No worries, this shirt is my paint shirt. You’d know that if you were a regular. What is your name, love?”
I would rather fall out of this window than tell you that. She was saved from answering by a lanky redhead who introduced herself as Sybil.
More handshakes followed: Bethany with her close cropped raven hair, Padu—a tall Indian with a love for ink sketching. All the artists were more relaxed and clustered together, chatting. It was as if the entire room had breathed out a collective sigh of relief at achieving the halfway mark.
Isobel felt the knot in her belly loosen.
Rochelle was beckoning the artists back to their places.
Isobel put down her sipped tea and tried hard to stroll back to her place. This was exciting.
The briefest hint of a smile touched Rochelle’s lips. “I’ve had a quick tour around the room during the break, and I am very happy with what I saw. I must mention our newcomer tonight. She has produced an excellent piece of work. Isobel, good girl.”
Across the room, Coffee-slop-Harry’s face twisted in a smirk and he shoved both his thumbs in the air.
Isobel thought how nice it would be to throw a cream-pie at that face. She wasn’t about to let some troll ruin her breakthrough night, so she slam-dunked him out of her mind and focussed on the instructions Rochelle was giving.
“The second part is simple. Come and fetch a rock from this pile. Smash your mirror.” She held up a stern finger. “No whining about bad luck. It doesn’t exist. Repeat your self-portrait. Any questions?” She gave a split second before retracting the question and waving them to work.
Isobel fetched her rock. It was smooth and fitted in her palm as if it was part of her. Her first tap was too light; the mirror remained unbroken. The knot was back in her belly. She hit with more force a second time, sending cracks skittering through the glass. A piece fell out as she set it up next to her canvas.
She set to work more reluctantly this time. Each stroke of her pencil brought more of her shattered face to life on the canvas. Each jagged piece, a silent scream…
You’re broken. You’re broken.
She felt a tear and ignored it. Jagged slivers radiated from the centre point of impact. Hot tears ran freely. She kept drawing. At times, barely able to see, Isobel persisted. Cold resolution cracked the whip over emotion. Her left eye was in three shards, she drew it—exactly as she saw it. Her right eye was gone, fallen with the missing piece. I can’t do this.
Her mutilated face stared back at her from the canvas.
The cracks formed another image. Superimposed on her likeness was a baby. Not Mia, a newborn.
She dropped her pencil and fled.
14
Liam was worried. Isobel’s art class finished over an hour earlier, and she still wasn’t home. She might have got chatting and lost track of the time, but the disquiet in his gut told another story.
Mia had gone to sleep without any trouble, and he’d spent the rest of the time talking to God. The faith-fire of his teen years had dwindled and died, but since the disappearances, he’d found himself turning regularly Heavenward for answers. Praying normally brought a flood of bizarre peace, but tonight was different. Every time he brought up the topic of Isobel, his insides buzzed as if they’d been zapped with a stun gun. God, what do I do?
He took the stairs two at a time. He cracked the door as quietly as he could.
Mia was stretched out diagonally across Isobel’s double bed. She was not about to wake up. Not for anything.
Liam couldn’t risk being recognised, so he threw on a cap and pulled it low, turned his jacket collar up and let himself out the front door without turning the lights on. He was halfway down the path when he heard to faintest squeak of a spring. The swing bench! It could be wind, or it could be Isobel.
He felt his way back through thick darkness. He became aware of muffled breathing and fumbled through mud and bushes. The bench was on the porch. As he drew closer, he saw a vague shadowy form.
Isobel huddled in the corner of the swing with her knees drawn up. She stared off into the blackness.
The bench started swinging as he landed. She didn’t acknowledge him, and he said nothing. It could have been seconds or hours that they sat in silence, silence broken only by the creaking of the bench and lovesick crickets. He would sit all night if he had to.
She pulled her knees closer, her voice low. “It just takes one. I didn’t know that.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking. It just takes one. One awful thing. Everything else shatters. It can never be made whole again.”
“I’m not following. Talk to me.”
She looked at him then, as if she hadn’t realized he’d been there all along.
“What happened, Bel? What’s your one awful thing?”
Car lights sliced through the dark. A vehicle pulled up next door.
“Melindi! She’s back!” Bel tripped in her hurry to get off the swing. She fell over Liam’s legs and landed with her elbow in his chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. “Grief, are you OK?” She didn’t hang around to make sure but bolted down the path like a kid chasing the ice-cream van.
****
Melindi’s door was barely open when Bel got to her. As she stepped out, Bel threw her arms around her. “You’re back! How are you? Where are the kids?”
“Shhh! Look.”
Both kids were deep in Z-land.
Even by moonlight, Bel could see the new lines on Melindi’s face. The mess with her husband had taken its toll on her.
“Sorry!” Bel whispered. “Can
I help you carry anything in? Are you back to stay or just fetching stuff?”
“Grab this bag for me. For now, we’re back.”
Isobel hooked the bag on her shoulder and carried Lilly upstairs, marvelling at how light she was compared to Mia. She tucked the sleeping baby into the cot under a blanket covered in singing sheep and then brushed soft curls away from her face.
When Isobel returned to the kitchen, she could see just how tired Melindi looked under the harsh fluorescent light. A grey pallor had replaced the healthy blush Bel remembered. It took three trips to bring everything in from the car.
Melindi coached a sleepwalking Ben from the back seat all the way to his bed. She came back to the lounge and yawned.
Bel took it as an unintentional hint. “You need your bed. Maybe we can catch up tomorrow?”
“I’d like that, Bel.”
Bel eased the back door shut, hoping Liam would have given up waiting and gone to bed. The tinkle of a spoon in a cup said otherwise.
Liam was in the kitchen stirring sugar into his coffee.”You want some?”
“I think I’m going to find my bed.”
“We were still talking. I want to hear…about art. How was it?”
She noticed his hesitation, but played dumb. Her insides were safely locked away once more. Revisiting it all was not doing any good. “It was interesting. I managed to draw.” The joy bubble that had come back with Melindi, popped as her own broken face flashed through her mind. She craved the oblivion of sleep. To shut it all off, make it go away. “Goodnight, Liam.”
“Wait!”
“Sleep well.”
“Uh, Bel?”
She was halfway up the stairs, “What?!” If he dared inquisition her…
“Throw me some blankets?”
****
The lift to Rochelle’s loft was beginning to feel like nasty déjà vu.
Isobel rolled her shoulders and stretched, trying to shake off the last clinging remnants of sleep.
Finding Mia Page 7