I felt the familiar clutch in my stomach. “Has something happened? Since last night?”
“Oh, well, it should be your father that tells you, but now I’ve let it out I better go on with it. Seems she had some kind of episode this afternoon, where she was having some pain and crying out. She stabilized after that but she’s still on the ventilator…Oh dear, I shouldn’t have told you,” she wailed as I swayed and nearly fell down. She grabbed me and led me into the kitchen and pushed me into a chair.
“Head between your knees, Annie, let the blood come back.” She pushed at the back of my neck until I bent my head over. I could feel the blood rushing back, pounding in my temples. I felt sick. I shook off her arm and sat up.
“Oh, goodness,” she said. “You went as white as a sheet. I’ve heard people say that but I’ve never seen it. It’s all my fault, bursting out with it like that. Here, have a glass of water.”
I sipped at the water.
“But is she okay?”
“She’s fine now. Your father says it might mean that she’s struggling to wake up. And that’s a good thing.”
At Magda’s suggestion, I went up to my room for a “wee nap.” She told me my father would be home for dinner at 7:30.
That gave me about an hour to get back to Crooked Head.
I shut my door and sat on the bed. Then I opened the book.
The painting after Annie I was the painting of Annie standing in front of the lighthouse dressed in a sweater with a black Scottie dog knitted into it. Again, the image of the Scottie was disturbing and took away from Annie’s bright smile and the sunny day. A dark beacon in the midst of a happy day. I wondered if a person who didn’t know about Annie’s accident would find the picture as unsettling as I did. The dog was so weird looking, with those strange eyes—I looked closer. Yes, they were painted as spinning vortexes again. My dizziness came rushing back and then I was falling.
This time I was turning head over heels and then I landed with a thump.
“Annie!” cried Claire. “You’re just in time!”
CLAIRE
I HAD JUST LAID out an old blanket on the floor and placed one of the Annie paintings on it, the one where she’s standing at the kitchen table mixing cookie dough, when Annie fell into the studio beside me.
“Annie! You’re just in time! Maisie’s out somewhere but I don’t know how long she’ll be. We need to be quick.”
Annie struggled to her feet. She looked around the room, then walked over to the painting of Annie standing in front of the lighthouse. She bent down to look at something.
“Annie!” I said. “I need help with this.”
She turned back to me and focused on what I was doing with the painting.
“Not a blanket,” she said. “A sheet would be better.”
“Oh rats! I collected all these old blankets from the Mirror House.”
“Go find some sheets,” said Annie. “They’re cleaner and better for the paintings.”
I ran out of the studio into the hall closet and pulled some old sheets from a shelf.
“Here,” I said, thrusting them into Annie’s arms. She was standing looking down at the painting with a dazed expression on her face.
We spread out a sheet and got the painting wrapped up.
“Let’s hide this one first,” I said. “So if she comes home early, at least one will be hidden.”
Annie agreed and we carried it together along the hall, through the closet and down the stairs. I turned the fish on the fourth step and we slid the painting in. Then I turned the fish and the riser fell back into place.
“She’ll never find it,” I said. “Let’s go get another.”
A door slammed next door, and I could hear Maisie calling out, “Claire, are you home?”
I grabbed Annie’s arm. “Oh no, she’s back! What should we do?”
Annie took charge, just the way she did when I set the kitchen on fire. “You go and talk to her, keep her downstairs. I’ll clear up the studio and put the key back.”
“Can you get another painting? Or take all of them? It’s not going to work if we only have one.”
“I’ll try,” said Annie, and then we both sped up the stairs, into the closet and along to the door at the end. I burst through and nearly knocked Maisie down the stairs.
“Watch it, Claire,” she said, grabbing the bannister. “What’s the hurry? And what were you doing in the closet? Were you in the Mirror House?”
Annie slipped by, heading for the studio.
“I was just…just…looking around.”
“You know you’re not supposed to go over there.”
Behind Maisie, the studio door closed silently.
“I’ve taken all the Annie paintings into my studio, if that’s what you were looking for,” said Maisie.
There was a tremendous crash from the studio. Maisie whirled around and strode over to the door. She glanced at me, and tried the handle. It opened.
I followed her in. The Annie paintings had all fallen over. The window was wide open. Annie stood in the corner, trying to shrink into the wall.
“What on earth?” said Maisie. “I left this door locked. And the window shut. What have you been up to, Claire?”
She began setting the paintings upright, and then noticed the blankets and the sheets. “Claire? What were you doing?”
I didn’t say anything. She turned and looked at the paintings.
“Where’s the one with the cookies?”
I just looked at her.
“Claire? Where is it?”
“I took it. I don’t want you showing those paintings. I told you. You wouldn’t listen.”
“And you think you’re going to stop me by hiding the paintings? And playing tricks on me, pretending to be Annie’s ghost?”
“I didn’t—” I began.
“Don’t lie to me, Claire!” said Maisie. “I’m sick and tired of all your nonsense. I’m showing these paintings, no matter what, and you’re not going to stop me by stealing them or by leaving books about ghosts beside my bed. Now tell me where the painting is.”
I looked at her for a moment. Then I said, “No.”
She took a step toward me, “Claire, this has gone far enough. Where is the painting?”
I turned and walked toward the door.
She was after me in a second, grabbing me by the back of my shirt. She spun me around and gave me a shake.
“Tell me where it is or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I said. “Hit me? Beat it out of me? Go on. I dare you!”
She glared at me, for a moment, then she let go. She took a couple of deep breaths, as if she was trying to calm herself down.
“Claire, I’ve told you. I won’t mention you in any of the reference material. I’ll keep you out of it. I won’t say anything about the accident. You won’t come into it. But I need to show these paintings. This is my work, Claire.”
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? Your work. You don’t care about me or how I feel and you never cared about Annie either. It was your fault that she died, not mine! You shouldn’t have left us on our own that day, but you had to do your precious work. You blame me, but we both know that it was your fault.”
She slapped me then, hard across my face. Then her face crumpled and she covered her mouth with her hand.
I put my hand to my face where she hit me. There was a kind of ringing in my head.
“Claire,” she said, reaching out her arms to me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I took a step back. “Stay away from me. I hate you!” And then I turned and fled to my room.
ANNIE
THE SOUND OF the slap seemed to echo through the room after Claire left. Maisie dropped to her knees and covered her face with her hands.
“Annie,” she sobbed. “Annie,” and then she held her stomach as if she had a bad pain.
I couldn’t bear it. I went over to her and knelt down and put my arms around her.
; “It’s okay, Maisie,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
She kept crying, rocking back and forth, and I kept hugging her, for a long time. I was dimly aware of a breeze coming in the window, seagulls crying outside, and the waves crashing against the rocks below the lighthouse, but Maisie and I were in our own world. I wasn’t sure if she could feel my touch, but I think that in some deep part of her she could sense my presence.
Finally she stopped crying and I moved away. She dried her eyes and turned to look at the paintings of Annie behind her.
After a few moments she got wearily to her feet and headed out of the studio and down the hall, with me trailing along behind. She knocked at Claire’s door, and then went in.
Claire was sitting in the big chair, staring out the window.
“Claire,” said Maisie. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry.”
Claire turned to look at her. One side of her face was still burning red.
“We need to talk. About Annie. About what happened that day. We’ve left it too long.”
“No!” said Claire, jumping to her feet. “There’s nothing to talk about. We both know what happened.”
“It was an accident,” said Maisie. “It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”
“That’s not true,” said Claire, her lower lip trembling. “You think it was my fault. I know you do. You blame me. You think I should have stopped her from running.”
Maisie shook her head. “No. I don’t. I know how she ran.”
“You’re lying. I see it every time you look at me. You blame me and you wish it was me that died, not Annie!”
“No,” said Maisie, moving toward her, her voice breaking. “No, Claire. No.”
“Let me out of here,” begged Claire. “Let me go to Nan’s. You don’t want me.”
“Claire, that’s not true. I love you. I love you just as much as I loved Annie.”
“Then prove it,” said Claire. “Don’t show the paintings. I’m asking you. For my sake.”
Maisie shook her head. “I won’t be blackmailed by you, Claire. The paintings are my art. They are my work. I can’t stop the clock. They have to be shown.”
“Well you won’t be showing the one with the cookies. It’s gone forever.”
“What do you mean? What have you done with it?”
“You’ll never see it again,” said Claire, standing up and facing her mother. “I burned it. In the stove. I burned it while you were away.”
I gasped. Why was she saying that?
Maisie took a step back, as if Claire had struck her.
“You burned my painting? How could you do that, Claire?”
“To show you once and for all that it’s a painting! It’s not a human being. I’m standing right in front of you and you don’t care about me. You care more about your paintings than you do about me. You don’t love me. You didn’t love Annie. All you care about is your paintings. I’d burn all of them if I could.”
Maisie stood perfectly still. Then she took a deep breath and spoke in a tight, controlled voice.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” she said. “You’ll regret this one day, Claire. And it’s not going to stop my show. I’ll show the ones I have. And meanwhile you can go and live with Nan. It will be better for both of us right now to be apart. I’ll call Nan now and see if she will come out and pick you up.” Then she turned and left the room.
Claire stood looking after her mother. Then she began to cry. I moved toward her but my legs were suddenly heavy and the room darkened, as if a cloud had covered the sun. She looked up at me and reached out her arms but even though I was trying with all my strength to move toward her, she was getting farther and farther away from me instead of closer. Then she blinked into darkness and I could still hear her crying, but I was falling again, falling out of the lighthouse, bouncing down over the rocks, falling deep into the ocean, swallowed up by waves of darkness.
CLAIRE
I’D DONE IT. I’d got what I wanted. Maisie was letting me go. I would move to St. John’s and live with Nan.
So why did I feel like my heart was broken in two? I saw Annie standing at the door, looking scared and white. I called out to her and she started toward me, and then it was like a dark cloud descended into the room, and then she stretched out her arms to me, but she was getting farther and farther away from me, then she blinked into nothing and I was alone.
“Only it is so very lonely here!” Alice said in a melancholy voice; and at the thought of her loneliness two large tears came rolling down her cheeks.
THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS, AND WHAT ALICE FOUND THERE
ANNIE
WHEN I CAME to, a bell was ringing. I opened my eyes. I was lying on my bed, the book open beside me to the painting of Little Annie standing outside the lighthouse. I sat up. I felt terrible. My mouth was dry and I was so dizzy I had to close my eyes for a minute. The bell stopped ringing and I could hear Magda talking downstairs. Talking on the phone. The bell must have been the phone.
I opened my eyes again. Why was it getting harder every time? It was scary, falling like that. And I felt so heavy and dragged out. Like I had the flu.
There were footsteps coming up the stairs. I shut the book. Magda knocked on the door.
“Come in,” I said.
She stepped into the room and I knew right away something was wrong. It was written all over her face.
“I’m sorry, love,” she said. “That was your dad on the phone. Your mom isn’t doing very well. He wants me to bring you to the hospital.”
CLAIRE
MY HEAD WAS pounding. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and close my eyes. But instead I pulled out the old suitcase from under my bed. I took out Annie’s sketchbook and laid it carefully on my pillow. Then I started to pack.
I took piles of underwear, shirts and socks out of my drawers and put them neatly into the suitcase. Sweaters, jeans, shorts. My bathing suit. There was a pool near Nan’s. Maybe it would be warm enough to go swimming in a few weeks. I stood by my bookcase and frowned. What books to bring? I couldn’t bring all of them. Just a couple of favorites. There was a library not too far away from Nan’s place. I could go every day if I wanted to.
A sob shook through me. I was starting to cry again. I felt raw, like I’d drunk some horrible poison that burned my insides. I wiped away my tears and reached for Emily of New Moon and Anne of Green Gables. I was just about an orphan now, so I might as well read books about orphans. I sniffed.
Suddenly there was a knock on my door and Maisie came in.
“I’ve just talked to Nan,” she said, crossing over to my bed. “She can be here tomorrow. She’s not very happy about the situation—” Maisie broke off. “What’s this?” she said, reaching for the sketchbook.
I cried out and tried to grab it from her but she whisked it away and took it to the window, where the light poured in. She opened it. Then she made a kind of strangled noise.
“Annie?” she said, looking over at me. “This is Annie’s.” She looked back at the book. I could see she was staring at the sketch Annie had made of me, the day before she died. Sitting in the armchair reading The Secret Garden.
“I’ve never seen this,” she whispered, and turned the page.
“No!” I cried, going over and trying to get the book from her. “Don’t look at it! It’s mine!”
She held the book out of reach and glared at me. “You kept this from me? All this time? Annie’s sketches?”
“No,” I said, reaching for the book again. “There’s only one. She only did one.”
“But there’s more in here,” said Maisie, turning the pages. She flipped through the pages where I had glued newspaper clippings and the funeral program, and the cutouts from the Eaton’s catalogue, till she got to the thicker pages where I’d glued in her sketches for the Annie paintings.
She stared at the first one. “This isn’t Annie’s,” she said. “This is mine.” She turned some
more pages, then looked up at me, outraged. “You took these from my studio? You stole my work? So the painting of Annie wasn’t the first? What else have you taken from me?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing.”
But it wasn’t true. I’d taken Annie from her.
ANNIE
DAD MET MAGDA and me at the elevators. I was so scared I could barely breathe. I was trying very hard to focus on one thing at a time and try not to think about Mom. Right now it was Dad’s five-o’clock shadow, all those tiny little black bristles all over his cheeks and chin.
“Come in here, Annie,” said Dad, taking my arm and leading me into the quiet room. Magda faded into the background. He sat me down in a chair and took my hand.
“What’s happened,” I whispered. “Is Mom dead?”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “She’s in a bit of trouble, but she’s holding her own.”
I was examining his tie, which had thin green stripes. The knot was crooked. Dad never messed up his tie. He was very particular about the way he looked.
“Then why did you ask Magda to bring me here?” I was still whispering.
“Your mother has been calling for you,” he said.
I looked up then. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“She started to wake up, and she’s breathing on her own without the ventilator. But she isn’t fully conscious and her heartbeat is erratic. They’ve stabilized her but she isn’t doing well, Annie. They did another MRI and found some bleeding in her brain. They need to operate.”
I clutched his hand. “Dad—” I was so scared I couldn’t say any more. My throat felt like it had closed up.
He put his other arm around me and drew me into a tight hug.
“Annie,” he said into my hair. “Annie.” His voice broke a little.
I could feel his heart beating steadily through his shirt. I clung to him. If his heart kept on beating like that, if Mom’s heart kept on beating too, and mine, if we all just kept going it would be okay. I felt the circle again, the way I’d felt it that time when I laid my head down on her chest. Only this time Dad was in it too.
The Painting Page 14
