The French Impressionist
Page 4
The automatic light from the hallway above clicks off and I’m left in the dark. It’s kind of creepy. I shiver as my curiosity drains away. Sometimes being alone is scary.
I shrug as I stand, ready to give up the quest. At that moment I discover my mistake. The automatic hall light above clicks back on and I freeze. Only a few feet above my head, I hear shuffling noises from behind the door on the left. Whoever is in there saw that the hall light went back on! Trembling, I watch as a shadow appears behind the frosted glass square in that apartment door. It looms up, distorted and strange, like something out of a horror movie.
So, for the second time today, I run for it. Halfway down the steps, my feet, encased in their slippery socks, fly out from under me and I fall, hard, right on my backside. I bounce down the last few steps on my tailbone. I can barely walk but make it back to Sylvie and Émile’s apartment hunched over in a kind of half-crouch, rubbing my sore butt.
Émile is still snoring. I quiver, hovering just inside the apartment with the door cracked open, holding my breath, listening for noise in the hall. After a few heartbeats, I hear it, shuffling footsteps that head down the stairs.
Stupid automatic lights.
The one above Émile and Sylvie’s door flickered on when I hobbled back in here. That person will see the light and know that someone from this apartment was spying! What should I do? I listen, frozen in place, as the footsteps shuffle closer. I’m about to slam and lock Sylvie and Émile’s door, but then I hear a woman’s voice speaking French.
“Occupe-toi de tes oignons,” the voice calls out in a gravelly half-whisper. Mind your own business.
Then shuffling footsteps go back up the steps. I hear a door thump closed from the floor above me.
Laughter bubbles up and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from making noise. That was it? That’s what I waited for with sweaty palms and shaking legs? I ease the apartment door closed and lock it, still giggling. Then I rummage around in the fridge. I thought I’d seen a Coke in there, and I was right. Mom never allows soda. Sugar and caffeine are poisoning America’s youth, along with preservatives like BHT. I grab the can and pop the lid. It tastes better than I could have imagined.
Mind my own business? I don’t think so. I want to know what that old lady is doing inside the empty apartment. And I can if I want to. I’m free.
I gulp more soda and grin.
Six
The tiny alleyway that twists in front of me is how I always imagined the streets of old Europe to be. It’s shoulder-wide and paved with uneven cobblestones. The walls on either side are crying. Dew trickles down them like tears trailing down worn cheeks. Every so often, I find tiny alcoves at eye level. They hold miniature statues of saints, with faded plaques bearing their names. There’s one a few feet away from me, a sorrowful Virgin Mary. A woman brushes past me, mumbling to herself. Dressed in heels and a short skirt, she comes to a stumbling stop, kisses her fingers and touches Mary’s face, and walks away without looking back.
There are no street signs here. I don’t want to get lost, but I can’t stop myself from moving. I’m in a strange city where nobody gives me a second look. I’m in a foreign country and nobody cares. I like it. Sylvie and Émile didn’t bat an eye when I wrote them a note that read, “I want to go for a walk.” They shrugged and smiled.
Now my heart’s pounding and it won’t slow down. It’s like I’m high on the feeling of being by myself.
I pass a tiny courtyard hidden behind an iron gate. Inside, an old woman dumps towels into a rusty washing machine precariously perched against the wall. A narrow doorway in the side of the next building opens onto a steep, winding stair. The stairway smells liked cooked onions. At the top is a bright green door with a hand-written sign that proclaims: “Church of the Seven Wizards.” I try the door. It’s locked, of course, but then I see the key hanging on a nail high up in the corner. It fits in the lock and the door opens onto a dingy room that holds a few folding chairs placed around a card table. Bare shelves line one wall and cigarette butts litter the floor. The wizards aren’t home.
I find my way back to the shop. Before I go in, I pass a little girl with stringy blonde hair and a runny nose playing on her front steps. She offers me a cookie. I take it. I eat it. Mom would remind me about the germs. And the sugar. And the gluten.
Dear Rosemary,
I miss you so much! I feel lost without you. It’s Tuesday, and we’re supposed to go to Kiwi Loco and have our yogurt together like we always do. I couldn’t even stand to drive by the place! I worry that whoever feeds you at this camp won’t stick to your dietary guidelines. Please make sure they follow my directions exactly. Write back!
Mom
Dear Mom,
Art Camp is awesome! They feed us well. This week we get French cuisine. I’m avoiding sugar, soy, and dairy, I promise. The cook knows I’m doing gluten-free, too, so no worries! I’m learning how to throw clay to make pottery. Soon I start painting class. Here’s a picture of last night’s sunset. It’s gorgeous here.
Love ya,
Rosemary
There are millions of free online photos, if you know where to find them. My mother is completely helpless when it comes to technology, too. She can barely work her smartphone. Zan and I always have to help her. It’s a huge advantage for me. This was almost too easy.
“Welcome back,” Émile greets me as I reenter the shop, finishing my cookie. I nod at him and wipe the crumbs off my fingers.
We won’t start painting lessons today. Sylvie is working on mosaics for an upcoming show. I can watch and learn if I want. I declined. I chose to spend my day here, in the shop. Mornings are always slow, I’m told. So far it’s true. No one but us is here right now, though I’d be okay with customers. Really. There’s only one person I don’t want to see. After last night, I’m sure he’s the very last human being I’ll ever see again. Score.
Sitting behind the cash register in the sleepy shop on a languid summer morning, I pull out my cell and look at the day planner app as Émile yawns and leafs through a cook book. My life was always scheduled for me, and every moment of each carefully planned day is on my phone. The phone is supposed to beep at me when it’s time to move on to the next scheduled activity. I turned off the alarms when I got on the plane. When I look at my schedule now, I see I didn’t quite go far enough. Munching on an ice cream sandwich Émile handed me from the cooler in the corner, I delete each item, one by one.
6:45 a.m. My door is unlocked. I shower and dress in the clothing laid out for me.
7:30 a.m. Breakfast. (Gluten-free cereal, soy milk. Fresh fruit. Special vitamin formulated for children with communication disorders).
8:05 a.m. Drive to school.
8:27 a.m. Arrive at school. Mom walks me to class; goes to her office down the hall.
8:35 to 11:15 a.m. Morning classes. I check in with Mom in between classes, drop off my homework and exchange books. That’s why I don’t have a locker. Mom told the principal it was unnecessary.
11:15 to 11:45 a.m. Lunch with Mom. We eat our sack lunches in her office. It’s better than eating in the cafeteria. I can’t stand having everyone stare at us. Especially on Monday, or as Mom calls it, “Matching Shirt Monday.”
11:45 a.m. to 3:15 p.m. Afternoon classes. I check in with Mom and exchange books, like I do in the morning.
3:25 p.m. Mom drives me home.
After school? Homework. Mom hovers, helps. Speech therapy sessions. Mom observes, takes notes. Speech practice. With Mom. Free time. With Mom. Sometimes Jada comes over. Her parents drop her off, and we’ll chat, watch G rated, mother-approved movies or play G-rated, mother-approved video games.
With Mom.
Delete, delete, delete! I love the sound my phone makes each time I erase part of my old life. To my ears, it’s a little bell ringing in triumph. Finally, there’s only one item left.
The phrase, “Delete selected item?” blinks at me from my cell. I hit “Yes,” and the screen of my phone glows a gorgeous, empty, electronic blue. Now each activity is gone. If it’s not on my phone, it doesn’t exist. Every day is now a blank canvas, and I’m the one who gets to fill it, any way I choose.
Émile yawns again and I do too. A sleepy morning, with nowhere to be, nothing particular to do, is a luxury I’ve never had before.
Later, I snooze the afternoon away. Sylvie laughed and said something about jet lag when I nearly fell asleep in my soup, and I allowed myself the freedom of a long, uninterrupted nap.
Did I mention that I like it here?
After dinner, all three of us watch some weird movie I half understand. My new French parents are content, smiling. I cuddle Fat Cat and text Mom. It’s only morning for her, and supposed to be for me, too. I tell her I’m going to learn how to draw the human form. Oops. Then I have to spend about fifteen minutes promising that I won’t be sitting before a bunch of live, nude models.
Once I’m in bed, the big cat’s low purr lulls me to sleep. Soon I’m dreaming. My mother doesn’t even like to doodle, but in the dream, I’m watching her paint the portrait of a girl. The girl on the canvas looks back at me from over her shoulder. Her hair is long, winds around her neck and is tight around her face, covering her mouth. I start to breathe hard and I try to ask my mother fix the painting, try to get the girl’s hair off her face, off her mouth so she can breathe, so she can talk, but Mom won’t answer me.
I can’t breathe. I sit up gasping for air. I don’t know where I am. I’m terrified. Suddenly, a sharp line of light glows on the wall beside me. I go completely still, except for the pounding of my heart that gradually slows.
Breath comes back to my body as the dream dissolves, and I understand at once that it was just another one of my nightmares. It was weird, though. Usually, I dream about a set of odd images that I can’t explain. An old-fashioned dress with puffy sleeves and a torn hem. A sagging plaid couch with springs that poke through the fabric. A filthy teddy bear missing an eye. Canned peaches. Peanut butter on crackers. Always, those images fill me with a sense of quivering dread bordering on sheer panic. Yeah, I know. Peaches? Peanut butter? I can’t figure it out either, but I’ve never been able to even look at that stuff.
I turn on the bedside lamp with a shaky hand, and check out the wall where the light glows through the crack. That’s not any old crack on my wall. It’s too tall. Too straight. There’s a door.
I fling away fading nightmares and plan an attack. Padding across the cool blue-tiled kitchen floor, I mentally thank Émile for being such a good cook. Aside from the fact that his meals rock, he has an awesome set of cutlery. In no time I’m back in the bedroom wielding a wicked-looking knife.
Using only the dim reading lamp to guide me, I push against the glowing line of light. Under the pressure of my hand, the wall gives a little. Is the crack a tiny bit wider? I think it is. I was right. There was once a door in this wall. It was painted over. Where was the knob? My fingers find it, a slight bulge where a hole was covered with plaster.
I work the knife into the bulge and chip away the paint. Yellowish plaster flakes and falls onto the floor. The knife plunges a few inches into the hole I’ve created, scrapes against something. Using a flashlight, I can see dusty metal rods but not much else. I try to move them with my fingers. Nothing. I chip away more plaster. Still nothing moves. I’m tired and sweaty and annoyed, but then I move the knife sideways and hear a scrape and a click. The wall in front of me groans and moves away.
Flecks of paint fall into my hair. A rush of hot, stale air hits my face while at the same time my brain registers soft crackling sounds. I blink in surprise and look up. Oh, no. What was I thinking? When the door in my wall opened, the paint that covered the minute space between door and frame cracked and crumbled away. Long parallel lines extend from the floor to about a foot from the ceiling, where a horizontal line joins them. I’ve ruined part of Ansel’s painting and left telltale signs on the wall of my midnight misdeeds.
How do I explain this? Before I can figure out what to do, Fat Cat jumps down from the bed and zooms into the dark space of the newly-opened doorway.
“Fat Cat, come back!” I stage-whisper.
I hear his low “mrrrrrrr,” and jangling collar bells, sounding muffled and far away. Stupid cat. Now I have to find him before I can do anything to fix my wall. I grab my cell, figuring I can use it as a flashlight, and step into the stale air behind the door in my wall.
Seven
The first thing that hits me is the smell of old dust. The place reeks like a museum. The weak light from my cell sends out a short beam that ends only inches in front of my face. Beyond that is nothing but a wall of darkness, but Fat Cat’s bells tinkle from somewhere ahead. I move the light and find myself in a narrow hall. There’s a small square opening a few feet away.
“Fat Cat!” I hiss. Darn him! That dwarf-sized door is kind of creepy. It’s so low I have to crouch down to go through. Fat Cat finally answers, sounding even farther away than before. I take a deep breath and crawl through the tiny opening, and then I have to edge around a big, solid-looking thing covered with a dusty cloth. My light beam shows me a large open area, and lots of weird shapes, and I almost scream, because eyes are looking at me. Heart in my throat, I realize it’s a painting.
When I look around, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Paintings are everywhere; they’re on the walls, on tables, on chairs, on the floor. This single room looks like it has more artwork than a gallery. I gawk at everything in full shock mode. The cloth-covered furniture crowds around me like lumpy ghosts trying to edge closer, and everywhere I aim the glow from my cell phone I see paintings, books, and papers piled in random jumbles.
Ancient wallpaper is peeling away from the wall in spots. Big flaps hang down and brush the floor. Moving the light beam, I jump when it reflects back into my eyes. The light was bouncing off a tall mirror with a gold frame. My footsteps are muffled by a thick carpet that feels gritty under my bare feet.
I should be scared. I should be in a hurry to find Fat Cat and get out. But I can’t help another feeling that creeps over me. It’s a funny mix of excitement and defiance. I’m breaking and entering. Well, something like that. My mother would definitely not approve.
Tearing sounds come from another room and I jump a mile out of my skin. Then, I hear Fat Cat’s growly voice, and I hurry to wind through and around strange objects in the dark, because I know that Fat Cat likes to sharpen his claws. There’s probably a lot of stuff in here that he’d shred if he got the chance.
I find him in the next room. Instead of an art gallery, this long rectangular space is a menagerie. In the dim glow of my flashlight, a stuffed Mickey Mouse and a toy pig next to him stare at me in wide-eyed surprise. Both look old-fashioned, and the threadbare toys are covered with dust, like everything else in here. A rusted birdcage hangs from the ceiling, and one shelf is jammed with stuffed birds, from tiny swallows to a massive owl with outspread wings. Fat Cat is trying to shred a dead ostrich bigger than I am. I grab the cat by his collar and pull him off while a few moldy feathers float to the floor.
While I back away, gripping the collar of my solid feline friend, my thoughts are muddy with confusion. Hundreds of paintings, furniture, and dead birds? And all in an empty apartment that nobody has lived in for decades. Why? Why didn’t the people who left take this stuff with them? Then I hear a sound. Water gurgles through pipes above my head. Someone flushed a toilet upstairs. I have to get out of here, fast. What if that person were to come down here and find me?
Still dragging Fat Cat, I try to get back out to the room where I’d come in, bu
t it’s so dark. There’s so much furniture crowded around me, and so much stuff piled on top of other stuff that I get confused. I go through a doorway and my phone light shows me a prehistoric-looking stone sink and a table with tall chairs around it. I back out and try again. I have to move all hunched over so I can hold onto the cat’s collar. When I find another doorway, my foot hits something hard, and before I can stop myself, I yelp. I’ve found a stairway. This is the way to the next floor. I back up again, and as I do, I stumble over something and hear the sound of heavy things sliding to the floor, one by one: thump, thump, thump.
It takes my heart a minute to stop trying to escape from my chest. I stand, completely still, listening, trying to breathe without a sound. So far, I don’t hear anything from upstairs.
But the moment I move, a door opens somewhere above my head, and a man’s voice calls out in English, “Who’s there?”
Fat Cat, you’re on your own.
I let go of his collar and he zips away. I straighten and aim my light around the room, until finally I find what must be the right doorway, and shoot through it. Wrong again.
It’s a bedroom, with a huge bed that’s so high I’d need a ladder to climb onto it, four big wooden posts, torn curtains, and I’m out of time. Footsteps thud down the stairs. I’m trapped.
What do I do? I have to hide! Panic sets in and I whirl around like I’m trying to make myself dizzy, and my cell phone glow reveals brief glimpses of the round mirror of a dressing table and oval portraits on the wall. My panicked brain registers a massive wooden cupboard that stands against one wall, so I run and yank on the doors. They don’t budge. By now the heavy footsteps are at the bottom of the stairs. The gruff voice is now mumbling inside the apartment.