I wrench myself away from Émile’s gentle hand.
“How will you paint?” I blurt, gesturing in Ansel’s direction. Ansel turns his head toward me, his dark, beautiful eyes meet mine, and I read the hurt that fills them. It’s etched onto his face.
Sylvie’s head whips around toward me, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I can’t stop the words that keep falling from my mouth.
“How are you going to paint? You can’t even hold a paintbrush!” The words slur as they leave my lips. I turn.
Doorways blur by me as I run back down the corridor. The gray-haired woman is still in her wheelchair in the hall. She calls out something as I race by. I hear Émile’s voice shout, but I don’t stop. Once I get to the parking lot, I’m stuck. I don’t know the way back home, and I have no money for a bus. People are looking at me, so I slow to a trot and look for Émile’s two-horse car.
Why did I say those horrible things? Rosemary, the girl who is always so afraid to speak, spews poison words when she opens her mouth. Maybe darkness is all that I have left. I feel the cloud of sludge churning inside me, burning like acid. I feel it in every cell of my body. I’m supposed to be happy right now for someone else. Someone I thought dead is actually alive. But the sludge took over, and it won’t let me to feel anything but darkness.
Émile’s orange deux-chevaux is parked ahead, with the wheels halfway up on the curb. I try the doors, find them unlocked, and throw myself onto the backseat.
After what feels like a year of slow, crawling, empty moments, Émile and Sylvie come outside. They get in, the engine starts, and we drive back to their apartment. No one speaks. I don’t care. They’re not my family. They don’t need me like I thought they did. Ansel isn’t dead.
Twenty-Two
“I’d like you to finish the work you started yesterday,” Sylvie murmurs, not quite meeting my gaze. “I’ll be back later.” And with that, she’s gone, leaving only a hint of her lemon scent in the air.
I haven’t even seen Émile once this morning. Hazy sunlight from the windows hurts my tired eyes. The nightmares danced in my head for so, so long last night.
I lift my brush and try to work on the picture I’d begun yesterday, the portrait of the strange little girl. It should be easy. I only need to paint my bad dreams, but it’s impossible. I can’t concentrate. I feel more and more like my oxygen was cut off. I destroyed my phone, so Mom can’t contact me. By now, she and Zander must know that something is up. But that hardly matters. There’s no way they’ll find me.
The problem is, what do I do when the summer ends and Ansel comes home? I have nowhere to go. I have no one. My plan lies in a million pieces on the cool tiles of a hospital floor. I never saw this coming.
“It’s all your fault, Ro,” I whisper out loud. I was blind to how stupid my plan really was. Blame it on how badly I wanted it to work. I thought Sylvie was the perfect choice. She was the one who would most likely believe me and take me in. But I didn’t understand what she said in her blog about Ansel. She said she “lost” him. She never said he died.
Minutes go by and the soft hum of the refrigerator is like a background lullaby, soothing me a tiny bit. After a while, I lift my brush, dip it in some paint, and try to do that “stream of consciousness” thing Sylvie once told me about, where you start painting with random colors and see what happens. Long strokes create dark hair pulled into pigtails tied with bows. The child I’m painting is a girl wearing a yellow sundress and sandals. She has wide, frightened eyes and a small nose, but no mouth, because she has no voice.
And my confusion melts away and I remember.
The girl in the painting is lost, and something about the way she stands, clutching the ragged teddy bear, shows her fear. She can’t find her mother. She walked away in the store, and it was such a big store. She can’t ask for help, because no one understands what she says.
It all plays in my mind. Finally, the nightmare images make sense. The dress, the sofa, the peanut butter.
As if I’m watching a video on a tiny screen in front of me, I watch as the other figure on the canvas, the old man, reaches out to the girl. He’s kind but confused. He takes the girl’s hand. He says that he will help her. He takes her to his home and gives her watery soup and canned peaches, and she sleeps on his torn sofa, and wakes and cries because she doesn’t know where she is. The old man sings to her, and calls her a funny name. “Don’t cry, Jenny-girl,” he says. She tries to tell him her real name, but she can’t. She asks for her mother, but he covers her with a blanket and she goes back to sleep.
As everything comes into focus, I paint all my nightmare images on the canvas. A red dress with puffed sleeves. Scuffed black shoes, stretched out by someone else’s toes. Squares of stale crackers, smeared with peanut butter. An old black and white TV set that shows fuzzy-pictured cartoons. And a calendar, with four days marked in red. The girl stays with the kind, confused man for four days. She eats his food and wears the ragged red dress with puffed sleeves and the black shoes, and watches fuzzy no-color cartoons. The man braids her hair and calls her Jenny, and she cries, but he pats her head and sings songs about pretty horses and twinkling stars. And on the fourth day the doorbell rings, and it’s a woman named Jennifer, the man’s grown-up Jenny. Her eyes grow wide and she says, “Daddy, who is that little girl?” and she calls the police.
The colors on the canvas swirl together before my eyes, but I swipe the tears away because I’m not done. I turn the brush around and use the handle to gouge lines into the canvas. The lines form letters that slash across the girl: Shreveport.
Shreveport is where Mom grew up and Grandma used to live. Where I was lost in the big store. I stayed lost for four days. It was June. The air was heavy and wet, and the cicadas sang me to sleep at night as I slept on that worn sofa. When the police called Mom and she came to get me, she held me and cried and cried, and promised she’d never leave me alone again. And she never, ever did. Not until I tricked her into letting me come here.
My paintbrush drops to the floor. Now that I remember what happened, I can’t stop the memories. They’re vivid, like images in fresh paint. They crash through my head. I close my eyes and see the door close and hear the lock click into place. I taste the peaches, the peanut butter, and feel gentle, trembling hands braid my hair. I see the faces of kids at school, staring when I talk, some of them laughing, pointing. As a child, I’d flee to the safety of my mother’s arms. But I’m no longer a child.
For so many years, my world was my bedroom, locked from the outside. My world was the inside of Mom’s car, to school and back, one gray classroom like another. It was the speech clinic. It was lunch in Mom’s office. My hair in little-girl bows. “Matching Shirt Mondays,” where Mom and I were “twins.” Hanging out with Jada, my one and only friend, but only if Mom was there. No wonder when I arrived in France, I felt as if the scenery had changed from black and white to bright, glorious color.
More memories of the past few weeks tumble around in my head. Gavin’s strange, hypnotic eyes stare at me. His words are mean and mocking, but he kisses me. Jada’s barking laugh and Mom’s lectures ring in my ears. Thomas grabs my long braid and my scalp throbs. Mrs. Thackeray groans as she shuffles up the stairs. The smells of dust and mothballs and sweet perfume fill my nose. Smooth silk brushes my fingertips. And a woman whose eyes gleam sends me a direct challenge. “Come on, Rosemary. You can do it. Bring it,” she says. It’s Marguerite.
I head to the bedroom and pull Marguerite’s portrait out from under the bed. She’s perfect. Confident. Happy.
“But you gave up, too,” I whisper to her picture. “Didn’t you?”
If only she could tell me what happened.
Hugging the painting to myself, I make a decision. I hate to think that Marguerite gave up, so I won’t believe it. And wherever I end up, I’m going to keep something of her with me, always. No matter what happens. Wherev
er I go, I’m taking this painting.
The doorbell rings. Maybe it’s Émile, who often forgets his key. I shuffle to the front room and don’t even think about what I’ve got in my hands until I open the door.
“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Thackeray says. She sees the painting and gasps, holding her shriveled hands to her mouth.
“Where did you get that?” she says, reaching toward me. I back up, but not fast enough. Her fingernails scrape my skin as she tears Marguerite from my hands.
“Wait,” I splutter in a terrified squeak, not even sure of what I’m going to say.
“This was my grandmother,” Mrs. Thackeray says.
Her grandmother? I stumble backward as Mrs. Thackeray comes inside, taking her tiny old-lady steps. She clutches the painting to her.
“Where is Sylvie?” she croaks.
I shrug weakly, feeling the room twirl around me. Mrs. Thackeray heads to the kitchen.
“I shall wait here. Find her,” she barks.
I shake my head no. My heart is breaking at the loss of the painting I’d claimed as my own moments ago.
“Well?” Mrs. Thackeray says, shooting me a glare full of acid. I remain where I am. I don’t want to let the painting out of sight. It’s mine, I want to say. The clock on the wall, a big silver metal thing that is shaped like a coffee pot, ticks loudly, in time with my hammering heart.
“Who is it?” Sylvie calls from the front hall. She sweeps in and gasps. I follow her gaze. She’s looking at my painting on its easel. “Oh, Rosie! Why, it’s . . . eh . . .” She studies it for a moment. Something in her face softens, shifts . . . she shakes herself and turns to the old woman. “Excuse me for not greeting you, Mrs. Thackeray. I . . . Well . . .” and Sylvie flutters her hands for a moment, and I stare. Sylvie is never at a loss for words.
Then Sylvie flies across the kitchen and grabs my shoulders, stares into my face. What is she looking for? She suddenly hugs me, holding so tight I can hardly breathe.
“It’s all right,” she whispers. I feel a tiny burst of hope. I’m about to ask her what she means by that, but then she steps away and faces the old woman who sits, watching us.
“Hello, Mrs. Thackeray,” she says with a soft smile.
“Rosemary was about to tell me where she found this painting,” Mrs. Thackeray says, ignoring the polite greeting and holding up the portrait.
I grope for words, feeling the gaze of two pairs of eyes. The accusation in Mrs. Thackeray’s face is terrifying. Sylvie exclaims over the portrait and moves closer to examine it.
“It was in the shed,” I say, desperate. My lie knifes me in the gut. Lying really doesn’t get any easier.
Sylvie’s face is incredulous. “The shed on the roof?” she asks, as she places a kettle on the stove and fetches cups from the cupboard.
“Yes,” I answer, completely miserable.
Mrs. Thackeray stares at me with a strange, pinched expression that does nothing to improve her already shriveled appearance.
“I’d like you all to come for dinner,” she says, suddenly, strangely, dropping her former inquiry. “Tonight. It’s rather short notice, but I do hope you can come.” Her words are directed at Sylvie, but her eyes never leave mine.
“That would be lovely, but we already have plans. Tomorrow we are having a little party. Would you like to join us, perhaps?” Sylvie says. She places a cup on the table in front of Mrs. Thackeray.
“Yes, thank you. I would like that very much,” the old woman says. “Please, sit, both of you. You’re not entertaining the Queen. I’m simply your neighbor.”
Sylvie laughs at this. To my horror, I find myself guided to a chair right next to the old lady. I plop down and stare at the window, where a fly buzzes, caught between glass and wire screen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. T. smile and pick up her tea. Sylvie turns her back to open a cupboard, and as she does, the old lady leans toward me.
“Tommy and I have been wondering how we might retrieve what’s missing from the apartment,” she murmurs in my ear.
Straightening, she sips her tea and says in a normal voice, “Delicious, Sylvie. Do I detect a hint of hibiscus?”
Sylvie nods, smiles, and sets bread on the table, and again she turns away, this time to retrieve jam from the fridge. Mrs. Thackeray leans over once more.
“The police don’t need to be involved if you return everything by tomorrow before the party,” she murmurs in my ear. She straightens and sips her tea as Sylvie returns to the table and I digest the old bat’s threats. I mumble something unintelligible about being tired, shove back my chair and vanish into the bedroom. I stand with my back braced against the door, fighting the urge to find something to throw.
What was she telling me? Marguerite was her grandmother. Does that mean that Mrs. Thackeray owns the all the lovely paintings, sculptures and books? The dresses? It isn’t fair.
Working as quietly as I can, I stuff the rolled canvases into my suitcase and cover larger framed pieces with blankets. I don’t care if she’s the rightful owner. I’m not giving this stuff back to the old lady. Then, I stand and put my ear to the door. I’ll wait until the hag is gone. Once she leaves, I need to borrow Sylvie’s phone. I pray that Jada can help me one more time. I’ve got to find a new family.
Twenty-Three
The old lady finally leaves, taking my painting with her. Sylvie quietly knocks, but I don’t open the door. As much as I’d like to talk to her and know what she meant when she said everything was all right, there’s something else I have to do first. So, stretched out on the bed, I don’t open my eyes when Sylvie peeks inside. She sighs and eases the door shut.
Once the apartment is empty, I grab Sylvie’s cell and shove it into my pocket, then smuggle heavy loads down the stairs, cursing the fact that this building doesn’t have an elevator. Once everything is on the ground floor, I lug it with me and sneak out the back way, through an alley that reeks of fish.
Once I’m away from Sylvie’s street, I’m safe in the anonymity of a thriving tourist town. I’m grateful that Nice is crowded and busy all day long, full of people who ignore me. I’d counted on that. The narrow lanes are filled with shoppers who carry bright mesh bags spilling over with bread, vegetable leaves or antique shop treasures, and students or tourists with massive backpacks slung over aching shoulders. No one pays any attention to the teenage girl struggling along with a bulging suitcase, as well as a massive bundle that teeters atop a child’s wooden wagon.
I was counting on the key to be there, and it still is. I open the door and bring everything inside. Soon, I’m done. The heavy, green door of the Church of the Seven Wizards squeals loudly as I pull it closed. The lock makes a satisfying clunk as I turn the key. Not all locks are bad. I smile grimly to myself. Then, I pocket the key. Someone will likely find all this sooner or later, but at least it won’t be the old woman. I try to imagine the scene as someone, wizard or landlord, makes their startling discovery. I think I created a nice display inside the Wizards’ one-room church. The biggest painting, one almost as tall as I am, of a blue-faced acrobat with a contorted body, is propped up on the card table, which now sits, altar-like, against the far wall. I set Marguerite’s crystal candelabras on either side of the painting. Every inch of floor space is covered with colorful canvas. I even hung a few on the walls, where old, bent nails still cling to bare plaster.
“Goodbye,” I whisper out loud to the closed green door. A nice touch of melodrama, I thought. Mrs. Thackeray can call the police, but I don’t know anything. I’m nothing more than a young girl who can’t speak correctly, here for the summer to study art. They can look all they want in Sylvie and Émile’s apartment, but they’ll never find anything.
I make it to the nearby bus stop and collapse onto the bench, where I pull out Sylvie’s borrowed phone.
Jada, are you there? Please, please, please answer me!
Sylvie said things were “all right,” whatever she meant by that, but Ansel is still coming home, which means I am homeless when summer ends.
I have to talk to my best friend. I need her help.
The phone suddenly rings in my hand, startling me. Jada! She’s calling, instead of IMing me back? Why, when it’s so hard for her to talk on the phone?
“Girlfriend!” Jada says, as soon as I pick up. I hear her laughter in the background, so loud it practically drowns out her stiff, robotic voice.
“Jada, I have to talk to you,” I say, but she wasn’t done talking to me.
“Mitch and I engaged!”
She only leaves out words when she’s excited. “What?” I splutter.
I hear Jada’s labored breathing as she prepares her next sentence. I usually like the wait, because I can think about what I’m going to say next, and how I’ll say it. Now, the waiting is like watching ice melt at thirty below. My raw nerves scream and I can’t sit any longer. Instead, I pace back and forth in front of the bus stop. A large woman with several chins stares at me.
Ignoring her, I count seconds that tick on the large, ornate clock atop a metal post at the corner of the street. Twenty-two seconds pass.
“I want you to be my maid of honor,” Jada finally says.
“What?” I blurt, breathing hard, like I’ve been running. I don’t know how many more surprises I can digest today. “Do your parents know?” I squeak.
Forty-two seconds tick by, achingly slow.
The French Impressionist Page 15
