The French Impressionist

by Rebecca Bischoff

  “You lock me in my room every night! Every single night!” I scream.

  Zander gasps. “Darla?” he says.

  “You never leave me alone, Mom!” I scream. “I can’t get away! You’re everywhere! You choose my clothes and you do my hair like I’m a baby! You always work at my schools! YOU NEVER LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  The words I scream explode in the air around me, so that the entire room is filled with my rage.

  “Rosemary?” Mom gasps. The sharpness is gone from her voice.

  Did I do that? I stare in horror at the woman on the floor in front of me. I pushed my own mother down and screamed at her. Why? I feel myself melting inside, wanting to flee again. To hide. But I also want to explain. I want her to understand.

  I want everyone to understand. But when I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out right.

  I bolt up the back stairs, into Sylvie’s kitchen, and grab my painting. The still-wet paint leaves dark smudges on my fingers. I bring it back down to the shop, where Mom is still on the floor. I hold the painting in front of her face. As something dawns in her eyes, I understand what Sylvie meant when she said that when you create a work of art, you’re saying something to the world.

  Slowly, as if she’s in a trance, Mom reaches out with a shaking finger to touch my painting. She whispers something, too soft to understand. She takes in a sudden, sharp breath of air.

  Then, she speaks, her eyes never leaving my painting.

  “So little,” she whispers. “You were so little. My baby.” She draws in a ragged breath. “I lost you in the big store. One minute you were with me, and then, you were gone.” Tears pour from her eyes. Her voice shakes. “The people in the store, they looked for you, we kept calling your name, but you didn’t answer. They called the police, but you were gone, my baby was gone . . .”

  Mom presses her hands over her face, and then her whole body folds in on itself. Zander kneels beside her and wraps his arms around her, holding her while she sobs.

  Someone sniffs. I turn to see who it is. It’s Ansel, watching me with tears in his eyes. And suddenly, this time when I open my mouth, the words are all there; ready to spill from my lips, and once I start, it’s like a dam breaks, and I know there’s nothing I could do to stop this rushing wall of words.

  Looking into Ansel’s dark eyes, I speak to everyone. Sylvie, Émile, Ansel, Mom, Zander, and Mrs. Thackeray. I tell how my first taste of freedom felt. How I found Sylvie and Émile and chose them to be my new family. Why I thought there might be a permanent place for me here and how I didn’t understand what happened to Ansel. I even tell them about Jada and the horrible things I said to her. I tell how my dream of being “normal” in France came to a crash that day I couldn’t even order a sandwich, but I still didn’t want to leave. It was better than being home.

  My words become more and more tangled, but I keep talking. I talk about lightning on the wall, paintings and letters. I tell about Thomas and what happened the day I cut off my hair. I describe how I found Marguerite’s portrait.

  And suddenly, I’m done.

  I collapse into the nearest chair and close my eyes. I am empty. Now, I’m the crumpled balloon.

  Zander breaks the silence.

  “You lock her in her room, Darla?” he says, in a voice so soft I barely catch the words. “Literally lock her in, so she can’t get out?”

  I open my eyes. Zan and Mom are still sitting on the floor, no longer embracing. Their eyes are searching, traveling over one another’s crumpled forms, seeing things they never have before. Mom’s tears have stopped but her face is a mascara-smeared wreck. She hugs herself.

  “I do it to keep her safe, Zander,” she says in a trembling voice. “To keep her safe,” she wails, her voice echoing through the shop. “I couldn’t stand the thought of ever losing her again!”

  Zander catches my eye. I try to smile but can’t. His lips twitch for a second or two. He’s doing exactly what I’m doing; trying to make his face look like he’s okay when he’s ripped up inside. But that would take both of us way more than we’ve got, so we drop the facade and just stare at each other.

  I cannot believe what I was about to do to him. My voice has gone into hiding, so I mouth the words instead.

  I’m sorry.

  Zander’s face is still. His eyes are pools of sorrow. Then, his lips press together and curve upward, forming a tiny smile.

  “I saw my entire life flash before me, kid,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Thank you for telling the truth.”

  He turns back to Mom.

  “I helped Rosemary do this, Darla,” he says. He rolls his eyes. “Well, not this,” he says, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate the shop around us. “I wasn’t aware she was going to travel to Nice, but I helped her get to France because I felt like she needed to be on her own for a while. To gain more confidence. To believe in herself. Frankly, I think it worked.” He scoots closer to Mom. She doesn’t look at him. “Don’t you think so, Darla?” Zander adds in a whisper.

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She keeps her head down. Tears fall onto fists clenched tight in her lap.

  I put my face in my hands. She doesn’t get it. What if she never does?

  At first, I hear nothing but the soft whir of the machine that breathes for Ansel, but then, there’s a shuffling sound. I open my eyes. Mom is crawling across the floor. She reaches me and takes my hand. I start to pull away, but freeze when I see her face. Something is different. The hardness is gone. So is the anger.

  “Rosemary,” she whispers. “I’m the one who should apologize. I am truly, truly sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Twenty-Six

  It’s a miracle that I’m here, inside Marguerite’s apartment. It’s a miracle that Mom and Zander went to a hotel last night and left me here, with Sylvie and Émile. But they’re coming for me later. I don’t have much time.

  The wardrobe doors lurch open with a small screech. Her dresses have been hung up again. The carnation silk waves gently at me, like an old friend welcoming me back. I smell the same, faint perfume I’d noticed before, but now something sparks a memory and I recognize it. It’s the scent from the bottle I found in here and threw against the wall.

  Gently pushing the dresses aside, I shine my flashlight onto the back of the wardrobe. As I thought, there’s a tiny door. The silver key from the frame of Marguerite’s portrait fits perfectly into the keyhole. The key turns easily and the door pops open. Behind it is a square compartment, with barely enough room for the bundle of letters hiding there. They’re tied with a faded ribbon that must have once been blood-red.

  Cara mia, the letter begins. Great. Spanish? Italian? I can’t read these! Disappointment pricks at me. But I leaf through them, fingering the faded letters, slanted and curling, so pretty as they move across the pages in lacy patterns. The papers make dry, rustling sounds as I turn them, and a faint whiff of wood smoke tinged with something sweet wafts to my nose.

  Bundling the brittle papers back together, I turn to go. I shouldn’t be in here. I only wanted to try the key. And say goodbye.

  Hardly breathing, I tiptoe through the ruined rooms. The chemical smell has cleared away. I don’t know who opened the windows and left them gaping wide, but I’m grateful. The apartment is quiet. Faint noises, mere whispers of sound filter into Marguerite’s home from outside. The soft whoosh of early-morning traffic, clatters and thuds as workers load garbage into a battered truck, the whir of the first tram whizzing by, all are muted and far-away sounding. Marguerite’s home is from another time, another century. It’s as if the modern world doesn’t dare intrude. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.

  Turning for one last look, I say goodbye to peeling wallpaper, faded curtains, massive chandeliers and wooden-beamed ceilings. What will happen to this place? Will Mrs. T. still let her son destroy it? I hope not, but it’s not my concern. It ne
ver was. Right now, I’m mostly worried about what will happen to me. I don’t have long to wait. Mom and Zander said they’d sleep late, but they’ll be here as soon as they wake up.

  And then, as I shuffle back to Ansel’s bedroom, through the dark, cramped passage, I drop the letters. The ribbon breaks and the pages scatter in a heap at my feet on the dusty floorboards. When I bend down to gather them together, my flashlight illuminates one of the papers. It’s a sketch of Marguerite, a black and white version of the portrait I’d found of her inside the wardrobe, with a name scrawled across the bottom corner.

  Something tells me this is important. I want to show Sylvie, but she and Émile are still asleep. Their coffeepot clock ticks softly, the only noise in the sleepy apartment. I’ll go to Mrs. Thackeray, since I need to return this key and the letters anyway, but when I creep up the stairs and knock at her door, no one answers.

  Ansel. His name, his face rushes to my mind. The moment I think it, I know I have to talk to him. I never apologized for the things I said to him. This is likely my only chance.

  I take the tram that heads up the big hill, because his hospital’s at the top. I hop off before it gets too close, though. Now that I’m here, doubts flood my heart. What if he refuses to see me? How will I say what I need to say? Will he understand me?

  Go on, stupid. You owe him. I keep walking.

  The smelly hallway is quiet. Most doors are closed and I start to relax, thinking I won’t be able to visit Ansel. As I creep along I list excuses in my head: it’s too early. I tried, but he was asleep. It wasn’t my fault. And then, when I reach Ansel’s room, the painted beach door is wide open.

  I peer around the doorframe. He’s awake. He sits in his chair, intently staring at a laptop on the table in front of him. The screen is a whirl of colors. It displays what looks like the painting of a young woman walking along the beach. She holds a stick in one hand and writes letters in the wet sand. The girl has short, dark hair. As I watch, something on the screen moves. Smears of lighter brown and gold appear on the girl’s dark head, making it look as if the bright sun is shining down on her hair. Then, I read the letters the girl has written in the sand. Écoutez-moi. Listen to me.

  “That’s me!” I whisper.

  Ansel isn’t at all surprised to see me. He smiles and asks me to come in. Then, he places his lips on the little control I’d seen before, the one I saw him use to move his wheelchair, and again more colors are added to the image on the screen. He’s painting with a computer.

  I watch for a few minutes, while Ansel adds a brush stroke here or there, erases it, and tries again. He never seems satisfied with the result. Finally, he sighs and lifts his head.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer. “I never knew you could . . .” my words trail off and bite the dust. I don’t think he understands me, because he doesn’t answer. Instead, he uses his control to click on the corner of the screen and the painting disappears. “Could you pull that cord, there by the bed? I need to call the nurse.”

  After I do, I’m completely at a loss for words. Ansel watches me, his face thoughtful, unsmiling. I can’t figure out how to say what I want to, and I’m sure it won’t sound right, anyway. I give up and pull the letters from my bag.

  “Look,” I say, as I place the drawing on the table.

  “The portrait of Marguerite,” Ansel says. He stares for a moment, as if he too is at a loss for words. Then he looks up at me with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. “Rosie, did you read the signature?”

  “Yeah,” I say, shrugging. I’m not about to try to say the name. I still hear Gavin’s voice in my head as he mocks me for slaughtering that word.

  “Antonio Grimaldi,” Ansel says, speaking in an incredulous tone. “You don’t know who he is?”

  I’m tired of talking. I shrug.

  Ansel laughs. “Rosie, you must learn your art history,” he says, chuckling. “Who is he? A very famous Italian artist!” He pauses to catch his breath. “I remember reading once that he was in love with a French actress. And to think, it was Marguerite! Our Marguerite, who lived right next door! Fantastique!”

  I like how he says “our” Marguerite. We smile to each other for a moment. Then Ansel looks at his laptop.

  “It’s true I am still able to paint in this way,” he murmurs. “But it’s not the same.” He turns to look back at me, his dark eyes holding mine. “When I first woke up in the hospital and knew I could no longer use my hands, I wanted to die.”

  My eyes can’t leave his.

  “I’ve always had the power to form words with my mouth, but my hands were my true voice. Do you understand?” he asks.

  I nod, slowly, finally ready to speak.

  “Ansel, I didn’t want to hurt you. I was upset. I’m sorry,” I say, slowly, haltingly, feeling the still-strange sounds of another language bounce around in my mouth, cursing my stupid tongue for never working right. At least the words are recognizable, if not perfect.

  His beautiful smile spreads across his face. “I understand. Thank you.”

  We don’t speak after that for a while, but for once, I don’t mind the silence. I know Ansel doesn’t, either. There aren’t many people who understand that every single second of an interaction doesn’t need to be filled with words. They’re a rare breed, and I can tell that Ansel is one of them.

  Ansel’s screen saver goes on, and a series of photographs of Nice flash onto the screen. I smile at a picture of “the pole guys,” as I’ve come to think of them. Giant night-lights.

  “The Conversation,” Ansel murmurs. He glances at me. “Did you know that’s the name of this sculpture?”

  “No,” I say. “Why?”

  “They speak at night when they light up. Each statue represents one of the seven continents, and when the colors change, it shows that they are talking to one other.”

  “Sans mots,” I whisper. Without words.

  “Oui,” Ansel whispers. His eyes meet mine. I blink hard to force away tears.

  The nurse, a gaunt woman with grey strands of hair pulled into a sparse bun and the haze of a mustache on her upper lip comes in. Her eyes size me up in an unfriendly way. Knowing I’m being dismissed, I pick up the drawing and get ready to leave.

  “Rosie,” Ansel says as I reach the door. “You and I have much in common. We both must find different ways to tell the world who we are. That’s what I was trying to show with this painting. When I finish it, it will be yours.”

  Tears fill my eyes. This time I let them fall. I don’t trust my voice, so I smile, nod, and fly away.

  Twenty-Seven

  The morning air is already warm. The briny scent of the ocean and the smell of wet plants and trees fills my nose. Colors fill my head as I watch the scenery blur by. I don’t want to say goodbye to this place.

  When I get off the tram at the stop closest to Sylvie’s, someone walks toward me. Someone wearing neon purple board shorts, with orange flames on the sides. I’m glad he’s okay, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him.

  But I should. He went into the apartment, thinking I was going to follow. And, he said he wanted to help me. How?

  The dark smudges under Gavin’s eyes stand out in stark contrast to his pale skin and fiery hair.

  “Hey,” he says, with a kind of half-hearted smile.

  “Hey,” I say back after a long second.

  We stare at each other. He twitches and scratches at his ear. I look away and pick at my nails. This is going well.

  Then Gavin blurts, “Can I talk to you?” He pulls out an inhaler and takes a couple of puffs.

  “You okay?” I say, not wanting to answer his question.

  “Yeah,” he says. Putting the inhaler in his pocket, he looks at me with a tiny smile. “Can we walk for a while?” I’m not about to give in, but at that moment I happen to look farther down the
street. The unmistakable figures of Mom and Zander exit their bright red rental car in front of Sylvie’s building.

  “Come on,” I say, taking Gavin’s arm and pulling him with me in the opposite direction. I’m not ready to give up my last moments of freedom. Not yet.

  We pass shops opening up for the morning, men and women in business suits, hurrying down the sidewalk, a bald man sweeping his steps, a cigarette that’s mostly ashes dangling from his mouth. A stray cat darts in front of us with a mouse dangling from its jaws.

  “Hey, can I buy you breakfast?” Gavin blurts. I look up from the cat and dead mouse in surprise and laugh. Just a little.

  “Sorry, I guess my timing was off,” Gavin says with a wry grin. “But let’s find someplace where we can eat.” I shrug and Gavin takes it as a “yes,” so we keep going, continuing to walk in what might almost be a companionable silence, except for the fact that I still don’t want to say anything. I hate letting anyone hear how I talk. Lost in thought, streets blur by, but suddenly Gavin stops.

  “What about this place?” he asks.

  My eyes dart up and for the first time I realize where I am. A vivid yellow banana-shaped sign screams its presence to the world. We’ve arrived at the one place I never planned to return to. And Gavin is already opening the door for me, waiting.

  Inside it’s cool and smells like fried food. As my eyes adjust to the dim light after being outside in the morning sun, I pray, Please, please, please, don’t let him be here. I blink and look at the counter.

  Of course, he’s here. Andreas of the Gorgeous Eyes. The guy who ignored me and let me stand for an eternal fifteen minutes, pushed aside by the crowd, is standing behind the counter. No one else is around. It’s our turn.