Portrait of Death: Uncovered

by Isabel Wroth

  I could hear the electrical crackle as the ‘X’ from the sign flickered three times in a row, and then went still for a few seconds before the crackling pattern started again.

  “Look both ways to make sure no cars are coming, and when you feel safe, I want you to cross the street.”

  I pictured myself crossing the street, my boot heels clicking on the pavement with a dull echo.

  This is a trip. Like a dream, but not.

  “When you walk up to the box office, there's only one show playing, and you're right on time. You're going to pay for a movie ticket that says, 'Admit One,' then walk to the door. See your hand curling around the old brass handle and go inside. Keep breathing, slow and deep, Jo.”

  There was a young man in a red coat with gold braids on his shoulders, sitting behind the glass of the box office.

  The coins I spilled on the counter rattled, scraping across the desk as he reached for them and handed me a blue paper ticket in exchange.

  Funny, I couldn’t make out his face other than to say he was young, and male, but I supposed it didn’t matter. The Roxy only had two doors on either side of the glass box: an exit and an entrance.

  The brass handle was cool to the touch, the door heavy as I pulled it open and walked inside. The breath I took once I stepped into the shadowy entrance smelled like candy, syrupy soda, and salty popcorn.

  “Find the theater entrance, Jo, and go inside. You're the only one in the theater. The rows and rows of red velvet seats are empty. I want you to pick your favorite spot and sit down.”

  I liked the center—close to the back— so I could see over everyone's head.

  “When you find your seat, you'll see the big white screen in front of you. The lights in the theater start to dim, and the projector starts to count down the seconds until the movie starts.

  “Ten, nine, eight—your body is getting smaller, younger, but the tension in your hands remains the same—seven, six, five—focus on your hands and breathe, Jo—four, three—as we go back to the very first day Katya came into your life—two ... one. I want you to look down at yourself, at your clothes, at your hands.”

  I looked down at myself, like she told me to, and found my hands were small and speckled with paint.

  I had on my favorite pair of overalls and my painting shoes: white sneakers covered in a rainbow of drops and spatters of paint.

  “How old are you, Jo?”

  “I'm eight. But I'll be nine, soon.” Was that my voice? I sounded ... small. Young.

  “And where are you right now? Look around.”

  This is the weirdest thing ever, I thought to myself, but even weirder was looking around a room I knew I'd been in only a handful of days ago.

  My bed was behind me to the left, white and frilly. My dollhouse with fresh yellow paint on the trim was there on the stand, not far away were my dresser and schoolbooks, and a rack for my drying paintings.

  “I'm at home, in my room.” A fission of energy rippled through my body, raising the fine hairs on my arms. I was there in my bedroom at the mansion, but I wasn't eight years old anymore.

  Now I was there, standing to the side, watching my younger self working at the easel on a picture of an owl in flight, talons outstretched toward the ground, with a full moon rising above its wings.

  “Did something happen just now, Jo?” I heard Dr. Anderson speak, but couldn't find the source of the sound until she said my name again. “Jo, can you hear me?”

  I walked toward the intercom box on the wall, staring at it with a deep frown pulling at my brows.

  The light was on, indicating I had to push the button to answer. I could feel the switch under my finger and hear the click when I pushed down.

  “I can hear you.”

  Click, hiss. “Are you alright, Jo?” Dr. Anderson’s voice was definitely coming from the box.

  “Yeah. I ... I think so,” I answered, pushing the button again to speak my reply.

  “Okay. Where's Katya? Is she there yet?” Dr. Anderson asked, and I straightened from having bent closer to the intercom to look around my room.

  My younger self was there, painting away, and a little flinch ran through me to hear my mother's voice filling the speaker now instead of Dr. Anderson’s.

  “Josie! Wash up and come downstairs. Our guest is here!”

  Eight-year-old me startled, and I smiled because I remembered the bad word I'd just said. I hated to be called Josie.

  Paint-splattered when Little Me dropped her paintbrush into the mason jar full of murky water and wiped her hands on her overalls as she skipped across the floor to push the intercom button.

  “Okay, Mommy! Be right there.”

  Bemused by the happy dance Little Me did, I followed along while she hurried into the bathroom to wash her hands, checking in the mirror to look for any paint on her face. I could see my own reflection behind Little Me, but she didn't notice me.

  I’m a ghost in my own memory.

  The bedroom door opened. We hurried down the hall and down the stairs where we stopped to find a gray-haired old woman in her starched gray dress and snowy white apron.

  Mrs. Decker. How could I forget that face?

  Her dark mauve lipstick always bled outside the line of her thin lips, making her mouth seem like it was bleeding.

  Her gray-streaked hair pulled back into a ruthless bun made her widow's peak stand out sharply, which only added to her vaguely threatening look.

  I remembered now how that stern glare made her drooping right eyelid seem even more pronounced than normal.

  “Hi, Katya! I'm Jo! Your hair is so pretty! Can I paint your picture?”

  The sound of my own voice drew me past Mrs. Decker and into the formal living room, where Katya stood next to my mother, smiling down at me with something like awe on her face. Moving closer, I thought maybe for a minute that Katya might cry.

  Why?

  My mother was laughing, her dark hair coiffed to show off the flicker of diamonds in her ears.

  She looked so chic in her cream-colored skirt and blue sweater set, but I had eyes only for Katya.

  My brother's nanny got down on her knees in front of Little Me, her thick red hair pulled over her shoulder in a long rope.

  “Jo? Where are you?” Dr. Anderson’s voice crackled from the intercom, sounding like she was above and all around me now.

  I couldn’t make myself go over to the box on the wall, not ready to look away from this moment.

  “I’m in the formal living room.”

  Katya reached out and drew her fingertip down the slope of Little Me’s nose, and I reached up to touch my own face, feeling the phantom echo of Katya’s touch.

  “I would like that very much, Dasha.”

  Dasha. She called me that all the time. How could I forget?

  Crackle ... hiss ... “Did you ever paint Katya's portrait, Jo?”

  “Mm-hm.” My hands clenched at my sides as sadness overwhelmed me for a moment.

  “When you're comfortable, fast forward to that memory, Jo. To the first time you painted Katya's picture.”

  I blinked, and suddenly, I was standing out in the grassy field behind the house, under the big oak tree where the yard met the forest.

  Little Me was seated on a low stool in front of a portable easel. Katya sat across from me with Elliot crawling around, playing with a pile of his toys while Katya and I talked.

  I got lost for a moment, staring at my brother. He was alive and beautiful, the sun sparkling in his bright blond hair, and tears of both grief and happiness slid down my cheeks to hear the sound of his laughter.

  “Tell me what you see, Jo,” Dr. Anderson instructed, and by this time I gave up wondering why I could hear her on an intercom, even though I wasn't anywhere near one.

  “I'm outside in the back yard with Katya and Elliot. She's talking to Little Me, but I can't hear what she's saying.”

  “Get as close as you need to.”

  The grass was soft beneath my boots
as I walked over to them, my fingernails biting into my palms to hear Elliot's wild laughter.

  A sob fell past my lips as I watched him play, wishing I’d known then how little time left I had with him.

  I would have hugged him more, kissed those curls more, and not been so quick to hog Katya’s attention when she fed Elliot at night or sang to him. I would have been a better sister.

  “Take a deep breath, relax, and remember this is just a movie, Jo.”

  It's a sad fucking movie.

  Callum's choked guffaw sounded from somewhere, and I wrinkled my nose in mortification.

  I said that out loud, didn't I? Have I been thinking out loud this whole time?

  “Yes, you have been,” Dr. Anderson confirmed, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “It's alright, Jo. Can you hear what Katya is saying?”

  Trying to move past my embarrassing inner monologue reveal, I focused on listening to Katya's softly accented murmur.

  “Do you like it when the people come to interview you, Dasha?”

  Little Me answered in what sounded like slow, halting Russian. Then in English she asked, “Did I say it right? Did you understand me?”

  Katya laughed and gave a proud smile. “Yes, lyubov moya, I understood. You learn very fast!”

  Baffled, I looked back and forth between Little Me and Katya, astounded to hear us having a conversation in Russian and English.

  How the hell could I forget that I could speak Russian? Surely ECT couldn't shock an entire language out of someone's head.

  “Josephine!”

  Little Me, myself, Katya, and Elliot all jumped and went still at the sharp bark, freezing like rabbits in the grass.

  I looked behind me and saw Mrs. Decker marching toward us with a thunderous scowl on her face, and my stomach curdled with dread.

  “You know better than to disobey me, child. And you’re not wearing your painting clothes! Look at you, covered in paint!”

  I gasped in pain, feeling the clench of Mrs. Decker’s hand around Little Me’s arm, jerking her up off the ground with a furious exclamation.

  “Mrs. Decker! You’re hurting her! Stop it!” Holding Elliot on her hip, Katya used her body to push between Little Me and the incensed housekeeper, half-turned to keep Elliot out of the line of fire.

  Mrs. Decker released Little Me with a snarl, menacingly shaking her finger in Katya’s face.

  “Don’t you speak to me in that tone, young woman! I’ve told you time and again not to bring the children outside without supervision! Look at the state of Elliot! He’s filthy! Covered in grass stains!”

  Bravely, Katya faced the elder woman with her chin raised in defiance. “It’s a nice day out, and they needed to play. Mrs. Beauchene agreed.”

  “Well, Mrs. Beauchene doesn’t have to do the laundry, does she?” Mrs. Decker seethed, her face twisting in disgust when Elliot started to cry.

  “I would be very glad to help with the washing, Mrs. Decker,” Katya replied calmly, bumping into Little Me when Mrs. Decker shoved her back a step.

  “If you put one foot in my laundry room, you illiterate little tramp, I’ll kill you.” I wanted to reach out and slap Mrs. Decker into next week but was powerless to do anything other than watch.

  The unevenness of her eyes became more pronounced the harder she frowned, which made her already intimidating and stern expression turn ... ugly. Scary and ugly.

  She looked down the length of her nose at Little Me's painting, her lips pulling down at the corners with a derisive scoff.

  “That's the ugliest painting I've ever seen.” Mrs. Decker spun on her heel and stomped off in a huff.

  Katya bounced Elliot and shushed him sweetly, waiting until Mrs. Decker disappeared inside before she turned and knelt to hug Little Me.

  “Don't listen to her, Dasha. Are you alright?”

  Little Me nodded, offering Elliot his pacifier when Katya sat back on her haunches. He hiccupped a few times but accepted the pacifier after reaching out to yank Little Me's pigtail.

  “Yeah, she's just a mean old lady. What does 'illiterate' mean?”

  “It's when someone can't read.”

  “Can you read?” Little Me asked curiously.

  Katya's laugh was bright, banishing the darkness of the moment.

  “Yes, Dasha, I can read. Not so good in English, though.”

  “Is that why our bedtime stories are in Russian?”

  “Yes, and because it helps you learn.”

  “Oh! Well, I can teach you to learn English better.”

  “You can?”

  “Sure! Tonight, I'll read YOU a story.”

  Katya smiled at Little Me, stroked her hand over my hair, and leaned in to press a kiss to Little Me’s forehead.

  “I would like that. Very much.”

  “Jo, how are you painting Katya?” Dr. Anderson asked, interrupting my concentration on the conversation between Katya and Little Me.

  I was confused by this whole interaction. In my head, I’d always remembered this moment differently.

  My mother had been the one to come out and yell at us, not Mrs. Decker. Hadn’t she?

  “Jo?”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you see the painting you've done of Katya?”

  I watched Katya groan as she stood up with Elliot and carried him back to the blanket with all his toys, urging Little Me to sit back down at the easel and keep painting.

  I moved to stand behind myself, looking down at the painting Little Me was working on.

  Dr. Anderson's voice was coming in and out, like being on call with the phone going in and out of range.

  Too fixated on watching Katya rubbing her hand up and down my back, I didn't really pay much mind.

  “It's not ugly at all, Dasha. What will you name it?”

  “Sleeping Beauty! See? Because there're flowers, and you're asleep!” Little Me exclaimed, pointing out the nearly finished flowers, and the blurry image that would soon become Katya's face.

  There were piles of dark blobs around the large square space Katya lay on top of, a border of green grass, and flower petals that had fallen off the discarded shrubbery.

  Looking at the painting with my full-grown critical eye, I didn't see Sleeping Beauty.

  I saw a young woman lying in a shallow grave, dead.

  The sunny day faded, and I was no longer standing over Katya and Little Me, I was alone in a dark hallway, standing just outside the bright patch of light on the floor.

  I could hear my father's angry voice, and his feet pacing back and forth. I was small again, my heart pounding so hard in my chest it hurt.

  I was scared. So scared. I'd had a bad dream and I wanted to run to him, but Daddy sounded so angry.

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘he put it in another trust?’ No, Dean! That's bullshit! Did he find out about the fertility results?

  “You're sure? Cause it fucking feels like he's doing this on purpose. Fuck me ... No, man!

  “She's not putting out fast enough, and the reporters aren't banging down the door anymore.

  “Her shit's selling for next to nothing, and I just bought this house because you told me to invest in real estate!”

  Mommy didn't like it when I woke her up, but I was so scared...

  “Jo, focus on the sound of my voice. Jo, can you hear me?” Dr. Anderson's voice sounded far away, like she was standing at the end of the Holland Tunnel, shouting at me. She said something else, but it was lost, overruled by the thundering of my heartbeat.

  “Jo, I'm here.”

  That voice. I knew that voice... that man. He did make me feel safe. If I had a nightmare, he was always right there to hold me.

  “I'm right here, baby.”

  Callum.

  “That's right, Jo. I'm with you; you're safe. Breathe deep for me, Jo. Good girl, again. That's right. Now, stop ignoring Dr. Anderson.”

  He's so bossy, I thought, hearing him snort and quietly tell someone I was fine.

  “Jo
, can you tell me where you are right now?” The woman's voice was soft and melodious, cultured, and it drew me farther from the fear of the nightmare and the sound of my father's voice.

  “I had a nightmare. Daddy's office light is on, but he's so angry.”

  “How old are you, Jo?”

  “This many...” In the dark, I held up my hands to awkwardly hold up six fingers, jerking them back to my chest at the loud bang of something hitting the wall right above my head, and then bit into my fist to keep from screaming.

  “Janet laps this shit up. She should have been an actress or something with the way she fooled everyone else, but I know that old bastard suspects us.

  “FUCK! I hate kids! When do we have to get another one by before the money runs out?

  “Shit, at least that gives me time to find another way. Just pray the fucker doesn't die before then and fuck everything up.”

  BANG!

  My heart hit the back of my ribs, sending me running back into the dark, preferring the shadows to Daddy.

  I ran all the way back to my room, and when I shut the door on Daddy's voice, I was back to my thirty-year-old self.

  My hands were normal-sized again, and when I put them to my face and sucked in deep, calming breaths, I felt back to normal.

  “Jo, are you alright?” Dr. Anderson murmured in concern.

  “I'm okay.”

  “Did you find the truth you needed to hear?”

  My head ached, and I reached up to rub at my temples, looking around my childhood bedroom.

  “No, there's something else here. I know it’s here. It's important, I know it is. I just can't remember!”

  “Alright, bring the focus back to your hands, Jo. Your body is weightless; everything you feel is in your hands.

  “Take your time, and when you're completely relaxed, completely comfortable, the truth you need to find will come to you.

  “Effortlessly and painlessly. Remember, Jo, this is just a movie, and you're only a spectator.”

  “Only a spectator,” I repeated, following Dr. Anderson's directions. The ache in my head moved down my arms. My elbows throbbed as the pain passed down to my forearms, through my wrists, and into my hands.

  With the ache gone from my head, I could think clearly. The space around me came into focus, and I saw a bright light shining around the seam of the closed bathroom door.