by Kylie Brant
The thought had her eyes coming open, worry stabbing through her. It was normal to have trouble sleeping after her transition. It didn’t have to mean anything. Just like the pile of finished canvases in the corner of the room weren’t a bad sign. Despite her lack of sleep, she was being productive, that’s all.
It didn’t prove she was becoming manic. She shook her head back and forth on the pillow. She hadn’t needed a medication adjustment in over a year. The rainbow-colored cocktail of pills was finally the exact correct balance. It was paranoid to think a few nights’ trouble sleeping meant a regression.
Paranoia was a symptom too.
Frustrated with herself, Eryn sat up. She’d get out of bed, but only to get the log the doctor had told her to write in. She’d been avoiding noting how she felt each day. Just being forced to do so was a constant reminder that she wasn’t normal. She’d never be normal.
But it was the only way to analyze patterns in her thoughts and feelings. And she’d worked too hard for the day when she was finally living outside the walls of Rolling Acres Resort.
Sitting up, she swung her feet over the bed. Eryn had once gotten to the point where she didn’t care whether she left Rolling Acres or not. The longer she’d been there, the more fearful she’d grown about what awaited her outside those walls. It had been easy to convince herself it didn’t matter much where she lived.
But yesterday had changed that. She’d taken the first step toward doing something she couldn’t have accomplished if she was still at the facility. Learning to drive put a host of other independent acts within reach. Getting a license. Enrolling for college art classes. Improving her technique. It was a dream that had once seemed out of reach.
Eryn got the notebook out of the drawer of her bedside table. She settled back against the pillows and opened it, removing the pen she’d tucked inside.
Trouble sleeping, she wrote. Then she tapped the pen against the page. She started to write down the days she’d been home so she could note her sleep patterns for each. But something caught her eye, and she raised her gaze without thinking.
A light was bobbing in the distance.
She set the notebook down and went to the window. The glow was heading to the boathouse. And this time Eryn didn’t even hesitate. She picked up her cell and went to her closet. After jamming her feet in a pair of tennis shoes, she tiptoed out of her room to get a coat. As she pulled on her winter coat, her gaze scanned the others hanging there. She didn’t recognize all of them, but there was no parka among them. And when she turned the back doorknob, she knew whoever was outside was someone from the house.
Because the knob wasn’t locked.
She switched on the cell’s flashlight app and quietly let herself out into the biting night air. Eryn hurried across the lawn toward the pond. A long way, she recalled. Longer than it looked. There were two lights now, both angling toward the boathouse, and she began to run. This time she was determined to put an end to the mystery.
The lights disappeared before she was close to the structure. She got a stitch in her side, and slowed, but continued on until the dark, hulking shape of the building loomed in front of her. She’d never been inside the one they’d erected after she’d burned down the other. She put a hand out, felt the cool siding against her palm. The other boathouse had been wood. She’d lit the timbers on fire and the flames had spread so quickly, it was a wonder she’d gotten out alive.
Eryn made her way around to the side, surprised to see the new building had a door there. The only accesses to the old one had been from the water or dockside. She paused in front of the door and placed her hand on the knob. It turned easily in her hand. Was it usually locked? She had no idea.
Silently she pulled the door open and stepped inside. Twin rays shone in the interior, highlighting two figures. She directed the beam of her flashlight app toward them. Both people jerked around to face her. Eryn’s heart plummeted. One of them was Rosalyn clad in Uncle Bill’s parka.
Standing very close to a man who was definitely not Uncle Bill.
Eryn lay in bed long enough for the rest of the house to rise. For breakfast to be served and then cleared away. Only then did she get up. Rosalyn would be gone taking Jaxson to school. With any luck, Eryn could be gone before she got back. She was in no hurry to face the woman.
She showered and got dressed, keeping an eye on the time. It was Friday, which meant it was her first day of driving instruction. There was a quiver of nerves in her stomach. She was uncertain whether they were due to the events of last night or the upcoming lesson. Eryn put on a pair of shoes and ordered an Uber to take her to town. She’d be early for the lesson. Having to wait for a bit was a better alternative than chancing a conversation with Rosalyn. Eryn couldn’t avoid the woman forever. But she was anxious to delay the conversation as long as possible.
She went to the kitchen and grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit on the counter. Mary Jane was nowhere in sight. She peeled the banana and leaned against the counter to eat it.
Rosalyn’s appearance in the doorway had Eryn choking as she swallowed her first bite.
“Eryn.” The woman rushed into the room, a distressed expression on her face. “I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to explain . . .”
“I have to go.” Eryn walked out of the room’s other entrance, grabbed a coat from the closet, and headed for the door.
“Wait!”
Rosalyn ran to catch up, positioning herself in front of Eryn and blocking her way. “You need to listen. It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t think anything,” Eryn said truthfully. Because she didn’t know what to make of the scene she’d witnessed. Possible explanations had buzzed in her mind all night. She’d shoved them aside, unwilling to consider any of them.
“I told William I was sick this morning.” Rosalyn was still in her pretty printed robe. Her fingers fiddled with the belt securing it. “He’s taking Jaxson to school. And I sent Mary Jane on an errand. I wanted us to have some time alone to talk.”
“I’d rather not,” Eryn said bluntly.
“Please.” Rosalyn reached to lay a hand on her arm. “I’ve been faithful to your uncle.” She managed a tremulous smile. “He’s the love of my life. You can’t know what I’ve sacrificed . . .” Her smile faded, and her hand dropped away. “But I have trouble with anxiety. The doctors don’t understand. The man you saw . . . I used to work with him at the drugstore a long time ago. He helps me manage my nerves.”
Comprehension dawned. Of all the possible explanations for last night’s scene, this had never occurred to her. “He’s giving you drugs?”
“No, of course not. I mean . . . I’m not an addict. It’s medicine. You understand the difference.”
She understood there often was no difference. She’d seen too many patients who’d treated their symptoms by self-medicating before they went to Rolling Acres. Or turning to illegal drugs and alcohol once they’d left, which only exacerbated their underlying conditions. It was just as dangerous as patients who didn’t follow through taking their prescriptions after treatment.
“I think that’s a bad idea.” She inched toward the front door. Eryn didn’t want to have this conversation. She didn’t know Rosalyn. Not on any more than a surface level. She didn’t welcome the woman’s confidences, and Eryn didn’t want to be put in a position of having to keep them.
“You’re right. And I’m going to tell your Uncle Bill about it tonight.”
A surge of relief swept over Eryn. “Good idea.”
“Last night . . . it made me see what I was doing to myself.” Rosalyn tightened her robe and gave Eryn a brave smile. “There’s no one stronger than your uncle. I should have asked for his help earlier. I just want to thank you for hearing me out.”
Longing for escape, she said, “You’re welcome.”
Rosalyn reached out to give her arm a pat. “And where are you going this morning? Is there an appointment we forgot about?”
Eryn
’s cell sounded. She knew without looking it was the Uber driver. She edged toward the door. “It’s all right. I have a ride outside.”
“Really?” The other woman followed her to the front entrance. “Who is it? Where are you going?”
“I called for a ride. I’m going to Waynesville. I’ll be back soon.” Eryn slipped out the door and ran toward the gates where the driver was waiting. And tried not to feel like she was fleeing.
Four hours later Eryn returned home with a residual glow of satisfaction. Her first driving lesson hadn’t exactly been what she’d expected. Ike had turned out to be a stickler about her learning all the parts of the car and engine before beginning some preliminary lessons on driving laws. They’d watched a video on the dos and don’ts of the road, and Eryn had to admit most of it had been new information. He’d promised that on Monday they would go to a parking lot and she’d get some time in the driver’s seat. Eryn couldn’t wait. He’d sent her home with a booklet to study. It’d help her pass her state driver’s test, when it came time. And with a wink, he’d promised she’d know the regulations backward and forward before they were done.
She’d been so flushed with excitement afterward, she’d asked the next Uber driver to take her to a restaurant. For the first time in her life, Eryn had eaten out in public, alone. No, she hadn’t spoken to anyone but the waitress, but the experience had been heady. She was still smiling when she got home and let herself back into the house. Up until the moment when she passed the open door of her uncle’s study and heard her name. “Eryn.”
She took a breath and turned to see Uncle Bill approaching the door. “Where have you been? Rosalyn said you went to Waynesville. Your next session with your doctor isn’t until Wednesday.”
“I know. It was a different appointment.” When the man waited, she straightened her spine and said, “I had my first driving lesson.” The expression on his face was as gratifying as her day had been.
“Come in and sit down.”
She trailed him into the room and sank into one of the leather chairs. When he headed for his desk, she surprised them both by saying, “Why don’t you sit next to me?” When he froze, she continued, “I always feel like I’m in the principal’s office with you behind your desk.”
His mouth twitched. “You did spend some time there.” But he retraced his steps and seated himself—somewhat gingerly—on the chair beside her. “Tell me how you happen to be taking driving lessons. I thought we agreed to wait.”
“We didn’t agree. You just said it.” The words were out of her mouth before Eryn could temper them. Unease stirred. She was usually quieter. More reserved. Another notation to make for the doctor?
“Well . . . yes. But I would have preferred to make the arrangements. I haven’t checked out the most reputable places . . .”
“I researched driving instructors. And I set things up yesterday when I went to Waynesville.” When his mouth gaped, she said, “I use Uber. I don’t like having to rely on people here for everything. I need to learn to do things on my own.”
“Well, of course,” he sputtered. “In . . .”
“. . . due time?”
He snapped his mouth shut. Considered her for a moment. “I’m sort of feeling my way here, Eryn.” It was her turn to be surprised. “This is new territory for me. My first inclination is to follow your doctor’s instructions specifically. But I also know you have to start acquiring more experiences. And yes, more autonomy. Why don’t you share what you’ve done this week with your doctor next Wednesday? When we have our family session with her, we can discuss it further. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime, I need to pay the instructor. I gave him some cash up front, but the total cost is due after the second lesson. Next week. I didn’t have enough money for the down payment, so I negotiated a lower price.” Bill was staring at her again. “Mary Jane says to always look out for bargains if we can find them.”
He cleared his throat. “Not bad advice. It appears I’ve been remiss. You have the credit card I set up for you to charge necessities while you were at Rolling Acres. But we’ll open a bank account too. I’ll deposit some money in it each month. And I’ll be monitoring your transactions, Eryn, to see how fiscally responsible you are.”
And he was likely to report the information to Dr. Ashland via the family appointments. Eryn didn’t mind. Her needs weren’t great. And at least her uncle wasn’t bucking her on the steps she’d taken so far.
The scene she’d stumbled on last night flashed across her mind then, and she found it difficult to meet his gaze. It was between Rosalyn and him. The woman had promised to discuss it with him, but either way, Eryn wasn’t going to insert herself in the middle of it.
“I was wondering . . . whatever happened to Mama’s paintings?” She steeled herself for the answer. Eryn wasn’t quite certain what she expected. When she was a kid, her mother had hung her work everywhere, arguing with Uncle Bill when she’d replaced the family portraits that had been on the walls forever. We need to brighten up this place! Eryn could hear her mother saying. It’s like living in a morgue. But on Eryn’s visits she’d noted those old portraits back on the wall. And now with the remodel of her mama’s room, it was like her mother’s very memory had been erased.
Uncle Bill looked away. His throat worked for a second. And Eryn had a flash of panic that he was going to say they’d been destroyed. “They’re in the attic. It was hard to see them every day. I had them put away. You’re certainly free to look through them. As Aurora’s heir, they belong to you now.”
It was difficult to see them . . . The guilt that had lived inside Eryn most of her life carved furrows in her gut. For the first time, she saw her mama’s death in terms of what it had meant to Uncle Bill. Aurora’s paintings had been put away because they were too difficult to face. Like her murder had been.
With a piercing sense of pain, Eryn wondered what it was like for him to live with the person who’d caused his loss.
Eryn had never been in the attic before. Uncle Bill had to tell her how to access it. She’d expected a cramped, dusty space with discarded possessions stored away to be forgotten. Instead she found a vast area that must run the length of the house. The ceilings were slanted, so she couldn’t stand up straight in some areas. But it was well lit. When she found the light switches and snapped them on, she realized there was little dust to be found anywhere.
She peeked beneath one of the sheets in a corner and discovered the space was filled with unused furniture. There was a pile of old pictures, still in their frames, and she looked through some of them. More long-dead relatives, she figured, and turned away in disinterest. She supposed she should care about where she’d come from, but Eryn found it enough of a struggle to learn how to live with the relatives she knew.
The bags she’d emptied after arriving home had been added to a neat pile of suitcases. Eryn didn’t even know who’d put them there. Mary Jane, probably. The household couldn’t run without her.
Eryn spied the canvases she was seeking in an opposite corner. She crossed to them, glad she hadn’t discarded her coat before coming up here. The space was unheated, and the wind seemed to creep through the paned windows.
There were at least seventy canvases, of all shapes and sizes. Eryn was shocked at the number. While Mama had been prolific, she’d also been a ruthless critic of her own work. She’d painted over some of her pictures that hadn’t gone to plan, but she’d destroyed more canvases than she’d tried to reuse. Eryn now knew why. The paint never went on a recycled canvas in quite the same way.
She spent the next hour pulling out the pictures and setting them against the walls to look at. Studying each in turn, she realized she could still learn from her mother. Some of her techniques had been out of Eryn’s reach when she was a child. Surely she now had the experience to duplicate them.
She worked faster, placing the canvases upright in rows along the walls. It took a lot of space. When she finished, she would begin at
one end of the paintings and survey each critically. Perhaps she’d be able to see the progression of her mama’s talent.
The task took longer than she’d expected, because she couldn’t help lingering over some of them. A few Eryn recognized. Most she didn’t. While a handful were titled, the majority weren’t. There was only the familiar lowercase a in the circular space of the P in the right corner of each.
Many were scenic. Wild, crashing ocean waves. Serene beaches. The beauty of North Carolina’s forested mountains. And others pictured nothing at all. They were a collection of color, bold and vibrant or soft and dreamy. Tilting her head, Eryn tried to analyze the use of light before moving on. When she saw the lone portrait in the bunch, she stopped.
It was her as a young child. She was maybe one or so. Her hair was only short white fuzz. She had a toy in her hand, and she was gazing at it with utmost absorption. The depth of detail had Eryn’s throat going tight. And she knew she’d be taking this work back to her bedroom.
She set the painting aside and continued to set up the rest. But the next time she paused to stare at one, it wasn’t because it inspired softer emotions.
It elicited a primitive fear.
The canvas was huge. She recognized the destroyed room it depicted, but she couldn’t place it. A kitchen. A body on the floor. Blood spattered . . . everywhere. Eryn shivered. Art was supposed to evoke strong feelings, and this one did. Terror. She wiped her damp palms on her pants. The pounding in her chest sounded in her ears. Eryn’s muscles tensed, as if readying for flight. It was like she’d walked right into the painting and become an unwilling participant.
She forced herself to look more closely at the body on the floor. A woman, her features obscured by a tangle of blonde hair. There was nothing distinguishing about her, but Eryn knew somehow it was Mama. She knew she’d seen the scene before. She’d been inside it.
