Chapter 43 Clara
CHAPTER 43? CLARA
Lake District, England
Evening arrived with bright stripes of orange across the sky and above the lake. I realized that the day we were meant to sail home had passed. Wynnie and I quietly walked through the halls of this 1700s slate-and-stone house, with views across Grizedale Forest and the Coniston mountain ranges, as the weight of daily life receded and my breath eased. I understood this wasn’t my life—or a real life at all, for that matter. But still, it was lovely.
Nat was probably losing his mind; I read his thoughts as if they flew across the sea to me. I told you so. I told you it was dangerous . But this truly felt like the least dangerous place on earth.
With each passing day, Nat’s voice lessened in volume. I’d called him numerous times, both at work and at home, and the phone rang endlessly. Dad had tried to reach out, and I wasn’t ready to call his parents in Georgia and worry them, not yet.
I did my daily count—two weeks and three days until the Caldecott. Soon our passports would be ready, and we’d rebook our journey home. But for now I settled into the fact that there was little I could do to change anything. I longed to get out on those hills outside our window, to discover what rustled above the lake.
Wynnie and I stood admiring the fir tree in the foyer, mercury balls of many shapes and hues hung from every branch, glittering in the chandelier light. “Now come along,” I said to Wynnie in a bad Pippa imitation.
She laughed and we found our way to the bedroom.
I opened the door and Wynnie cried out. “Mama, look!”
At the window stood an easel with thick artist’s paper clipped on its edge, and next to it sat a wooden table with a palette and tubes of paint, as well as a brown crockery jar full of sable brushes. I went immediately over and ran my fingers across the soft brushes.
Maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t always a rotten spot in the middle of every one of my stories with men. Maybe Charlie was exactly who he seemed to be.
“Did you tell him you wanted this?” Wynnie asked.
“No.” I hugged her close. “These must be left over from Pippa’s art club of aunts and friends.”
“What do you want to paint, Mama?” Wynnie pointed out the window. “The lake? The trees? The mountain with the little snow hat?”
“I want to paint one of Grandma’s words.” An opening appeared inside me that felt something like forgiveness or maybe something even larger, like acceptance. If the remaining words were all I had left of her, then so be it. “?‘When the sky breaks open; transformation that changes you into who you are meant to be; into your very essence.’?” I recited the meaning of talith as if it were tattooed onto me.
“Then paint, Mama.” Wynnie jumped on the bed with her book and lifted it high. “Did you know that this whole book is set right here? It’s a big adventure, and the kids get to take a sailboat to the island in the middle of the lake all by themselves.”
“Do they now?”
“Yes, they do. And it’s all right here, one lake over.” She curled into the plush pillows.
I outlined the painting with charcoal. I thought of the sketches in Beatrix Potter’s house and the many threads that tied all of us together, and about how often women needed art and language to find their way in an inhospitable world.
I squeezed a drop of azure paint on the palette and dipped the brush. My hand moved across the page, and I mumbled talith as I swooped the brush upward with a long line. While I painted, Wynnie came to my side, and I thought she was watching me until she said, “Mama?”
I turned to my daughter. How I hoped the world could be different for her, that she might not need to make up a language or hide behind a veiled word, that she might be able to express herself fully. “Yes?” I asked.
She pointed at the top page of Mother’s words. It was the sentence I’d translated on our first night in London: This wild world holds more than you can see; believe in make-believe. Then below, in one straight line, I’d listed each of Mother’s made-up words from the sentence.
Wynnie tapped it. “Violet.”
“Pardon?”
“That says violet.” She ran her finger down the paper. “The first letter of each word in that sentence you translated, it spells violet.”
I glanced down. “No, honey. ‘This wild world—’?”
“No!” she said. “Grandma’s made-up words. Look.”
Yes, Mother’s words. My heartbeat thumped in my ears, warmth rose in my cheeks, and my arm tingled. “That can’t be a coincidence,” I said. “It’s an acrostic.”
“What is that? A-cros-tic?” She stumbled over the word.
“When the first letter of a list of words spells something. Violets were Mother’s favorite flower. She planted them all over the garden. She brought them inside when they couldn’t grow outside.”
“Why violets?” Wynnie asked.
“Who knows? They are wild with heart-shaped leaves, and every March they would bloom again, and she was always looking for them. She swore you could eat them, and she’d pop one into her mouth to prove it.” The memories were crisp. “She says… said they were symbols of inspiration, but she could have been making that up.”
“It’s what Emjie wears in her flower crown,” Wynnie said.
The knowledge slammed into me as real and sure as a rock thrown at my chest—there was no doubt, not for me, not anymore. Mother redefined herself. She was leaving hints behind in her language.
“I need to call your papa.”