Chapter 32
There’s nothing but white paint and pot lights in the ceiling above.
The relief is so extreme I start to laugh, head still tilted back, until tears stream out of my eyes. Finally, getting a hold of myself, I look over at the canvas.
The last remnant of my relieved chuckle is lost in my throat.
I blink rapidly, my vision tear streaked.
Three rapid steps forward and I’m standing directly over the painting.
I put my face so close to it, I am nose to canvas.
Then I pull back, following the recently uncovered crosshatched section.
Gloveless, I air-trace the lines with my finger, following the circle of her navel next.
She’s back.
—
A short time later I sit in the corner of my studio, on my stool.
There’s as much distance between me and the painting as the space affords.
I keep forgetting to breathe. Then I gasp deeply to compensate for the lack of oxygen, and the act of it is violent enough that pain blooms in my chest. I’m reluctant to blink, afraid if I take my eyes off the painting and its subject she’ll disappear again.
Mostly, I don’t move because my legs are still numb. I have no clue what’s happening, within my body or within the art. I can’t make sense of any of it.
Paintings, the objects and people captured in them, are static. They do not move. Except in the interactive GIA exhibits, when we animate art for entertainment.
Moreover, the subject didn’t exactly move—she disappeared.
There is something wrong with me. Maybe some sort of mental break, caused by my raging pregnancy hormones?
I wish I could ask someone without drawing attention to the why.
Maybe Maeve knows about this, if it’s a thing that can happen.
I consider how to pose the question. “Hypothetically speaking, Maeve—related to the conservation I’m doing, and its artist—is there such a thing as pregnancy-induced psychosis?
” However, I know I can’t ask Maeve—she’ll see right through the “hypothetically speaking” bit.
A brain tumor? Scary to imagine, but it could explain these hallucinations, and at least there are excellent treatments—cancer is rarely fatal nowadays. This offers a moment of relief, because while a tumor diagnosis would be daunting, losing one’s mind is more terrifying for me to consider.
But then, another thought…What if it’s not me?
What if something’s wrong with the painting?