Chapter 59
As the storm rages outside, a different storm brews inside me.
Mentally I’m wrecked, my nightmare of the baby—my baby—slithering across the floor toward the malevolent mother plays on a loop in my mind.
Physically I’m not doing much better, as the Braxton-Hicks continue, squeezing me from the inside out.
But thankfully I’m able to hide both, as my family is preoccupied with other things.
Clem’s happy as a clam to have unlimited time with her tablet, Shelby’s catching up on her correspondence in her room, and Wyatt’s at the jobsite.
I’m restless and distracted, both from the discomfort of the preparatory contractions, and with the understanding that the painting can no longer exist. Not only in my studio, but period.
Transferring it back to GIA is not the only option, I’ve realized.
I don’t know how I’ll explain it to Raoul, Cecil, or the collector, and I can’t even think about the money (nor the professional misconduct of obliterating a rare work of art), but this painting can no longer exist.
It has to be destroyed.
—
I sit on the stairs outside the studio, a pen and notepad in hand. I don’t want any trace of what I’m preparing to do. Nothing to create an alert, as could happen if I search EduNet for solutions that could obliterate the painting.
I’m reaching back to my days in organic chemistry, writing down the list of what materials and solvents I have on hand.
But there’s nothing I can think of that won’t be impossible to explain as an accident.
While the conservation process is a delicate one, and things can and do go wrong, entire paintings aren’t ever destroyed—even with significant errors.
Plus, nearly every error can be rectified with the appropriate skills, which I possess.
As the gales of wind batter our town house, the baby begins flutter kicking inside me.
With one hand on my stomach, rubbing where the kicks land, I glance at the window behind me.
It’s blocked by the storm shield, which accentuates the sounds of the rain tapping against it.
A furious staccato beat. I hope the shield holds; we’ve had to replace windows in the past from less dramatic storms. I’m about to go back to my list when the idea hits.
This work is as much about being creative with your vision as it is about your problem-solving—often the simplest, most obvious solution is the best one, Cecil used to tell me when I trained under him.
—
I turn on the studio’s desk lamp. My watch alerts that the storm has been upgraded to a tornado warning, and my blood pressure shifts closer to redline status (Time for a rest, Tilly? my watch reads). I hit OK on both notifications, even though I have no intention of resting.
My health data is constantly being fed to MotherWise, and Ana will soon be in touch about my blood pressure.
Wyatt will come home, and then we’ll all gather in the kitchen for hot chocolate and to wait out the storm.
I have to finish this before any of that happens.
I reach for the control panel to the side of my desk.
For a moment I hesitate. Once I do this, there’s no going back.
I think about Clementine’s face when I told her about Disney World.
I think about Cecil and imagine how disappointed he would be at my decision.
I think about my mother, whom I long to talk to again—even the backward-head version of her, for within that horrifying apparition were parts of the mother I loved.
Then I put them all out of my mind. I’ll find another way to make the trip happen.
I’ll forgive myself for destroying a valuable piece of art.
I’ll choose to believe this is precisely what my mother would have done, if in the same position.
Pressing the top button, which has a symbol of a window in a circle with a line cutting through it, I hold it until the storm screen unlatches.
Then the screen rolls up into itself, slowly.
The wind and rain pummel the glass, and a chunk of debris smacks the window with a loud bang.
I lurch back, the screen only three quarters of the way up, and then quickly step forward and press the button again.
I imagine Wyatt receiving my biometric notifications (he needs to focus on staying safe, Tilly), and I try to quiet my anxiety. But my heart rate won’t settle. So I continue with my plan, wheeling the workbench as close to the window as possible.
As I remove the cover, I keep my eyes down, so as not to look at the subject. My heart races, my palms sweat, and I’m sick to my stomach. A wiggle of doubt moves through me. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m the problem, not the painting?
Then a familiar voice reaches me. Not a ghost, nor an apparition. It’s my mother.
“C’est le seul moyen, Mathilde.”
It’s the only way.
Once the painting is uncovered and in position, I touch another button: window.
My fingertip tingles with the pressure. There’s a grinding noise, the frame holding against the wind.
What if this doesn’t work? But a moment later the window flies open, wind gusting into the studio and causing papers on my desk to lift and blow to the floor.
It’s now raining inside the room. The painting, so near the now-open window, takes a direct hit.
Soon, the canvas begins contracting. Good. Banging against the workbench with the wind, as it strains for release from the latches. The pounding rain soaks the painting, and the winds shriek. I move to the far corner of the studio, trembling as I watch the destruction in real time.
I’m unsure if I’ve done enough but am relieved when I see the canvas contractions have turned to more severe buckling.
There are also large sections where the paint has smeared, the subject becoming unrecognizable.
Walking quickly to my desk, I touch the window button again, hoping the storm hasn’t damaged the mechanism. It closes quickly.
I consider adding a solvent to speed up the breakdown of the paint. When I glance over at the canvas, I can’t at first understand what’s happening. Openmouthed, I stare at the left side of the painting, which suffered the most damage due to its proximity to the open window.
It’s…healing.
I’m aware as I think it that “healing” is not the right word to use for a two-dimensional static piece of artwork. At the same time, it’s the first word that comes to mind.
While I watch, the buckles smooth out. The smears begin to sharpen, returning the art—and its subject—to the original textures and colors.
The soggy canvas starts to dry in spots, and I know I don’t have long.
Without hesitation, I attack the canvas, scratching my nails up and down its length with as much force as I can.
The subject’s features become contorted, grotesque, my nails ripping sections, creating slices through the canvas. My fingers burn and ache when I finally stop. The painting is barely recognizable, the damage awful.
Breathing hard, my abdomen tight from the Braxton-Hicks, I sit heavily on the floor and lean against my solvents cabinet. I’m facing the workbench and the destroyed painting.
I close my eyes, willing my body to stop shaking, when I hear what sounds like a zipper being done up.
First it’s a singular sound. Ziiiii-iiiii-ip.
But soon there’s another zip, then another…
one more. My eyes snap open and I’m on my feet, a second later hovering over the painting.
Watching as the rips and tears disappear, like they were never there.
It takes less than a minute for the painting to restore itself. Flawlessly repaired.
—
Kat calls, but I let it go to voicemail. Then Ana calls moments later, as expected. This one I have to answer. I pick up on my watch, my goal to keep our conversation brief and hopefully sufficiently reassuring to avoid further questions.
She’s at the hospital, in the MotherWise unit. A client has gone into preterm labor and Ana’s supervising the care.
Wyatt had to go out in this too…Thanks, I’m sure he’ll be fine as well…Yes, I’m okay. I’m resting—the blood pressure went up with my anxiety about the storm…feeling a lot of activity today—she’s kicking right now!…Strong legs—getting ready to come out, but not today, okay, little one?
Ana makes a joke about one delivery a day being her rule. We laugh, though it’s feigned on my side of the call. Stay safe, Ana—I’ll see you tomorrow.
Suddenly, the subject’s dragonfly-wing lip twitches. Seeing this steals my breath.
A slow smile spreads across the Mother’s face.
It’s close-lipped and subtle, but it’s undeniable.