After #2
“Okay, you’re not hungry,” I say, staying calm despite the increasing tempo of her crying. The room is even chillier now, probably because I’m half-undressed. I quickly resnap the bra, button up my shirt. Then I hold Marisol in front of me and bounce her on my legs.
“This is the way the horses ride, the horses ride, the horses ride…” My voice has improved with the singing lessons, but it’s still far from good. Normally Marisol doesn’t mind her favorite song being off-key. But she’s inconsolable. I’m getting worried.
“What is it, Marisol? What’s going on?”
I set her in my lap, facing me, and hold my watch a couple of inches from her forehead. The thermometer setting engaged, it beeps when finished. Normal, it reads. Frowning, I use the back of my hand to double-check. She’s sweaty and sticky from crying but doesn’t feel warm. If anything, she’s cool.
Maybe it’s the room’s temperature. I’m full-on trembling now and decide we’ll wait for Claude outside. It’s cloudy, but at least it’s warmer.
“Fresh air will be good for both of us,” I say.
I’m about to stand when Marisol suddenly stops crying.
I watch as her eyes widen, drifting to something behind me.
She tilts her head to the side, trying to see past my head.
Then she starts to laugh and squeal, standing on my thighs, her little hands waving excitedly as she pumps her legs the way babies do when getting ready to try to walk.
“Well, that’s nice to see!” Relief floods me. But it doesn’t last long, because a moment later I realize what she’s so enamored with.
The Mother.
Marisol is staring at the painting.
No, no. There has to be something else that caught her attention. But what else could it be? There is literally nothing else on that wall except that painting. A ribbon of dread fills me, even as I continue searching for another reason for my baby’s sudden delight.
Her eyes stay locked on The Mother as she continues squealing in delight, stopping occasionally as though she’s listening to something…to someone. I do everything I can to distract her. Including turning her so she can no longer see the painting.
But my efforts only agitate her, and she twists her little body, grunting in frustration.
“Okay, Marisol. It’s time to go.” My voice is firm, but I can hear the panic in it. I want to get the hell out of this room and as far away from The Mother as I can. I’m reaching for the stroller’s handle when I hear it, and everything slows down.
A rhythmic swish, swish, swish. Frighteningly familiar—the same strange sound I heard at the museum that long-ago night with my mother. Exactly like the swish-sweep I heard more recently in my studio.
Now a soft thud joins the melody, coming in after each swish. I turn slowly toward the sounds, breathless. At first, nothing seems amiss. Until the swish-thud-swish-thud becomes louder, as though someone has turned up the volume. Then I see it. The Child is skipping, inside the painting.
The swish is the rope brushing the ground under her Mary Jane–clad feet.
The thud, the sound of her feet landing once they’ve cleared the rope.
Something fractures inside me. My eyes stay on The Child for a few more seconds, enough time to see her blow a glistening pink bubble as she skips.
Then her eyes move, locking onto mine. She smiles, and the bubble pops.
I’m overcome by the scent of sweet bubblegum, which somehow fills the cavernous room.
I shout for help before remembering the room has been designed for a fully immersive experience. No sound can get in or out. But the door is only fifteen feet away. I can make it.
Marisol lets out another happy giggle, still staring at The Mother. I don’t want to look, but I can’t stop myself. Something’s changed, I think when I turn my head. There’s a flutter of the feathered insect antennae, her long eyelashes batting.
The Mother’s eyes open, landing on Marisol first. The baby laughs, reaching away from me, straining to get closer to the painting. I hold her tightly, and she thrashes about and wails in my arms.
“No…you can’t have her,” I whisper. Shaking as I walk backward, toward the door and away from the painting. I’m afraid to look at her; more afraid to take my eyes off of her.
A shocking coldness spreads through my limbs. I can’t feel my fingers, and I’m terrified I’ll lose my grip on Marisol. My legs won’t move faster, even as I’m willing them to run. My watch buzzes continuously on my wrist, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” the Mother says in a singsong voice, smiling as she turns her attention back to the baby. Marisol beams a gummy, nearly toothless grin at the painting, at the woman.
Adrenaline courses through me, and suddenly the feeling comes back to my hands. The electric tingles are painful but reassuring, because I have control over my body again. Clutching the baby against my chest, I shield her as I race to the door.
A sickeningly loud beep, then a click reverberates just as my hand reaches the handle, which won’t turn.
I’m locked in, stabbing at the keypad though I don’t know the code.
With one hand, the other holding Marisol tightly to me, I pound on the door and scream for help, but it’s useless. No one can hear me.
Marisol starts crying, reaching over my shoulder toward The Mother.
The skipping sound escalates, the Child’s footfalls louder now.
Then, above the baby’s cries, the relentless skipping, and my own ragged breaths, I hear what sounds like cracking ice.
A second later, a suctioning sound, as though something is being pulled out of thick mud.
The baby shrieks with excitement, hands waving.
I refuse to turn around, but my body defies my mind’s order and a moment later I’m facing The Mother.
Wrapping Marisol in my arms, I have one goal: to protect my child from whatever is now slowly stepping out of the painting.
The figure—the Mother—lumbers toward us, leaving tacky black footprints on the beautiful parquet wood floors.
She extends the now-beating heart out, like it’s a gift. Never taking her eyes off Marisol.
The Mother envelops me like a soupy fog.
I can no longer draw breath, my vision fading quickly.
I’m in excruciating pain. My skin stretches and rips from the inside out.
My bones snap like tree branches in a violent storm.
Blood vessels burst with hundreds of tiny explosions.
I want to fight, but there isn’t enough of me left to do so.
I’m dying, I think, before hearing a voice as clear as my own.
“No, Mathilde. We are reborn.”
The baby laughs, and then the wind-chime voice: “Found you, my darling! Here I come…here I come…”