It’s so late. I wash dust from my hands and throw on my pajamas, finally ready to snore. Maybe tomorrow I’ll start rescuing the books. I don’t want Thomas or his mother to take anything else from the apartment.
They don’t deserve to have anything that belonged to the woman with weak words.
Seventeen
Your mom is not happy. I mean, way not happy. She skipped work and cried all day. It’s getting weird.
She’ll get over it. Seriously!
She called me last night. She asked what’s up with you? You’re not writing to her.
Sorry, J. Don’t be mad, bestie! I’m busy!
I lied. I said nothing’s wrong. I’m getting tired of lying. I hate the lies and I know you, R. What’s up?
Her words sink into my stomach like stones.
All morning, my little escapade last night has been heavy on my mind. Morning light helped me see reality. What do I do with all the stuff I took? Why didn’t I think about what I was doing? I want to ask Jada for help, but now I feel too guilty, because she doesn’t know that I’m not coming home. When do I tell her? How?
This isn’t so funny anymore.
“You are ready?” Sylvie asks me as she sweeps into the kitchen. I nod. Her long braids are gathered into a knot, held in place with a couple of clean paintbrushes. I love it. It’s so her. I inhale the scent of paint and bread and wilting roses. My heart begins to calm. I love France. I love Sylvie and émile. I love Nice, with its crumbling buildings and hills that sweep down to the ocean. There’s so much blue here. Pale, azure sky, deep turquoise ocean, and I’m swimming in this color, drowning in it. It’s not suffocating me, though. It’s oxygen for my soul.
I type a quick message to Jada.
I’m sorry. I’ll call you tonight.
Now is not the time to tell her, but I will. Soon. I log off. Then I pick up my paintbrush. My heart speeds up. This is the time I chose to tell Sylvie my “story” about Zander. I spent time last night looking up words, working out the best way to say it.
My art lesson begins. Sylvie says little. She demonstrates, wordlessly assists, and only occasionally murmurs suggestions. She is gentle, speaking softly, treating me as if I might break. She’s done that since yesterday, when I was locked inside Mrs. Thackeray’s apartment. The timing is so perfect. After a few minutes, I’m ready.
Drama time. I’m going to tell her about Zander.
“Sylvie,” I say in a trembling voice, trying to work up some tears, but at the same moment, she pops up from her seat and scrambles for the door.
“Oh, la la, it’s so late! I forgot! I must go, Rosie! You are all right here alone, yes?”
I blink. I don’t remember anyone saying that Sylvie had to go somewhere this afternoon.
“Of course,” I whisper.
“I’ll be back soon,” Sylvie says. And then she grabs her purse and she’s gone.
The apartment is silent, except for the kitchen clock, ticking away the seconds in a leisurely manner. I deflate like a balloon that has a slow leak. For the first time since I’ve arrived here, I don’t want to be alone. Why did Sylvie fly away like that? I get back to work. I may as well. I’ll have to tell my story later.
I force my brain to focus on the canvas in front of me and paint. Hearing only the soft swish of a brush on the canvas, the muted murmurings of traffic outside and the slow tick tick of the clock, I breathe in the scent of paint and linseed oil, and soon I find myself wrapped in a kind of peaceful cocoon. I forget about everything for a while.
It’s that lazy afternoon time when deep, warm pools of yellow sunlight form on the floor. Soon, Fat Cat joins me and curls up inside one of the sun pools, and peacefully, purringly falls asleep, a cloud of grey floating on lemon light. I’ll paint him. I actually want to paint him. It’s weird, I know. I grab a new canvas. The world disappears as I first sketch lines with a pencil, then add color. Light and dark tones create shape and add depth and dimension. I work to get the colors right. The smoky quality of the soft grey fur, the dazzling lemon of the sunlight. I don’t know how much time passes, but finally, I step back to take a good look at my work.
It stinks.
Fat Cat is a big blob of flat grey, surrounded by smudges and smears of what looks like mustard. It’s a hideous shade of yellow that doesn’t even come close to having the lemony quality of the summer light as it moves across the wooden floor. Crushed, I let air out of my lungs in a long sigh.
Suddenly I’m aware that a gentle hand is on my arm, and I turn, startled, to look up at Sylvie. I hadn’t heard her come in.
“Oh, Rosie, I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispers. “I can read what’s in your heart. I understand how you see the world.” She smiles at me, her eyes alight, and I smile back, completely confused.