The colors on the canvas swirl together before my eyes, but I swipe the tears away because I’m not done. I turn the brush around and use the handle to gouge lines into the canvas. The lines form letters that slash across the girl: Shreveport.
Shreveport is where Mom grew up and Grandma used to live. Where I was lost in the big store. I stayed lost for four days. It was June. The air was heavy and wet, and the cicadas sang me to sleep at night as I slept on that worn sofa. When the police called Mom and she came to get me, she held me and cried and cried, and promised she’d never leave me alone again. And she never, ever did. Not until I tricked her into letting me come here.
My paintbrush drops to the floor. Now that I remember what happened, I can’t stop the memories. They’re vivid, like images in fresh paint. They crash through my head. I close my eyes and see the door close and hear the lock click into place. I taste the peaches, the peanut butter, and feel gentle, trembling hands braid my hair. I see the faces of kids at school, staring when I talk, some of them laughing, pointing. As a child, I’d flee to the safety of my mother’s arms. But I’m no longer a child.
For so many years, my world was my bedroom, locked from the outside. My world was the inside of Mom’s car, to school and back, one gray classroom like another. It was the speech clinic. It was lunch in Mom’s office. My hair in little-girl bows. “Matching Shirt Mondays,” where Mom and I were “twins.” Hanging out with Jada, my one and only friend, but only if Mom was there. No wonder when I arrived in France, I felt as if the scenery had changed from black and white to bright, glorious color.
More memories of the past few weeks tumble around in my head. Gavin’s strange, hypnotic eyes stare at me. His words are mean and mocking, but he kisses me. Jada’s barking laugh and Mom’s lectures ring in my ears. Thomas grabs my long braid and my scalp throbs. Mrs. Thackeray groans as she shuffles up the stairs. The smells of dust and mothballs and sweet perfume fill my nose. Smooth silk brushes my fingertips. And a woman whose eyes gleam sends me a direct challenge. “Come on, Rosemary. You can do it. Bring it,” she says. It’s Marguerite.
I head to the bedroom and pull Marguerite’s portrait out from under the bed. She’s perfect. Confident. Happy.
“But you gave up, too,” I whisper to her picture. “Didn’t you?”
If only she could tell me what happened.
Hugging the painting to myself, I make a decision. I hate to think that Marguerite gave up, so I won’t believe it. And wherever I end up, I’m going to keep something of her with me, always. No matter what happens. Wherever I go, I’m taking this painting.
The doorbell rings. Maybe it’s émile, who often forgets his key. I shuffle to the front room and don’t even think about what I’ve got in my hands until I open the door.
“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Thackeray says. She sees the painting and gasps, holding her shriveled hands to her mouth.
“Where did you get that?” she says, reaching toward me. I back up, but not fast enough. Her fingernails scrape my skin as she tears Marguerite from my hands.
“Wait,” I splutter in a terrified squeak, not even sure of what I’m going to say.
“This was my grandmother,” Mrs. Thackeray says.
Her grandmother? I stumble backward as Mrs. Thackeray comes inside, taking her tiny old-lady steps. She clutches the painting to her.
“Where is Sylvie?” she croaks.
I shrug weakly, feeling the room twirl around me. Mrs. Thackeray heads to the kitchen.
“I shall wait here. Find her,” she barks.
I shake my head no. My heart is breaking at the loss of the painting I’d claimed as my own moments ago.
“Well?” Mrs. Thackeray says, shooting me a glare full of acid. I remain where I am. I don’t want to let the painting out of sight. It’s mine, I want to say. The clock on the wall, a big silver metal thing that is shaped like a coffee pot, ticks loudly, in time with my hammering heart.
“Who is it?” Sylvie calls from the front hall. She sweeps in and gasps. I follow her gaze. She’s looking at my painting on its easel. “Oh, Rosie! Why, it’s . . . eh . . .” She studies it for a moment. Something in her face softens, shifts . . . she shakes herself and turns to the old woman. “Excuse me for not greeting you, Mrs. Thackeray. I . . . Well . . .” and Sylvie flutters her hands for a moment, and I stare. Sylvie is never at a loss for words.
Then Sylvie flies across the kitchen and grabs my shoulders, stares into my face. What is she looking for? She suddenly hugs me, holding so tight I can hardly breathe.
“It’s all right,” she whispers. I feel a tiny burst of hope. I’m about to ask her what she means by that, but then she steps away and faces the old woman who sits, watching us.
“Hello, Mrs. Thackeray,” she says with a soft smile.
“Rosemary was about to tell me where she found this painting,” Mrs. Thackeray says, ignoring the polite greeting and holding up the portrait.