And so on. They stay only about half an hour, and then the nuggets find a resting place in the garbage pail beside the sofa, the latest toy is dropped into the Hello Kitty backpack, and Mr. Androsky is wheeled back to his room, slurping up the last few sips of milk shake. It is a ritual I dismissingly tolerate, but secretly envy.
I have no family to come visit me. No weekly offerings of barely digestible fast food, no cards on my birthday, no one asking if I am well that week or need anything. It is only when I hover on the periphery of Mr. Androsky’s life that it occurs to me that I am missing something. Emily was my life. Yes, there was Charlie, too, for a time. But I could not bring myself to reach out to him. I could not forgive his misguided actions or contemplate an apology from him, should he even have wanted to provide one. And I could not be sorry for those things that he would not forgive. So we lived in mutual exile from each other. He was never acknowledged, never present, but always a shadow that hovered just beyond our existence. We had been so close, the three of us; he our champion and we his adoring followers. But darkness swallowed us, and when I had to choose, I chose Emily.
So, Charlie, you took the book—1925 to 1929. What happened during those years that drew you away from your cabin in the woods, to slink into my new home after all this time, after all that has been left unsaid, only to stand in a corner and remain silent? You could return to the Lake, to Porphyry. You could speak to the wind and waves and face the ghosts that walk the rocky beaches to pull secrets from the past, unearthing Pa’s silenced words. And yet you could not speak to me.
The girl interrupts my thoughts. She has been waiting for me as I allow the realization to settle. “Do you want me to keep reading?”
“If it’s all the same to you, Morgan, I think that’s quite enough for today.”
I stand. “Mr. Androsky.” I nod a greeting in his direction, forcing my lips to smile.
“Miss Livingstone. There’s no need for you to leave. Plenty of room here for the lot of us, supposing you don’t mind saying hello to Becca’s new fish friend.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Androsky. We’re finished—we were just leaving anyway. Enjoy your visit.”
16
Morgan
She’s trying not to let it show, but the missing book’s upset the old lady. I collect the journals back into one pile and rewrap the fabric around them. The little girl climbs up beside me, settling back into the seat.
“You read us a story?”
“Maybe some other time.” I collect the bundle and stand up.
“Your grampy want some French fries?”
I look down at the girl. Her wispy brown hair has escaped from butterfly barrettes and hangs in her eyes. Her feet are tucked underneath her, and she holds a plastic Nemo in one hand and a soggy fry in the other.
“My grampy?”
“Yeah. Daddy says Grampy can’t eat French fries. His tooths all falled out and now he can only have chocolate milk shakes. Maybe your grampy wants somma my French fries? Or did her tooths all fall out too?”
I look at the old lady, already stiffly walking down the hall, one hand gripping the rail that runs the length of the wall. I can’t read the expression on her face. She’s hidden her disappointment and appears indifferent, but I know better. I bet she was a handful when she was younger. Before her hair turned white and the wrinkles carved her face. Before those unsettling brown eyes grew cloudy.
“She isn’t my grampy,” I reply. “And her teeth are just fine. In fact”—I lean in close to the little girl, whispering—“I think she might really be a shark. Big old teeth inside that mouth.” I shiver. “Better hide Nemo!”
She squeals in mock terror and runs behind her grandfather’s chair. I catch up to Miss Livingstone and fall quietly in step beside her. There’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, and she leans closer to me, whispering, “Nemo is such a small morsel. He would only whet my appetite.”
Damn, she can hear everything.
In spite of myself, I think I’m starting to like her.
17
Elizabeth
“A woman is sitting in a chair at the beach. Her face is hard to see behind a thin veil. The wind is brisk, blowing the skirts of her dress, forming whitecaps on the waves and filling the sails of a boat on the horizon. She’s holding a parasol.”
“Is her parasol tipped backward, or does she hold it above her head?” I ask.
Marty is sitting at the table in my room, sipping coffee. This is a game we have been playing of late, when he has the time to leave his tools and spend a few moments with an old lady, bringing color back to the gray vision of her sightless eyes.
“Backward.”
“Monet, 1870. Camille sur la Plage de Trouville.”
He flips a few pages.
“A large gathering, couples dancing outdoors, and the sunlight coming through the trees makes interesting patterns of light and shadow. The focus of the painting is not the group, but a young couple dancing. You can almost see the woman’s skirts moving as she twirls.”
“Renoir, 1876. Bal du moulin de la Galette.”
“A haystack—”
“Please, Marty.” I don’t let him finish this one. “Don’t patronize me.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He flips more pages. I know he is smiling. “Here we go. Rhythmic swirling patterns, painted with short brushstrokes of blue, indigo, and violet with circles of gold and the sliver of an orange moon. A village is in the valley below, the church spire slim, white.”
It is one of my favorites for many reasons, and I can see it clearly from his description. “Isn’t it a shame that artistic genius hovers so near insanity?” I reply. “Does it require a tortured soul, Marty, to capture beauty? To see and speak truth?”
I am lost for a moment, wandering around in my thoughts, and we both sit, silent.
I have learned that most of us . . . we are merely life’s spectators. Those who have allowed their demons to inhabit their lives—to sleep with them and wake with them and let them whisper in their ear—they are the architects of life, constructing the world as we know it. But at that, and maybe because of it, they tread a thin line between being reviled and revered. Who decides when they’ve crossed from tortured to talent, to be embraced and immortalized? When we like what our eyes see and our ears hear? Genius and insanity. Which brings the other?
Marty is patient and does not push me. He knows the demons I have dealt with. And he knows I know this painting. “Van Gogh, 1889. Starry Night. Painted while an inmate at Saint-Paul Asylum.”
He closes the book softly. “He perceived his illness as a gift, Elizabeth. Used it—you know that.”
“It killed him.”
“Yes, undoubtedly. But you cannot separate one from the other. It made him who he was.”
He collects the book and coffee mug and stands up, heading out the door just as Morgan arrives. He pauses in the entrance and turns back toward me, speaking softly. “It made her who she is too. You cannot blame yourself. You did what you had to.” And then the joviality returns to his voice, and he turns to the girl. “A little bit early, aren’t ya?” He doesn’t wait for a response. Needs no explanation. Without another word, he heads down the hall, whistling.