The Memory Painter

Linz sat on the couch and stared at the painting for a long time. The image loomed larger than life, its violence captured in incredible detail. She felt a powerful urge to destroy the canvas, but she knew she could never live with herself if she did. For a moment she had thought about returning it to Bryan, but she didn’t want anyone else to look at it either. Finding a temporary solution, she got up and put it in her closet and then sat on the floor with her head in her hands, feeling emotionally drained.

She had broken down when she saw the painting outside her door, and it had taken her hours to calm down. She hadn’t cried like that in years. Seeing the painting had brought back all the memories she had tried so hard to suppress. As a child she had remembered so much more about Juliana than her death—vague feelings and experiences she couldn’t explain that she had never talked to anyone about. Growing up, forgetting the vivid terror of Juliana’s death had seemed most important; all the other memories were gentle and nonthreatening in comparison, like a soft image out of focus. But now that she was older, maybe it was time to revisit them. Because when Linz opened her heart and let go of her fear, her sense of self became eclipsed by the feeling that this Juliana was a part of her. Perhaps it was the same for Bryan.

Bryan. She needed to hear his voice. She called him without giving her impulse a second thought.

The phone rang. A man with a European accent answered, “Hallo?”

Linz hesitated. “Hello, yes, is Bryan there?”

“Wie noemt alstublieft?”

The voice sounded similar to Bryan’s yet different. She must have misdialed. But instead of hanging up she asked, “Bryan, is that you?”

“Ik ben Christiaan. Goede dag.”

*

Bryan hung up the phone and got back to work. His mind had shut down after he’d read the journal, and when he saw Christiaan’s clock, he had gotten out his old toolbox and begun to take it apart.

He had promised his mother he would fix it, and the task of disassembling the gears had calmed him. He quickly pinpointed the problem: the escapement mechanism had rusted and the screws were bad. With great care, he had cleaned every piece, losing himself in the work until he was no longer spinning out of control and the life in ancient Japan had receded into the back of his mind.

The intrusive ticking of the restored clock brought him back to reality. Bryan blinked and looked around at Michael and Diana’s boxes. The past had weighed on Bryan all his life, and now it was as if the answers were arriving on a baggage carousel that was moving too fast. He lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling.

The phone rang. He reached for it. “Hello?”

“Bryan? Hi, it’s Linz.”

His body relaxed at the sound of her voice. She had no idea of her effect on him. His tone became intimate. “Hey, I was hoping you’d call.”

She hesitated. “I actually did before, but some foreign guy answered. He sounded German or something. I couldn’t tell.”

Bryan sat up in surprise. He didn’t remember her calling. He must have answered the phone in Dutch while he was lost in Christiaan’s thoughts.

“I thought I got the number right, and it sounded like your voice…”

Bryan waited, hoping she would let it drop so that he wouldn’t have to explain. Things were strange enough between them as it was.

“I was calling to thank you for the painting,” she continued. Her voice sounded thick with emotion.

He couldn’t believe he had only left it on her doorstep this morning. It seemed like weeks ago—so much had happened since. “I wanted you to have it.”

“I’d like to pay for it,” she said tentatively.

“No. It’s a gift.”

“I still want to.”

“It’s a gift. I insist.”