Is she having a stroke?I tried to remember what we’d learned in health class about the signs of a stroke but could only bring to mind the acronym FAST, though not what it stood for.
“Every brushstroke, every line, all made by hands that no longer move,” Mom continued, one hand rising as though painting strokes into the air. “These artists—they’re gone now. But the art remains. Don’t you see? The dead speakthroughtheir paintings.”
Something went cold in my center then, and I shivered hard. I slid from the stool and tucked my phone into my sweats’ pocket. I was definitely ready to go home.
“Morbid much, Mom?” I heard the slight shake in my voice, tried to hide it with a chuckle. “And you give me a hard time about listening to those true crime podcasts.”
But Mom remained rooted in place, her eyes back on the Leclerc. “My job, Mathilde, is to bring these paintings to life. Removing imperfections left by time, the elements. Repairing accidents. Cleaning others’ mistakes. But this work, it can…” She shook her head, then sighed.
The chill left my center, crawled up my spine. My hands were intight knots and a headache was forming behind my eyes. Mom lowered her voice to a near whisper, and I had the bizarre thought it was so the paintings wouldn’t hear her.
“These canvases hold more than just the artists’ skill and vision. Sometimes they carry fragments of the artists themselves. Their beliefs, their fears…even their obsessions. When we conserve them, we breathe life back into those fragments. And sometimes—” Mom hesitated. My heart fluttered.
“Sometimes what?” I croaked out.
There was a loud bang against the windowpane. Gasp-worthy loud. Left behind, a tiny circle of soft, downy white feathers on the glass.A bird hit the window, I thought.It’s only a bird.I wondered if it was still alive but didn’t want to look outside to find it lying dead on the ground.
The bird striking the window seemed to shake Mom out of her bizarre reverie, and she cocked her head at me. “What, honey?”
I muttered in annoyance, though it was really a cover for how rattled I felt. “Can we just go?”
“Yes, I think I have everything I need.” Mom thumbed through her file folders, nodded, smiled. “How’s the head?”
Touching the bandaged spot I said, “I have a headache.”
With a final glance around, Mom tucked her files under her arm. She turned out the lights and held the door, waiting for me to go first so she could engage the keypad’s lock.
But right before I stepped out I heard something—a dull swish, or sweep. It was rhythmic, every two seconds or so, and filled the room with an echo.
“Do you hear that?” I asked. I held my breath, listening.Swish…sweep…swish…
It sounded familiar, and yet at the same time eerily unnatural.
“I don’t hear anything,” Mom finally said. “Maybe it’s that headache?”
“Maybe,” I replied, without conviction.
Clementine has been sick for two days. Vomiting, fever, zero energy. The sort of illness that takes a bright-eyed, bouncing seven-year-old and reduces her to a pale, limp, sad-sack version of herself. We set her watch to rest mode, which is recommended during illness.
I take one day off work, Wyatt the other, and Shelby fills in the gaps—laundry, warming up soup, mixing cups of electrolyte drinks. It’s nice to have a third set of hands on days like these, and I know Shelby likes being useful.
Kat, when I send her and Maeve a note that I won’t be at class, tells us three of her four are coming out of a fever cycle. She proudly declares that she and the baby remained healthy, citing her iron-clad immune system thanks to years of marinating in the cesspool of school germs, and breastfeeding.Double up on your zinc and vitamin C, she says, before wishing Clementine well. A gift card for takeout arrives in my inbox about fifteen minutes later from Kat and Nick, which we put to good use that evening.
On day three Clementine wakes up hungry, and I’m relieved. Her fever is gone, her energy back with no signs she was ill, except for aslight hollowing in her cheeks. You don’t realize the relief of having a well child until you’ve had days with a sick one.
Then, on day four, I wake up and immediately know something is off. Specifically, my stomach.
I bolt to the washroom. It comes on so fast, so furiously, that by the time Wyatt gets out of bed I’ve already flushed the toilet and am spreading paste on my toothbrush.
“You okay?” He comes into our small bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He sets his other hand against my back and rubs gently.
I spit out the toothpaste, another wave of nausea cresting that thankfully doesn’t escalate. “Think I caught Clem’s crud.”
“Back to bed,” Wyatt says, shushing me when I protest that I’m too busy for that luxury. “I’ll bring you some ginger tea and toast.”
I murmur my thanks and oblige, not having the energy to do much else. The nausea is better, but the fatigue is brutal.
Once in bed I click “health check” on my watch, waiting the few seconds for the data to load.Temperature: 97.5 degrees, the screen reads.Resting heart rate: 65 bpm. Oxygen saturation: 98%.
