I’ve exposed the subject to the jut of her chin. Because I’m working across the piece, I haven’t yet uncovered the right shoulder and arm, nor that edge of her rib cage. That’s the next phase of conservation.
From what I can tell at this stage, she’s slender, showcased by the light and dark shadows of her external obliques. There is a softness to her belly, however, that doesn’t match the tautness of the rest of her. Clearly this is a postpartum body—parts of you never return to the way they were before, after stretching out to accommodate human life. I set a hand on my stomach, rounding out now that I’m nearing nineteen weeks. The quickening has begun—bubbles popping low in my pelvis, a sensation of butterfly wings tickling my insides. I’ve tried to explain the sensations to Wyatt, who’s impatient to feel her movements himself, but it’s impossible to do them justice.
Right above the subject’s navel is the hourglass-shaped black hole, with the crosshatching, from breastbone to belly. It’s another common memento mori symbol, the hourglass, and it looks like it’s been carved right out of her chest, due to the artist’s use of shading and texture.Her left hand, the fingers grotesquely long and skeletal, press to her chest above the hourglass shape.
I’m currently working on the edges of the hourglass, specifically on the subject’s right side. There’s a strange pebbling in the color, which likely occurred after the paint aged versus being original to the piece. I have a theory as to what’s happened, and why, but I’ll need to analyze a sample to be certain. Using my scalpel, I remove a fleck of the paint from the hourglass and tap it carefully onto a slide for microscopic evaluation.
I’m trying not to think about my mother—or her presentation, whose last line continues to unnerve me—as I work. But today it’s impossible not to think about my mother, because she’s in the room with me. Standing off to the side, her head hanging precariously to the right, as though the bones are rubber.
“You know what that is, Mathilde,”she says.“You have to trust your instincts more, not rely so much on technology.”
I do know what it is, or at least I suspect I do.Rust staining.Usually seen on paper, but it can happen with paint as well. Say, in a case when the paint interacts with the mineral iron…which is an essential element in the production of blood.
But I don’t respond to my mother’s comment, because she’s dead and can’t possibly be here talking to me in my art studio about rust staining, or anything else. It’s best for me to write this off as my overactive, grief-soaked imagination bringing her to life as a comfort. Or the low-iron thing. I cling to these possibilities, even as she continues talking to me.
“Mathilde. Please look at me.”
I shake my head, quickly tidying my tools. That’s enough for one day. I need some fresh air. I need out of this room.
“I’m sorry, my darling,”she says.“It isn’t supposed to be this way.”
I’m suddenly freezing, like I’ve jumped into a cold lake back home on a late October morning. My breath catches, her words hanging inthe room. Squeezing my eyes shut, I continue shaking my head.No, no, no. NO.
“Please go away,” I whisper. “You can’t be here. Please, leave me alone.”
The coldness disappears as quickly as it comes, and I cautiously open my eyes. Look to the corner of the room, see that it’s empty.
My mother is gone.
—
I need information and reassurance as urgently as I need an escape. Thankfully, this time when I call, Cecil picks up right away. I’m nibbling some mixed nuts and sipping a hot lemon balm tea, both of which came in this week’s NourishBox. The note that arrived with the tea says it’s good for “mom-xietyand irritability,” which makes me roll my eyes, but I still brew a cup. Using the microwave, because I keep forgetting to bring the kettle down. So far the tea has done nothing but make me have to pee.
“Tilly, nice to hear from you. How are you?” Cecil asks. “How’s the family?”
I pause, too long.
“Tilly? You there?”
“Yes. I’m here. How are you? How’s the weather in Toronto?”
“I’m well, thank you for asking. And it’s sleeting, which I’m sure you don’t miss. But I have the sense this isn’t a social call,” he says. “So why don’t we get right to it?”
I sigh, wrap my hands around the still-warm mug. A ghost of the chill lingers in my body. “I have a few questions about Charlotte Leclerc, and…well, my mother’s conservation ofThe Child.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to help,” Cecil replies. “I wasn’t at the museum when your mother was working on that piece—but let me try.”
“I found her presentation on EduNet. The one she was supposed to give at that CAC conference. They just uploaded it recently. Have you read it?”
“I have.” Cecil’s tone gives nothing away.
“Her experience withThe Child…” I don’t quite know how to ask for what I need. How do I explain what’s happening with the painting in my studio? With me? “I’m not sure exactly how to put this.”
“As plainly as you can, Tilly. Always the best way.”
I think back to when Mom was working on the Leclerc. That night in the museum. I lean into the memories, forcing myself back in time.
She was distracted, and consumed by the work. Her clothes baggier, her cheekbones sharper. I was a petulant teenager, preoccupied with my own ego and experiences, so didn’t pay much attention to the changes. I don’t remember much else about the piece, or her conservation, except for that odd night at the museum, and then later, a strict warning to never go into her studio without her being there. She had never been that explicit, and I remember telling her to “chill, bruh,” in my obnoxious teenager lingo, for it seemed overly dramatic.
