I’m grateful for such a simple fix and think it’s all behind us. I’ve become adept at compartmentalizing, my ability to mentally “lock the door” on recent inexplicable and disturbing events robust. Until Clementine comes downstairs one morning before school, a photograph in hand.
I’m busy packing up her lunch, behind as per usual despite having been up for a couple of hours already. But I took advantage of my early wake-up and the quiet of the house to get back to the treatment. With Clementine’s nightmares and my lack of sleep, I haven’t trusted myself to work on the piece for the past couple of days—there’s no room for a sloppy, exhaustion-driven mistake.
This morning I uncovered the subject’s full chin and bottom lip. The hum of focus, the thrill of getting closer to completing the cleaning, flows through me. Only a handful more weeks until I’m finished, which is good, as the baby won’t be far behind.
“Who’s this?” Clementine asks, holding the photograph out to me.
“Hmm?” I ask, zipping up her lunch bag. I would love another cup of coffee. But with Ana visiting soon, I can’t risk more caffeine in my bloodstream.
Clementine sets the photo down on the countertop in front of me so I can’t avoid it.
She’s irritable I’m not paying enough attention.
I look at the photo and take in a sharp breath. “Where did you get that?”
“It was inside this book,” Clementine replies, and I see a Nancy Drew hardcover—from my collection—in her other hand. “I wanted to bring it to school for reading time, and this fell out when I took it off the shelf.”
“You know you can’t bring these books to school.” I’m only getting little sips of air. My mind races.
“Since when?” she asks.
“Since I said so!”
Clementine’s face falls, and I instantly regret my harsh tone.
“I’m sorry, baby. You know these books are precious to me. School isn’t a great place to take them, okay?”
She nods, setting the book down beside the photograph. “But who is this person? Do you know her?”
“I do. That’s my mother.” Pause.Catch your breath, Tilly.“Your grandmother Margot. Don’t you remember?”
Clementine goes pale.
“Are you feeling okay, sweets?”
She nods, but I’m not convinced. Worry crests inside me. Maybe this is something worse than low vitamin D. My watch buzzes, my heart rate elevated.
“I’ve seen her,” she says.
“I know,” I reply, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I’ve shown you photos before.”
“No, I mean, I’veseenher. Not like this.” She frowns, and her worried expression worries me further.
I hold one of her hands, squeezing her fingers so she looks at me. “What do you mean, Clem?”
She points at my mother in the photograph, dressed in the navy lab coat and fitted gray trousers she preferred to wear for work. She’s seated in front of a series of painted canvases, stacked up against a white wall. Her hands cup her crossed knees, and she has an easy smile on her face. It was taken to accompany an article about her career as a conservator. I remember she was embarrassed by the fuss, but she did it hoping to educate people about conservation work. To drive more visitors to the museum, and to art appreciation in general.
“She was in my room the other night, Momma. Remember? You couldn’t see her, though.”
My throat constricts, and it’s hard to swallow. “You must have been dreaming, Clem.”
She purses her lips, considers this. “It didn’tfeellike a dream.”
I’m filled with dread, and it bursts out in a snippy tone. “Well, I assure you that your grandmother wasnotin your bedroom. You were dreaming. That’s the only explanation, Clementine.”
I tuck the photograph into the pocket of my work apron. Out of sight, out of mind—hopefully for both of us. “Let’s not worry about this anymore. You need to get ready for school.”
My words are measured, my tone controlled and firm. However, my body buzzes with the panic of our exchange, and a moment later it revolts. Saliva pools in my mouth and I know I’m about to be sick. I turn from Clementine and lose my morning coffee into the sink.
