Jerked awake, I’m sweating profusely and my stomach is clenched with what I assume are Braxton-Hicks, because the cramping isn’t consistent. Wyatt wakes too, asks if I’m okay.
“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, not answering the question. Around four a.m. I finally get out of bed and go downstairs, the heartbeat only I can hear still echoing in the quiet house.
The storm arrives fast and furious around six that morning, with barely enough warning to get the necessary measures in place, even with our sophisticated weather-warning systems.
Wyatt and I latch the storm shutters, closing us in from the outside. We switch our indoor lights to a warmer ambient color, to better represent sunlight. Obviously with the rainstorm there is no natural light, and our circadian rhythms rely on it for optimal functioning. The rain teems furiously, but it’s the wind that cranks up my unease.
I watch the oak outside our town house on the front-door camera, swaying with the wind, the Spanish moss being tossed about. Tornados and tropical storms have become increasingly common, and the current warnings chirping on our tablets and watches suggest we’re in for a doozy.
School is canceled, as is Shelby’s cognitive therapy session due to internet instability. My MotherHelper meetup cancellation comes moments later.Stay safe, Mommas! We’ll make up the session once the storm passesis the message that comes across my tablet at six thirty in themorning. GIA also sends out a notification that we’re on a work-from-home mandate for at least the next twenty-four hours.
I sent a note to Raoul during last night’s insomnia, after the nightmare, asking him to receive the Leclerc today and move it into Room D. I provided the excuse that I needed the facility’s resources to finish the conservation properly. But I have no intention of ever touching the painting again.
However, Raoul has been dispatched to one of GIA’s storage vaults, where original works are housed underground in climate-controlled pods. The facility southwest of Atlanta was originally built in 1969 by the Army Corps of Engineers and has since been repurposed as a safe haven for government initiatives. Dispatching a conservator to the bunkers is standard GIA protocol during storms, which I would have remembered if I was thinking clearly. Raoul replies that the lab is closed but he’ll accept the delivery when he returns in a couple of days.
I don’t have a couple of days, I think. But all I write back isThank you—stay safe!
While I’m worried about our community facing a direct storm hit, the painting—which I can’t get out of the house now—occupies much of my focus. The heartbeat won’t relent, as though calling me back upstairs. It’s almost a compulsion, to obey. I fight it with all I have.
I consider telling Wyatt everything, but before I can sort out where to start, his foreman calls. One of the developments is at risk of collapse. It’s at a critical stage in the construction cycle, and they’re concerned about structural integrity if the winds pick up more than they already have. Wyatt needs to provide his expertise, and time is of the essence.
“Can’t you do that from here?” I’m panicked at the idea of him going out into the storm. Panicked at the thought of being alone with only Clementine, Shelby, and the painting. I don’t trust myself, as I’m barely holding things together.
Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…
“If I could, I would,” he says, with a smile meant to relax me. “I’ll be careful,” he adds. “And quick—back before you know it, darlin’.” I burst into tears, blaming my hormones, the stress of the storm. He wipes my tears, kisses each cheek, then quietly tells me everything is going to be fine. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t know it for sure. You take good care of our girls, okay?”
I nod, trying to stem a fresh wave of tears.
Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub…
Another kiss for me, and one for my belly, then he rustles Clementine’s hair lovingly while she is preoccupied with the latestClara the Cloudepisode on her tablet and hugs Shelby. “Okay, family, stay warm and dry,” he says. “Hot cocoa when I get home, Clem.”
Don’t go…I long to plead, as he presses the button to roll up the front door’s storm shield.
Please stay!I wish I could cry out, when his hand reaches for the door’s handle.
But I say nothing, do nothing, and a moment later he’s out the door, with a final “Don’t forget to reengage the storm shield once I’m gone” over his shoulder to me as he leaves.
As the storm rages outside, a different storm brews inside me.
Mentally I’m wrecked, my nightmare of the baby—my baby—slithering across the floor toward the malevolent mother plays on a loop in my mind. Physically I’m not doing much better, as the Braxton-Hicks continue, squeezing me from the inside out. But thankfully I’m able to hide both, as my family is preoccupied with other things. Clem’s happy as a clam to have unlimited time with her tablet, Shelby’s catching up on her correspondence in her room, and Wyatt’s at the jobsite.
I’m restless and distracted, both from the discomfort of the preparatory contractions, and with the understanding that the painting can no longer exist. Not only in my studio, but period. Transferring it back to GIA is not the only option, I’ve realized. I don’t know how I’ll explain it to Raoul, Cecil, or the collector, and I can’t even think about the money (nor the professional misconduct of obliterating a rare work of art), butthis painting can no longer exist.
It has to be destroyed.
—
I sit on the stairs outside the studio, a pen and notepad in hand. I don’t want any trace of what I’m preparing to do. Nothing to create an alert, as could happen if I search EduNet for solutions that could obliterate the painting.
I’m reaching back to my days in organic chemistry, writing down the list of what materials and solvents I have on hand. But there’s nothing I can think of that won’t be impossible to explain as an accident. While the conservation process is a delicate one, and things can and do go wrong, entire paintings aren’t ever destroyed—even with significant errors. Plus, nearly every error can be rectified with the appropriate skills, which I possess.
As the gales of wind batter our town house, the baby begins flutter kicking inside me. With one hand on my stomach, rubbing where the kicks land, I glance at the window behind me. It’s blocked by the storm shield, which accentuates the sounds of the rain tapping against it. A furious staccato beat. I hope the shield holds; we’ve had to replace windows in the past from less dramatic storms. I’m about to go back to my list when the idea hits.
This work is as much about being creative with your vision as it is about your problem-solving—often the simplest, most obvious solution is the best one, Cecil used to tell me when I trained under him.
—
