Though shelf-stable, when mixed with certain compounds potassium permanganate becomes combustible, which is why it’s not in mysolvents cupboard. I tighten my mask and slow my breathing, needing absolute focus.
I have used potassium permanganate only once, as it isn’t a typical compound employed in art conservation. A film crew, working in Savannah a few years ago, wanted to “instant age” artwork to have that sepia-brown, vintage patina. They called GIA for consultation on the project, and I volunteered to help because it sounded like a fun change of pace. The compound worked beautifully, and the remainder of the oxidant has been sealed up in my studio cabinet ever since.
With a pipette I draw a few drops of glycerin from its glass bottle, then carefully deposit the clear, viscous fluid into the well I’ve created in a small pile of potassium permanganate. I’m using a glass beaker to mix the compounds and have tied a linen ribbon to one of my brushes, creating a small knot in the end of it.
I can’t even think about how irresponsible this is—creating fire inside my studio, inside myhome, with Clementine and Shelby two floors below. It’s dangerous, but it’s also illegal and I would face charges if I were to get caught.
It takes only a minute or so for the glycerin and potassium permanganate to ignite, a narrow but powerful flame leaping upward in the beaker. I touch the linen knot to the flame, and it soon catches, creating a mini torch. It’s been a long time since I handled fire, and I’m nervous. I wrap my other hand around the trembling one, keeping it steady, and step carefully toward the painting.
One quick breath in and out, then I press the burning linen knot into the face of the Mother. Holding it there, I watch carefully so I can inflict enough damage but not create a fire I can’t control. A small hole forms between the subject’s eyes, which begin to droop due to the heat and flame’s effects on the paint and canvas. Next, the mouth. The insect wing catches fire in a little poof of flame. Another hole forms in the canvas, the subject’s face a mangled mask.
The ventilation system comes on, clearing the smoke with rapidefficiency. I’m about to set the flaming linen to her left eye when I notice smoke billowing from the hole between the eyes. It’s subtle at first, and I surmise it’s merely the canvas smoldering from the burn.
Soon, however, the smoke intensifies. It transforms into a thick band of fog that obscures the burned-through hole. I’m mesmerized, until the torch suddenly extinguishes in my hands, like a blown-out birthday cake candle. I watch the foggy smoke part like a curtain.
The hole I’ve burned between her eyes has disappeared. The paint is intact, no longer blistered and blackened. A moment later the fog patch drifts to the mouth, where I’ve made a second burn hole, and I watch the process repeat itself. When the smoke dissipates, the damage is once again fixed. There’s no evidence whatsoever that I stuck a burning torch into the painting.
“It’s too late, for I’m nearly whole again,”a voice whispers.“Save your precious energy. Save it for our baby, Mathilde.”
“No, no, no,” I moan, wrapping my hands around my stomach.
The Mother’s lip twitches once more, her smile deepening. I hold my breath as the twitch transforms into a Cheshire cat–like smile, revealing a row of teeth, sharp-looking and pearly white, andnotthere before.
I’m so distressed by the teeth that the sound of fluttering wings doesn’t immediately capture my attention. But soon it’s impossible to miss, and I’m reminded (with fresh terror) of the moths that took over Clementine’s room. Whipping around, I search for the flying insects, but there are none to be found. Because the sound isn’t from something in the room…it’s coming from insideThe Mother.
The paint quakes violently against the canvas, like something is trying to break free.
She’s trying to get out.
I’m outside my studio, back against the landing’s wall, staring at the painting through the open door. Still shocked by my workbench tilting up, without me being near the control panels. The painting is upright now, and the subject faces me directly. So, it’s more accurate to say I’m staring at her…and she’s staring back at me, still smiling.
I’ve put as much distance between myself andThe Motheras I can, while still being able to watch the painting. I refuse to take my eyes off her.
It continues raining. Hard. The house creaks and groans with the shifting winds.
I think again of Wyatt working in this, hopefully safe.
I think, oddly, of Ana’s client, fervently wishing both baby and mom are okay.
I take in gulps of air, my lungs refusing to fully inflate.
I imagine my baby, tucked up inside the safety of my body.
I remember that today would have been my mom’s sixty-seventh birthday.
I’m shaking, tears streaming down my face.
Finally, I think about Charlotte Leclerc and the woman in the painting.
WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
The subject’s eyes—exactly like my own—are wide open, watching me watch her. Every now and then I catch a flutter of her moth-antennae eyelashes. I stare with so much effort that my eyes twitch.
Eventually, I have to blink.
After a split second of darkness, my eyes open and everything has changed.
She’s no longer smiling, those sharp white teeth hidden behind closed lips. Her eyes are now closed. The pink heart in her hand is motionless, thelub-dubsound gone.
