There is no movement whatsoever in the artwork. It’s still, once again.
I scramble to my feet, with some difficulty due to my belly and the aftereffects of my panic.
Was any of this real?I stand in the doorway, scanning the painting for any signs of life.
Wait…was that…?Something’s happening. A slight wheeze of breath reaches my ears.
Inhalations and exhalations. Steady and rhythmic, like the sounds of someone sleeping deeply beside you in the dark. I focus on the black hourglass in the subject’s chest.
There’s a faint pulsing around the hourglass’s edge, then a rising of the chest until it hits the constraints of the canvas. Stretching out toward me; going flat again.
Then, a moment of quiet between the breaths.
My water breaks in the doorway as I’m trying to process that the subject isbreathing.
It happens with such suddenness I’m initially confused about where the liquid has come from.Is there a leak in the roof? Did I lose control of my bladder?I reach between my legs, touch the expanding wetness, then sniff my hand. Not urine.
I’m almost thirty-five weeks, so it’s too soon for labor. But my body has other plans. The pain in my middle is poker hot, searing me from the inside out. It’s alarming, the pain. I don’t remember it being this intense with Clementine. Nor with Poppy, at least not until things became horrific.
I shriek in agony before collapsing to my hands and knees on the landing, the puddle of fluid I land in seeping between my fingers, soaking my leggings.
Clementine comes running up the stairs, from one floor below, having heard me scream from her bedroom. “Mommy! What’s wrong?”
I can’t speak. My breath is gone, my lungs constricted by the blinding pain across my abdomen. I retch, but nothing comes up.
Clementine stands in front of me, her back to the still-open studio door. I can only see her feet, unable to raise my head. Her white socks grow damp from my waters. She picks up one foot, twists to look at her sock. “Why is my sock wet? Did you spill something, Momma?”
“Baby…get…away…from…” I need to get Clementine away from the doorway. Away from the painting.
But she can’t understand what I want, because I can’t communicate. I’m gasping for air. Clementine crouches, ducking her head to try to see my face. “Why are you on the floor? Are you okay, Mommy?”
I shake my head, stopping when the dizziness threatens to overtake me. The clenching agony comes in unrelenting waves. I gather energy and focus on my words.Shut the door, baby. Don’t look inside. But I can’t get them out. My head swims and I’m moments away from losing consciousness.
Suddenly, Clementine stands, then turns toward my studio. “Pardon me?” she asks, using her most polite voice. This tells me whoever she’s speaking to is a grown-up.
For a moment I’m relieved, thinking Shelby’s come upstairs to see what we’re up to. Clementine is simply confused about where her nana’s voice is coming from, which is why she’s turned toward the studio and not the staircase. But then she steps over the threshold, and I realize she’s about to walk into the studio.
I reach out to grab her. But I’m too weak, too late, and Clementine is inside the room, facing the painting. Over Clementine’s head I see the subject’s eyes, open again, trained on my daughter. The woman’s lips are moving, whispering something I can’t hear over my own roaring heartbeat and the ringing in my ears.
Clementine takes a step closer to the painting. “That’s a pretty name,” she says, seemingly unfazed that a painting has become animated and is speaking to her. But that’s typical of this generation—they’ve grown up with such technology as a regular part of life. Inanimate objects are regularly animated, for entertainment, as well as for educational and practical reasons.
“Don’t talk to her, Clementine. Please, baby, listen to me,” I plead, my voice raspy. But Clementine doesn’t appear to hear me, doesn’t turn around.
“I still hope it’s a boy. I like the name Virgil—‘Gill’ for short,” Clementine says. There’s a pause. I strain to hear what’s being said, but there’s nothing beyond the gale outside and my own body’s alarm systems. My heart beats dangerously fast. I still can’t move from my hands and knees.
“Clementine, please…” A deep cramp clutches me and I groan.
“Your eyes look like my momma’s eyes,” Clementine’s voice rings out.
“No…Clementine,” I try again, but the unrelenting contractions hold me in a vise grip, stealing my breath. The baby is coming; it’s too soon.
“Turn…around…Don’t look at her…no, don’t talk to her. Please, Clem,turn around.”
She finally seems to hear me and turns toward me. Her eyes are unfocused, her mouth hanging open. I need to get her out of there. I need to protect her from whatever this malignant spell is.
But before I can do anything, in an awe-filled voice, Clementine says, “Momma, did you see the painted lady’s eyes? They’re exactly the same—”
The door slams shut, cutting me off from my daughter, who is now alone inside the studio with the painting.
