“Why? Why me?” I’m crying now, for there is no escape. My fatesealed the moment I signed for that delivery, all those months ago. Oh, how foolish I was, so quick to agree to the work. To not question the wicked serendipity of the project, nor the perilous implications of our shared history.
An overwhelming scent of something floral fills my nose, though it’s not fresh. It’s the odor of decay and I cough, retching violently. I can barely see the woman through my tears.
“Your mother, Mathilde.”
“My mother? What about her?” I can’t understand anything. Black halos close in around my vision. I’m drowning, the decaying flowers clogging my throat.
“I lost my little girl, Marigold. My sweet Mari.”The eyelashes shimmer rapidly. Something drips from the inside corners of her eyes.She’s crying, I think.“Do you know how she died, Mathilde?”
pleasestoppleasestoppleasestoppleasestoppleasestoppleasestopplease…
“She choked,” I manage to say. “When she was five.”
“Yes, my perfect girl choked to death, on a piece of bubblegum. Pink bubblegum, Mathilde, of all things!”
Pink bubblegum.Nothing I’ve read about Charlotte Leclerc contained this small yet significant detail. My mind goes to the painting ofThe Child. To the pink-gum bubble the little girl blew as she skipped. I hear it now, theswish, swish, swishsound that first came to me the night my mother took me to the museum.
Then a vision fills my mind and I know the Mother put it there. It’s of the Child, Marigold, and she’s come to life. She’s under a bluebird sky, skipping, laughing, the rhythmic sweep of the rope timed exactly to the swishing sounds in my head.
Charlotte Leclerc has been haunting me—haunting my mother—from the very beginning.
A searing pain slashes across my chest before settling on the left in a fireball. It’s heartbreak—her heartbreak—visceral, palpable, and it’s consuming me.
“Being Mari’s mother is the most important thing I’ve ever done. Can you imagine what it’s like, Mathilde, to be a doctor and still be unable to save your child? To lose her in such a pointless way? That’s not grief you can live with.”
“I know what it’s like…to be unable to save your own child.” The words leave me like they’re being pulled out of me.
“Yes, I suppose you do.”The woman pauses, the corners of her mouth dropping. The insect wing in her top lip cracks, a drop of deep red filling in the spot.“Your mother felt my pain as she worked, and eventually it consumed her too.”
“My…mother…is dead.” There’s no oxygen left in the room. I’m gasping tiny breaths, but I’m fading.
“I know. I was there.”
Staring at the figure in front of me, the one I’ve painstakingly—most regretfully—conserved, I suddenly understand.
You made her fall.My lips move soundlessly. We’re communicating on a different plane now. I hear her like she’s inside me.
“She was fulfilling a long-ago-made promise,”the woman says.
The painting has come fully alive now. The parts of the insects used to create the woman’s eyelashes, eyebrows, and lips try to reassemble into their whole beings. But tacky inside the paint, the wings and things strain to move, the delicate structures breaking with the effort. The sound of their struggle sickens me.
“I lost my daughter, Mathilde, and Margot wanted to help. So she offered me hers. It’s time to collect on that promise.”
You’re lying…she would never have…, I say, again in my mind.
“You know that black feeling you have right now?”the woman asks.“That devastation? That fear, the raw agony? Your mother couldn’t take it, and she begged for an end. She pleaded for peace.”
My mother was strong.She wouldn’t have let this happen.
“Oh, she tried, Mathilde. She did. But I am stronger. You’ll see…”
I have a sense of falling backward, over a wide expanse of nothingness—right into the black hourglass-shaped hole in thewoman’s chest. It’s wider now, like a never-ending cavern. Soon it devours the studio and everything in it. Me included.
The last thing I’m aware of is a poignantly familiar voice, tender and soothing as it says,“I promise that I tried. I promise you, I tried…
“I’m sorry, my darling.”
It’s early. I’m already out walking, hoping to beat the sticky July heat that will blanket Savannah by midmorning. Pushing the pink-canopied stroller—a baby gift from Kat, Nick, Maeve, and Jenn—I keep a leisurely pace, sticking to the shaded sidewalks. The extensive cover of oaks and moss provides a much-needed sunshade on a day like today. Thankfully, my broken wrist has healed well, and the cast was removed two weeks ago. It hasn’t been easy caring for a newborn with a cast, even if I’ve had plenty of help.
