“Shh, shh, shh, shh,” I say, pacing the small studio in circles. The record continues playing, and I hum along. Soon the baby softens against me, and though she continues whimpering, she’s losing steam.
I bounce her gently while I look out the window, at the large oak in front of our home. It looks different now, the sudden disappearance of the Spanish moss a curious mystery that Wyatt is determined to solve. An arborist is coming by later today. Clementine misses the moss and thinks the tree misses it too.
“The tree doesn’t need it, Clem,” I say to her at breakfast, when she brings it up again. “Nature knows what it’s doing. We shouldn’t interfere.” This mollifies her, at least for the time being.
The cicadas are loud today, their song piercing the studio’s window, which is closed to keep the cool air inside. In another week or so the insects will go silent, their mass death happening seemingly all at once. For a short time our sidewalks will be blanketed with exoskeletons, before city workers arrive to clean up the mess.
“You’ll be a teenager the next time this brood appears,” I whisper. Her little body becomes still against mine. I smile into her soft wisps of hair, which tickle my lips.
“Sleep well, my darling. Momma’s got you, Marisol. Momma’s got you.”
I haven’t been truthful about everything.
For one thing, I remember what happened in the studio that day, during the storm. Before the painting took me and everything went dark. Though I can’t explain how I was found outside the locked studio door, so I leave that one be.
However, I tell Ana, Wyatt, and Dr. Rice at the hospital, after I regain consciousness from surgery, that I have no recollection of what happened. “The last thing I remember is going upstairs, wanting to double-check the storm windows on the third floor,” I say.
Like Yasmeen, they are grateful the memory of my water breaking, of the collapse, is lost to the trauma.
“All that matters is that you’re still here. That you’re both safe,” Wyatt replies, through unrelenting tears, holding our brand-new swaddled baby in his arms.
I also can’t explain the shape the painting is in, when I finally get home and unlock my studio door. Not only is it undamaged; it’s completely conserved. Flat on my workbench, the inflated cover tightly wrapped against the corners. When I uncover it, holding my breath, Isee the subject’s eyes are closed. The heart in her hand still, no evidence it ever beat wildly in three dimensions. Insect wings and antennae intact, mouth closed in its original semi-frown. I arrange for immediate, same-day shipping. Raoul arrives to pack the piece for me, bringing blueberry and lemon muffins, a baby rattle ideal for teething, and an art kit for Clementine. Two hours later a drone carries the crated painting out of my house and off to the collector many states away.
While my ordeal left me with no physical reminders—minus the broken wrist—there have been mental fractures. Moments when I find myself drifting, not quite tethered to the present. Strange bits of knowledge I can’t remember learning land in my mind, like with the cicadas. Or like the delivery of the dragonfly wings. Sometimes, odd sounds and smells reach me, like the flutter of insect wings, but without the insects. Or the sickly-sweet tang of old-fashioned pink bubblegum, which you haven’t been able to buy for years because of governmental food additive restrictions.
Sometimes I wonder if it truly all happened the way I remember. It would be easy to doubt my experiences. To believe the stress of the pregnancy caused a mental breakdown, this bizarre separation with reality. I do try that on, to see how it feels. But I’m left with too many hanging threads. Far too many moments that don’t fit neatly into that box.
These days, I think often about what my mother wrote in her presentation. The one she never delivered, because she fell down the stairs at our home and broke her neck before she could.
When we restore art—breathing new life into the brushstrokes, colors, shapes, and textures—a conservator must ask: have we also brought the artist herself back from the dead?
It’s a good, relevant question that I don’t know the answer to.
Or maybe I don’t want to know the answer.
After
When I installThe Motherin the collector’s home some months later, in the Leclerc Room, I suggest a change to the display.
“The Mothershould hang on the opposing wall toThe Child,” I say. Claude, the collector—an elderly but spry man, with impeccably combed-over salt-and-pepper hair, green eyes, and a bespoke black paisley suit—raises an eyebrow but gives me his full attention.
“I believe it’s how Charlotte Leclerc would have displayed them,” I add. “WithThe Motherwatching overThe Child.”
“Mathilde, you are the expert,” he replies, his thick French accent making my name sound beautiful. I introduced myself as Tilly, but he scrunched his nose at that, asked if I minded if he called me Mathilde instead. I didn’t, so he did.
We stand side by side in the large, windowless room, its eggshell-white walls stretching high to meet plaster crown moldings. The moldings are painted gold to complement the heavy gold frames encasing each of the four pieces. We’re directly in front ofThe Mother, and the protective film has been removed.
I’ve felt much trepidation about this moment. I’ve been dreading it, in fact. What if my mind plays tricks on me? What if I lose time, here in the collector’s home? But it has been months, and I know from personal experience that even the most traumatic memories lose power over time. Yet, I wasn’t sure how I’d react, being in her presence.
Raoul offered to install the painting, which I seriously considered. But when I discussed it with Maeve, whom I’ve also kept certain details from, she suggested seeing it through.
“Facing that painting again—now that Marisol is here, and you’re healthy and strong—may help process the trauma of her birth experience,” she said. Her words sent a mini shock of realization through me, and I knew she was right. So I decided to finish what I started. To prove I’m stronger than the demons that painting brought forth in me.
I expect the installation to be smooth and simple, and it is. Nothing out of the ordinary, which bolsters my confidence that this was the right choice. I did experience a jolt of adrenaline and a rise of emotion when I first walked into the room, taking inThe Healer,The Dreamer,The Child, already on the walls. NotingThe Mother, still covered, on the installation robot called ARTIS (Automated Robotic Technology for Installation and Sculpture). Charlotte Leclerc’s final piece; the last memento of her strange and mysterious legacy.
Time to close this door, Tilly. Don’t forget to lock it and throw away the key.
After I enter instructions for the ARTIS installation,The Healeris taken down and reinstalled soThe Mothercan be displayed across fromThe Child. It all takes no more than an hour, and then Claude asks me to sit with him for a moment.
