“Ça peut attendre?” Claude asks the house manager, who shakes his head.
“Excuse me, Mathilde. I must take this, but I won’t be long.” Claude glances at Marisol in her stroller, who has begun reaching for me. She’s likely hungry. “Are you both all right to remain here?”
“We’re fine,” I reply, managing to keep the shake out of my voice. What I want to say is,Please don’t leave, I have so many questions. And then, another thought:Please don’t leave me alone with…them.
Claude nods, smiles at Marisol, and says to me, “I’ll only be a few minutes. Enjoy the gallery, Mathilde.”
He’s gone a moment later, the door closing behind him.
My heart races.Claude “Bernie” Bernard.AC. Bernardsent me a condolence card from Paris after my mother’s death. Claude knew mymother, well enough that he’s procured art she worked on, built a room for it, hired me specifically to handle the conservation of the final piece, the installation…
Marisol begins to cry, snapping me back to the present. “What is it, sweet pea? You hungry?” As I ask it, my milk drops and there’s a dull heaviness in my breasts.
“Hang on, baby girl,” I say, unbuckling her from her stroller. She’s soft and warm, and I snuggle her close for a moment, but she’s impatient and resists me. With deft fingers I unbutton my blouse, the strap of my nursing bra. I’m still shivering, stunned with the revelation of who I believe this collector to be. But the baby’s needs outweigh mine.
Normally she’s an excellent nurser, but today she’s having none of it. Tossing her head back as she cries, using her hands to push me away. It’s strange behavior for her, and I start to worry she’s coming down with something. Terrible timing, if so.
“Okay, you’re not hungry,” I say, staying calm despite the increasing tempo of her crying. The room is even chillier now, probably because I’m half-undressed. I quickly resnap the bra, button up my shirt. Then I hold Marisol in front of me and bounce her on my legs.
“This is the way the horses ride, the horses ride, the horses ride…” My voice has improved with the singing lessons, but it’s still far from good. Normally Marisol doesn’t mind her favorite song being off-key. But she’s inconsolable. I’m getting worried.
“What is it, Marisol? What’s going on?”
I set her in my lap, facing me, and hold my watch a couple of inches from her forehead. The thermometer setting engaged, it beeps when finished.Normal, it reads. Frowning, I use the back of my hand to double-check. She’s sweaty and sticky from crying but doesn’t feel warm. If anything, she’s cool.
Maybe it’s the room’s temperature. I’m full-on trembling now and decide we’ll wait for Claude outside. It’s cloudy, but at least it’s warmer.
“Fresh air will be good for both of us,” I say. I’m about to stand when Marisol suddenly stops crying. I watch as her eyes widen, driftingto something behind me. She tilts her head to the side, trying to see past my head. Then she starts to laugh and squeal, standing on my thighs, her little hands waving excitedly as she pumps her legs the way babies do when getting ready to try to walk.
“Well, that’s nice to see!” Relief floods me. But it doesn’t last long, because a moment later I realize what she’s so enamored with.
The Mother.
Marisol is staring at the painting.
No, no. There has to be something else that caught her attention.But what else could it be?There is literally nothing else on that wall exceptthatpainting. A ribbon of dread fills me, even as I continue searching for another reason for my baby’s sudden delight.
Her eyes stay locked onThe Motheras she continues squealing in delight, stopping occasionally as though she’s listening to something…to someone. I do everything I can to distract her. Including turning her so she can no longer see the painting.
But my efforts only agitate her, and she twists her little body, grunting in frustration.
“Okay, Marisol. It’s time to go.” My voice is firm, but I can hear the panic in it. I want to get the hell out of this room and as far away fromThe Motheras I can. I’m reaching for the stroller’s handle when I hear it, and everything slows down.
A rhythmicswish, swish, swish. Frighteningly familiar—the same strange sound I heard at the museum that long-ago night with my mother. Exactly like theswish-sweepI heard more recently in my studio.
Now a softthudjoins the melody, coming in after each swish. I turn slowly toward the sounds, breathless. At first, nothing seems amiss. Until theswish-thud-swish-thudbecomes louder, as though someone has turned up the volume. Then I see it. The Child is skipping, inside the painting.
Theswishis the rope brushing the ground under her Mary Jane–clad feet.
Thethud, the sound of her feet landing once they’ve cleared the rope.
Something fractures inside me. My eyes stay onThe Childfor a few more seconds, enough time to see her blow a glistening pink bubble as she skips. Then her eyes move, locking onto mine. She smiles, and the bubble pops. I’m overcome by the scent of sweet bubblegum, which somehow fills the cavernous room.
I shout for help before remembering the room has been designed for a fully immersive experience. No sound can get in or out. But the door is only fifteen feet away. I can make it.
Marisol lets out another happy giggle, still staring atThe Mother. I don’t want to look, but I can’t stop myself.Something’s changed, I think when I turn my head. There’s a flutter of the feathered insect antennae, her long eyelashes batting.
The Mother’s eyes open, landing on Marisol first. The baby laughs, reaching away from me, straining to get closer to the painting. I hold her tightly, and she thrashes about and wails in my arms.
