That counts for something. In fact, it counts for everything.
Emmy lent me the floor-length black dress I’m wearing under my coat. I’m pretty sure it was meant to be her dress for Lizbeth’s Holiday Ball based on how much it glitters in the early morning sunlight, but I’m grateful nonetheless. I’m happy to dress up for Phantom today. We didn’t get to have our fancy gala night like the rest of the school will.
“You look beautiful, dear,” Dean Reithart says as she takes my arm.
“Thank you.”
I wring my shaking hands together as we begin the walk across town. The funeral home is less than a mile away and it’s a beautiful, if not crisp, day for a walk.
Her eyes twinkling, Dean Reithart says, “I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
I nod, though I cannot help but question her motives.A surprise? At a funeral? At my partner’s funeral, no less? What is she thinking?
We make the rest of the journey in silence, enjoying the sun shining down on our faces on this mild winter day. My heart races when we enter the building. Dean Reithart had said Phantom’s parents wouldn’t be happy to see me here today, but I have no idea how they’ll react.
The halls of the funeral home are embellished in varying shades of dark wood with emerald accents, and the scent of floral incenseis thick in the air. I tighten my grip on Dean Reithart’s arm, and she pats my hand reassuringly.
When we enter the observance room, the first thing my eyes fall upon is the closed casket. I know it’s empty. I know that, and still, my stomach drops like I’m in free fall. Tears stain my cheeks almost instantly.
“This way,” Dean Reithart instructs softly, pulling me to the left side of the room. It’s then that I notice the canvases. My gaze sweeps across the room. There must be at least fifty of them. Phantom’s paintings.
“Let’s start here,” Dean Reithart says. “They painted this when they were just six years old.”
It’s beautiful. Sure, the brush strokes are a bit sloppy, and the colors don’t mesh together well, but still, it shows a skill level beyond their young years. I chuckle thickly as I study it. I’ve never seen a cuter or more endearing artistic depiction of the characters fromKung Fu Panda.
We move along slowly, giving each and every painting our undivided attention. Paintings of a small yard blanketed in snow, of toy cars, airplanes, and dolls, of flowers in full bloom, and a steaming pile of buttery pancakes. Seeing Phantom’s childhood like this, through the eyes of the innocent soul Phantom claimed I saved, is a true blessing.
Voice trembling, I whisper my gratitude to the woman beside me, “Thank you for this.”
“Of course, my dear. I wanted you to see their early days. To see that they’d experienced true happiness with art... for a time.”
When we make it halfway through the semi-circle of paintings, they begin to change. No longer are they depictions of whimsical things or childish joy. Instead, they become calculated, and void of all emotion. I can feel Phantom’s desperation in these paintings. Their formal still lifes and portraits, as if they were assignmentsfor school. Their desperation, and hunger for approval, emanates from them.
Then, about three-quarters of the way through, the paintings change again, suddenly resembling the mural on top of our dorm roof. Dark, gory depictions of physical and emotional pain. A demon clawing out of a person’s mouth. A severed, bleeding hand painting an all-black canvas. A skull cracked down the middle with a shadowed being laughing maniacally inside. The shiver that slithers down my spine rocks me to my core.
This is what Phantom escaped. I knew it, and yet, seeing these paintings from their final months, makes it so much more real. I understand better now.
“Ms. Johnson,” Dean Reithart begins, “I would like to give you each and every one of these paintings. In fact, I would like for you to have them all. All seven hundred and eight of Phantom’s original works that I was able to collect.”
Even though I’d heard her perfectly, I ask, rather dumbly, “What?”
Her lips tremble before she says, “I have a feeling Phantom would’ve wanted you to have them.”
Stammering, I say, “But, I—I have nowhere to put—”
“Don’t think on that for a second,” she tuts. “I’ll store them for you until you find a proper place for them. Whether that be a museum, or a gallery, or perhaps a studio of your own one day. I’ll keep them safe for you until you decide.”
Again, I’m speechless. And just as I’m gathering myself, four people enter the room.
“Grandma!” a young girl with black hair and dark green eyes squeals as she darts toward us.
“Ah, my sweet! How I’ve missed you,” Dean Reithart cries as she wraps the child in a warm embrace.
“Who’s this, Grandma?” Phantom’s little sister asks.
