The remains

Chapter 12

I flew into ceramic-tiled bathroom, made my way for an empty stall, dropped to my knees, buried my face in the toilet. But all I could manage was to purge an acidic mixture of bile and hot latte. Still, my stomach convulsed, chest heaved, sternum split down the center.

After a time I got back up onto my feet, somewhat dizzy, out of balance, mouth tasting like turpentine. Stepping out of the stall, I made my way over to the sink, turned on the cold water, positioned my open mouth under the faucet, and rinsed it out. I then splashed the water onto my face.

My face. Molly’s face. Just as chalky and ghost-white as the day she died. While the water dripped off my chin into the sink, I breathed careful inhales and exhales. Calm enveloped me like a blanket. But it did nothing to end the fear I still felt for Whalen even after all these years. It did nothing to end the sadness I felt for Molly.

Pulling a handful of paper towels from the wall-mounted dispenser, I thought about heading back to the classroom when the wood door flung open.

Robyn.

She stood tall, narrow-hipped, cotton t-shirt barely concealing a belly button pierced with a silver hoop. She stuck both hands into the pockets of her low-waist Gap jeans.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “Franny thinks you don’t like his painting. And might I remind you that Franny’s mother has provided us with one huge annual contribution to pretty much be professional art cheerleaders for her gifted artist-in-residence.”

I inhaled again, nodded.

Robyn was right. What was going on with me? You just don’t walk out on a talent like that; on a sweet human being like that.

“This isn’t one of those words-in-the-painting things is it, Bec? Because if it is, I’m calling Albany Psychiatric.”

“Phone book’s in the bottom desk drawer in the front office,” I said, trying my best to work up a smile through all the lightheadedness, the dizziness. “Unless of course you want to just cut to the chase and call 9-1-1.”

How can she not make out the word ‘See’ in the tall grass? How is it that I see it and she can’t unless I spell it out for her?

Robyn pursed her lips, ran an open hand through thick hair.

“You wanna tell me what you see this time? You wanna talk about it?” Her voice became calmer, more sympathetic.

Should I be honest with her? Reveal precisely what I saw inside Franny’s canvas? The field and the dark woods behind my parents’ house, the painting depicting them precisely the way I see them in my dreams? The way I remember them from that long ago October afternoon? Should I tell her that in the dark and light shadowing of the tall grass blowing in the wind I recognized the letters S-e-e? Should I tell her that Franny’s paintings were somehow speaking to me?

Robyn was my friend and partner. Still, intuition told me to shut up about this one. That yesterday’s ‘Listen’ episode had been enough weirdness for one week.

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I’m just feeling nauseous is all. It’ll pass.”

Reaching out with her dominant hand, Robyn pressed her cold palm against my forehead.

“Cold and clammy,” she commented, then spoke in the third person. “Is it alive or is it Memorex?”

I had to wonder.

“Maybe you should go home, go back to bed. I can handle things here. It’s just Franny and those two rich old ladies who can’t paint worth a crap. ‘Sides, we’re not running any classes this afternoon or tonight.” She quickly lowered her head, made like she was looking under the stall to make certain one of those same rich old ladies didn’t occupy it.

“It’ll pass, whatever it is,” I repeated while trying to get around her to the door. The former Catholic school girl’s room had suddenly become too small for the both of us.

“Wait a minute,” she barked. “You’re not getting off that easy, Miss Underhill.”

I about-faced, my hand still clutching the door opener. Somehow I sensed what was coming. I could tell by the pensive look on her face.

“You’re not…” Instead of finishing the question, she held an open hand out in front of her stomach as if to indicate a growing belly.

“Not a chance,” I said. “You have to engage in consensual sexual activity for that to happen.”

“Uh huh,” Robyn murmured with one of her sly smiles and a wink of her right eye.

I could have slapped her. But at least she made me smile again.

She cocked her head in the direction of the door.

“Let’s get out of here before the old ladies think we’re getting it on.” she giggled.

Together we exited the bathroom.

“Don’t you want to know?” Robyn said while we were walking the corridor.

“Don’t I want to know what?”

We were standing outside the studio door.

“How my date went last night?”

I’d completely forgotten.

“How’d your date go last night, Rob?”

She threw me another wink of that right eye. “I just hope I don’t start feeling nauseas.”