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o paintings in front of me.
“This one…why…how…how did you paint her?”
“Who is she?” He examined the painting, still without a clue.
“My mother.”
Chapter 7
It looked so real.
Almost like a memory I had forgotten myself.
My mother and I sat on a picnic blanket in the middle of the park, the grass the most beautiful shade of green. I couldn’t have been more than five or six. My curly hair was in pigtails, and I wore jean overalls. She sat in a long white skirt that went to her ankles and pink blouse. Her hair was just as curly as mine, and she didn’t hold it back. She was laughing, while I had my mouth open, leaning in to take a bite of the yellow cake in her hand. All around us, people were going about their day, but their faces were blurred like nothing else was in focus but us, and we didn’t care about the rest of the world, either. We were just a mother and daughter enjoying a day at the park.
“Do you remember this day?” he asked softly.
“This day never happened.” But I wished it had. So badly, I did. “My mother died giving birth to me.”
At that, his grey eyes focused on me, and I was torn between walking closer and staying farther away.
“How could you have painted her? How do you know my mother? I don’t understand.” The sickness was gone, and now panic remained as I looked at the other paintings. They were all of me, as a young girl, maybe eight, and then me at sixteen and eighteen and twenty-two and, me most recently as last year at my twenty-sixth birthday. In all, I did the most ordinary and mundane things. Sitting at a coffee shop. Swimming in a pound. Shopping for a birthday cake. They all looked so real, just like the painting of my mother and me.
“I would say you’ve been stalking me, but stalking doesn’t seem right because I hate cake. I never learned how to swim, and I…”
“You hate cake?” he asked softly.
“I don’t celebrate my birthday, and even if I did, I wouldn’t buy a cake for myself. That would be sad.” I looked from the paintings to him. “Why did you paint these? Why are they here? You sent a note?”
He opened his mouth and then closed it again, showing me just how ridiculous my habit must have looked to other people. The frown on his face was severe, and he could only look back to his art. “I honestly do not know. I recall painting you only once, and that was as my mother described what you looked like over my shoulder. These—they are as strange to me as they are to you.”
“Close but not quite,” I muttered, following their gaze. Over the shock of seeing my own face, I walked up to examine them. “They are different from your other work.”
“How so?”
“It isn’t obvious?” I pointed to the older paintings he’d set aside as if they were of no importance at all. “Your earlier work is all neo-classical and steeped in the Renaissance school of art. But these, to me, are clearly from the Impressionist period, more Monet than Raphael. You had a heavy hand; the paint is thick, but there is more of a flow…” I drifted off, following the brushstrokes in the clouds. They looked so soft and full, almost lifting from the page, and I wanted to touch them.
“Druella.”
“Yes?” I put my hand down and spun around like I was a child caught trying to steal a cookie.
The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile, but I could still see he was bothered.
“I am quite glad you enjoy the artistry, but I am more concerned by their existence.” He stepped toward me. “Please tell me, do you ever recall meeting me? Before our encounter yesterday.”
“Never,” I said automatically.
“Not even passing on the street or have you forgotten anything—”
“I have a very good memory,” I said more than sure. “I’m sometimes terrible at names, but I never forget a face, and until yesterday, I had never seen yours.”
He nodded. “I guess I have no choice.”
“No choice but what?” I said wearily.
“Find out what happened to my memory.”
My shoulders dropped as I relaxed. “Of course, I told you that should be your number one priority.”
