Glow Page 3

  Near seven o’clock, though we hadn’t finished wringing the wash, I convinced Charlotte to help me carry the basket up to the roof so we could hang some of it up to dry. When the church clock struck seven, I turned so that I could see the gates of ARC open, and like they did six nights a week, the girls streamed out, finished with the day’s work. How many times had I stood on this roof, watching them with longing and envy? Admiring how beautiful they were in the darkness, glowing like luminous snowflakes as they drifted through the streets of Orange? How much I had wanted to be one, and now I was. Tomorrow I would be among them, shining for everyone to see that I, too, was one of the lucky ones.

  It was only then that I realized I had never asked Liza what was ailing Edna Parsons. What could possibly make her so ill as to leave her job at ARC, knowing full well that it would not be held for her?

  Then I realized that I didn’t really want to know.

  Over supper, I allowed Liza to share my good news. Oh, Walter! It was the happiest supper we’ve had since Father passed. Mother and Charlotte were so thrilled for me—for all of us, really, because Liza was absolutely right. It’s no secret that ARC pays better than any other factory, even the girls! And the work isn’t bad, either, so Liza says. I will find out for myself tomorrow.

  I can hear Liza washing her face, so I’d best finish this and seal it in an envelope, or else I just know she will read it while I sleep. I vowed to have a letter to you in the post today and have clearly failed, but I thought it was important to tell you everything—everything!—that happened. Still, it pains me to think of you not hearing from me at the first possible opportunity and wondering if I’ve already broken faith. But I haven’t and never will.

  My darling Walter, it’s difficult to believe that just twenty-four hours ago you took me in your arms and kissed away my tears, and now I don’t even know where you are—if you are spending a night at the docks, or in some lonely barracks somewhere, or if you have already set sail for war-torn shores, with only the vast ocean swirling around your ship for as far as your eyes can see. I look up at the stars and make our secret wish, just as we promised. Perhaps, at this very moment, you are doing the same. Your handkerchief is tucked away beneath my pillow. I am counting the moments until I can press it to my face, to feel you as close as you can be tonight, and to dream of the day when you will come back to me.

  I remain, ever most faithfully yours,

  Lydia

  Chapter 3

  I woke up scratchy-eyed the next morning. My alarm had already been beeping for ten minutes by the time I was conscious enough to smack it silent. The room was obscenely bright, the curtains stretched wide apart. I must have forgotten to close them before I finally fell asleep.

  I sat up and looked at my painting. With so much sunlight streaming into the room, there was no sign of its glow-in-the-dark secrets, but it was enough for me to know that they were there. They had to be, right? I hadn’t stayed up until four a.m., searching the canvas, researching what I’d found, for nothing, right?

  Like that French, for example: mon amour est plus grand que les étoiles. Well. Who’d have thought that four years of high-school Spanish would fail me so soon after graduation—especially ironic since I’d snubbed French as a waste of time. I could speculate that the phrase had something to do with love. Infinite love, maybe? But what did I know?

  The Internet saved me, offering a translation of “My love is infinitely greater than the stars.” It was pretty, almost poetic—but more than that, it was personal. Whoever it was intended for, the message had to be a clue.

  A clue to what? Maybe to the purpose behind the painting or the reason I’d needed it so badly, or maybe even to the artist’s identity. Her initials (for some reason I was sure the artist was a girl) glowed in the dark, a lacy LG looped together in the lower left corner like strands of cobweb. I had traced her initials again and again overnight, so surprised by her choice to make her identity disappear in the day. That would make it more difficult to find any other paintings, but I was up to the challenge—starting with the one I’d left behind, with its New York skyline. I needed the next chapter in this story.

  The owner of Lost & Found raised an eyebrow when I walked into the store, but I didn’t care as I hurried back to the art section. I spotted the New York painting right away. The street was lined with little shops. I could make out a florist’s window crowded with roses and a hat shop full of adorable old-fashioned hats. There was a bakery. A post office. A dentist. Each building was made of rough strokes, thick with texture and dried paint, and one corner of the painting had been damaged so that the bare canvas was exposed. Only later, after what I saw in the dark, did I stop assuming that was an accident and start wondering if it had been a deliberate artistic choice.

  Even without the Empire State Building towering above the streets (and, as I looked again, I noticed that there was no Chrysler Building, either), I could tell that this city scene was a snippet of old New York. The focal point was the Flatiron Building, an awkwardly beautiful triangular tower jutting into the middle of street as if it had every right to be there. I recognized it from my visit for the prospective-student tours at Parsons and NYU last summer. Afterward, my mom and I had wandered up Fifth Avenue and sat in a park across from the Flatiron. It was so stunning, so unique and unusual and unexpected, that I thought, If this is what New York City can do with a building, what could it do with me?

  That felt like a long time ago, now.

  “So I changed my mind,” I told the woman as I hoisted the painting onto the counter. “I’m going to buy this one too.”

  A grin spread across her face. “I knew you would!” she said proudly—smugly?—as she reached for the roll of brown paper. “I knew those two couldn’t be apart. That’ll be ten dollars, hon.”

  “Ten?” I repeated. “But…it was five yesterday. Actually, you offered me a discount if I bought both.”

  “Oh, well, that was yesterday,” she said as she turned on the cash register, punching in her password with a stubby finger. “Sale’s over now.”

  “But why did the price go up?”

  Her eyes were wide, phony innocent, as she looked at me. “You know. Supply and demand.”

  My stomach clenched. How had I screwed this up? Why hadn’t I just bought it yesterday? Because I never expected to want it—to need it. Because I never expected her to be so greedy, I thought.

  But the truth was that for me, making the wrong choice had become an art.

  I smiled weakly. “Please,” I said. “Will you sell it for the original price? Please? I came all the way back just to buy this painting.”

  “Sorry, hon,” she said. “It might be just five dollars to you, but a five-dollar loss is a big deal to a small-business owner like me.”

  Stupid hot tears filled my eyes, and I blinked fast, willing my eyeballs to absorb them. But she could see the extra shine in my eyes, I think. Something softened in her face, and I went for it, all the way, even though I knew how ashamed I’d feel later. I put my sweaty, wrinkly money on the counter and looked directly in her eyes. “Please,” I said one more time, a perfectly controlled waver in my voice. “This is all the money I have.”

  It was true, after all.

  She sighed as she bent over to count the crumpled bills. “You really need this painting?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding like a little kid. “I really do.”

  “Okay, then. But next time—no discounts.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “I really, really appreciate it.”

  When the painting was wrapped, she slid it back across the counter to me, then placed something in my hand. “Here’s my card, hon. I have a feeling you’ll be back.”

  I glanced down at the card and read:

  LOST & FOUND

  Antiques and Oddities, Sold on Consignment

  Andrea Spinelli, Owner

  I smiled really big to make sure she couldn’t read my secret thought: Why would I come back
after you made me beg?

  * * *

  Work dragged even more slowly than usual. When nine o’clock came, I was the first one out. I was glad that the painting was wrapped in paper; I didn’t want to catch a glimpse of its glow-in-the-dark secrets in the trunk of my car—not when I could hang it in my room and do it right.

  Only after my bedroom was blazing with light did I unwrap the new painting. I wondered how it would change in the dark. Would there be people in the streets? In the shops? Why, I wondered, were the streets so empty? Where was everybody? Even back then, New York was the city that never slept, right?

  Suddenly, the house seemed too quiet. I turned away from the painting, fast, and turned off the lights.

  Click.

  “Jesus,” I breathed, shoving my fingers into my eyes as if I could erase what I’d seen, hoping for a half second that I was hallucinating, or dreaming, or just wrong about the nightmare next to my bed. My hand hovered near the light switch for a moment; then, against all my better instincts, I moved toward the canvas instead.

  What was painted there was so gruesome that it seared into my brain instantly, and I knew I could never scrub the memory from my mind. I wanted to look away. I needed to look away. I should have looked away, but I couldn’t.

  Each building had become a face, and each face was in agony, each mouth pocked with crumbling and missing teeth, each eyeball rattling in a yawning socket, each hollow cheek reduced to nothing but skin stretched over skull. It was a row of prisoners, of victims, of ghouls, and each one seemed to be groaning, to be screaming.

  Then I noticed a message written in the starless sky:

  Ça vient pour moi, je crois.

  I wasn’t scared—not really scared, anyway—so I don’t know why my fingers were trembling as I typed the words into my phone.

  I think it comes for me.

  If the first message was personal, this one was even more so: a warning, a threat, a cry for help.

  And here I was, all alone, hearing it how many years later?

  It was impossible to tell.

  What happened to you? I longed to ask the artist. Instead, I took the painting off the wall and carried it to my closet.

  Then I changed my mind and leaned it against the wall, right next to the first painting. They belonged together, after all. I sat in front of the paintings and forced myself to stare at the terrible one until it became familiar, the way bad things can be absorbed until you forget just how awful they really are.

  After all, she had been brave enough to paint it.

  I could at least be brave enough to look.

  * * *

  When I got home from work the next afternoon, Mom was standing in the kitchen, staring at the dishwasher as if she could fix it through mind power. First the microwave, then the dishwasher, then the-freezer-but-not-the-fridge-thank-God. Ignoring their brokenness was a big part of pretending everything here was just fine.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said, rummaging through the mail on the table, secretly hoping to see my dad’s handwriting even though the monthly envelopes had stopped coming last fall. He used to send exactly twelve a year, with two checks in each: one for child support and alimony, one for my college savings account. His last envelope had also contained a terse note, half apologetic and half defensive, saying that he’d be in touch when he could. It took us two months to realize what he should have said: no more support checks, despite the court order. At least he’d sent the note. Otherwise, we might have thought he was dead.

  “Hey, sunshine. Have a good day?”

  I shrugged. “Good enough. And I’m not scheduled at McDonald’s tonight, so Lauren’s coming over.”

  “Oh good!” Mom said, suddenly perky. “I haven’t seen her in a while. I was afraid you two had a fight.”

  “Nope. Just busy,” I said. “Working.” I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, trying to figure out how to say this next part. “So I heard these guys talking in the break room today. There’s a job fair in Hillcrest next week.”

  She turned away from me and plunged her hands into the sink to tackle two days’ worth of dishes. “Oh? Are you planning to go?”

  Not me. You, I thought. But what I said was, “Maybe we could both go! It’s for that new factory—”

  “A factory?” Mom interrupted me. “Assembly lines? I’m not qualified for anything like that.”

  “But there’s got to be, you know, administrative positions. Office stuff. You could totally do that!”

  She didn’t say anything, but could I stop myself? Nope.

  “Come on. I’ll take the day off and go with you. They said you need to get there early, like six a.m.” I plowed on. “I know you could get an office job there. I bet there will even be benefits!”

  “I can go by myself,” she finally said.

  “Okay,” I said, trying not to sigh. I’d take the day off anyway, just in case she changed her mind. I had no idea why she made it so hard to talk about this stuff. I was only trying to help.

  Then, thank God, the side door opened. Lauren had arrived to rescue me. I swear I was never so happy to see her before.

  “I’m starving,” she announced. “What do you want…Oh hey, Mrs. Chase.”

  “Hi, Lauren,” my mom said. “Good to see you, honey!”

  “You too! How’s, um, the, um, job thing?”

  Abort. Abort. Abort, I radioed Lauren with my mind. It was bad enough when I tried to talk to my mom about her never-ending job search.

  “Still looking,” my mom replied, without any wavers in her voice or eyes. “I’m sure something will come along soon.”

  “Yeah,” Lauren said, nodding her head as their conversation tumbled from normal to excruciating.

  “I’m starving too,” I said loudly to Lauren. “You want to grab some wraps or something? Go to Panera?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  Mom wiped her hands on a dish towel, and I wondered suddenly if she wanted us to stay and eat with her. But if that’s what she was thinking, she didn’t say it. Instead, she fumbled in her purse and handed me a ten-dollar bill. “Take this,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, Julie. Go. Have fun. I’ll see you later.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, hesitating as I decided between a quick hug and a quick kiss. I went with a quick kiss.

  Lauren followed me upstairs so I could change out of my work shirt. She plunked down at my desk and started rummaging through my jewelry box.

  “You didn’t text me back last night,” she said as she tried on my favorite earrings. Without asking.

  I turned to face the wall, hiding my frown while I stripped off my polo. “Sorry,” I replied. “I was busy.”

  “With what?” she asked, reaching for my eye shadow.

  I don’t know why I showed her the second painting. It wasn’t something I’d planned to do. And with it tucked away in the corner, she never would’ve noticed it on her own.

  “What’s that?” she asked eagerly. “Did you go back to Lost and Found? I can’t believe you went back and you didn’t tell me! You made such a scene about not buying that painting. How come you changed your mind?”

  “You are not going to believe this,” I began.

  Of course as soon as Lauren knew there were secret images in the paintings, she had to see them. Despite my warnings, she insisted on taking them into the darkness of the closet. I wasn’t surprised when she shrieked and ran right back out.

  “That is seriously messed up!” she cried. There was something so voyeuristic about her reaction, like she was watching a horror movie and reveling in all the gore, that I immediately regretted showing her at all.

  “Yeah. I don’t know,” I said. “So where do you want to eat?”

  Lauren waved away my question. “Seriously, these are conceptually insane,” she continued. “I can’t believe you didn’t text me right away. You know, it’s kind of genius. I wonder how the artist did it?”

  “I act
ually have no idea,” I replied. “Did you notice that you can’t see the glowing part at all in the light? That doesn’t make sense to me. Shouldn’t it—”

  “Definitely.” Lauren interrupted me. “If she painted the glowing layer over the original image, you’d always see some of it on the canvas. I know you would. So she must have…”

  “Painted over the glow,” we said at the same time.

  In the pause that followed, we exchanged a smile. It had been a while since we’d finished each other’s sentences like that, but at least we didn’t “jinx” each other anymore.

  “And if she painted over the glow, then how come we can see it at all?” Lauren added. “I mean, this is oil, isn’t it? We shouldn’t be able to see anything under it. The opacity.”

  I nodded. These were the thoughts that had been keeping me up at night. “And why was she painting over it?” I asked. “What was she trying to hide?”

  “Or cover up?”

  We stared at the paintings, silent.

  “It kind of blows my mind, the amount of thought that went into them. God, I wish I knew what they mean. I can’t stop thinking about them.”

  “Totally,” Lauren said, circling them like a shark, her eyes narrow and focused. “Of course you can’t. They’re amazing.”

  Then I made one of those impulsive, split-second decisions. “This is it,” I said. “This is going to be my summer project.”

  Lauren’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arched so high they looked like umbrellas. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the paintings first,” I said, figuring it out as I spoke. “I’ve got to find out if there are more. And find out who painted them. And then…and then I’m going to find out how.”

  “How?” she repeated.

  “How she painted them,” I explained. “I’m going to figure out her technique. Oh my God, Laure, it’s perfect! I mean, it would be exhibit-worthy, don’t you think? If I could figure it out? And replicate it?”