Unhooked(4)

“What is that?” my mom asks. I’ve heard her sound less horrified with the lizards we lived with a few years back. There’s a strangled quality to her voice, like her panic is already wrapping its fingers around her throat, even as she tries to pretend she’s calm.

It hasn’t even been an hour. Our boxes haven’t even arrived yet.

She turns on the landlord, her eyes fierce. “Is this some sort of joke? Because it’s not—”

“It’s just a painting,” I tell her gently, touching her shoulder before she can finish.

She flinches away, her words forgotten. She never wants me to touch her when she’s like this—I should know that by now. Still, her rejection stings.

“This room used to be a nursery.” I can feel the old man lurking too close behind me. “Course, it’s been a lot more since, but no one never could bring themselves to get rid of the wee folk.”

My mom turns back to the mural. “I can’t stay here,” she whispers in a ragged voice. Her unease feels like a living thing snaking through the room, but I don’t understand her reaction. The mural is beautiful, charming even. “And I can’t work here. Not with them watching and—”

“Mom,” I say gently, before she can work herself up too much more. “It’s okay.”

She turns on me, her eyes wide and wild, and I sense Olivia stiffen beside me. She knows my mom can be eccentric, but I’ve managed to hide most of this from her. Two years, and Olivia has only ever seen the aftermath. She’s been there when I turn up exhausted and at the end of my rope, and she’s never asked the questions I know she wants to ask when she lets me stay the night at her house.

“You see them, don’t you?” my mom asks me in a strangled whisper.

“I see them just fine,” I assure her. “We all see them. It’s a painting. That’s all it is.”

She shakes her head, her mouth set tight as her eyes dart between the mural and me. “I can’t work here,” she says again. “Not until they’re gone. I won’t stay here.”

“You don’t have to.” I try to reach out for her again. “We can go back to Westport. It’s not too late.”

“No.” Her eyes are hard and almost accusing as she takes another step back, jerking away from me again. “It has to be here. It’s been arranged. But this room . . .” She’s no longer looking at me. She has eyes only for the wall, and I know what she’s thinking—she needs to work. Hers might never be calm or easy paintings, but those canvases are the way she keeps herself centered. She needs to create, or she will lose herself bit by bit to her fears and delusions.

“I can’t,” she whispers over and over as she shakes her head, and I know that if I don’t stop this, things are going to get bad, fast.

“We’ll get some paint to cover it, then,” I say, trying to calm her down. I look to the old man for assurance. He gives a halfhearted shrug, which is close enough to permission for me. “Olivia and I will stay up here tonight, okay? Tomorrow we can talk about painting it or going somewhere else.”

I hold my breath and wait as my mom stares at the mural for a long unsettled minute. Part of me hopes she won’t agree, that she’ll decide this place is all wrong, but then she gives a small nod.

“We can paint over them.” She finally looks at me again, and I see her slowly coming back to herself. “We need to stay here,” she says, her blue-gray eyes serious.

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Tonight Olivia and I will sleep up here. It’ll be fine. Right, Liv?”

“Sure, Mrs. Allister. We’ll be great,” Olivia says, stepping forward and giving my mom a quick hug. My mom doesn’t pull away from her.

“See? All settled.” I touch my mom’s shoulder again, feeling her muscles quiver as she forces herself to not jerk away from me like I’m one of the monsters she imagines. I pull my hand back and give her the space I know she needs as I try to ignore the bone-deep loneliness I feel in a room filled with people.

“Is there a way to turn this thing off?” Olivia asks as she walks over to get a better look at an antique sconce hanging over the bed. The lamp is an elegant twist of glass that reminds me of a fluted flower. As she examines it, the orange-red flame throws a strange glow across Olivia’s upturned face. Like the lamps downstairs, it’s burning even though there’s plenty of daylight left.

“It ain’t safe to turn it off—” the old man starts with a growl, but then he stops short, like he’s just said something he shouldn’t have. “Old lines and all. Never can tell what would happen,” he finishes, his voice only a bit softer. “Besides, it’s tradition to keep it burnin’.”

“Leave the lamp be,” my mom says softly, her voice still filled with worry.

I look over to find her staring at the fairy wall again, one hand slightly outstretched. I can’t tell if she’s reaching for it or pushing it away.

“I assume everything’s in order, then?” the old man says.

When my mom doesn’t answer, he eyes me.

“Yes,” I say, trying to smile. “Thank you.”

“Right.” The old man seems satisfied enough as he leaves us alone in the attic room.

“He’s not serious about the light, is he?” Olivia asks, her brows bunched.