“I don’t think she is,” Madison continued, tilting her head and staring at the figure of the girl upon the grass. “I think she’s stuck.”
The girl in the painting appeared to be looking at a house at the top of an open field.
“You see,” Madison went on, “she’s caught between the stark reality that winter is coming and what she must give up. The colors the original artist used were to represent the autumn season. New growth is gone. The grass is brown and dying. New birth is a way in the distance.”
“Doesn’t she want winter?”
“No. She wants life. Springtime is life. Winter is cold and bleak.” She turned to the windows. Beyond the panes, many of the deciduous trees were sporting their colors. Reds, yellows, and oranges abounded where only weeks earlier there had been green. “I couldn’t do winter here, Van. I wouldn’t make it.”
There was no convincing Madison to stay. I knew that.
In the middle of the night, I’d wake with the nightmare that my dream had come true, that she was beside me. Our child was in the room down the hall. I’d wake in a sweat with my heart pounding.
The vision in my dream was what my mind thought it wanted. My body’s reaction was the reality of what that would mean. Keeping Madison would be a constant battle, a chore that never ended. Despite Lena’s warnings, I’d been blind to her frailty.
Sometimes it was difficult to fathom that Madison and Lena were sisters and had been born of the same parents. Where Lena had strength, Madison had a void in constant need of filling. It was tiresome and wearing.
Sharing genetics was no guarantee of commonality. I knew that personally.
One day Madison’s art would make her happy. She’d paint and flit around the studio room like a bright bird filled with promise, hopping from branch to branch. Her smile would take away even the dark clouds before a rainstorm. And then for two or three days, she’d barely move.
Getting her to get out of bed or bathe was a chore.
I’d talked to her and to Lena about doctors.
I’d read about conditions that were no fault of Madison’s. Medications and therapy could help. I’d almost had her convinced to seek treatment when the pregnancy test came back positive.
Madison dug in her heels.
She claimed she didn’t need treatment. She needed a child.
Madison had accomplished the goal she set when she showed up at my doorstep. In her mind, once she was back to her life with her husband and child, she would be better.
It was during her non-better times that I saw the battle she fought. Her accusations during those lows were no longer as hurtful as the emptiness in her gaze.
In her mind, I was the cause of her woes.
I’d held her prisoner here against her will.
Of course, the door was never locked. The telephone and computer were at her disposal.
As each day passed and her life’s shine diminished, I saw myself for the man she saw. I was the monster who made her step away from her life. And now I was the reason she wouldn’t seek professional help.
I was the monster she claimed me to be.
“The new house is done,” I said. “Come see it with me.”
“I…I.” She looked around the art studio we’d created. “I can’t take this with me.”
“No room in your little house?” I never said I wasn’t cruel. “Or won’t Phillip understand?”
She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Both. He thinks painting is frivolous and we’ll need the space for the baby.”
I offered her my hand. “Come with me. It won’t take long. I want you to be fully aware of what you’re leaving.”
“I’m not leaving, Van.” Her volume rose. “I’m going back to my life. My life. Don’t you understand? This isn’t my life. I don’t want this.” She reached for paintings leaning against the wall and shoved them until they fell like dominos, one hitting the other. Once they were down, her expression changed, as if she suddenly realized what she’d done.
Her panic was real.