Blank Canvas by Mere Joyce

Author:Mere Joyce [Joyce, Mere]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, ya, teen, sex, captive
Publisher: Evernight Teen
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

“Mom?” I step into the kitchen, comforted by the smell of cheesy macaroni baking in the oven. My mother is wiping the counter, and it takes her a moment for my presence to register. At first, she only continues the slow, circular motion of wiping cloth against granite, her eyes staring blankly at the rag as she pushes it around. I wonder what she’s thinking about, curious if it has anything to do with Monday’s phone call.

Mom never used to space out. She prided herself on being a focused woman, forever quick-witted and sharp. Since my return, however, her personality has shifted. She’s not different, exactly. It’s just as if her way of being has been a little altered, like her whole existence has turned a bit sideways.

She’s like this because of me, and I hate being the cause of her blank stare, her prematurely greying hair, her aged face and consistently exhausted appearance. In my first few months of therapy with Klara, she worked to help me accept I’m not to blame, accept the abduction was not my fault. I get it, at its simplest level. But it doesn’t change how I feel. It doesn’t curb the guilt.

“Maddie, hi,” Mom says when she discovers I’m there. She smiles at me, and at least I can tell the smile is genuine. “I didn’t hear you come downstairs.” I’ve gotten good at being silent, at moving without being noticed.

“Dinner smells good,” I say, and Mom glances at the digital clock on the stove.

“Ready in about fifteen,” she replies. I nod, and almost lose my nerve to ask what I came down here for. It would be easy to walk away, slink into the living room or head back upstairs. Instead, I go to the cupboard and pull out the plates to set the table.

“M-Mom,” I say again, bracing myself against my own question, “w-would it be possible if this weekend, I chose our activity?”

Mom looks at me, surprised. Family activities were Tim’s idea. To help us bond, to help uslive, we do something as a family every weekend. Usually this means watching movies, cooking a nice dinner, or pushing the table out of the dining room so Autumn can lead us in a yoga class. We’re supposed to take turns choosing the activity, but I usually shrug my shoulders and defer my week to someone else. This week it’s technically Mom’s turn, but I have an idea I can’t shake.

It again takes my mother a moment to recover. “Well, yes, of course you can!” she exclaims, after a pause. She’s pleased, and I’m glad. “What do you want to do?”

I place four plates around the table, and get the wrought iron holder for the macaroni’s casserole dish. Then I gather some forks for dinner, and spoons for the chocolate mousse and strawberries we’re having for dessert.

I take my time answering.

“I-I’d like to go to––” I begin, straightening the cutlery and then facing my mother, “––the Reuben Gallery.”

A week ago I would have shuddered at the notion of being surrounded by artwork.

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