Jack lit a new cigarette using the still-burning end of another and, downing the amber liquid, snatched the painting, letting it fall to the floor. He bent, selecting a blank canvas from his collection piled in the corner, and placed it on his easel. He squeezed a dab of red oil paint onto his palette and, blotting at it with a sponge, he began.

But soon he stopped, setting down the sponge and turning to watch me. His eyes, green and glittery, traced the lines of my lips. He stroked the stubble on his cheek. “You’re my muse,” he shouted, playfully throwing his head back.

He laid his palette on the coffee table and sprang toward me, scooping me up in his arms. I squealed and dropped my book. He smelled of sweat and sap, sharp like the forest. He kissed my face, my hands, my chest, my mouth, over and over until he lay me back down. He returned to his easel with excitement and began mixing red with white and yellow, adding, “I know exactly what I’m going to paint.”

Chapter 28

My father, Annabelle, and I were sitting around the kitchen table for supper in silence. William had left home years ago, enlisting in the Navy, and hadn’t been back since. My mother had been absent for a month without a word. I was weeks away from graduating, and had been accepted to university in the city. I was counting the days until I would be gone, too.

We were having meatloaf, green peas, and carrots for dinner. My father wasn’t much of a cook, and the meatloaf was dry and chewy. I poked at it with my fork. I couldn’t eat green peas without gagging. I would place them in my mouth one at a time and swallow without chewing, hoping to avoid the burst of putrid juices.

My father would insist I eat my green peas, despite my obvious distaste for them. When my mother was around, she would say, “It’s fine, she doesn’t have to eat them.”

The phone began to ring.

My father never let us answer the phone during dinner. He said it was rude for someone to call at that hour and interrupt our precious family time. Whatever they wanted could wait until after we ate.

Each shrill ring pierced me. I counted the rings, rubbing my palms together in circles under the table, knowing the answering machine picked up on the fifth.

“It could be Mother,” I snapped.

The phone was about to ring for the fifth time when my father crossed the kitchen to pick up the receiver, pressing it against his ear and turning his back to us.

He muttered a few unintelligible words, sighed, and called me over, passing me the receiver.

“Hi, doll.” It was my mother.

“Hi.”

“Oh, Grace,” she continued, “it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“I’m glad. I wanted to ask you something. Will you and Annabelle come and stay with me this weekend?” Her voice at the other end sounded unfamiliar: timid yet liberated.