“It’s been a long time,” I say. “The stuff I do is not typical. I wouldn’t want to shock anyone.”

“From the pieces I’ve seen, I love your style. The one you have with the pair of eyes touching. It’s amazing. I was into surrealism, too. Yours have this dreamlike quality I can relate to.”

I assumed that piece had been put in storage. It’s one of my oldest.

“When did you see that painting?” I ask.

“When you arrived. I carried your things and unpacked for you. I couldn’t resist looking at some of the paintings. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t,” I say. “It’s just… I didn’t know that one was here.”

“When I came to get you out of bed this morning, you were sleeping so soundly. I think you were dreaming, because I could see your eyes twitching. I wanted to give you a bit more time to rest, so I went into your closet and had a look at that painting again. I’d been thinking about it a lot since first seeing it. It’s a beautiful piece, Penny, because it’s—”

“It’s very old,” I say sharply. “And it’s not finished. It’s not meant to be seen.”

“But I really like it.”

I hold them too close, I think. My paintings. I always have. “It’s unusual for me to get a compliment like this,” I say. “I shouldn’t be so sensitive. Thank you.”

“I’m thinking you could do one… of us… the staff or the residents. Ruth maybe. Or Hilbert.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Penny, but you actually remind me a bit of my mom.”

“Really? Are the two of you close?”

“We were. She had a spark, like you. Everyone noticed it. A curiosity about life. She saw things differently.”

“Do you get to see her much?”

“She passed away when I was young.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “How old were you?”

“Seventeen when she died. It’s like you said, Penny, all families are complicated.”

Did I say that?

“My mother was sweet but not always present. It was my father who used to wash my hair,” I say, as my own memory returns. “When I was really young, I mean. He’d make a shield with his hand in the shape of a crescent moon and hold it to my forehead so I wouldn’t get any soap in my eyes.”

I can’t believe I remember this. I rarely have memories of my father. He wasn’t always easy, but he was tender. He tried his best.

Jack shields my eyes from the soapy water. We’ve gone quiet, the two of us, lost in thought. All I hear is the running water. After a minute or two, I realize the water is still running, but Jack’s hand is not on me anymore.

“There’s nothing as comforting as hot, soapy water,” I hear.

It’s her. Shelley.

I open my eyes. My head is still tilted back, and I look up toward the ceiling, her face hovering over mine. She’s wearing eyeliner, and I can smell her perfume.