Page 41 of Memories of the Lost

The rendition of her mother as a hen was now dark and menacing, her hands turned to claws, her hair in black raven wings, her soft figure carved into the wasp shape of a young woman, bosom and bottom divided by a tiny, tiny waist.

Tillie stared, unable to fathom what the hell she had done. She’d worked on this painting for months, and now, it was a completely different thing. She wanted to cry. She wanted to fall down and howl. She wanted to—

Picking up her phone with a shaking hand, she called Jon. Voice mail picked up, and she texted:Something is going on with my brain, and I’m scared. Call me.

The phone rang immediately. “What’s up, baby?”

In a wavering voice, she told him about the painting, about the fugue state in which she painted without remembering anything, and she couldn’t help a little catch in her voice. “There’s more, but I want to tell you in person. I’m really scared. Can you come over?”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

While Tillie waited for Jon, she paced, wishing that she smoked so she’d have something to do. She’d smoked briefly in her early twenties to gain an aura of hipness she sorely lacked, but gave it up soon after. Instead, she rounded the studio: the living areas, the kitchen, one after the other, touching this canvas and that, stopping to look at the series to make sure she hadn’t altered any of the others. Evidently, her alternate self only wanted to ruin her favorite. Whenever she passed it, she wanted to wail. It had been so perfect! A tribute to her mother!

She could paint it again, but it felt sullied now.

When Jon arrived, he was carrying Chinese takeout and bottles of good root beer. “I was fairly sure you hadn’t eaten,” he said.

“Wait.” She realized the sky was full-on twilight. “What time is it?”

“Just after five. But I’m going to bet you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“True.” She thought of Liam. Was he still coming over? She hadn’t seen anything from him on her phone. A crest of disappointment rose, crashed into the confusion she felt over everything else, dissipated. Really, didn’t she have enough going on without worrying about a guy?

Jon dropped the bag on her counter. “Show me the painting.”

She gestured toward it. From this distance, she could see it wasn’t objectively ruined. The dark bird was quite interesting, and details marked her as Tillie’s creation—the jeweled tones in her eyes and rings, the sumptuous fabrics, the hint of elf in her ears.

“This is the painting of your mom?” He moved closer. “How did you do this in a day?”

“I don’t know.” Gooseflesh broke on her arms. “I don’t remember it.”

“It’s really gorgeous work.” He leaned in, looking at the brushstrokes, and then smiled. “Hey, I like the cat.”

She hadn’t even noticed it, but there it was, the white-and-tan-striped cat in the background. It hid beneath the leaves that had been transformed from roses to the enormous rhubarb leaves from the painting at the gallery.

Tears pricked her eyes, rising in response to an emotion she couldn’t even identify.

Next to the cat was the child who had been tied up, too big for the land of the fey, now an ordinary-size girl, sitting cross-legged, hiding under the leaves.

She swallowed. “What is going on?”

Although he presented a frivolous front to the world, Jon was quite solid in practice. “Let’s sit down. Tell me everything.”

She grabbed the sheaf of papers she’d found that morning and shoved them toward him. “This is the other thing.”

He sat on the couch, head bent over the death certificate. “I don’t understand.”

“Me, either.” She sank down beside him. “I’m obviously not dead, though I did consider theSixth Sensepossibility for a minute.”

He grinned. “You’re definitely not dead.”

“But what is this, then? I had a sister? Why did my mother give me the same name?”

He shook his head and looked at the certificate again. “It’s really strange. Did you know she lived in LA?”