The Sickroom: A Novella Read online

  She said, brush poised, What colour should I paint the sky?

  Part 2

  So it began. From that day on, Macon painted in the attic every day and I watched her do it. Sometimes I was asleep when she came up and she woke me with a shake, or a playful stripping of my covers. Sometimes I was so tired I lay down by the canvas and watched her work through drooping eyelids. For the first while she came in the mornings, dreadfully early, until I complained and she changed it to after lunch. On days when Aunt Vera had forced her to go shopping for new clothes or shoes (for the coming school year I refused to acknowledge), or if she’d had to do some chore in that outdoor world I never got to see, she would come at night.

  I liked the nighttime vigils the best. I liked how she painted the same, at the same speed and without hesitation, no matter the time, no matter how dark it got.

  She was amazing to watch.

  After The Sickroom, we debated what she should paint next. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t paint in the style of the lake painting all the time. Her other paintings— the ones that got hung up in galleries and brought out for show when company came— were loud and bright and sometimes quite intricate, but they didn’t make you feel anything. They didn’t take your breath away. I didn’t understand what her hesitation was. Why couldn’t she just paint more of the paintings I liked most?

  I brought the subject up again on a Wednesday afternoon, a few days after she finished The Sickroom. This newest painting was just like the lake one, it had the same softer quality, the more delicate lines. It was almost like a drawing set in paint. I felt again that rush of exhilaration of my first viewing of the lake painting and I was hungry for more.

  The family had gone to see a baseball game, leaving Macon and I to our own devices. I was sitting on the porch swing, ensconced in blankets as usual, and Macon was sitting like a cowboy on the thickest branch of the maple that stood close to the house, her legs swinging. (It didn’t occur to me until later what a tomboy Macon was, how she liked climbing trees and getting dirty over playing with dolls or going to the mall. Macon could have fit in with her brothers in a way I never could, not if I’d been myself. Yet Macon was still ignored, because she was a little prodigy, because of her art. I wonder now if that bothered her, to be so close and yet so far.)

  We were eating popsicles.

  I don’t see the problem, I said, licking at a sticky purple drip on my arm. Your new style paintings are so much better. (We’d decided to call the style of the lake painting the “new style.” It seemed very Renaissance to us.)

  Oh, okay, Macon said. Her popsicle hung from her fingers, the frozen pink treat sliding silently downward. With her free hand she ripped at the leaves close at hand, making green, fluttery rain.

  That’s not an answer, I retorted.

  She screwed up her face in distress. It’s what I paint, Jacob, she said. It’s what I’ve always done. I can’t just—

  Can’t just what? I asked, impatient. I had very little sympathy for this line of argument, which she’d tried to use before. In my mind the art was what mattered most. In my mind there was no other audience but me.

  Macon sighed. She pulled her legs up in front of her and pushed her toes into the bark. Under her breath she said, Just because you like it better doesn’t mean it is.

  What was that? I said loudly, leaning forward, pretending I hadn’t heard.

  Nothing, she said, staring at her feet.

  You’re giving in too easily, I said. You’re stunting your own growth.

  I still do them, I just don’t show them, she pointed out.

  You’re hiding your brilliance! I cried, bursting out of my blankets, index finger raised. It’s unconscionable!

  She gave me a tired look. I was pretty sure she didn’t know was “unconscionable” meant but that wasn’t what the look was about. It was a look that begged.

  I sat back against the hard wood of the swing. The conversation was draining me of energy. I probably wouldn’t be able to get back up the stairs. And yet, Macon looked even more exhausted than I felt. As I watched her climbing higher into the tree, her tentative movements, I realized how much Macon strived to please. She wanted to do what her parents wanted, what the art world wanted, and here I was trying to force her to do what I wanted, which was something else altogether. I was forcing her into a dark corner.

  If I kept pushing she would give in. I saw it clear as day. It was who she was. The art I wanted was just within my grasp but if I grabbed it I would lose Macon as a friend. And a friend was something I couldn’t afford to lose. (It’s ironic how clear that was to me at the beginning of the summer. How quickly we forget.)

  I bit off the last of my popsicle and aimed the stick at a planter by the edge of the porch, missing drastically. Macon, her foot planted in a crook of tree branches, watched it fall. I said, Maybe you should do the playground next. You know, kids playing.

  I could see her relief right away. She slung her arm around the trunk and leaned back, swinging free.

  She said, See-saws, swing sets.

  Slides, sand boxes, I continued.

  Monkey bars, merry-go-rounds, she smiled.

  Oh, I said, frowning, I guess you’d have to go and do some sketches.

  My inability to leave the house was still an absolute. Going out to the porch was already quite a coop, and Macon would shove me up the stairs ahead of her in a quarter of an hour, long before the game would end, to be doubly sure of not being caught. I’d never make it to the playground. Disease or Aunt Vera would surely bar my path.

  I’ll fix it, Macon said. I’ll make it so you can come.

  How? I asked, puzzled. I’m bigger than Collin, you know. He can’t carry me.

  Macon scoffed. Collin? Like he’d ever help us.

  Well, how then?

  Macon shrugged her shoulders coyly. Just leave it to me, she said.

  I grinned. It was exciting; a mystery, an adventure. I felt a surge of affection for Macon. It was so nice to have a friend.

  But it was a secret friendship. As far as the family was concerned, Macon and I still had absolutely nothing to do with each other. When we were caught together with the family around (in the upstairs hallway as I dragged myself along to take a bath, Macon’s arms full of towels, Handle running past with Collin close on his heels), we avoided each other’s eyes, edging past one another awkwardly, almost overemphasizing our disinterest. Then, when we were alone again (when the hallway cleared, if only for a brief instant as Handle locked himself in his brother’s room and Collin ran for his father in a rage), our eyes would meet and we’d share a wink, a nudge. It was our delightful secret, a bond for us alone.

  It wasn’t always an easy secret to keep. One evening Handle came scampering up the stairs to pay me a visit and Macon, her eyes round with alarm (though what exactly we were afraid of I’m not quite sure), had to hide under a table, blocked from view by a cardboard box full of old shoes, as he asked pointless lazy questions (But what do you do up here all day, Jacob? I play solitaire, I write letters to my friends, I read. He glanced at the pile of books with disturbed puzzlement. I mean, like, what do you really do?).

  Another time, when Macon was at a critical stage of a painting we would eventually name The Dying Man (in which a figure stood at the very edge of the roof of a tall building, his arms flung wide), I became so engrossed in watching her work that I completely forgot I’d agreed to keep score for a pin-pong tournament between Collin and some neighbourhood boys. Soon enough Macon and I found ourselves stashed in a narrow closet full of suitcases as Collin stomped around the attic, cursing and calling my name, and finally kicking over a folding table before slamming the door. (We spent the rest of the morning, still in the closet, doing our best angry Collin impressions and convulsing with swallowed giggles, our knuckles in our mouths, sure he would sense our mockery and return to find us, flinging the door open with a triumphant, Aha!)

  Officially Macon and I spent no time together on our ow
n, though I would often play games with the boys or get pulled down into their rooms, once I was feeling well enough. (I didn’t see Macon’s room even once that summer.) We were like two sides of the same person, never in the same room, but always together. Aunt Vera was the only one who ever saw the two of us in the same space, and even then it was only the one time, mid-morning one day, when she was bringing me the phone to make my weekly call to my parents.

  (I’d been calling my mother, as promised, all that time, though at Aunt Vera’s insistence I didn’t tell her I was sick [she thought it would just cause undue stress since she couldn’t come to care for me herself. She has enough to fret over, Aunt Vera said, which sort of made me want to go out and get into some new trouble so everyone would be clear that I was the one who needed worrying about]. We spoke every couple of days, chatting about trivialities, both of us lying. I was playing outside everyday. She was sewing new curtains. I was learning to swim. She was enjoying the quiet in the house. We always stayed on the line a beat too long, letting the silence stretch, hoping something would come of it, knowing there was nothing real either of us could say, after all those lies.

  I didn’t bother asking to talk to my father. We hadn’t spoken in over a month.)

  It was clear from the moment Aunt Vera stepped into the attic that she didn’t know Macon was there, just as we hadn’t heard her coming. (I’d been singing along to a pop song called Baby I Might, which we both adored, and was concentrating on hitting the critical high note at the end of the second to last verse [oh girl, it just ain’t riiiiiight], my hands clasped around an invisible microphone.) She came through the door already talking to me, as was her habit. At the sound of her voice, Macon ducked to the ground in front of her canvas, as if she were evading an assassin. As luck would have it, I was actually in bed at that moment, having flopped back on the mattress after my soulful performance.

  Aunt Vera snapped off the radio as she came through the door. Would you rather call them later on? she asked, holding the cordless out to me, her back to Macon’s side of the room. Taking in the startled look on my face, which she mistook for anxiety, she abruptly softened and sank down beside me on the bed.

  Are you doing alright, Jacob? she asked. She cupped my chin in her palm, examining my face. She put the back of her hand to my forehead to feel my temperature (which I imagined might be high, considering I’d been singing my heart out not ten seconds before. My throat was already throbbing in ripe protest). I forced a grin as out of the corner of my eye I saw Macon slowly inching her way behind an old grandfather clock.

  Aunt Vera said, It’s hard isn’t it? She patted my knee. I know you must be angry with them. I’d be furious if I was you.

  It took me a moment to understand who she was talking about, but when I did I immediately froze in place, as though keeping still might stop time and end the conversation. (It’s amazing the superpowers one assigns oneself in a panic.)

  I know you probably feel like your world is falling apart, she went on, but one day I’m sure you’ll see this break was for the best.

  My gaze slid over to the spot where Macon was hiding. I scanned the outer edge of the clock for a finger, a puff of hair. Was she really there, or had she snuck down the stairs when I wasn’t looking? Was she hearing this?

  Aunt Vera sighed. They’re shocked. They need some time to adjust. But you know they love you, don’t you Jacob? You know we all love you, no matter what. We don’t have a problem with… (and here she paused, she wouldn’t use the word). We’re not like that.

  I groaned inwardly and sank my nails into my thighs. I felt something building inside of me, though I didn’t know what it was. It coiled up through my bowels and my stomach, winding into my esophagus. It felt like injustice and fury and plain old hate all rolled into one. Or maybe it was just puke.

  Technically, I didn’t know what she was talking about. My parents and I had never discussed it outright, we never really discussed anything. I was just a kid after all and not privy to important information about my own development. Those files were sealed somewhere inside my parents minds with the words “When Jacob is Older” stamped on them in red ink. No, I didn’t know. I didn’t.

  I still had time.

  This is just what growing up is like sometimes, honey, Aunt Vera said. Nobody said it would be easy. Being different never is.

  I’d wanted to keep all that mess out of the attic, out of this summer. I’d wanted to leave my home life behind, to have one last summer for myself, was that so much to ask? Now Macon knew and nothing would ever be the same between us. Just the thought of her knowing about this thing that I didn’t even understand myself made my stomach tighten and my fingers curl.

  I wanted to spit in Aunt Vera’s kindly face for what she’d done. I wanted to scratch out her eyes.

  I understand, Auntie, was all I said, my jaw set. I’m fine.

  Course you are, she said brightly, giving me a little squeeze. I’ll just leave the phone here. She got up, collected a couple of soup mugs from my bedside table, then walked toward the door, and we could have been home free (not that I much cared anymore) but at the last moment she turned to say something more and her eyes fell directly on her daughter, crouched beside an old side table, smiling meekly.

  It was much later in the evening, after Macon had been bustled off, the scoldings gently administered (the attic was still, though we’d been ignoring it for so long it seemed laughable, off-limits to the other kids), the pajamas put on and the baths done—it was only once we all should have been asleep that Macon crept back up to the attic and we saw each other face to face with all that had been said in the air between us.

  She came in on tiptoe in her blue polka dot nightshirt with the bell capri bottoms (an overtly girly ensemble my mother had sent her for her birthday the year before). She ran right up to me, breathless, and I almost backed up against the wall to escape it. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want her teary concern. I wanted the art and the long lazy days and sleep. I didn’t want her to know.

  Oh, Jacob, she whispered excitedly.

  I raised my eyes wearily.

  She was practically bursting. I’ve got it! she said. I found a way.

  She jiggled her shoulders in an excited Macon dance and I had to laugh. She wasn’t going to bring it up after all. Maybe she hadn’t heard, or hadn’t understood what she’d heard. Or maybe she just didn’t care. What did it matter? I was ecstatic that I’d escaped so easily. I could almost have kissed her.

  Tomorrow, she said of our mysterious outing. Tomorrow night we go.

  I was sure she wouldn’t show.

  I sat on the porch stairs at the side of the house, grateful that my fever had gone down as night fell, though I knew that I would have come anyway, fever or not. I was exactly on time but I’d forgotten my shoes. When the time had come to put them on (at ten-past eleven, exactly five minutes before Macon had told me to meet her), I’d crept down the back stairs only to realize I’d left them in the attic. But by then I’d heard a noise coming from the front of the house and didn’t want to chance going back to fetch them. I didn’t think I’d have the energy to come down again. Besides, like I said, I didn’t really think I was going anywhere. I didn’t think Macon was coming.

  We’d chosen the side porch specifically because it was out of earshot of all the upstairs windows (actually, it was Macon’s suggestion, and I was surprised by her crafty forethought. Only as she continued to lay out the plan so matter-of-factly did I realize she’d done this many times before. It was always like that with Macon. It seemed, no matter how well I got to know her, there was always a well of secrets she kept hidden. I could never get tired of her because at any moment I’d turn around and find her brand new).

  The backyard was lit by the moon. It was full, almost bright enough to see by. I wondered if Macon had planned it that way or if it was just a lucky coincidence. I wasn’t sure which was the better option; luck had never been much of a friend to us. And if luck was
finally coming to call we had so many other things that needed its attention. It seemed a waste to throw luck away on the moon.

  It hadn’t been much of a lucky day for Macon, anyway.

  Though I wasn’t wearing a watch, I figured I’d waited long enough. I was about to drag myself back upstairs when I heard a rustle in the bushes to my left, and there was Macon pulling up in front of me on her bike, dressed in a white t-shirt and shorts. In the bright light of the moon she positively glowed.

  I sprang up and smiled. I wasn’t sure you’d come, I whispered, then immediately regretted it. What was the point of saying something like that? But Macon didn’t seem to mind. She was back to her old self, the Macon of few words, the Macon who held herself in and never laughed.

  Get in, she said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb.

  Attached to the back of the bike was a wooden cart, clearly handmade. Macon told me later that the Latons, who lived two doors down, had built it to ferry their fat Labradors to and from the dog park. She’d swiped it from their shed that afternoon. It smelled a little like Purina.

  Wow! I exclaimed. This is really great. It’s just the right size! Really, really good job, Macon. Really. I was babbling, overemphasizing my words, over-enthusing. My face already hurt from grinning.

  You’ll have to hold my stuff, Macon said.

  (I’d never been much good at cheering people up.)

  Once I’d settled myself in the cart, Macon’s art supplies cluttered around me, Macon set to the job of pedalling and I kept my mouth shut. It was slow going. Macon weighed a lot less than I did, and there was nothing I could do to help. But once we hit the downhill slope on Glenhill road we started to coast, and I heard her heave a sigh. We were going to make it.

  It was strange to be out in the neighbourhood at night. I still saw the world around me through a fog of sickness, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. There weren’t any streetlamps on some of the streets and the houses sailed by, hulking black blotches, still and silent. The moonlight made the tree leaves twinkle. I closed my eyes as we swung around a corner and held out my hand to catch the bushes as we passed. I felt the air hitting my skin, hurtling into my eyes.