Chapter Twenty-Three

I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t ever want to get out of bed again, the weight of everything so solid on top of me. A concrete blanket, too heavy to move. But I know the danger of giving in to that impulse—I’ve seen how the blanket gets even heavier—and I fight against it.

When I come out of the shower, I’m shocked to find my mother sitting on the couch, awake. Her face looks so strange and waxy, her lips so pale, and for a moment I worry she’s going to be sick again.

I’m not even sure where to begin with my apology, my explanation, but she speaks first.

“I don’t want the money,” she says, her voice flat.

“What do you mean?” I sit on the coffee table in front of her. Her eyes are flat, too, as she stares off at nothing.

“I refuse to take any money from it.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

She meets my gaze. “You do the paintings, the money is yours. We can use it for rent—other than that, it’s yours. For college, whatever you want. Like you’re paid for any job.”

She wants it to be mine? Potentially thousands and thousands of dollars? Is she not even going to mention that I’ve been lying to her? Isn’t she mad at me? I can’t tell how she’s feeling at all. There’s no color in her voice or expression in her eyes.

“But . . . it’s not like I’m doing all the work,” I say. “You did the drawings. You made it all up. I’m just, like, an assistant. We need to pay off your debt. And . . . I can’t do the rest of the paintings. I don’t have time. Can’t you—”

“We’re not having that discussion again,” she says tiredly. “If you want to do the paintings, agree to keep the money yourself. That’s it. The only way this is happening.”

I should be relieved that she’s saying she’ll let me do them. I should be happy that she’s speaking to me at all. But this wasn’t the point. I don’t want to do the rest of the paintings myself!

She isn’t going back on this, though. That’s obvious.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll . . . take the money.” If it’s my money, I can do what I want with it, including pay off her debt.

“One more thing,” Her dull gaze sharpens now—a sign of life. “Has it brought back your nightmares?”

I wasn’t expecting that, so it takes me a beat to answer. “What? No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Indigo. I can’t handle more lies.”

“I’m not,” I insist. “You’d know if I had nightmares. We sleep in the same room.”

“And when you’re painting, it doesn’t . . . upset you?”

My breath hitches: Did it happen to her, too? Did she feel like she was actually inside Wolfwood? I want to ask, but clearly I can’t. What would she say if she knew I’d hurt myself that last time? If I showed her the scrape around my arm?

“Upset me?” I say. “No. I barely even see the images. I just sort of break them down into abstract sections.”

“If I find out you’re lying, or if you start having nightmares, I will cancel the show. Don’t think I won’t.” Her voice has sharpened, too.

I try to focus on the good part of what she’s saying. “So, it’s okay?” I ask tentatively. “You’ll go along with it? You’ll pretend you did them?”

There’s a long, weighty silence as she just sits there. Then she closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I should’ve died, shouldn’t I? It should’ve been me.” She hits herself in the head with an open hand. “Piece. Of. Shit.” She hits herself again and again. Hard. “Piece. Of. Shit.”

“Mommy, stop!” I say, coming out of momentary shock. I grab her arms and she struggles against me, fighting to get free, and as we tangle, our words tangle, too, her blaming herself and me trying to calm her down:

“Terrible mother—”

“No, you’re not—”

“Can’t take care of—”

“Stop, Mommy—”

“—should have died.”

“Don’t say that,” I beg, thinking she must mean when she was sick in the hospital. “Please. Please don’t say that.” Nothing is worth this. Nothing in the world. “I can tell Annika. I can cancel it, like I should have. I’ll confess everything, tell her it’s my fault.”

She stops fighting, but I keep my grip on her arms. “No,” she says. “No, I want you to have the money. Please, Indigo . . . let me give you this. It’s all I have to give you. Please.”

We hold each other’s eyes, our breath ragged.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

She nods.

“Okay,” I say, gently releasing her. “But . . . you’ll have to pretend they’re yours. You’ll have to go to the opening and do that visit with the Whitney people, stuff like that. So, I’ll need you. I can’t do this by myself. Okay?”

She hesitates, then nods again. “Annika can never find out,” she says. “No one can. No one can know I’m so bad.”

“Of course not. But you’re not bad, Mommy. You’re not.”

She purses her lips, clearly not agreeing with me.

I take one of her hands in mine, cold and bony. “You’ll want to paint again, right? I know you don’t want to paint Wolfwood, but something else?”

She doesn’t answer. I think she doesn’t believe in herself enough to say it out loud. She has to want to. She loved it. Dancing on that sculpture. Articles written about her. How could she not want to go back to that life? And even after I was born—our times in the studio, she was so full of energy and passion for her art. So full of color.

“You will,” I say. “I know it.”

Everything has changed. She’s not going to take over the paintings, like I wanted, but at least I can stop lying to her about it. I can spend as many hours at the studio as I want, not worrying about making up excuses. No more sneaking around. No more guilt.

I should be happy. I should be relieved. But all I feel is dread.