The Woman in the Painting
New England may be new to me, but this move was anything but impulsive. Here, no one knows my name. What I left behind. What I’m running from. And I revel in the newness of a long overdue rebirth. Cleansed. Free. This was the change of scenery I needed, a nostalgic place whispering the secrets of a bygone era. The village nestled against the harbor like the icing on an ornate cake. Sailboats lulling and sparkling in the bay under the white sun. The crisp morning almost makes me miss San Francisco, and the life I’d methodically built on what I now realize was unstable ground. Almost.
My feet cross the threshold of my new home. My shoulders float back, my head high. Warm tingles prick my skin. My modest cape might need some work, but I have all I need. The cozy sitting room with the wood-burning stove, the small kitchenette adjacent. The long hallway leading to a bathroom separating two bedrooms. All mine. After waiting so long, secretly plotting the move, being here feels like a dream. I stop in the doorway of my bedroom, in front of the grand window overlooking a quarry. I imagine myself curling up with a book and drinking chamomile tea before bed, watching the water reflect golden specks of starlight. My cheeks burn from smiling. But a restless flame flickers. Is this too good to be true?
I shake the thought and face the maze of boxes that shipped while I drove three thousand miles across the country. The ache in my lower back beckons my legs to move, stretch, make their way to the village. What’s a few more hours? These boxes aren’t going anywhere.
My legs stride along Front Beach toward town, and the gliding, waveless ocean lapping the shoreline brushes softly against my ears. It’s chilly, and the beach is empty except for a couple strolling the shoreline, their arms interlinked. Come summertime, I imagine sunbathers and tourists will line the beach. Turning onto Main Street, a group of carolers sings “O Come All Ye Faithful.” New England at Christmastime, is there anything more charming?
The savory scent of garlic fills the air. I follow it to a cozy café overlooking the Old Harbor; the perfect spot to grab a warm cup of clam chowder before heading back to unpack. I unwind my checkered wool scarf when a friendly middle-aged woman comes to take my order. When she discovers I’m new in town, she tells me about the Rockport Makers holiday festival this weekend.
“I hear they’re playing It’s a Wonderful Life this year.”
Of course. I smile, pondering the boundless nostalgia of this town. With a scrap of sourdough crust, I scoop up the last bite of chowder. The server pops by again.
“You ought to stick around. They’re lighting the Christmas tree at Dock Square at four,” she says. “Santa comes in on a lobster boat. It’s a whole thing.”
“Oh? I’ve got some unpacking to do, but I suppose it can wait.”
Her lips curl into a mischievous smile. “You’re in Rockport now, hun, you’ve got nothing but time on your hands.”
I hesitate, but I didn’t move here to fit inside neatly carved lines anymore; to oblige things I should do. I should have stayed in San Francisco and chipped away at the shackles of my suffocating life. But I’m starting fresh. No going back. I raise my eyebrow.
“In that case, I’ll have another cup of chowder.”
Half an hour and a full belly later, I leave the café and merge into the whirlwind of Main Street, pulsing with sights and sounds. Friendly passersby smile as I pass a bakery, the fragrant notes of yeast and sugar wafting in tantalizing billows. Inside the storefront window of a clothing boutique, a woman changing a mannequin tilts her head at me, her eyes warm and friendly. If I had any doubts about being welcomed into this tight-knit seaside community, the friendly locals have squashed them. I still have time to burn before the tree lighting. Drumming my fingers against my thigh, I linger near a stop sign. Bells chime from an antique shop across the street where oiled wood furnishings glimmer in the pale sunlight. That’s just what I need! A vintage Rockport gem to warm the house.
The shop name hangs etched in distressed wood: FINDER’S KEEPER’S ARTS & COLLECTIBLES.
I don’t have much to spend. Over the last three years, I’d laid my plans, one brick at a time, saved every bonus, worked overtime at the hospital, and pinched pennies into a small savings to buy my first home; a home as far away as I could get short of crossing the Atlantic. Maybe I’ll nab a discount antique. The door closes behind me, bells jingling, prompting an old man hunching over a glass encasement to lift his head. Two weathered eyes meet mine through gold-rimmed glasses.
“Welcome! Can I help you find something?”
When I tell him I’m new in town, and just looking, he grins.
“Pray tell, where does the swan flock from?”
“Me?” My cheeks sting. “Oh, I’m from San Francisco.”
“City girl!” he says sharply, nearly shouting. “What made the big city blow you east, if you don’t mind my asking?”
My shoulders tighten. I moved away from everything I’ve ever known to avoid probing questions about my life, as insignificant and encroaching as it was. My eyes dart toward the door.
“Oh, my, please forgive me. I don’t mean to pry. It’s rare that we get transplants, and if you hadn’t noticed, this town is filled with inquisitive old farts like me. When you breezed through my shop door, breathing new life into a town of dinosaurs, well, it was quite the refreshment!”
His smile is warm, sincere. My shoulders ease, and I giggle. I shouldn’t be so guarded.
“I’ve always loved small seaside towns, they’re so charming. I visited an aunt in Boston a few years ago before she passed, had some time to sightsee, and I fell in love with Rockport. I figured I’d done the West Coast, might as well see what the East Coast has to offer.”
“Stupendous! Well, please, miss—”
“Bailee.”
“Stupendous indeed. Bailee, you can call me Buzz,” he says, tucking a rogue strand of gray hair behind his ear. “Now, let’s find you a nice housewarming gift, shall we?”
I scan the porcelain knick-knacks and fading photographs on the wall, but when I glance back at Buzz, his smile has faded, his eyes are vacant, all his exuberance, gone. I reach a hand toward him, concerned.
“Buzz?”
Seconds pass before he shakes his head, blinks, and his smile brightens. Finally, his eyes jolt to life.
“I think I’ve got just the ticket.”
The clock behind the register draws my eye. But before I can open my mouth, he disappears behind a velvet curtain. I fidget and shift my weight, scan the clock again. The curtain ruffles and Buzz resurfaces with a huge painting in his hands.
“Surprise! Please accept this gift as a very warm welcome to Rockport.” I stare at him, blinking. “I do think you’ll love it.”
“Oh, wow,” I stammer, stumbling over his generosity but equally terrified for him to reveal what’s on the other side of the painting. Whatever it is, I can’t afford it. “This is such a thoughtful gesture, but I couldn’t possibly accept it.”
“Nonsense. Ready to see?”
I nod. Holding my breath, the ticking clock seems to have slowed its rhythm. He turns the thick wooden frame to reveal the painting, and my eyes widen. The fear dissipates, and it strikes a chord somewhere deep in my soul, resounding a long-hidden emotion that bubbles over.
“I-I,” I can’t find words. I stare into the landscape of a bushy plain near a riverbank. A graceful silhouette of a woman, her semi-profile in the foreground. I gaze deeply into the painting, unable to break away. Surely, a beautiful painting like this isn’t a gift for strangers.
“Isn’t it stupendous?”
“It’s breathtaking. I-I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” The room is silent. The clock’s tick, tick, tick sobers my high. I stretch my neck and peel my eyes away to face Buzz. “But you just met me. You’re very generous, but I wouldn’t feel right accepting this gift.”
“I insist, Bailee. Don’t fight me because I will win,” he says, nudging me with his elbow. “Seeing your reaction is payment enough. Clearly you have an emotional connection with the piece, which means it must hang in your new cape.”
I cock my head; I hadn’t told him I bought a cape. Lucky guess? Maybe I’m putting up walls again. My cheeks erupt into a smile. I can’t wait to get home and hang the painting.
I reach for my wallet, but Buzz interjects, placing his hand on my shoulder. Thanking him, I hitch the painting under my arm and head out to the bustling street. I struggle to grip the large painting, still wondering why a stranger would give me such a beautiful work of art. Perhaps this is the new leaf I’d fought so hard to turn over. Heart pumping with anticipation, I ditch the tree lighting and head straight home.
I stand back, peppermint tea in one hand, hammer in the other. The painting dips a little on the left, but that doesn’t stop my chest from blooming. The painting of the woman hangs in the hallway separating the front of the house from the back. That way, I’ll pass by it several times a day. I could’ve hugged Buzz, even though I catch myself doubting the motive for his generosity. The painting signifies the fruits of my labor; the seeds I planted years ago that now take root in this wonderful new life. I have a lovely home in a quaint community where strangers treat you like family. Hanging the painting feels like a rite of passage, a sanctity that will grace my house for years to come.
Shuffling into the bedroom, I pick through the shreds of my old life: wilted letters, medical books, and time-worn pictures. I consider casting the box into the wood stove. Instead, I tape the box shut, sealing the memories away. My eyelids grow heavy, and I slump onto the floor. Yawning and drifting, my subconscious wraps around me like a velvet robe. The blissful veil of sleep weaves itself over my tired eyes. Blue shadows of a dream unfurl. What is that lingering hush in the distance? A whisper. Growing louder, closer. A woman’s voice. She’s calling my name.
—
A hush of running water stirs me from sleep. I seal my eyes shut, but dawn brightens the room and steals my last morsel of sleep. A lump swells in my throat and my eyes dart frantically across the white walls. Cold sweat beads from my brow. Where am I? I perch onto my elbows and see the boxes. I exhale, steadying my breath. I’m at home. I’m safe. Lifting my arms overhead, I revel in the peaceful morning and rub the crust from my eyes. But the house isn’t silent. Water burbles somewhere. My eyebrows narrow. Great, this is a plumbing problem of which I am now the new owner.
I scoff and look toward the kitchenette where the silver glint of the French press splinters in the morning light. My throat aches for a cup of coffee, my body is heavy against the floor. But the looming hush of water pulls me in another direction, sending me through the house, room by room, investigating the source of the leak. I trudge through the hallway past the painting of the woman. After finding dry ground and walls in the bathroom, I turn on my heel and head toward the kitchen. When I pass the painting again, something catches in my peripheral. A soft glimmer, like the flicker of a candle or the reflection of the sun on the water. I don’t have time to stop and inspect it; I must find the source of the leak. I kneel and investigate under the sink. Dry.
“Strange,” I say, tracing the walls from floor to ceiling. I’ve looked everywhere, but no pipes threaten to burst. Yet the sound of the water persists. I close my eyes and listen. It’s coming from the hallway. I inch toward it and when I stop in front of the painting, the sound swells. The water in the painting looks like it’s moving, sparkling. My sight lingers on the woman’s profile. Something about her has altered slightly, but I can’t tell what. The way a shadow stretches and yawns in fading light but retains its shape. Then the sound stops.
“Old house noises?” I shrug and let out a long yawn. “Coffee.”
I pour a steaming cup from the French press as a cold draft seeps in through the kitchen window. Tightening my robe, the image of the woman in the painting sharpens in my mind. Had her mouth been open before?
I sip my coffee, pondering. Mountains of boxes tower from the sitting room, the boxes I can’t bring myself to unpack. I arch my back and twist my spine, soft pops spring from my ribcage. The morning brightens into the cape in shades of buttercream and vanilla. Outside, a raven skitters across the lawn.
“Just a short run, then I’ll unpack.”
The crisp breeze stings my cheeks. I gulp the ripe New England air and pick up my pace as I turn onto Squam Road. Birds flutter overhead. A Subaru drives by carting a woman and two children who all wave at me. It’s refreshing to be in a place where everyone is so inviting. In San Francisco, you’re just a drop in an ocean. But here, I finally feel like I belong; like everything in my life has fallen into place.
Running down King Street, I slow my pace to admire the imposing colonial homes with their wraparound porches and stately window shudders. An elderly man sweeps his front porch and nods at me.
“It’s a beautiful day,” I call out between short breaths.
“It’s always beautiful in Rockport,” he says warmly.
A chuckle escapes my lips. When will the sheen of these rose-colored lenses begin to chip? Before the train of self-sabotage barrels through my thoughts, I approach the Mill Pond Park bridge. A briny scent fills the air and the flat honks of geese echo across the pond. My pace is steady, my pulse, sharp. Inhale, exhale, move one foot, then the other. When I see her, my feet grind to a halt, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Is that? No, it couldn’t be. A woman stands on the bank facing the water, her back to me. I squint through the morning haze and every muscle in my body tightens. This woman looks eerily like the woman in the painting. She’s a spitting image. Her posture, her dark semi-profile silhouette set against the muted greens and blues of the pond.
What kind of bizarre coincidence is this? I approach the bridge, my gaze fixated. My lips part, but before I can call out to her, she turns her head slowly toward me. Her mouth opens slightly. I can’t move. If I snapped a photo of this woman and held it up to the painting at home, the images would reflect one another, despite subtle differences between this pond and the riverbank in the painting.
I look around the park, but we’re alone—her, me, and the geese. I fumble through my sweater pocket for my phone and look up. She’s vanished. I scan the park. She must’ve run to another area, disappeared to another path. I twist my head over my shoulder to the bordering alleyways. No sign of her.
Minutes fly by. What just happened?
“It can’t be the woman in the painting, Bailee, she doesn’t exist,” I say. Could I be wrong?
The geese flutter through the water, shaking me from my thoughts. This was just a strange coincidence, but why does it feel so familiar? The way some arbitrary thought you had pops up again in conversation. I’m tired, she was a random woman. Many women have raven hair and ivory skin. All the way to the harbor’s edge and back home, I see the spine-chilling vision of her, the doppelgänger of the woman in the painting.
An hour later, I’m back home and in urgent need of a shower to steam the chill that’s tethered itself to me, a cold that even winter in New England can’t match. On the run back, I wrapped my thoughts into short breaths, counting them to distract from what I saw. What did I see? Was it completely normal, and I’m snowballing it into something bigger, attaching meaning to an insignificant encounter?
The piercing hot water welts my skin. Overnight, the elation about the move has morphed into an encroaching panic, and the worst part is, I don’t know what I’m panicking about. I retrace my steps back to the bridge in the park. Perhaps in the foggy morning, my eyes deceived me. Sure, I saw a woman, but she could have been any woman walking through the park, not a live model of the woman in the painting.
Or is she? Perhaps the woman is the muse of a local artist. If so, then she must live in town, too. That’s it! I throw my head back and laugh, lathering soap suds onto my forearms as the shower carves rivers through my hair. I got so worked up over a clear explanation. But how can I prove it? After breakfast, I’ll go see Buzz. Straightening my spine, I lift my chin toward the shower head and let the water droplets pour over me like a soothing balm, eroding the tension. All thoughts of the painting slip away. I’m lighter, more resolute, like I’ve crawled out from some dark, cobwebbed tomb and stretched under the sun.
Joni Mitchell’s “River” trickles into my thoughts. I slide into my best attempt at falsetto when a faint sound makes my voice crack. I crane my head toward the door, lock my breath in my chest. Rising through the mist comes the echo of another voice.
My heart pounds wildly when I realize I’m naked and defenseless in the shower. Rockport’s so safe that when I left earlier, I hadn’t locked the back door or shut the windows. Inhaling, I thread the towel from the shower rod, careful not to rattle the metallic hooks. The shower head beads out in streams, sending windy ripples through the shower curtain. A shrill buzz rings from the bathroom lights. Above the white noise, her voice resounds in glassy notes.
I lift one foot over the tub and lean onto my toes. Wrapping the towel around my chest, I reach toward the bathroom counter for my phone and swipe up to unlock the screen. I open the keypad and hover my thumb over the nine.
Her voice lowers as she glides into the second verse.
My hand hovers over the bathroom door handle. Creak. Shit! I freeze. The singing stops. Water droplets slide down my calves. Then the voice returns, piercing my eardrums. Hot fury burns my cheeks. I fill my lungs with air, chest high.
“Who’s there!”
I peel open the bathroom door and scan the hallway. No one’s here. Inching toward the sitting room, I grab the fire stoker. With every soggy footstep, puddles of water trail behind me, and by the time I’ve cleared every room in the house, I’m standing back in the hallway in front of the painting, water pooling at my feet.
The hairs on my neck fling toward an invisible force. My spine tingles, courage draining with every second.
“Get it together, Bailee.”
I feel the palpable sting of eyes on me, but no one’s here. I know I heard another woman singing Joni Mitchell. I didn’t contrive her from thin air. That’s absurd. Isn’t it? Goosebumps needle across my skin. The house is silent except for the spurting shower. In the bedroom, a curtain flaps in the breeze from the cracked window. I shiver. My neck tightens. I take one step toward my bedroom, and then her voice floats on the air, so close, her breath against the back of my neck.
She whispers, slow and clear. My brain urges my body to run, but no, I’m tired of running. I won’t let her disrupt the life I worked to the bone to build. I turn to face the woman. She’s not here. I’m staring at the painting. A ragged breath trembles from my mouth. “You’re not real.”
Ever so slightly, the woman in the painting’s lips quiver as she repeats her warning: “Don’t go to the river, Bailee.”
A scream explodes from my lungs. My eyes fling open when I realize the woman is no longer alone. On the other side of the riverbank stands the shadowy figure of a man. At last, I realize the source of what I thought was a sprung leak. The river in the painting babbles, the sun flickers like silvery fish scales, and the unmistakable, soft hush of water trickles.
I stare at the painting, magnetized, trying to thread the fragments of this puzzle together. My body flushes; the walls of the hallway narrow. Lightheaded, I raise my eyelids to a spinning room. Shadows clutter my vision as a force pulls me toward the painting.
It takes every ounce of strength to divert my eyes and sprint for the bedroom. Tossing my towel onto the floor, I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater. I bolt for the door, grabbing my wool coat and scrambling onto the front lawn. Before my mind can catch up, my body runs toward town for the second time this morning. When I reach the antique store, I’m breathless and crestfallen to find the closed sign hanging on the door. I pound my fists heavily, gulping hard to catch my breath. Buzz must be in the backroom preparing to open. It feels like hours pass before a dim yellow glow flickers into the shop, but I can just make out the clock on the wall through the textured glass window. It has only been a few minutes.
Despite the frigid morning, my hands are white and clammy. I wipe them on my jeans and shift my weight, tapping my toes inside my shoes. Where the hell is he? Finally, Buzz emerges from the back room, a steaming coffee mug in hand.
“Open up, please, I need to talk to you!” I yell urgently, but he just meanders my way, oblivious. When he opens the door, he flashes me an awkward grin.
“What a lovely surprise! Good morning, Bailee.”
I bulldoze straight past him.
“Who is the woman in the painting?”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
I cock my head and narrow my eyes. His gaze burns through me, questioning. I must look a wreck, my course, long hair soaked and frizzing, berry red blushing my sniffling nose.
“Did you run here? Heavens, are you okay?”
“Buzz, listen to me. I need to know who the woman in the painting is. Was she painted by a local artist? Does she live in town?”
“Hey, hey. Slow down, you’re talking faster than green grass through a goose.”
My brow wrinkles, my face falls long.
“I don’t know what that—Buzz, please help me. I need information about the painting. As you can see,” I say, rubbing my forehead with my hand, “it’s urgent.”
“Take a breath, West Coast. There’s no need to get worked up, not until you’ve had at least three cups of coffee,” he says, winking at me. “Ol’ Buzz is happy to help you.”
I smile weakly and he snaps at the air, walks to his register, and opens a ledger. He flips through a few pages and then smacks the book.
“Aha! The painting was a donation from the Richardson family. What was his name? James, James Richardson, yes. Big money. Had an incredible collection of impressionist pieces from the early twentieth century.
I nod my head.
“I wish I could tell you more, Bailee, I really do. Such a tragedy. Truly Shakespearean, wisped into the modern era. About five years ago, the Richardson’s sold their estate after James’s wife, oh what was her name now? Claudia? Yes, I think so, well, she disappeared. Er, not exactly, you see, she was admitted to McLean, a psychiatric hospital in Boston. Evidently, she was driven mad, but the family piled a bunch of money onto the problem and made it go away.”
“Go away?”
He nods and clicks his tongue.
“Is she still at McLean?”
“Well, that’s the saddest bit. Just last year her obituary came out in the paper. Somehow, she had gotten out of McLean, sprung free like a coil wound too tight, poor thing. Authorities looked for her for years but with no luck. Family assumed she had passed. Of course, all of this has been muddled through the grapevine. You know, small town gossip and such. It’s a feeding frenzy when anything out of the ordinary happens here.”
“But you’re positive the Richardson family donated the painting?”
“Oh yes, in fact, I recall James Richardson telling me it was Claudia’s most precious possession. The painting hung in her study, before she, well, passed, or flew the coop, or withered into the ether,” he says, his fingers exploding into the air, “I guess we’ll never know.”
The message from the woman in the painting scratches at my thoughts.
“Do you remember where they lived, before they moved?”
“Oh, yes, big historic manor over in Gloucester, by the lighthouse.”
“There isn’t,” I hesitate, but I have no time to waste, “a river over there, is there?”
His face lights up. “Oh, yes! The Annisquam. Gorgeous. Feeds from Ipswich Bay. Have you been?”
I shake my head.
“Ah. Well, maybe not in person, but you’ve got that sprawling slice of heaven in your home now.”
I stare at him, blinking.
“The painting! The woman you’re so intrigued by? She’s looking at the Annisquam. Such a masterpiece, isn’t it? I’d love to know where you hung it.”
I bolt for the door.
“Bailee?”
“Thanks, Buzz, but I’ve got to run.”
As I rush to the street, Buzz’s voice rolls from the shop, but his words trail out of earshot. My head throbs, thoughts rush to my brain. Clearly there is a link between Claudia Richardson, the painting, and the river, but what is it? And what does it have to do with me? Why did I hear the painting, or whatever the hell that woman’s voice was, tell me not to go to the river? I’m not sure what it all means, but I’m sure of one thing.
I fly through the front door, rip the painting from the hallway, and discard it into the gutter trash bin. Days later, I feel the color in my face again, my shoulders feel lighter carrying a head unfraught with worry. I float around my house, the joy of moving to Massachusetts restored. The slow, peaceful life I’d yearned for pours into me like a warm tonic.
I sit in my bedroom, forking scrambled eggs and gazing at the quarry. A blazing yellow sun has streaked across the sky, wispy white clouds in its wake. No one ever tells you how lonely a new city is. I try to dust my former life off my shoulders, the eighty-hour work weeks, the mounting death toll, the snapped thread of my emotions, and embrace my new life.
But I’m stuck yet again. The bizarre events surrounding the painting spool in my thoughts, luring me to tug at them and unravel the mystery. I still can’t explain what I experienced or why it happened. My mind has always been sound, stable as ironstone, but everyone has a breaking point. Maybe running away wasn’t enough to shake the skeletons of my old life. Regardless, I can’t let it go. And what had Buzz called to me? Something about art being a symbol? I grab my phone, open the Safari app, and type a few words.
I land on a Goodreads page called “The Picture of Dorian Gray Quotes.” I scroll until my thumb stops on a familiar quote about art being a symbol and a surface, and the perils of going in too deep. Was this a warning?
Well, that’s not creepy at all. A clouded memory from sophomore English Lit surfaces. I had written a report about its misogynistic undertones, but mainly, I remember the story of a young, attractive man who becomes obsessed with a painting of himself and trades his soul for eternal youth. I’m not sure how that pertains to my recent experience. And even if it does, that story is fiction, and this is my very real life. I made no bargains. No, I meticulously mitigated all risks attached to this move, even going so far as changing my phone number and giving no one my new address. A clean break. No ties to my old life. Not even to my mother.
“How will I reach you?” she had asked, jaw tight as she hugged me goodbye.
“Mom, I’ll call once I’m settled.”
I still haven’t called. I suppose I’m still not settled. Still unpacking my life from boxes.
Why on earth would Buzz yell this quote to me? I hadn’t offered the slightest detail about the painting’s effects. I didn’t choose to go beneath the surface of this painting, yet I can’t deny that whatever lay beneath those thick oil strokes had reached out its greedy arms and tried to lure me in. My cheek twitches. “Put the nightmare behind you, Bailee.”
I unpack, explore the neighborhood, decorate my home, and finally make my way to see the Christmas tree in Dock Square. But everywhere I turn, in every crowd, inside every moving box, on the corner of every street, even in the soft orchid clouds blooming across the pale winter sky, the woman on the riverbank appears. She comes to me in my dreams, her whispers permeating the thin wall of my subconscious: Don’t go to the river, Bailee.
I drum my fingers against my thigh and chew my bottom lip. If curiosity kills, what does obsession, the beast draining the blood from my veins with every thought, every dream, do? I can’t see beyond the haze. My future is beyond this, but I can’t move forward until I have closure. Until I face it head-on. Face her. Enough. I clench my jaw.
Hours later, after unpacking the last box in the kitchen, my hands grip the wheel of my Jeep as I steer south on Route 128. Toward Gloucester.
—
On the half hour drive a calm settles over me. I should turn back, but wild intuition takes my hand. I park at Wingaersheek Beach and scan the desolate coastline for clues, but all I see are soft waves lapping the misty shore. A breeze whistles across the water, rattling my ribcage with frigid breaths. I shudder and walk past the jagged Barn Rocks offshore. Nearing the mouth of the river, the beach thins. The hazy afternoon fades under the dying sun as the sky darkens, threatens nightfall. A flock of birds ascends from the estuary, squawking, fanning their fringed wings with stoic grace.
The bitter cold stabs at my skin with a thousand tiny icicles. I keep walking, defiant to logic, the distant angel on my shoulder, crying out through muffled walls to bend my ear. I ignore it. One foot falls in front of the other toward a secluded riverbank, the day fading through the last curtain of light.
Fifty feet ahead, the beach curves inward and disappears. Across the bay, a lighthouse pierces the foggy peninsula, reaching its ivory finger up through the hanging mist. The Richardson’s old estate must be nearby. I squint and see the dock of a yacht club. The tide rises, and I know I need to turn back. Ten more minutes. For what? I look to the right, then left. Nothing but sparkling haze reflecting the water’s icy sheen. Hundreds of canals and waterways meander like liquid webbing from the river mouth. Finding the woman in the painting here seems preposterous. I scoff and continue walking, unable to leave without—without what, Bailee?—a sign, something, anything.
Farther down the shoreline, the wet sand thickens into a sludge, seeping frosty water into my boots. I wiggle my toes, try to stave off the numbing. Questions swarm in my mind, not about the woman in the painting, but of life and my place in it. Self-doubt creeps into my bones along with Ipswich’s frigid current. Maybe I was too hasty digging up my San Francisco roots, planting them in a new place where no one knows my name. Anonymity drew me to New England, but now it terrifies me. If anything happens to me, would anyone ever know? I shudder, lock the cryptic thought deep into the shadowy vault in my chest.
A wave hisses onto the shoreline. My focus returns to the beach, to my body, chilled and aching. I sigh and face the cold truth: I’m not sure what brought me here. Whatever I’m searching for on this windswept beach remains hidden. I pursue the riddle, fixated on solving an unsolvable equation, on putting a face to the phantom presence that, no matter how I tease them, remain elusive. Shadows refuse to answer to reason. I can either lose myself to this futile pursuit or accept that some things aren’t meant to be reasoned, pick up the pieces I have left, and configure them into something brighter. I’ve got a warm fire and pot of cinnamon tea waiting for me at home. Head shaking, I double back, watching the rising tide pour oily puddles into my footprints, filling them with the reflective glow of awakening stars. I raise my eyes from the sand and gasp. My heart leaps into my throat. A shady figure walks toward me on the beach. A man, eyes piercing through the twilight haze.
I swallow hard, try to steady my trembling chest. Had he been there before? I hadn’t seen any other cars in the parking lot. Reaching into my jacket pocket, my fingers, numb and trembling, grip my keys. I insert the car key between my index and middle finger. A sigh leaps from my throat. Maybe he’s just strolling the beach, too. Doubt slithers from my temples. Then he stops, feet planted, staring me down.
What do I do? Walk toward him? Run? But where to? There’s nothing behind me but a shrinking beach and thousands of waterways. A thousand ways to disappear. Panic rises. I’m trapped. Now I know why a deer stares at oncoming headlights, paralyzed by fear. When danger beckons you to run, terror hammers your feet to the ground. I glance at the beach behind me. The waves swallow feet of sand, leaving only inches between the high tide and the sand dunes. There’s nothing but water behind me.
I turn to face him. We’re locked in a standoff, but I’d rather take the high ground of offense than be weakened by defense. I inhale deeply, exhale a billow of foggy breath, and lift my foot to advance, but it’s too late. He walks toward me. My plan withers into the December mist. I turn back and scamper toward the narrow shoreline. A dancing flame in my throat tells me to pick up my pace, but the sticky sand underfoot pulls at my feet. Panting with every step, my panic swells.
I don’t have long before the shoreline thins enough to send me swimming. I’m running out of options. I look back at him, his pace quickens; he’s gaining on me. My nostrils flare sharp exhales. To my right, grassy sand dunes rise from the shore. I throw out my arms and reach for the grass, hoping I can evade through the dunes to my car. Water pools around my ankles. I grunt and try to hoist myself upward, but the dune is slick with winter frost. I dig my foot in, balance, and pull myself upward. Hope springs in my heart until I slide down again. Desperate, I scream a guttural cry for help, but there’s not a soul around except for the shadowy figure that hunts me.
Is this what the woman in the painting had warned me about? How did she know this would happen? And why was I foolish enough to ignore her? None of that matters now, I need to get to safety. Summoning all my strength, I throw up my arm and reach for a tree root. I dig my left foot into the dune, and my other arm hurdles skyward. My hand threads across dry ground, closes around the earth. I can do this! Every muscle in my body constricts as I rise, first one inch, then two. Nearly a foot up now. My vision adjusts as I peer over the dune. I’m almost there. One more pull, Bailee! Springing my foot free from the dune, I raise my knee high for one final foothold. I nearly secure my footing when a low, honeyed voice purrs through the polar chill.
He’s singing Joni Mitchell’s “River.” Terror drums against my chest. My limbs freeze against the dune. His hand closes firmly around my ankle. A voice muffled by fear begins to sharpen and defrost my paralysis. I lift my knee and kick down hard, shaking my leg frantically.
“Bailee, Bailee, Bailee,” he says. “Where are you skating off to?”
A jagged scream takes wing from my lungs as I struggle to kick myself free, but the harder I kick, the more my grip loosens. I turn my head to face my attacker, and a hammer thuds at my gut. Breathlessness seizes my lungs. Two eyes glare up at me through gold-rimmed glasses.
His mouth curls into an ominous smile. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I scream again, but it evaporates into the open, windy river channel. Hope is slipping away along with my footing.
“The mysteries of the world only reveal themselves to those who dare to look. And here you are looking. For what, I wonder?”
“Why are you doing this?” My fingertips, purple and throbbing, slip with every second.
“It isn’t me who seeks the answers that brought you here. It wasn’t me who steered your Jeep to this river.”
“Buzz! Are you insane? Let me go!”
“Insanity is just another reality, Bailee,” he says, tightening his grip around my ankle. “One not so distant from yours.”
Nothing makes sense. Why did Buzz follow me here? Had he known about the painting’s mysterious effects? Had he known all along that I’d end up here? Is that why he gave me the painting? The earth slips away, inch by inch.
“Buzz, please!”
“It’s not enough to spend your life wondering what exists beyond the illusion of reality, some of us must dive in and see for ourselves. Are you ready, Bailee? Are you ready to find out?”
“Find out what?”
My heart jumps, he won’t let me go. He has pinned me to my fate.
“Take a deep breath, Bailee.”
A thought rises like smoke, it’s almost comical, the way we go through life avoiding this moment; where every step we’ve taken, decision we’ve made, leads to the submission of what is to come, what is unavoidable, absolute. And as hard as we think we will fight, bang the wild drum of survival, there is complacency; a secret hidden within transcendence, only revealed when we take that step across the threshold. The will to fight softens. Death whispers into your ear: it’s time to go. It’s not as scary as I thought it would be. It’s almost peaceful. I close my eyes and inhale a long, cool breath. Calm washes warmly into my body. One final yank at my ankle pulls me from the dune. My limbs float free. The sky above is a muted slate, like clay in your hand. Rolling, tumbling, suspended, a seagull steady against an updraft. And then the glacial water smacks my ribs like an uppercut and vanquishes all the air from my lungs.
Bubbles swarm all around me. My heart throbs frantically. I throw my arms toward the surface, but I’m suspended in the water. It stings my nostrils, burns my throat, purges a mushroom cloud of air from my lungs. From the shoreline, the water looked shallow, but my feet kick toward a groundless ocean.
The more I move my arms, the heavier they feel against the weight of this oily sludge. Buzz, the shoreline, the lighthouse, everything above the water, gone. Eyes wide, I search for a rock or kelp garland, something to grab and hoist myself to the surface. My hands are slicked by a slimy, deep blue substance much thicker than water. Fat streaks of sapphire and cerulean swirl in brushstrokes around me. Pockets of bubbles glimmer through flakes of lapis lazuli. I inhale and my panic dims. I exhale, inhale again, finding comfort in the steady pattern of breathing. How am I breathing? My eyes begin to adjust, shadows in the water gain contrast, light filters through in faint, dusty veils, and the glow of stars splinter and quiver against the surface. My arms settle and resist the struggle. I close my eyes. Consciousness slips like a ship fading into a misty horizon.
—
The water hushes and burbles in my ear. The briny scent of fish crawls into my nostrils, and I peel open my eyes. Fins flap slowly through this strange water, almost in slow-motion, their silver scales glint through the bright shelves of morning light. I lift my eyes to the surface where sunrays pierce through the water. My lips curl into a smile, and for a moment, I’m lost in the pleasure of the warmth against my skin. The bliss thaws when I try to move my arms, but the resistant water locks them into place. My body is trapped inside a mold, still as Michelangelo’s statue of Mary holding the limp body of her crucified son in her arms. Tears well in my eyes, bubble over like hot wax. I am bodiless but weigh a thousand pounds, buried in a beautiful, watery underworld, but it is not hell or heaven or even six feet under. I’m not dead, but I’m not sure that I’m alive, either. Worst of all is the unshakable feeling that I am being watched. Yet I cannot turn to see who it is; I cannot move. With a tremendous effort, I can turn my head ever so slightly. My jaw is heavy, yet breath flows freely from my lungs. What has happened to me? I’m afraid of what answer might come. I part my lips, try to scream for help, but only a faint whisper hisses, buried under the hush of running water. Save me! Help me! I plead, but who will hear a whisper? Who will break the glassy gate that confines me to whatever crack I have fallen into?
I want to break free from the clay that entombs me, swim to the shoreline and retch this tainted water. I want to shatter the surface. I don’t want to be her, but beyond a shadow of doubt I am certain I have become her, a version of her, frozen, embalmed in oil. A woman in a painting.
—
Nancy hammers the nail into the wall with one final blow. “That should do it,” she says, stepping off the ladder. Reaching down, she picks up the painting and holds the frame a few inches from the wall. She slips her hand behind it, secures the wire hanger to the nail. She stands back to check the alignment and tilts her head to the side.
“Almost there,” she says, and tugs the lower left corner of the painting. “Perfect!”
Slapping her hands together, she steps back to admire the painting. She smiles confidently as her husband walks into her office.
“Whoa. Creepy painting.”
“It’s a bit offbeat, but isn’t it remarkable? I found it lying in the dumpster in town. Can you believe someone just trashed it? What a score!”
“One man’s trash is another, well, you know what I mean. It’s something, babe, truly, but I’m just glad I don’t have to look at it every day.”
“I find it absolutely magnetizing,” she says, her voice low, her eyes locked on the painting.
He scoffs, scratches his head. “I don’t get it. Hungry?” When she doesn’t respond, doesn’t so much as blink, he lifts his hand to her shoulder.
“Hello? Nance, want to grab a bite?”
She flinches.
“Oh, um, sure,” she says, shaking her head. She turns her eyes toward his, her thoughts still absorbed by the painting.
They leave her office together, echoes of their footfalls descend from the stairwell. The room is silent, still except for a movement as slight as a butterfly blink; one most would miss. The woman in the painting flickers her eyes open. The azure current enveloping her swirls into motion. She lowers her bottom lip to speak, but only the soft hush of water purrs into the room like a deadly whisper.
A whisper of what has been lost.
A whisper of what is to come.
A whisper of the enumerate mysteries invisible to all but those who reach beyond the surface.
Christina Lyon is a writer from Southern California who had two emergency surgeries in 2023, bought a travel trailer, and now explores the U.S. full-time with her husband and two fur-babies. Her health issues manifest as themes of women being trapped and breaking free, often through mysterious and surreal channels. She owns a content marketing agency and is shifting focus to pursue her true passion of writing fiction.