Page 2 of The Art of Vanishing

Claire

This was without a doubt the most magical place I had ever been, and, dear lord, was I exhausted.

I flopped onto the bench in the break room, torn between which needed my attention more: the back of my neck or the bottoms of my feet.

Those wood floors had been tough on my heels, standing for hours on end without a break, but my neck was putting up a fight from the odd angle at which I’d been forced to bend it over the mop all night.

I understood now why Linda sat down so much—it was going to take some time to get my body used to this.

I decided to rub my feet; they were having the worse go of it.

I didn’t want Linda to catch me like this; I was afraid to give her any reason to tell them I wasn’t up to the job.

I listened closely to hear any sign of her coming back from the bathroom.

One night of work done. I’d never worked nights before. I thought I might get tired since we normally were asleep by nine in our house, but the adrenaline pumping in my body had made it easier than I had expected to power through.

It was the art; I knew it. Being close to so many paintingsmade my heart beat so quickly, I thought it might even be unhealthy. They’d all looked incredibly real up there in their frames, as if they were breathing and blinking just like I was.

I’d been here once before, when I was just a kid—well, not here here, but to this collection in its old building—and I remembered something our guide said to us that day.

She said she liked to pick a favorite painting in every gallery, like we might know who our closest friend was in every class.

And just like we might have more than one best friend, she might have more than one favorite.

But she said it made them familiar, as though they were there waiting for her each day.

She felt comfortable seeing their never-changing faces every time she got to visit them.

It was too early to pick a favorite; I couldn’t make that call after just one night.

I needed to give them time to speak to me and to give myself time to notice all of them.

But there was something immediately attention-grabbing about that huge canvas with the piano.

It was enormous, of course it would catch anyone’s eye.

Was it just me or was that guy in the corner kind of cute?

I sounded silly now. That painting was probably like a hundred years old at this point.

If he was a real person, he was probably dead.

Morbid. I was getting tired; I could feel it in my muscles.

I needed to drive home before I hit true exhaustion; I didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel, and they weren’t going to let me stow away here overnight.

I still couldn’t believe I’d get to come back tomorrow, to do it all over again.

And that someday, Linda would leave and it would be just me and the art.

There was a life out there waiting for me, whether I was ready for it or not. I peeled off the way-too-big jumpsuit they’d issued me today; I had been assured they’d order one in my size once I’d made it through the probationary period.

I was so excited about every little thing—a jumpsuit in my size was so silly but it made me feel a little bit more like I belonged here. This was just a job, a way to pay the bills. Why did it feel like something more?