Page 27 of The Art of Vanishing

Jean

I was going to get out of here. Of course I’d heard the stories of others who had tried to escape, of their failed attempts.

I wasn’t the first one to want back their life on the other side of the frame.

But none of them had the reason to get out that I had.

None of them had a Claire to find. I had no idea how I would track her down once I was out, if I would even be able to navigate that world; I would figure that out on the other side.

I waited until the surrounding paintings were as empty as possible; I hadn’t seen any of my family members in days, off as they were in their own corners of these halls.

Most frames around me were deserted, the frames in our room not being the popular party spots.

Anyone who remained was in a state of repose, drifting off in the daydreams surrounding them, paying me no attention.

I walked up to the watery layer of atmosphere that separated my world from the gallery. I had never tried in earnest to pass through it before. I might have, had Claire not walked so thoroughly into mine. I lifted a hand, nearly raising my fingertips up to the boundary, before I lost my nerve.

I was going to have to go for it all at once. I backed up, past the piano bench, until my calves brushed the radiator on the opposite wall. I removed my jacket and my tie, tossing them onto the piano bench next to me. I rolled my shoulders back and cracked my knuckles. It was time to go.

I took off running as quickly as I could toward the frame.

It had been years since I’d run flat out and the sensation felt awkward in my muscles.

I decided, in that split second, that I would try to jump right before the divide, hoping to land on my feet on the other side.

At the right moment, I took off from the floor, hurtling toward the boundary.

I collided with what felt like a wall that expanded upon impact, sagging with the weight of my body and absorbing my energy before it flung me back into my world.

I landed hard on the floor, my head and neck bracing for the impact.

Every cell of my body hurt so intensely; I couldn’t move. I stared despondently at the ceiling.

“Well, that was embarrassing,” a familiar voice said aboveme.

I lifted my pounding head to find my sister sprawled across my usual chair, her hair a bit out of place, her shoes cast aside on the floor.

Her black ribbon remained intact, swooping across her neck, but nearly everything else about her appearance was disheveled.

If it were possible for Marguerite to develop dark shadows under her eyes, she would have them.

“What in the world happened to you?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you for days.”

“That’s precisely the problem,” she said as she fanned herself with my paperback book, which she had retrieved from the seat beneath her.

“You look terrible,” I said.

“You’re not looking so great yourself,” she spat back. “Can I have a cigarette?”

I removed the case from my pocket, taking my time to roll her a cigarette I was proud of. Once I was satisfied, I offered it to her. She lifted her arm as if it was leaden and took the offering, holding it not quite to her lips. I lit it for her, and she took a grateful drag.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” I said, not as a critique but as the truth.

“Well,” she said as she took another deep breath. “It’s not something I care to make a habit of. Five straight weeks of revelry may be taking it a bit too far.”

“It seems so,” I agreed. Had it really been five weeks already? Time felt endless these days, but I could remember the feeling of holding Claire as if it were yesterday.

“What have you been up to? Please tell me you haven’t been completely alone, making a martyr of yourself.”

“I certainly haven’t been spending any time with my sister,” I spat out defensively.

I meant it somewhat as a joke; I hadn’t actually expected her to spend time watching me pine.

But it had come out harsher than I’d intended.

I tried to soften my tone. “I’ve been fine and, no, I haven’t been alone. I was with Odette.”

“You were, were you?” The cigarette was quickly becoming a prop dangling from her fingers as she assumed the role of all-knowing older sister. I could see that the gossip was reviving her from her hangover.

“We’ve been talking. Just talking,” I said, even though I could see she wasn’t listening.

“Right, right, of course. Well, as long as you haven’t been lonely.”

At that, an involuntary sob escaped my lips.

We both looked up in surprise, but it was too late for me to regain control.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I swiped up to dab at them with my tie.

I didn’t cry frequently; actually, I never cried.

Even since the doors of the museum had closed, in the weeks since I’d seen Claire, there’d been no sign of a tear.

But something about Marguerite’s abject dismissal of my loneliness burst a bubble that had been growing in my chest, piercing straight through to my heart.

I collapsed onto the piano bench and put my head between my knees as the tears continued.

I heard Marguerite rise from the chair and put out her cigarette.

She slowly walked over to the other side of the bench, and I felt the fabric of her skirt against my thigh and her hand on my back, rubbing in slow, comforting circles. She said nothing; she was just there.

I pulled myself together and sat back up.

Next to her, on this bench, with her hand still on my back, I felt like Pierre.

I wondered what life would feel like if I’d been given someone to go through it with together, as they had.

They were teammates; they spent the days whispering secrets to each other between piano scales.

In my chair on the other side of the room, I’d been given solitude.

I’d made that a part of my personality for so long, I’d forgotten it was never my choice in the first place.

I rested my head on Marguerite’s shoulder as she said, “It’s okay to miss her, Jean.

I know what that’s like. There’s no point in trying to stop the feeling; it’s going to be there regardless.

” We never spoke about Marguerite’s own love life; I didn’t know whether she was referring to someone in our world or someone she’d had to leave behind in the times before.

She offered me a white handkerchief with small blue flowers embroidered along one corner.

It matched her blouse. “We just keep going because we’ve got no choice to do anything but that. ”

I looked out at the world in front of me. Marguerite was right, there was no escaping my life here, for better or for worse.

“I’ve got no sage advice,” she admitted, “no words of wisdom that will inspire you to do something so audacious as reach out to pull a complete stranger into our world. But I’m here if you need me. Or if you need a night of distractions.”

“And I’m here if you need a night off from the wild woes of being incredibly popular,” I offered in return. She kissed me on the cheek and headed off in search of her next adventure. I hoped, for her sake, it was something a bit more tame.

It was back to me and my thoughts. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought of Odette reading every book she could get her hands on and understood what was driving her to do so. I wasn’t sure my brain could focus on reading right now. I sat in my usual chair out of habit.

The days passed me by like a montage of blank space.

I was aware that time was progressing; the sun streamed in through the gallery windows for longer each day.

The blooms on the trees just outside the windows had turned to greenery.

But in here, nothing changed. I was frozen, an inert object that would never move again unless pushed.