Absence of Black

Marlie stood, transfixed by shades of blue, green, and pink. In the oils that swirled across the canvas, she saw heaven, filled with the exuberance of life. She inhaled deeply, as if the lilies were real. As if their scent could cure her.

“Not every young person appreciates Monet,” said a French-accented voice. Marlie began to edge away but paused when she recognized the Musée Marmottan insignia on the man’s jacket.

“Oui, monsieur. It’s so beautiful. The colours . . .they’re . . .” Marlie returned her attention to Monet’s masterpiece.

The guard was also gazing at the painting, as if seeing it for the first time.

“You know, mademoiselle, Claude Monet loved to set up his easel outside in the fresh air. Light fascinated him. Were you aware that in his later works he never used black?”

“Really?” She’d always thought it was a necessary pigment, a staple on any artist’s palette.

“Bien sûr. He used purples for shadows. But never black. He thought it too dull to capture the liveliness of his garden.”

Marlie walked closer to the painting, studying it from left to right. The rhythmic energy of the brushstrokes was mesmerizing and the guard was correct; she saw no black at all.

She opened her mouth to comment but at that moment a boy from her Grade Nine Art class clattered into the room. He scowled at her, as if she’d been avoiding him on purpose.

“Where’ve you been? Everyone’s waiting.”

Marlie shrugged an apology at the guard and followed her classmate to their chartered bus. While the rest of the students chatted about the things they’d bought in the museum’s gift store and what Parisian bistro they’d be going to later, Marlie cradled herself in her padded coach seat, eyes closed, trying to remember the colours of Monet’s painting. Turquoise, rose, moss green, cloud white. Angelic tints, a master’s touch.

And absolutely no black.

#

Marlie lay on her stomach, hands supporting her chin. In front of her, on the shaggy throw rug, a book of art prints was opened to a chapter on Impressionism. She studied a full page reproduction of a later Monet painting, a close-up of his beloved Giverny pond and its waterlilies. She’d seen it on the class trip to France last summer, when they’d visited the Musée D’Orsay. So many blues, rich and chaotic and haunting. The edges of the canvas ragged and unfinished.

She wished she could see the original again. She’d examine the technique, gauging the roughness of the application. She wanted to inspect the work from different angles, from close up and far away and feel herself immersed in the art. Comforted by periwinkle blue, wrapped in lily white.

“Marlie?”

 “Coming.” Marlie jumped up, leaving the book open on the rug. She rushed across the hall, into the murk of her mother’s curtained bedroom where the air was still and stale.

“Can you get your own dinner tonight?” her mom asked in a hollow voice.

 “Okay. We’ve still got soup, I think. And I bought some apples.”

“Good. That’s fine.” Marlie’s mom waved a lethargic hand.

“I’ll bring some food up for you, too.” Marlie always did, and later brought most of it back to the kitchen, untouched. Her mom was shrinking by the day, bones jutting out under papery skin.

“You’re a good kid. Thanks.”

Marlie tiptoed out. She stood, hugging herself on the landing.

She wanted to be in the garden at Giverny, on the Japanese bridge, looking across Monet’s pond. She wanted sunshine reflected on the water and poppies in full bloom. She wanted warmth and birdsong and the wind through tall grasses.

And, oh God, she wanted her family back.

#

Marlie got out of bed. She ate breakfast, brushed her teeth, and packed a lunch. She boarded the school bus, sitting by herself behind the driver. From her backpack she removed her book of art prints and as the other kids giggled and flirted, she turned the pages, imagining herself in Paris. With a healthy, happy mom and a kid sister with bright blond hair and an ear-to-ear smile.

She felt the sting of teardrops. They fell onto her open book and blended into Monet’s ethereal blue, becoming one with the painted water.           

“Marlie? Dear?” The bus driver was standing beside her. Marlie raised her head, her eyes unfocused.

“Yes, Mrs. Barton?”

“We’re here. At school. All the other kids have gone in.” The driver’s face was mapped with worry.

“Oh. Sorry.” Marlie put her book in her backpack and stood.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Fine.” Marlie left the bus. She walked briskly away, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But once the bus drove off, she slumped with the weight of her backpack and was late for class for the third time that week.

                                                            #

Marlie set a plate of reheated Kraft Dinner and a glass of juice on a tray. She added a bud vase and placed the last rose of the season inside it. It was the deep pink of a conch shell’s inner fold.

“Thanks, Marlie,” her mom whispered. She lay motionless on her side.

Marlie put the tray down on the makeshift table beside the bed. She lingered, reaching a tentative arm out toward her mom, but not touching her. Then she went across the hall and fetched her book of art prints.

“I’m going to turn on the light,” Marlie said, following up her words with the action. Her mother winced.

Marlie sat on the edge of the bed. She waited for her mom to stop shielding her eyes, and helped her get to a seated position, bolstered by pillows.

“Here. You’ve got to eat something.” Marlie dipped a fork into the noodles and held it to her mother’s lips. She repeated the action until her mom raised her hand. At least Marlie had been able to get her to swallow a few morsels, for a change.

“I brought my book in—the one I bought on my trip. Maybe we can look at some pictures?”

Silence. Then, a sigh. “All right.”

Marlie flipped it open, searching for the most cheerful images. “I love this one. See, it’s a girl in a field of poppies, and the wind is blowing her skirts and parasol.”

“Yes,” her mom said without expression. But she was looking at the book, not gazing into nothingness. And the lamp was lit and they were talking to each other.

“This one’s my favourite.” Marlie pointed to the lilac of the bridge in late afternoon, the blended green of the willows behind it. Clusters of white waterlilies floated on top of broad green leaves. The surface of the pond was mirror-like, the water smooth and serene, the gleaming reflections blue and grey.

Marlie’s mom shifted in the bed and pushed the book away. It fell, flashing an impressionistic kaleidoscope as it dropped to the floor. Marlie picked it up, straightened a crumpled page, and stared at her mother in astonishment.

“Don’t bring that thing in here ever again.” Her mom’s eyes were flinty, her tone harsh.

“But, Mom …”

“You heard me.”

“I was just trying to …”

“Stop torturing me.” Her mother flicked off the lamp and flopped back onto her side.

Marlie retreated, clutching the book to her chest. She sat on her bed and opened to page twenty-four. The Haystack series. Golds, greens, pinks, violets. Dry fields at harvest time. Not a single drop of water.

From across the hall she heard her mom’s wracking sobs. Later, there was a hoarse “I’m so sorry.”

But Marlie pretended not to hear.                              

#

She slept, dreaming of summer days and laughter. Her little sister shrieking and splashing as they played Marco Polo in the community pool. Pruny fingers, chattering teeth. Getting out of the unheated water and lying on sun-baked concrete, waiting for feeling to return to extremities. Sleepy, puppy-warm happiness.

A cloud in front of the sun. Marlie sat up, looked around. Where was baby sister, anyway? A scream from an elderly woman, a shrill whistle blast. Everyone clearing the pool, except for the lifeguard. And at the bottom, in shades of pink and gold, mermaid hair tendrilling, Marlie’s kid sister. Surrounded by turquoise, azure, teal—the water, enhanced by the painted bottom and sides of the pool. A composition of pastel perfection, captured in death.

#

“Stop apologizing. I had no idea things had gotten so bad. Should have asked me to come months ago. You poor kid.” Aunt Kathy opened her arms and Marlie swooped into her embrace, crying helplessly with equal measures of grief and relief.

Aunt Kathy took charge, cooking meals of real food and bringing energy back into the house. Gradually, Marlie’s mom uncurled herself and began to sit up for periods of time. Marlie was able to concentrate on schoolwork. She passed a math test and aced an English essay.

As a reward, Aunt Kathy suggested a visit to the Art Gallery of Ontario.

“Your mom will be fine,” she said, when Marlie seemed uncertain. “And I hear you love art. So we’re going, just you and me. We could use an outing, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Marlie hated to leave her mother alone. The darkness might make a reappearance while they were gone. But Aunt Kathy seemed confident. And Marlie hadn’t been anywhere except back and forth between home and school in ages.

At the AGO, Aunt Kathy was captivated by the Henry Moore room. She and Marlie spent an hour admiring the large women with small heads, sculpted in monochromatic plaster. They wandered through the Thompson collection, marvelling at the sacred and secular ivory carvings.

“Enough of that. Let’s go get us some colour,” Aunt Kathy said, and led Marlie onward.

Monet’s Nympheas of 1907, a painting Marlie had never seen before, stopped her in her tracks. The water shimmered, the reflections hypnotized. Clumps of waterlilies appeared to hover rather than float. There was no black pigment. Marlie lost herself in contemplation, until Aunt Kathy took her by the elbow and ushered her out.

“Don’t leave,” Marlie whispered.

“We have to. Your mom is waiting.”

“I mean, don’t leave us. Me. I can’t do it without you.” Marlie’s voice was pinched, her forehead creased.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t worry. I’ll stay as long as you need me. Promise.”

They exited the museum, hand in hand, Aunt Kathy fussing over Marlie as if she were a very young child, not a self-conscious young teen. For once, Marlie didn’t care if people stared.

#

One morning in early spring, she was amazed to see her mom sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in a terrycloth robe and sipping coffee. Light slanted through the little crystal prism that dangled in the window, throwing a crazy quilt of shifting hues over the room.

Her mom smiled slightly and tilted her head. Marlie tried to imagine what she was thinking. Perhaps she was listening to the robin’s song or just enjoying the feeling of April sunshine on her shoulders. It didn’t matter. She was here, emerging from the gloom, taking notice of her surroundings.

Marlie rushed to her mom’s side. She ached to wrap her arms around her, but stopped and instead reached out a hesitant hand. Her mom’s cheek felt cool and silky.

 “I love you so much,” Marlie said.

“I love you, too. And I won’t break. Give me a hug.”

Holding onto her mom, Marlie gazed through the window to the spring garden. The first, brave crocuses covered the ground. Chrome and cadmium yellows, viridian and emerald greens, chalk white. The shadows were gentle shades of mauve. Above the awakening world, the sky was a broad canvas, resplendent in cobalt.