The Remains by Vincent Zandri Read Free Book Online Page B

Sliding myself
out from behind Franny’s painting, I made a beeline for the
bathroom.

Chapter 12
     
     
    I FLEW INTO CERAMIC-tiled bathroom, made my
way for an empty stall, dropped to my knees, buried my face in the
toilet. But all I could manage was to purge an acidic mixture of
bile and hot latte. Still, my stomach convulsed, chest heaved,
sternum split down the center.
    After a time I got back up onto my feet,
somewhat dizzy, out of balance, mouth tasting like turpentine.
Stepping out of the stall, I made my way over to the sink, turned
on the cold water, positioned my open mouth under the faucet, and
rinsed it out. I then splashed the water onto my face.
    My face. Molly’s face. Just as chalky and
ghost-white as the day she died. While the water dripped off my
chin into the sink, I breathed careful inhales and exhales. Calm
enveloped me like a blanket. But it did nothing to end the fear I
still felt for Whalen even after all these years. It did nothing to
end the sadness I felt for Molly.
    Pulling a handful of paper towels from the
wall-mounted dispenser, I thought about heading back to the
classroom when the wood door flung open.
    Robyn.
    She stood tall, narrow-hipped, cotton t-shirt
barely concealing a belly button pierced with a silver hoop. She
stuck both hands into the pockets of her low-waist Gap jeans.
    “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded.
“Franny thinks you don’t like his painting. And might I remind you
that Franny’s mother has provided us with one huge annual
contribution to pretty much be professional art cheerleaders for
her gifted artist-in-residence.”
    I inhaled again, nodded.
    Robyn was
right. What
was going on with me? You just don’t walk out on a talent like that; on a sweet
human being like that.
    “This isn’t one of those
words-in-the-painting things is it, Bec? Because if it is, I’m
calling Albany Psychiatric.”
    “Phone book’s in the bottom desk drawer in
the front office,” I said, trying my best to work up a smile
through all the lightheadedness, the dizziness. “Unless of course
you want to just cut to the chase and call 9-1-1.”
    How can she not make out the word ‘See’ in
the tall grass? How is it that I see it and she can’t unless I
spell it out for her?
    Robyn pursed her lips, ran an open hand
through thick hair.
    “You wanna tell me what you see this time?
You wanna talk about it?” Her voice became calmer, more
sympathetic.
    Should I be honest with her? Reveal
precisely what I saw inside Franny’s canvas? The field and the dark
woods behind my parents’ house, the painting depicting them
precisely the way I see them in my dreams? The way I remember them
from that long ago October afternoon? Should I tell her that in the
dark and light shadowing of the tall grass blowing in the wind I
recognized the letters S-e-e? Should I tell her that Franny’s
paintings were somehow speaking to me?
    Robyn was my friend and partner. Still,
intuition told me to shut up about this one. That yesterday’s
‘Listen’ episode had been enough weirdness for one week.
    I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I’m just
feeling nauseous is all. It’ll pass.”
    Reaching out with her dominant hand, Robyn
pressed her cold palm against my forehead.
    “Cold and clammy,” she commented, then spoke
in the third person. “Is it alive or is it Memorex?”
    I had to wonder.
    “Maybe you should go home, go back to bed. I
can handle things here. It’s just Franny and those two rich old
ladies who can’t paint worth a crap. ‘Sides, we’re not running any
classes this afternoon or tonight.” She quickly lowered her head,
made like she was looking under the stall to make certain one of
those same rich old ladies didn’t occupy it.
    “It’ll pass, whatever it is,” I repeated
while trying to get around her to the door. The former Catholic
school girl’s room had suddenly become too small for the both of
us.
    “Wait a minute,” she barked. “You’re not
getting off