Page 144 of A Thousand Painted Hours

—75—

The first bomb landed so close by that the house shook, and even on the stairs as I was running to Mother’s side, dust shook out of the ceiling. The cats ran with me, and I dropped them in the box I kept for them, lined with a towel, the flaps closed but not tight. It seemed to make them feel safer. I carried the box into Mother’s room and checked on her, but it was hard to hear her breathing over the noise of the guns and engines. They were right overhead, too many, too loud, and I ducked when a bomb exploded not far away.

Mother’s breath was ragged. I held her hand. “I’m here, Mother. Don’t be afraid.” I turned off the light and sat on the bed with her, singing in the dark.

A plane flew close overhead, droning, and chillingly the sound of a bomb falling, falling—

It landed hard and close, sending a shock wave that knocked me down and blew out the windows in the room. I rolled into a crouch with my hands over my head as plaster fell from the ceiling and glass rained down on me, the floor, the bed. A bright light flashed in the windows, and I realized the house across the street had taken a direct hit and was on fire. I stood and shook the glass from my clothing, and checked to make sure nothing heavy had fallen on Mother. Glass covered the bed, but nothing else, and I said, “Don’t worry. It’s okay. We’ll get you downstairs and make sure you’re—”

Her eyes were open. “Mother?” I brushed dirt off her face, plucked an errant piece of wood from her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

She could not. She would not hear anyone again. A howl went through my heart, and I took her limp hand, pressed it to my cheek.

Another droning engine circled, and a wind blew through the shattered window, fire flickering. Sirens roared, and a sudden percussion made me duck again. What should I do?

Mother had passed to a place where bombs no longer mattered, but I still lived in a body. Taking the cats with me, I ran to the cellar, where at least there was some kind of protection.

Alone with Bastet and her kitten as the battle raged overhead, I did the only thing I could think of. I wrote a letter to Tanveer.

To my surprise, I fell asleep on the sofa with a cat and kitten curled up on my belly. When I stirred, it was dark, but there were no sounds of a battle overhead. I must have missed the all clear. “Come on, little ones,” I said, tucking them back into the box. “Let’s get out of here.”

Upstairs, I could hear cries and shouts, and when I looked out, there were crews working on the house across the street. I felt remarkably calm. Focused. Leaving the cats by the door, I went upstairs to look into Mother’s room, but she lay exactly as she had. I leaned on the threshold, winded for a moment, trying to think of what to do. There would be no one to call until morning. The idea of staying here with her dead body was untenable.

I crossed the floor and tugged the blankets over her shoulders.

I would go to Nina’s.

First, I headed up to my studio for my bag of watercolors and pencils.

A lamp cast a yellow glow onto the wooden floor at the top of the stairs, and I could see a faint flicker from the fire across the street, which I didn’t question until I came into my studio and realized theblackout curtains were open, glass on the floor here, too, and canvases blown over.

I didn’t see Peter until I picked up the painting I’d done of angry Demeter. He sat in the armchair, flipping through a sketchbook. He’d clearly been doing it for quite some time. A discarded number were flung across the floor, carelessly tossed into the water on the floor. “Peter, what are you doing? These are my things. You’re not allowed to touch them.” I grabbed one off the wet floor, trying to shake it off, and realized it was turpentine that had spilled in the blast. The jug lay on its side on the floor. “This is dangerous,” I said, glancing at the fire across the street. “Even a spark will—”

“Burn it all down?” He was bleary-eyed with drink. He tossed the sketchbook in his hands aside. “Why would I care? What do I even have to live for?”

I didn’t need the bag. I would buy new paints. I turned for the door, trying not to move too quickly, give him reason to flip. He grabbed me by the arm before I could get there, and I squeaked.

Calm. Calm. “Peter, you don’t want this. You are grieving.” I turned toward him, rather than away. “You don’t want death, you want love.”

“Maybe.” He bent to kiss me, and I let him, smiling when he lifted his head.

I stepped backward, freeing myself from his grip, thinking to get closer to the door, and pulled my sweater off over my head. “You want to make love. Let’s leave this mess and do that.”

He scoffed. “I’m not an idiot.” He held up a cigarette lighter as a threat. “Stay where you are.”

My skin condensed in terror, and I backed against the wall, trying to think of something to bargain with as he moved toward the door and closed it. “Your mother is dead. I saw her. She’s dead and you’ll leave me.” He picked up another sketchbook, flung it on the floor, kicked it into the pile. The turpentine had not spilled. He’d poured it out deliberately. “You’re just going to go right back to India, and leave me here to rot.”

“Peter—”

He held up a hand. “No. Here is what I remembered tonight.” He held up a vial. “We have cyanide. I have yours, too. We can take them together, and I’ll leave your paintings alone, or you can refuse and I’ll burn it all down, and you’ll still die. Burned up by your paintings. Rather poetic.”

I heard Tanveer’s voice in my mind:You must live. A sense of perfect, cold calm filled me.

In my peripheral vision, I scanned the room for anything that might serve me. The table was covered with nails and a hammer, but could I reach it in time? Would it be enough of a weapon?

I needed to distract him. “Did you know that my mother’s husband didn’t die in America?”

He scowled. “Why would I care?”