The Writer and The Artist: The Messenger

Chapter 3: The Messenger

 

THE MESSENGER

 

1

 

Detective Sharp was busy when Laura rang him, so he called her a taxi and offered to reimburse the cost. Laura refused the kind offer but thanked him anyway for the ride home. The taxi turned onto her road about an hour later.

 

After paying the driver and sending him on his way, she stood on the pavement in front of her house with an unfamiliar feeling of dread. Suddenly everything felt…darker…

Blac… she flinched, unable to even conjure such a terrifying word.

But she could not shake off the distinct feeling of being some place else, somewhere foreign.

The house felt completely wrong.

Was this the same house she had left only hours before?

‘Of course it is!’ Laura shouted, disturbing a passer-by on the other side of the road. She was unable to keep her growing contempt for the way she was feeling inside. She put it down to difficult emotions and nothing else. Taking a deep breath to calm her self down, she then walked cautiously towards the house. Her house!

As she unlocked the front door and stepped inside, her emotions did not fair any better.

Closing the front door behind her, she stood in the hallway for a moment to grasp the still, lifeless atmosphere of her home. Everything was where it should be: carpet the right green colour; wallpaper a lighter shade of tea green; the same carpeted stairway; even the china vase on a circular varnished table at the nearest corner of the hallway was where it should be. But still it felt plain different somehow.

She remembered where she had been earlier that morning and went through the hallway into the kitchen. It felt more alone than when she was there earlier. Laura stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the hollow ambience the kitchen provided. All the white axiom laminate surfaces and wooden cupboards were exactly where they should be. She had no problems in recognising her own kitchen. After a quick glance to check the garden beyond the large patio doors at the end of the kitchen was still intact, Laura then noticed her illustrations for the children’s book on the table, placed as she had left them. Everything in the room seemed fine.

And yet nothing was fine. Seeing all those perfect happy faces on those cardboard cut-outs almost tore Laura’s heart out.

All she saw in her mind then was John’s gleaming face, as he had awoken her with a kiss this morning.

She fell to her knees against the doorway and silently wept.

 

2

 

She was still huddled there when he knocked on the door sometime later.

           

 

Laura’s mind was in pieces. Her perfect routine had been broken: No dinner for two at half six that evening; no snuggling on the sofa in front of the television that evening; no magic in the bedroom after nightfall. In its place was grief; sorrow; pain. She could not possibly comprehend what was happening to her right now. It was true what they say: you only value what you have until it is gone. She had not been prepared for this.

Or had she?

Her daze was broken when quiet knocks tapped at the front door.

She knew it was him, the stranger who knew her at the hospital.

Laura looked down at her watch. It blinked 14:02 pm. Slowly she picked herself up from the floor and trudged down the hall to the front door. She could clearly see his ruffled silhouette through the frosted glass above the door handle in two decorative slits of double glazing.

            Carefully she unhooked the door chain (believing it would not be necessary) and opened the front door. He faced her admirably, even though he wore the same clothes and posture he had presented at the hospital. He expressed a faint smile as she gazed upon his face, trying desperately to uncover his identity. Maybe she had seen him once before? No sign of recollection passed into her memory, however.

            ‘You have been crying?’ he said, instead of the polite ‘hello’ option.

            She had not realised her eyes were sore and her cheeks were sodden with cleansing tears. She nodded, wondering whether it were wise for her to engage in conversation with him. Too late, she thought, you’ve opened the door now.

            But what he said next astounded her: ‘Well, you don’t have to cry any longer. I’m here to help you find John.’

 

3

 

Part of her, her grief, nearly threw the question ‘What did you say?’

            But a larger part of her, her hope (entwined within her heart), believed those tantalising words. Instead, in a state of emotional confusion, she stood to one side and gestured for him to come in. Silently, he walked into her life.

            As he walked through the doorway he seemed to stumble, but managed to grasp the doorway for balance. Laura noticed how his face looked to be in shock. But then the man regained his footing and shut the door behind him, giving her a look to say ‘I’m fine.’ Laura looked away and led him into the kitchen.

            Minutes later he sat patiently at the kitchen table as Laura made them both a cup of tea. He was not particularly fond of caffeine, but he realised she needed to keep herself preoccupied, even with the smallest of tasks.

            As he watched her pour water from the kettle into two white mugs (naturally matching the neutral interior of the room), it hit him that he had not introduced himself.

            ‘My name is Ethan,’ he said. Receiving no immediate response (of course he had already given away that he knew her name) he turned away, then noticing Laura’s children’s book illustrations at the other end of the table.

            ‘Right,’ Laura replied seconds later, noticing the distinct rudeness in her tone. She would regret it later.

            She stirred her teaspoon in both mugs and dispensed the teabags in the steel kitchen bin. Bringing the tea over, she noticed Ethan glancing at her morning’s abandoned work.

            ‘Sorry,’ she said, placing the mug in front of him; half-heartedly attempting to direct Ethan’s gaze away from the illustrations. ‘I left it out from this morning. I didn’t think to clean up.’

            ‘It’s okay,’ he said, carefully placing the mug between his shaking palms. Feeling a void of silence, he added, ‘They look really good,’ nodding towards the other end of the table.

            ‘Thank you,’ she replied, managing to raise a smile as she lifted her mug to her mouth. The smell of rich tea fumed up her nostrils, attempting to create a sensation of clarity. She broke from the trance and said, ‘I do it part-time…’ she then paused abruptly. ‘John is the full-timer of the house.’ She then took a sip of hot tea, bringing a warm glow to her cheeks.

            ‘I see,’ he replied. ‘And what of your paintings?’

            She nearly spat out her tea.

            He had not seen any paintings as he entered the house. They were kept securely in the view room along the hallway. They had passed it as they came through to the kitchen, but it had been shut. The door was always shut!

            Laura no longer felt like she was going mad. But another type of madness was beginning to settle.  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Laura said in a deliberately harsh tone.

Everything Ethan said thereafter placed her whole life into new focus.

 

4

 

He started from the beginning, leaving little room for pause: ‘I know of you and your husband, John. I know of the paintings you make of him. I know that there are literally hundreds of these paintings…’

            Laura interrupted: ‘You haven’t answered my question.’ In the back of her mind, however, there were more questions brimming.

            Ethan then hesitated. ‘I can’t answer that question, Laura. Believe me, if I knew how I knew all this to begin with…’ He frowned and lowered his eyes towards his chest. He then looked up at her, realising he was stalling. ‘I cannot remember further than this moment. The furthest I can think back to was when I walked through your front door only minutes ago. It is the honest truth. I have walked in here and suddenly a massive chunk of my life has been eradicated. But all I can remember is you, seeing you at the hospital and knowing about John and his connection to your paintings.’

            ‘Well what about finding your way here. Do you remember how you got here?’

            He shook his head. ‘I must have done before. But when I walked through that door, my thoughts started to reshape. It feels as though memories have been pushed further back, out of reach, except the ones about you and John.’

            Laura tried to hold back the tears, but could not. She winced her eyes as the first trickled down her right cheek. ‘You know he is lying in a coma, then?’ she asked, wiping the tear away.

            Ethan continued: ‘Somehow I do, yet as with most things I do not know why. But…’ he straightened up, ‘I feel as though I should be here. There is something in this house that I am here for. I also felt that when I passed through your doorway.’ He paused. ‘Something has led me to you and I believe it is about John and bringing him back to you.’ Seeing her expression, his voice became nervous and frantic. ‘I wish I knew what is going on, Laura. All I know – what I feel! – is that my life has become a purpose. And that purpose orbits around you.’ He was just as scared to say those words as the way he felt at that moment. He felt his eyes begin to well.

            Laura looked up at him. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. Yet within the emotional flood that marked her despair was a glint of hope. Ethan had felt something about this house and Laura believed him, for she felt it too. Something about this house had changed, although Ethan could not be aware of that. How could he? He had never been here before, as far as she knew. There was definitely a connection between the three of them: her; Ethan; the house. Together, they felt it.

She placed her hands on Ethan’s, attempting to calm him down. She mustered a smile.  ‘How do you propose we bring him out of his coma?’ she asked, now ready to hear whatever it was this young man had to say.

            He settled his nerves, and returned a grin. ‘Show me the room with your paintings,’ he said, ’and I will show you how to find him.’

 

5

 

Laura took him to the view room, where John would sit and reflect on the inner workings of his mind through the painted windows (as he called them) on each canvas. The newer paintings were placed on the larger easels at the far end of the room. The Field of Glory was placed prominently on the centre easel from the day before. The older paintings were placed at either side of the room, stacked together like huge decks of playing cards.

            Ethan walked into the room and stopped, as if hitting an invisible barrier. ‘Whoa’ was all he could say, as he examined the Field of Glory in all its beauty. He then inspected every corner of the room, taking in every painting he saw. This is it, he thought to himself.  ‘Wow,’ he eventually said out loud. ‘These are magnificent, Laura…Laura?’

            He turned to see her in the doorway, suddenly having the strangest feeling of déjà vu.

            She stopped before entering the room, then swallowing any feelings of devastation that fluttered in her mind. For a moment she turned towards the front door, wishing to hear the crunch of her husband’s door key turning in the lock, as the door handle started to lower…

            ‘John isn’t out there, Laura,’ Ethan said, breaking her cruel imagination. He outstretched both his arms. ‘He is in here.’

 

6

 

This room is your gateway, Laura. All you need is the gatekey.

            ‘Am I right in saying you have only ever painted John?’

            ‘All the paintings in here are of John, yes,’ she replied, ‘my other paintings I keep upstairs around the house. But I rarely paint anything without John in it.’

            ‘Why is that?’

            Laura found she was oddly surprised. ‘You don’t know why?’

            Ethan smiled. ‘That detail might have slipped through my grasp. Please enlighten.’

            She gave a quick rendition of how each of her paintings in the view room were visions John had seen and described to her. She ended by saying: ‘I have been doing it for quite a long time.’

‘I see,’ he replied, as memories started to connect to make a new pattern of sense. ‘I understand now.’

‘What do you understand?’

‘You and your husband have a gift,’ Ethan replied. ‘Your husband can see these images you describe of own mind. You have the gift to paint these images. Each of these images – gateways if you will – links to a state of your husband’s mind, as you said yourself. I believe John is within one of these gateways. We can reach him through your paintings.’

            Laura felt bewildered. ‘That’s ridiculous! How can you go into a painting?’

            Ethan gave an intelligent grin. ‘With the gift that I have.’

 

7

 

‘And what might that be?

            ‘Well, think of me as a missing link between you and John.’

            ‘Huh?’

            ‘Let me explain,’ Ethan reiterated. ’My gift is similar to both yours and John’s. I can see into these paintings and I…’

            ‘Whoa,’ Laura replied, ‘hold on a second. Say that again?’

            Ethan smiled. ‘This must be extremely daunting for you...’

            ‘Try ludicrous!’

            ‘Yes, maybe,’ he replied, ‘but the truth, nonetheless. I can literally see into your paintings.’ He looked towards the Field of Glory. ‘Right now, I can see those four John’s dancing on that field.’

            Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, so can I!’

            ‘Yes,’ Ethan replied, ‘but do you see them moving?’

            Laura scowled the painting, expecting some miracle of movement within the brush strokes she made only a day ago. But the figures were as still and dry as the acrylic she used to paint them. She frowned. For that moment, her paintings felt dull and lifeless. Just paintings, she thought, no husband there. Or were they just paintings?

            ‘How can you see that?’ she asked.

            ‘The answer to that is the same as if I had asked you how you can paint what John sees in his mind.’

            Laura gave a half-hearted grin. ‘You don’t have a clue, then.’

            Ethan looked at her, ‘Nope. I can explain what, but not how or why. It is strange,’ he said, looking back at the painting. ‘Once you know of the gift, you have to follow it. You can’t ignore it, it’s like…like…’

            ‘A reason?’ Laura said, knowing exactly how he felt.

            Ethan merely nodded in return.

            Laura stepped into the view room, feeling for the millionth time that she was stepping into the subconscious world of her husband’s mind. Seeing the hundreds of her paintings all stacked together running around each wall of the room, she said, ‘So where exactly is my husband, Ethan?’

            ‘That is an answer we are yet to discover,’ he replied.

            ‘Well,’ she said disappointingly, ‘where do you suggest we start?’

            ‘I expect the beginning, when you first realised the gift.’ He looked at her. ‘What was the first painting you made of John?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘my husband had had a bad day at work…’ She could almost sense the gargoyles and harpies hovering above her head.