Page 54 of The Version You Hide

An hour passes by easily, all of us lost in our projects. I listen as the five women make small talk of the weather, their families and random chit chat. They seem to have given up on their interrogation, only throwing the occasional question my way, to which I give them brief answers. When the class is over Betty, May, Ava, and Liz carry their work over to a table along the window. I follow their lead and do the same.

“Not bad,” Betty says as she gestures to my work.

It’s unfinished, but most of the details are there.

“I’m glad it meets your expectations, Betty.”

The narrowing of her eyes is the only sign I get that she’s picked up on my sarcasm. Still, we both wear slight grins as we wander over to the sink to wash our hands in silence.

After thanking Grace for her time, the four older women exit the studio, dispersing into different directions out on the street.

I linger at the table, packing the watercolour pencils back into their tin. When I look up, Grace is watching me from the window. “Thank you, Mackenzie. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind. Thank you for having me along today. I had fun.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m glad we ran into each other.”

The way her hopeful gaze lingers on mine implies that her words hold deeper meaning for her. I’m not sure why. It should make me feel uncomfortable, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe she’s just a people person.

“Where do you keep these?” I hold up the set of pencils.

“Just in the top drawer over here.” She points to a set of drawers next to her, then slides the top one open as I approach.

I place the pencils neatly inside and as I turn around, a large canvas on the wall above captures my attention. It’s incredible. Haunting, yet beautiful.

“Wow,” I breathe.

Grace watches as my feet carry me towards it, mesmerised by its colours and the painstaking detail within. I’m completely and utterly intrigued, moved by the emotions it conjures.

The canvas itself is massive in size. Probably about five feet long, the painting created from an underwater perspective. In the centre, a young woman floats, her white dress billowing around her slender body, her back to the ocean floor. Her arms are outstretched, her long, wavy hair wafting around her. Its melancholy in a sense, or peaceful, depending on your perspective. The woman could simply be letting go, or she could be drowning.

“This is incredible,” I say in awe. “Is it one of yours?”

“No,” Grace says, clearing her throat. “Not that one. But it was done by someone very dear to me.”

“It’s amazing. The texture, the use of fine lines to capture the light rippling through the water. The artist obviously had a steady hand and…” I end my rant when I see that Grace has turned her back to me, hunching her shoulders as she rests her hands on the sink. I hear her sniffle and begin to worry that she’s started to cry. “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

She hesitates a little longer, before wiping her eyes and turning back around. “No. Of course not.” Her cheerful voice is forced. Her smile too. “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself, Mackenzie?”

It’s obvious she wants a subject change. For whatever reason, she isn’t interested in talking about that painting.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “There isn’t much to tell.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she says. “Have you always lived in Cliff Haven?”

“Me? No.” I shake my head. “I’m actually from Coledale.”

“Oh. So, you were raised in Coledale and moved recently?”

“Raised?” I can’t help scoffing at the word before letting out a short laugh. “Yeah, sure. If you want to call it that.”

Her brow furrows as she watches my reaction inquisitively. “What do you mean?”

“Sorry,” I say, waving off her concern. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” she says. “You can tell me.”

I hadn’t planned on opening up to this woman about my life story, but it seems like a safe enough space. “It’s just that I pretty much had to raise myself. My dad was an alcoholic. Is. He is an alcoholic. He’s in rehab.”

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