Lorelai Was

I woke up to a cold December morning.  I don’t ever remember December being this cold before.  I was fixated on it, the cold.  I was wrapped in so many blankets and yet I could feel every inch of frost that glazed the house as if it was burrowing in to my flesh.  

I had no idea why I felt so cold under my quilt and my throw and my pyjama’s.  Today was always going to be a cold day.  We all wanted to feel cold, to feel empathy for dear Lorelai.  No one should have to imagine that feeling, let alone experience it.  

I don’t remember much of that day.  We were only young; I was two years older than her.  I had lost sight of her in the wooded area and then I heard the splash and the screams.  At nine years of age and not a strong swimmer, she never stood a chance.  

“Lori!” I remember shouting.  I saw her hand slip beneath the cold water.  She grasped at the ice on the surface but she kept slipping.  I tried to reach for her but I couldn’t grasp her fingers.  She was wet and slippery and every time I caressed her fingers for a second, they slipped through mine.  

Today she would have been sixteen.  We never talk about her birthday but it is always a quiet day.  It’s almost as if after her funeral, she was wiped from existence, had never ever been there.  There are no pictures of her in the house and Lorelai Elizabeth Garner is just a figure of my imagination.  

In the summer, mother had the pond filled in.  The water is gone and now a meadow of beautiful flowers sits in it’s place.  

This beautiful image doesn’t excite me though.  We have always had the beautiful gardens connected to the wooded area.  The most crimson Roses and vivid Lilacs have always floated in the breeze and the sweet smell of Lavender has always blossomed in the air.

When we were younger, my Grandmother Marie Garner for who I was lovingly named often urged myself and Lorelai to take up art forms.

“Grandma, why is art so important?”

“Dear sweet Marie.  Art is beautiful and inspiring.  If you can tame a the muses to your will then it will surely help your standings in society and life.

You can see all these beautiful paintings can’t you?  Portraits of myself and your Grandfather, portraits of your Mother and Father.  They were all painted by the same person.  He is a very prominent painter and he will have a made a considerable amount of money just from the paintings we had commissioned.”

From the age of eight, I painted all I could.  Practicing when ever I could and painting portraits of fruit, of family and of friends.  Soon after I discovered my love of painting landscapes.

Our garden was vast and filled with beautiful flowers, plants and animals.  The birds and the swans that roamed the grounds came in all shapes and sizes and were my most prized subject.  

Lorelai had chosen music as her form of art.  She had a beautiful voice and Mother taught her to play piano so gracefully.  Like me, Lorelai took to the piano with a great deal of love and respect for music.  When she was in the house she would open all the doors and play.  The music would echo through the corridors, upstairs and downstairs lifting everyones spirits and on occasion, moving house staff and guests to tears.  

Around the time Mother had the pond filled in she sold the piano.  It left a large gap in an already large room.  

Mother and Father said that I could use it as a place to hang my paintings if I so wished.  I not only did this, but I turned it in to my work room.  My paintings hung solemnly on the walls and my easel and paints sat near the window.

Before the pond had been filled in I used it as my main subject.  I felt this was always in honor of Lorelai.  I wanted her to know how much I still thought about her and so I painted the last resting place of her soul.  

I would paint the banks first.  The damp greenery was always so vivid in the summer and spring.  It always seemed to be calling out to the water.  The water always answered.  

It looked as if the grass ran out in to the water and the water would run toward the land as if a great war would ensue between them.  

I wanted to run toward the edge and feel the water in my hands, against my skin and then to move away before it overcame me.   

The lake and the earth twisted and embraced in to each other.  The long fingers of the water encroached upon the shore and clawed at the dirt.  It held on to the land for as long as it could before being forced to let go.  But, before it went back to its black abyss, it tore flesh from the earth and dirt seeped like blood from the wounds.  

I wanted it to claw at me, at my skin and bones but I knew, I knew that if it touched me it wouldn’t be claws.  It would be subtle and gentle and sensuous.  

The land seemed to push back against the water.  It tried to negate the hands, to exorcise the poltergeist that reached from the depths of nothing to reap the land.  The water kept fighting. 

The slender hands stroked and clawed and ragged and pulled at the tender flesh like a vulture, though the earth held strong.  

They were ancient and immortal.  Forever they would take from each other, Incubus and Succubus.  The waters skeletal fingers would take from the earth and the earth’s great beast like hands would take it back with such tormenting ease.

In the distance the birds and swans frolicked.  They looked almost dark and sinful.  As if their eyes were piercing me as I painted them.

They danced through the grass, teasing the water and the land.  Watching them battle with such dark intent.  

The painting had sucked me in.  I had no idea where the time had went but by the time I had finished it was dark.  The moon shined through the window.  

As I walked down the corridor, a few candles flickered and in the distance I could hear the whisperings of staff finishing for the night and the tiny footsteps of the maids putting out candles.  

As I reached the staircase I saw mother coming to bed.  

“Oh Marie, are you alright?  You’ve been painting all day.  If your hungry have Annabelle make you some soup.”

“I’m fine Mother.  I’ll just have something light.  I don’t know why but I lost myself in my painting.  I will see you in the morning.”

I gave my mother a hug and went downstairs.  I found myself something to eat and had a glass of milk.  I didn’t want to bother Annabelle.  She works to hard and it was far to late to be bothering her.  

After finding something to eat, I went upstairs to bed.  There were candles still lit and so I took one to guide me through the halls.  

At night the corridors seemed so much longer and wider than they were.  The house had an eeriness to it after dark and sometimes I swore I could hear laughing.

As I approached my room I heard the faintest creaking sound.  It chilled my soul to recognize such a faint noise that I remember far to well.

My heart skipped a beat when I heard the piano.  It was such a beautifully serene song that I hadn’t heard in years.  Lorelai’s song. 

I gripped tightly the candle stick holder and swiftly moved down the corridor and in to the old music room.  

The music had stopped and there was no piano to be seen.  My paintings were on the wall still but from some strange reason each of them was swaying as if caught in a breeze.  

A candle on my desk flickered.  It sat illuminating my easel and the new painting I had made.  The pond still battled the land, the birds and the swans still danced their ominous dance and... a new face.

In my picture, partially obscured by a tree, I saw her.  Her winter coat and hat were a beautiful soft maroon color.  Her eyes were green and her face pale as ice.  I had not painted this, I had not put her in to the picture but there she was.  Clear as day, Lorelai sat in my painting, cold and alone.  

I looked through the other pictures but she could not be seen and when I returned to my newest piece I saw that she had moved.  

No longer was she hiding behind the tree but sitting on the bank of the pond.  She was looking over her shoulder, out of the painting and in to my eyes.  She was so scared and so alone.  

I had made her alone.  The birds did not play with her and they could not speak to comfort her.  The picture was a beautiful summer scene but the water was still like ice to her.  

What could I do to reach her.  How could I let people know that beautiful Lorelai was in my painting.  Surely they would think me mad.  I would be locked away at Lennox House were I would be kept till the day I did go crazy.  

Maybe, just maybe I was crazy.  Could I truly be seeing my sister within my painting?  Could I truly be seeing her cold dead eyes before me in a piece that she had not been painted in to?     

I was suddenly overcome with inspiration.  I took my paints from my desk and with them I added to the painting.  

Sat on the banks of the pond, I painted a girl, no more than twelve.  She wore a summer dress with yellow ribbons and in her hands she held another beautiful summer dress of white and lilac.  

I painted myself as a girl of twelve, how Lorelai would always remember me.  In my hands I took the dress and I gave it to her.  

She slipped behind the trees once more and in an instant she was stood, full of color and life and wearing the summer dress.  

She took my hand and pulled me in to the forest.  We ran through the gardens and we danced through the house together.  We were so free here.  

I continued to paint and Lorelai played her piano day after day.  Now my paintings were different.  I no longer painted the gardens.  I painted the house, and Mother and Father, Grandmother and Grandfather.  

I painted us all together sometimes.  I secretly hoped that I could pull them in to our world or put myself and Lorelai with them though I knew nothing would ever come of it.  

Lorelai seemed content to have me here.  She didn’t need anyone else and honestly neither did I.  

I think that I was in heaven.