What had stirred her up? Surely the loss of her sketch pad wasn’t enough to carve creases between her brows. “What’s worrying you, Beth? Is it the illustrations you’re supposed to do for the magazine?”
“No. I’ve finished one and sent it in to the magazine, and already have a rough idea for another. I’m still working out the details, but it’ll come.” Her fingers, stained with lead, continued to pluck at the quilt.
“You spend too much time in your room hunched over your desk; it’s going to ruin your lovely posture. You need to be out in society, doing things other young women enjoy. Drawing is pleasant enough, but it’s consuming far too much of your time, child. Finish your obligation for these illustrations and don’t take any more. You need to make a life for yourself and stop wasting your time with foolishness.”
Beth jerked as though slapped. “You think my work is foolish? All this time I assumed you believed in me. That you wanted me to succeed.”
Wilma’s stomach clenched. It had been years since she’d seen such a bereft expression on her dear girl’s face. What had she done? The child shrank as though Wilma had taken something precious away and was refusing to give it back. Could her drawings mean so much?
Wilma scrambled for the right words. “Of course I want you to succeed, but there are other kinds of success. I simply believe you’d be happier as a wife and mother. You can still enjoy your work after you marry. In fact, I’d like to have a picture with some trees or mountains in it, if you’d care to draw one for me someday.” She peered at her niece.
Beth dropped her gaze to her fingers. “I’d be happy to, Auntie.” No joy tinged the soft answer. “But I’m not giving up my work. It’s important to me. People have never filled that hole. You were happily married to Uncle George, so I’m certain you can’t understand. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“What then?” Wilma was unexpectedly nervous.
Stark pain blazed from Beth’s eyes. “Memories.” The single word came out in a whisper. “Or maybe they’ve been dreams. I’m not sure. Mostly at night, but they carry into the day … sometimes, anyway. And into my sketches. Like today.” She shifted on the bed again. “I want to sit up. I can’t lie here while I talk about this.”
Alarm bells rang in Wilma’s head. “All right, but you mustn’t get up on that knee yet.” She scooted off the bed and plucked a pillow from the chair in the corner of the room. “Lean forward, and I’ll tuck this behind you.”
Beth situated herself against the pillow. “That’s better. Thank you.”
Wilma pulled the chair close to the bed and sank into it. “Now, what’s all this about? Dreams, memories, and such … and you’ve put some of it into your sketches?” Dread filled her. She’d worried this day might come. She’d only told Beth what she felt the girl needed to know. There was no sense in making her feel worse than she already did, believing her parents hadn’t wanted her. All she could do was pray memories hadn’t surfaced that would plunge her sweet darling into the past. Not that her niece wasn’t a strong young woman. Sometimes Wilma wondered if she really knew how deep the girl’s resolve extended. But this was not the way she cared to have it tested.
“I drew something today that I don’t completely understand, but it left me shaken and feeling sick.”
Wilma straightened in her chair. “Can you share it with me?”
“I think so. I wish I had my tablet so I could show you instead.” She rubbed her temples. “It was something I saw in my mind. My fingers seemed to fly across the paper of their own volition. Dust, disappearing into the distance. In the foreground a little girl sitting by a bed of coals, her skin swollen and covered with red blisters, and her clothing burned.”
Wilma winced, hating the picture forming. “Was that all?” As though it weren’t
“No. I’ve finished one and sent it in to the magazine, and already have a rough idea for another. I’m still working out the details, but it’ll come.” Her fingers, stained with lead, continued to pluck at the quilt.
“You spend too much time in your room hunched over your desk; it’s going to ruin your lovely posture. You need to be out in society, doing things other young women enjoy. Drawing is pleasant enough, but it’s consuming far too much of your time, child. Finish your obligation for these illustrations and don’t take any more. You need to make a life for yourself and stop wasting your time with foolishness.”
Beth jerked as though slapped. “You think my work is foolish? All this time I assumed you believed in me. That you wanted me to succeed.”
Wilma’s stomach clenched. It had been years since she’d seen such a bereft expression on her dear girl’s face. What had she done? The child shrank as though Wilma had taken something precious away and was refusing to give it back. Could her drawings mean so much?
Wilma scrambled for the right words. “Of course I want you to succeed, but there are other kinds of success. I simply believe you’d be happier as a wife and mother. You can still enjoy your work after you marry. In fact, I’d like to have a picture with some trees or mountains in it, if you’d care to draw one for me someday.” She peered at her niece.
Beth dropped her gaze to her fingers. “I’d be happy to, Auntie.” No joy tinged the soft answer. “But I’m not giving up my work. It’s important to me. People have never filled that hole. You were happily married to Uncle George, so I’m certain you can’t understand. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”
“What then?” Wilma was unexpectedly nervous.
Stark pain blazed from Beth’s eyes. “Memories.” The single word came out in a whisper. “Or maybe they’ve been dreams. I’m not sure. Mostly at night, but they carry into the day … sometimes, anyway. And into my sketches. Like today.” She shifted on the bed again. “I want to sit up. I can’t lie here while I talk about this.”
Alarm bells rang in Wilma’s head. “All right, but you mustn’t get up on that knee yet.” She scooted off the bed and plucked a pillow from the chair in the corner of the room. “Lean forward, and I’ll tuck this behind you.”
Beth situated herself against the pillow. “That’s better. Thank you.”
Wilma pulled the chair close to the bed and sank into it. “Now, what’s all this about? Dreams, memories, and such … and you’ve put some of it into your sketches?” Dread filled her. She’d worried this day might come. She’d only told Beth what she felt the girl needed to know. There was no sense in making her feel worse than she already did, believing her parents hadn’t wanted her. All she could do was pray memories hadn’t surfaced that would plunge her sweet darling into the past. Not that her niece wasn’t a strong young woman. Sometimes Wilma wondered if she really knew how deep the girl’s resolve extended. But this was not the way she cared to have it tested.
“I drew something today that I don’t completely understand, but it left me shaken and feeling sick.”
Wilma straightened in her chair. “Can you share it with me?”
“I think so. I wish I had my tablet so I could show you instead.” She rubbed her temples. “It was something I saw in my mind. My fingers seemed to fly across the paper of their own volition. Dust, disappearing into the distance. In the foreground a little girl sitting by a bed of coals, her skin swollen and covered with red blisters, and her clothing burned.”
Wilma winced, hating the picture forming. “Was that all?” As though it weren’t
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