Blood Orange

Clementine would have been accused of being a witch, she thinks to herself as she uncovers the items donated to the museum. Thunder rumbles in the distance as she is hunched over her workbench, a strand of dark brown curls falls before her eyes. She blows her hair out of her face with a pout and checks her phone for the time: 11:32pm. Lightning strikes outside the window, illuminating the skyscrapers of the city, just as her phone pings. A picture of a bouquet of drooping yellow tulips and a text that reads, “These were made for you. 90 days. Xoxo” It was her fiancé, Homer. Clementine’s brow furrowed. She was disgustingly obsessed with yellow tulips. Another text came through, “Leftovers are in the fridge.” Followed by another, “Can’t wait to hear about the collection.”

Scattered before her are various artifacts: paintings, a few books, a candelabra, and a hairbrush. Clementine knew quite a bit of the witch trials in Salem, but mainly she knew of the misogyny, and something about everyone being out of their minds from mold. The museum had received a large donation from a local wealthy family. Out of all the items, she was mostly drawn to a large painting with an ornate gold frame, clearly painted with oil, of the most vibrant blood oranges on linen, a hand nearby reaching out toward one. Clementine felt something deep within her when she stared into this painting, as if she could feel the beating of the sun on her back as she was sprawled out on the linen during a picnic. Nearby a bird chirps, and laughter is carried from a quiet pond, a young girl feeding ducks unaware of the horrors of the world. The sun is hot, but the wind provides a coolness that makes the air feel like it is a part of her body, like she and the atmosphere are made of the same stuff.

Clementine sighs as she is yanked back to reality. She should head home soon, but the thought of eating leftovers on the couch while Homer snores from the bedroom does not excite her. Her life was absolutely perfect, she knew – a job that paid well and offered her the opportunity to work with history, a soon-to-be husband that is obsessed with her, a gorgeous apartment in the city that she never imagined she would be able to afford, all while she plans the wedding of her dreams. Well, not really her dreams because Clementine never thought she would get married. Suddenly, nausea overwhelms her, and with wobbly knees, she runs to the bathroom, kneeling before the nearest toilet. Oh god, am I pregnant? The world becomes black and she falls to the tile with a thud. The world around her disappears.

There is a smell of Earth and dirt, followed by a foul smell of sewage in summer heat. A fly buzzes around Clementine’s head, a shard of sunlight seeps through the wood panels, and she slowly opens her eyes. She is lying on the floor of an outhouse, somehow, and she rushes to her feet. Her hair is draped in a cap, her body in a deep green dress that falls to her ankles, and her stomach flips, flops like a fish out of water.

Stumbling out of the outhouse and into a backyard, she sees French doors leading into a kitchen, inside someone is whistling. Through the air wafts the scent of a simmering soup. Clementine has no idea where she is, but what is even more concerning, all she can see is black and white. Everywhere around her, there is no color. Not a hint of green in the leaves of the trees, or a red in the rust of the gardening tools laid out in the garden, as if someone had just been working there not even a moment ago. A man walks into the kitchen, so tall he must duck below the door frame to enter the room, “There is my darling wife.” Clementine stands there, frozen as she watches this strange man walk toward her, arms outstretched for her body. A body she isn’t even sure is hers.

A woman walks into the kitchen, with hair golden as a field of wheat, like the shade of a sunrise on a spring morning. Clementine imagines her feet in grass wet from the morning’s condensation. How has the gold of her hair reached this place where no color exists? Her toes are tingling and she makes eye contact with the woman. Her eyes unravel her like an onion, layers peeled back, one by one, and immediately, Clementine has a sense of familiarity. Somehow, somewhere, her soul must have known hers, for it recognized it the way the tides recognized the moon. Something moved within her.

“Sir, I have set the table for dinner.”

His eyes don’t leave Clementine’s as he pulls her into a hug and gently kisses her. Then he smiles, “Perfect. Thank you, Marigold.”

Bath water is steaming, traveling toward the open window that overlooks the garden, the smell of flowers floats into the room. Clementine’s body is covered in chills as she enters the bath. She wishes she could see the color of the sunset through the window. Her hair finally free of its cap, is now piled atop her head in a thick, braided spiral. On a stool beside the clawfoot tub is a cup of tea, made just the way she likes it. How did Marigold know? Who was Clementine supposed to be, whose life had she taken over, and why did she like her tea the same as her? There is a light knock at the door and Marigold is peering through the cracked door. “Come in,” Clementine splashes her face with the hot water. Marigold enters the room with a smile, carrying a tray with a dish of oranges. “I brought you some blood oranges. I know they are your favorite. Freshly picked from the tree in the backyard.”

“Oh, how sweet,” she reaches for a slice and gently pops it into her mouth, “Thank you.” Marigold sits on the edge of the tub, awkwardly, and watches as the juice from oranges drip off Clementine into the water.

Clementine is watching her curiously, “Do you see it?”

“Do I see what?”

“The color of things.” Clementine is watching her closely.

“I don’t know what you mean, I do not know what color is.”

“Okay, I will drop it then,” she smirks as she reaches for the bar of soap, “Your hair is a most glorious golden color. Your eyes green as a four-leaf clover.”

Marigold’s eyes linger on her - lathering herself in soap, the braided spiral of hair falling into the water. She smiles, gets up, taking the empty plate with her to the door, “Please, call my name if you need me for any reason.”

The next morning a rooster crows, yanking Clementine from a dream of a group of young women who are dancing in the woods at night. There was a fire, cups full of wine, stomachs full of laughter. The house shakes with bangs on the door. Clementine is in her bedroom upstairs; shouts are carried throughout the house. “Witch! Witch! Bring her out here!” Marigold runs into Clementine’s room, locking the door behind her. She grabs her by the shoulders, “Please, you must help me. You don’t understand.” They rush into the bathroom, the bath full of hot water for her morning soak. “What is it! You must tell me at once.” Clementine is afraid, the shouts are growing louder. There is banging at her bedroom door. It is her husband, “Clementine, are you in there? Unlock this door at once.”

Marigold’s green eyes are round with fear, her mouth opens and closes. She shakes her head. “Orange fire. They are going to burn me alive.” Clementine’s heart stops. “Orange?” “But…” Marigold grabs both her hands, cutting her off. She is squeezing so tightly that Clementine’s wedding band is crushing against her fingers. “I don’t belong here. I never have. I was thrust here, three years ago. I don’t know how, but you must believe me. I must find my way back.”

“You said orange, but you have never known color!”

Marigold tries to explain, “Yes, I have known color. When I came here, everything was devoid of color. Over time, slowly, they have come back to me, along with the shades. Blues and greens appeared first, then reds and oranges, purples and browns. I don’t understand it, but I am getting close. But I am curious, how can you see color? No one here can.”

“I don’t see any color here. I, too, was thrust here, just yesterday morning. I only see color on you.”

“I knew you were not Clementine, something had shifted, I felt it the moment I laid eyes on you yesterday morning.”

“You said you are close, what is it?”

The shouts have grown closer. Her husband breaks down the door to the bedroom.

“We need to find what it is exactly that brought us here.”

“If it brought us here…it should be able to bring us back, right?”

“I don’t know…I don’t remember what it was,” mumbled Clementine as she scanned the room, looking for an escape. The stool beside the bath, the blood oranges she ate in the water, as their juice dripped down her wrist and fell into the water, turning the water a light pink. Marigold saw the pink in the water.

“It was blood oranges. A painting of blood oranges.” Clementine unlatched the window of the washroom – “Quick, we have to get you out of here.”

“No, let them take me.’

“Are you mad?” Clementine shouted.

“Please do not make me break this door down,” Sage’s voice was booming through the door.

Marigold shakes her head, “It’s okay.” A smile creeping across her face. “The painting. I have seen it before. In this house.”

“It is in the master bedroom, above the bed.”

Clementine slept in her own bedroom last night and had not entered the master bedroom yet. She had not allowed herself to think of him asleep in there, wondering if she would come to him. Is that something she normally would do? Would she fall asleep next to him afterward, or return to her own room to prepare for the night? Wood pieces flew across the room as Sage hammered through the door. The sight of him there, yielding a hammer with a face crumpled in anger and agitation. Marigold could not help but shriek as he came toward her. “Is it true, what they are saying?”

“No! No, of course not! I am not a witch, you know this, I have been your maid for years.”

“Yes, and for years, strange things have been happening.”

Three men come into the doorway. “Mr. Williams, we must take her now.”

Marigold stares at Clementine, her eyes pleading and telling her you know what to do.

She willingly allows them to tie her wrists with rope and lead her to the place she has stood before, time and time again, the orange flames engulf each woman suddenly, dancing around their limbs, smothering them until their flesh and screams become nothing but ash and an echo in the wind.

“Are you okay?” Sage turns to Clementine, pulling her into a tight hug. They stay that way for awhile, her face buried into his chest, the scent of his sweat reminding her of home. Her real home, back in Chicago. The musky smell of her fiancé smells exactly like Sage now, except maybe mixed with axe. She is going to be sick – she knows what she must do. She lets him kiss her, softly at first, then roughly, he picks her up and pushes her against the wall. “The way you came in here to rescue me from that witch,” She whispers into his ear. He kisses down her neck, one hand reaching her chest, fumbling with buttons. “Not here. Take me to your bed,” she demands.

How is she going to get the painting to Marigold? Oh, Marigold. Could she die in this plane, during this time period, or would she wake up as herself again, as if she had just awoken from a coma, believing this entire place to be a dream? Was it all just an unconscious dream? She had heard of that, of people slipping into comas and living entirely different lives – they feel everything just as deeply as they would if they were conscious. The grief that comes from leaving these lives is just as real as the grief of losing something in our current lives.

Sage carries her to his giant four-poster bed with velvet curtains and lies her down before him. The painting is there, hanging just above them, the oil looks as fresh as if it had been painted that day. Sage towers over her, his hands placed on her knees, widening her legs. “Oh! Stop!”

“What is it?”

“That painting,” she points to the wall, “Oh I hate it. You know I saw Marigold in here once, behaving strangely. Chants, that sort of thing, right into the painting,” she paused for a moment, then, “as if it would do something or take her somewhere.”

“Witchcraft? In my bedroom?” He angrily yanks the painting off the wall, yelling “We should burn it with her!”

Marigold was right, the flames are orange and bright. As she stands there, among this crowd of people who lived so many years ago. She can’t see the color of their hair, the way the pink rises into their cheeks when they are embarrassed, or passionate, or the color of the flowers in the gardens. Everything was devoid of color. Until now.

Clementine rushes up to the flames. The familiar feeling of nausea is creeping upon her, and she knows she must act quickly. An older man yells at her, “Get away from her! Unless you want to burn like a witch too!”

“This painting is how she practiced witchcraft! It must burn with her!”

She reaches into the flames, toward Marigold, who is wrapped in rope and unable to move. Clementine can feel it, the painting is tugging her toward it, toward the sunny lawn with ducks and bread and nearby laughter, but this time Clementine is the little girl feeding the ducks.

She steps into the flames and wraps herself around Marigold, kissing her on her cheek – damp from tears, already smearing with ash from the smoke. Marigold’s dress catches flame. “Touch the frame.” She closes her eyes and the sound of the mob yelling “Witches!” fades away.

It’s one week until the wedding and Clementine has been swamped with the final touches of wedding planning. The days have been a blur and with each morning she wakes up determined not to dwell on the painting that transported her to another time; to Sage, to black and white, to Marigold. Clementine will never forget Marigold, although she will try to forget the rest. She wishes she knew where she transported back to. The sun is shining, yet there is a fierce wind that whips her hair and waters her eyes. The yellow tulips for her wedding are being imported from Holland, and she needs to meet with the florist before the wedding. The purple hanging sign swings back and forth, and she rushes into the flower shop, quickly closing the door to escape the wind. A bell chimes as she enters the shop and a soft, familiar voice yells, from somewhere in the back, “I’ll be with you in a moment!” Clementine walks to the counter and waits, admiring the interior of the shop, decorated with florals and ivy. Finally, Clementine hears footsteps and, “Good morning! How can I help you?” Marigold appears before her, smiling, with her green eyes and golden hair. The rest of the world falls away and Clementine smiles with a sigh of relief, “There you are.”