Portrait of a Ghost

My name is Rowena. I am finally back home after my O.E. in Britain. I live at 1445 Ross Avenue, Amli Fountain Place, on the 20th floor of the residential building. Living in Dallas's Arts District is ideal for me as an artist, since there are many places where my paintings are displayed, including my own gallery. They sell at a useful rate, and I have made a comfortable living both teaching and creating art.

Among my clothes and a few souvenirs, I packed a canvas. A painting of one of the places visited during my time in Britain.

My chief purpose was to go back to my roots. I grew up in a magnificent castle called Saelmere. It has been kept in good repair and is a tourist attraction. My painting is of the smaller castle not too far from there, Wadeley. I found it in ruins. I had just completed my painting when a breeze gently nudged my arm. But it caught the canvas, and I inadvertently applied a thumbprint as I grabbed it. It isn't noticeable unless you know about it, but it clinched my decision to keep the painting. It is sentimental to me, and I plan to hang it in my bedroom. There is a hint of a ghostly apparition among the broken, weather-scarred monoliths. As I took it out of the case and unwrapped the brown paper from my masterpiece, I stared in surprise mixed with fear. The barest perception of someone being there stood out bolder than before. How could that be? Also, a bush that had been upright in the painting was now leaning due to the wind. I did not remember either seeing or painting them this way.

I felt a shiver go up my spine, and my body stiffened.

'I am not scared of anything or anyone,' I declared. As a youth, I had trained to take care of myself in any situation. 'Assailants, beware.' I felt a surge of courage, ready to face whatever was to come.

I recalled a strange experience while painting the picture. A stranger visited me as I applied the oils. She reminded me of my past, something I have always wanted to forget. My Aunt and Uncle brought me up in Dallas after my mother died. As a child, I wanted for nothing but felt as if I never belonged. This changed as I grew up. I learned to appreciate having more than life's necessities. The here and now is my life, and I have accomplished so much. Yet, going back to my roots reminded me of something that happened long ago. Something that unsettles and nags at me. Something that needs fixing. To do so, I need to contact my father, who lives far away, and finally have a talk with him. A conversation I have been avoiding my whole life. But I am determined to face it now.

I looked out of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at a two-sided panorama of surrounding buildings, grey-stone and glass pillars punctuated with blue. It always takes my breath away. But this painting doesn't need a view. I will hang it in my bedroom on a blank ecru wall. It needs to be discreetly hidden away. It holds dark secrets of my past.

I went to find my staple gun and an adhesive hook to hang it up. I have the perfect-sized frame to attach it to. Once finished, I held it up to the wall to ascertain the best place for it. As I stretched my arms, I saw that the faint apparition had disappeared. Curious. I peered closely and could see a small hand holding onto a crumbling wall, successfully hiding its body and face from sight? So strange.

As I placed it on its hook, my cell rang. It was my manager, Stephen Harper.

"Hello, I'm glad you are back. You need me to pick you up this evening to take you to the opening of a new art gallery downtown. It's a good idea to check it out. You've been invited. Better still, I'll take you out for a brief bite before we go, and you can tell me all about your trip.'

That was Stephen. Always organising my life. But it had been helpful to leave everything in his capable hands while out of the country.

'I'm in the middle of unpacking at the moment and I need to shower.'

'I'll pick you up at six then. It'll give you a couple of hours.'

'Okay, Stephen, dear. See you then. Meet you in the lobby.'

He was not my 'dear,' but he liked to think of himself that way. I merely humoured him.

I popped my case on the bed to unpack it. The painting seemed to look out from the wall behind me.

After my shower, I chose a demure, fitted, black dress. It showed off my svelte figure. Maybe slightly curvier after my trip away, due to consuming rather unhealthy fare. I donned a silver necklace with a pearl pendant and matching pearl studs. I like my jewellery and makeup to be understated. I twisted my cascade of black hair into a chignon and secured it in place with clips.

That evening, I returned late. Stephen had behaved with the utmost professionalism, except that he kissed me on the cheek before I left the car.

'I'm glad you're back home,' he said.

"It's good to be back. I'm looking forward to working again.'

The look on Stephen's face suggested his thoughts. Aren't you glad to see me again? But he didn't say it. We had this conversation before I went overseas. He knew his place.

As I entered the apartment, I first kicked off my impractical heels and poured a glass of water from a jug from the fridge. So refreshing.

As I passed the painting on the way to the ensuite bathroom, the barely perceptible apparition stood once more in the location I had originally painted it. Had I been seeing things due to jetlag? A sense of unease crept over me.

By the time I walked out of the bathroom in my nightie, I glimpsed something out of the corner of my eye and turned again to the picture on the wall. I nearly fell over. It had become a portrait! And the face appeared stern. Surely, it's because of tiredness. I blinked hard and, on opening my eyes, did a double-take. The face still glared.

'Who's there?" I demanded.

"What do you mean? Who do you think I am? I'm your mother. I couldn't bear to leave you, so I entered the painting. You invited me with the apparition you painted.'

It must have happened when the breeze picked up and almost blew the painting over!

'I can always paint you out,' I said.

'It's too late for that now. But why did you bang my new home so hard? Were you trying to get rid of me?'

'I stapled the painting onto a frame. I made it into a picture to hang up.'

'I see. I am wondering why you came back so late? And why are you wearing that thing?'

'You mean my dress? This Calvin Klein, Merle, strapless one? I have more fitting dresses than this.'

'I can't believe it is called a dress. And who did you go out with?'

I felt like a naughty schoolgirl. Even my dear Aunt never made me feel like one of those.

'My manager. You can't possibly understand. This is a different era, a different world than the one you come from. Okay, you are a tortured soul seeking a daughter you never held, and you think it's me. Well, it isn't. I wanted you to find a more suitable abode. And you've chosen to haunt me instead?'

'I'm here to care for you, not to haunt you.'

'I suppose it wouldn't do any good if I told you to find another home.'

'You mean leave you? I can't. You invited me into this picture, and here I have to stay.'

'I didn't invite you. I wanted you to find your eternal rest. It was a merciful thing to do.'

'So you are not my daughter? You knew things about my family, my children, and my husband you could never have known unless you were her.'

'Whoever I said I was is no longer alive. You are no longer alive. I feel sorry for you, but I can't be who you want me to be. Your daughter was blamed for your death. Your husband pined after you and provided no support for your other two children. The midwife saved your youngest, and she grew up, oblivious, with another family. Finding out the truth ruined her life. Yet, when she returned with your grandchildren, you weren't satisfied. You terrorised everyone who visited the castle, which led to its downfall. A pile of stones and broken towers overgrown with tussocks.'

'You immortalised me.'

'No, I sent you off to rest in peace. And that's what I came home to do now. I will let you watch over me as I sleep. That's all. Good night.'

As I lay in bed, I thought hard about what to do. Here, I lived in a totally modern home, haunted by the ghost of a faraway castle. No, a pile of rocks and stones. I couldn't revisit my past. I couldn't let myself feel emotional about a woman whose death had been the best thing for her youngest, who had been condemned to death, and the worst thing for her other two children, whom their father and mother had wanted. Except their father had not loved either of his daughters. That was a thing common in those times. But when did it ever change? In modern times, women are often treated as second-rate citizens by their men. It was the reason I had learned to defend myself. I could look after myself. But what to do about a ghost!

When I woke in the morning, I knew what I had to do. The ghost could perform its antics, but I'd made up my mind. It must go. Callous it may seem, but my life could not be encumbered by a medieval woman who believed herself to be my mother. Especially one trapped in the painting of a ruined castle. After all, it is my painting.

After I had done my morning routine—dressing and having breakfast —I put on a jacket, took the painting down, grabbed a silver cigarette lighter off a shelf, tested it, then grabbed my car keys. I will take the painting away from here - somewhere an escaped ghost can fly free and be lost forever. Somewhere beautiful. The Trinity River Audubon Centre, not too far away, leads to a vast forest. The perfect place to go and start a discreet little blaze. I'll take a bottle of water; there is always one on hand in my trunk. I certainly don't want to start a forest fire. I'll find somewhere off the beaten hiking track.

'Where are you taking me?'

I ignored the question and gently placed the canvas in my trunk before driving through town, following the directions to Trinity River. Who would believe my morning mission involved banishing a bothersome ghost?

The drive was pleasant. I felt bad, but sorrier for the ghost than for the fact that I would destroy a perfectly good painting. This thought placated my conscience.

Yet later, when I set the painting down and piled twigs on it, an anguished, pleading voice emanated from the artwork.

'What are you doing? Daughter, I can't see you anymore.'

By the time I set to and lit the kindling, I had tears streaming down my face. The ghost from my past had unsettled me, but I had to move on. I wouldn't let anything drag me back. Surely setting my ghost free was for the best. She did not fit with our modern times. It would be torture for both of us. At that moment, I felt like the cruelest of the cruel.

'Please, forgive me,' I whispered. The canvas started to burn.

'What have you done? I can't stay. It's getting too . . . goodbye.'

'Farewell! Be at peace forever!'

I wept freely for a long time. It calmed the knot in my stomach. This had to be done. I thought about whether I should paint a replica painting without any concealed apparition. Somehow, it would be like saying the painting was more important than the person. Lady Soona had lived and died in childbirth, as many women back then did. She at least had a husband who loved her and three children who lived on. She never got to hold her youngest daughter. I can't blame her for being a tortured soul over such a tragedy, but my past traumas need to stay in the past. I can't allow such sentimentality to stop me from pursuing the essential things in my life—my own future. I got up and walked back to my car after pouring the water over the last remaining embers.

The End