“No, Dad. I hoped we could talk. Don’t you want to know me?”
“Daughter of Persephone. Did you want to visit the underworld from which your mother escaped? And do you fancy me Hades, lord of that underworld? Have you come for vengeance or to claim your spot on my throne? The underworld is different from hell, you know. There are many pleasures to be had here, but we do not leave. Mine may not be a throne you want at all. Here, we cannot touch the world of the living but through paint. The paintings are missives to the living from this half-life.”
“Dad!” I say sharply. “It’s just Matilda. Come to try and help. That’s all.”
“Matilda Klein. You want money.”
“No,” I say. “No money.”
“Everyone always wants money. The orphan boy, the actor, and my son. All of them. June wants my passwords and my signature, but I don’t let her have them. And the guests before, the friends from long ago, they wanted it, too. They used it while they werehere, until I forced them out. None of them ever loved the man I am. Some of them might have loved the paintings. Those inspire devotion, on occasion. But what they loved was the life my money could buy. Isadora never asked for money. She was angry and proud. Has she sent you for it now?”
“No, no. Meer asked me here.”
“Money is useless when your grandchildren die. In the fire. June showed me the newspaper. But I saw the smoke from my window and I knew there was a tragedy, already.” He shakes his head. “I painted them, his three living girls. Years ago when they were young. The eldest girl is the Cinderella.”
“I’ve seen that picture.”
“Tipper didn’t like it. Wouldn’t buy it. But she forgave me because it’s me and my brothers,” he says, “in equal measure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t ask me for explanations of paintings. Tell me, how are the birds?”
I don’t follow him. “What birds?”
“Meer came upstairs. He brought me permanent markers, in a rainbow of colors. He was lit up like the child he used to be, proud of his present. I indulged him. And when he left, I could hear he forgot to bolt the door. Some part of him forgets on purpose, you see? Because he’s guilty. And he loves me. So the door was open and the witch had fallen asleep on her watch. She grows tired and her strength fails her. It was day, and I was loose from my tube, so I ran downstairs and into the light.
“We are meant to be in the world, Matilda. We are meant to breathe the outside air. When I had the shining sun on my skin, I felt lucky and whole again. But I found I was not the only creature the witch imprisons. There were chicks, kept against their will,the same way she keeps me caged. I opened the pool house door so they could escape and then I ran to the sea, only to be found by the selkie boy, the orphan. He was kind, but he’s a jailor nonetheless. He put me back upstairs and I didn’t resist him, didn’t lash out at him, because I love him like I love Meer. And I couldn’t go far without my phone. It wasn’t a true escape. So I am asking you, do the birds embrace their freedom? Do they celebrate my name? Do they think I am a fool for letting the selkie boy lead me back?”
“No one could think you’re a fool, Dad.”
He looks me in the eye now, suddenly alert and clear-headed. “Cut me free, Matilda,” he says. “Cut this line and we can go downstairs. I’ll show you some paintings. I want to hear your stories. What a beautiful daughter you’ve grown up to be. I’ve had a wonderful time painting you.”
“I’d like that.”
I take the scissors from my back pocket.
I cut through the tubing that connects the IV to the port in Kingsley’s chest.
I help my father stand. He towers over me and is unsteady on his feet at first, but then he pulls himself up tall.
He walks slowly but confidently into the bathroom, shuts the door, and stays there for a few minutes.
When he comes out, his hair is combed. He wears a clean shirt and a pair of chinos. And a pair of shoes.
His heads for the spiral staircase. “Come along, Matilda,” my father says. “We will have a good talk.”
61
The moment Ireach the studio floor, Kingsley grabs my hands and yanks them behind my back.
“Dad, what?” I struggle against him.
“I’m leaving,” he says. “When the house is asleep.”
“I did what you asked,” I say. “If we talk, we can figure thingsout—”
“Silly child,” he says, his hands rough on my wrist and his beard scratchy against the back of my ear. He shoves one hand into my front pocket and pulls out the ring of house keys.
