Chapter 7.2 - Ghost Memories

There comes a point in one’s life when one simply gets bored with one’s own misery, no matter how justified. One just can’t afford the amount of energy it takes to keep it going anymore.

Despite the tribulations, the sorrows and the betrayals of her dysfunctional existence Claire had the liberating insight that this, what she had here, was the best version of life she could have ever lived. She would have found it difficult to explain this to a reasonable person, for whom this leave from society was simply a cowardly denial of failure. She wouldn’t have had any chance to explain to them that being here, doing what she was doing with her life and with her art, was the fulfillment of a lifetime yearning that she had never allowed herself to express and without which any activity, however justified in the eyes of society, meant nothing. 

There was something more to her life here than what she’d seen out in the world, a soul, a purpose, if you will, something that she would never have found if her carefully manufactured social competence had worked out. She would have never painted again, she was absolutely sure of that. 

Was that important? More important than being a functioning member of society? Nothing is really important and nobody is irreplaceable, those were the first things she had learned when she was trying to make her way into the art world. Nobody was ever good enough either. So the question then became, important for whom?

When you are young and just start out in life, life is a game to be won, a fortification to be conquered at any cost. You sweat and fight and run against the grain, and no matter the hardship, it would have been all worth it when you won.

If life sees it fit to give you a second chance you’re much more likely to not end up burnt to cinders if you start from a place where you’re loved. Claire was loved here, in her childhood home, and that made all the difference in the world.

“So, have you decided where you are going to live after the gallery opens?” Grandfather asked her abruptly.

“What do you mean?” Claire turned towards him like she didn’t understand the question.

“Well, obviously you can’t stay here,” he pointed out.

“Why not?”

“You’re way too young to be here with us. Besides, how are you going to manage your commissions from here?”

“It’s only an hour’s drive, I used to take longer to get to work when I lived in the city,” Claire replied.

“But what about your social life?” Grandfather asked, unconsciously revealing his true concern, which was how was Claire supposed to find love and start a family while cooped up in the middle of nowhere like a misanthropic owl? Mid thirties already and no hope for great-grandchildren.

“Judging by our family history, marriage seems to be conditioned by access to a realm that is only available here,” Claire gave way to a heretical thought.

“Oh, your grandmother and her stories about cousins and the land, wait until I give her a piece of my mind! Get a real life, Claire! You know, real?” he sighed, exasperated. “And stop chasing this airy-fairy woo-woo stuff, it never leads up to anything good!”

“I’m sure I’ll get plenty of living in New Orleans, Grandfather. Stop worrying, aren’t you happy for me?”

Grandfather really hadn’t made up his mind one way or another, although he had to admit that having an artist for a granddaughter sounded kind of fancy. 

“I’d be a lot happier if I managed to yank you out of here, but between your pigheadedness and your grandmother’s kindred it looks like a lost battle. Do whatever you want!” he said and got up to leave, suddenly upset.

“What’s gotten into him?” Grandmother approached with a plate of fresh apple pie, cut into perfect squares and generously covered in confectioner’s sugar; the filling was still warm enough to steam up the cool air of the garden.

“You know,” Claire hinted at the matter, but did not engage it.

“How are you holding up, dear, you look tired,” Grandmother changed the subject.

“Tired? I don’t think so, why on earth would I be tired?” Claire protested.

“I just thought you looked a little pale, that’s all. Your hands are cold, are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” Grandmother reached out for Claire’s hands to check her granddaughter’s temperature and then brought a thick shawl, as large as a blanket, to wrap around her shoulders.

“I’m fine, maman,” Claire didn’t protest the coddling. One of her hands reached out from under the shawl and snatched a piece of pie, which she enjoyed with childish enthusiasm. 

“Are you sleeping well?” Grandmother continued her health check, trying to get to the bottom of Claire’s apparent frailty.

Claire fussed uncomfortably. She slept soundly but had vivid dreams, long dreams that continued from one night to the next like a story. What consumed her was that she knew there was a coherent story line as soon as she fell asleep, but couldn’t remember the dreams at all upon awaking, much as she tried. She got flashes sometimes, disparate fragments of events, triggered by a scent or a sound, never enough to bring the story together. It was as if she lived a second life inside her slumber and it was from that life that all those emotions in her paintings were coming from. 

“Oh, baby, you can’t do that! Let me make you a nice cup of linden flower tea, it will help you sleep without dreams, you look exhausted.” 

The fragrance of the tea announced itself from a distance, blowing slow wisps through the spout as Grandmother brought the teapot to the table. The image of a large linden tree in bloom flashed inside Claire’s mind. “I know this place,” she thought, absolutely certain she’d been there before, that she sat under that tree. She remembered everything about this scene in painstaking detail - the scent of the flowers, the air temperature mellowing out in the evening, the feeling of the grass under her bare feet, the dress she wore, white and embroidered with wild flowers around the hem, the ruggedness of the tree bark under her fingers, the bird sounds, like no birds she ever heard before. She remembered she wore a flower crown, loosely woven of chicory and dandelions. The sun and the moon were in the sky together, equally bright. Something brushed past her hand and she was rushed back to reality: the wind had blown the fringes of the shawl over her fingers.

“Where were you just now, bebelle?” Grandmother asked, more curious than concerned. Claire described the scene to her.

“Ah, ghost memories,” the latter chuckled softly. “If only we remembered all the places our souls go when our bodies are asleep!”

“What sort of places?” Claire was still trying to shake the feeling of certainty which accompanied that image.

“All sorts of places: places in the past, places in the future, places in other lives, places in the minds of other people, places that don’t belong to this world at all, memories of Heaven, scary places we get lost in sometimes, all sorts of places.”

“So you mean to tell me this memory is real?” Claire’s eyes widened.

“Who is to know? What makes you so sure this right here right now is?” Grandmother postulated.

“Don’t even joke about it, maman. I’m crazy enough as it is,” Claire frowned, sipping her tea in search of comfort.

“People are afraid of the unknown but they are even more afraid of things that are not supposed to exist. If you know they exist, then they are not scary anymore, they are just other places you can visit, no different from the nearby town, or another continent. You just acknowledge they are there, that’s all, what’s the big deal?”

Claire was still submerged in the vivid memory, so entangled in it that for a second she thought she could see it through reality like through a sheer veil.