Mercurial

Chapter One

My confidence filled to the brim, I stride into the room and set my bundle on the table. "You beat me down here."

Without looking up, Emma says, "I'm so nervous about the spelling test today, I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning wasn't going to help anything, so I decided to just come down here and study."

"I feel a little less guilty about goading you into being up this early with me. How long have you been sitting here?"

She shrugs and looks up at me, "Maybe an hour or two." The pink puffiness surrounding her big hazel eyes attests to her story. "I want to help you though, studying or not."

My heart melts when I see her face. The worry in her eyes. The lines of stress creasing her sun-kissed forehead. "What's got you so riled up about this test? It's not like you."

"Ms. Kasha says if I don't pass it, she's going to make me stay an hour after school three days a week to study until my grade improves. She doesn't think I'm trying my hardest."

The loose knot on the handkerchief bundle comes undone easily, and with a certain precision lacking in most other areas in my life, I unpack my supplies directly across from Emma. It only takes a minute, for all I have to set up is a sketchbook, three pencils, an eraser, and a tiny chunk of charcoal. Someday I'll keep my things in a fancy travel case instead of a faded red bandana, and I'll have whatever materials I could ever wish for. "Are you?"

Emma's eyes glisten with tears, and I almost regret asking. "I study and try everything I know to do, but the words don't stick in my mind. When I picture how they look spelled out, my brain mixes up and adds in letters."

"Have you told Ms. Kasha that? Maybe she'd have studying tips for you. Staying after school wouldn't be the worst thing." I remember my days spent in that little one-room schoolhouse that Ms. Kasha has reigned over for the past fifty-odd-years. The way she talks – soft and gentle, but yet somehow loud and diplomatic enough for all to hear – aligning with her teaching style – an understanding concern complimenting her high classroom standards. The way her gray-tinged blonde hair is always pinned up in a tightly wound bun on the back of her head, and how the same three unruly strands of curls fall out in the most delicate manner after an hour or two of teaching. The way she always smells of cinnamon and vanilla mixed with a hint of perspiration. No. Staying late at school wouldn't be the worst thing at all.

A tear falls down Emma's freckled cheek, "What would Pa say?"

Fond memories of my girlhood spent in Ms. Kasha's classroom melt away. What would Pa say? Nothing, more than likely. But he'd be furious, and he'd make sure we all knew it. "What if I help you study while I sketch. Give me the word list so I can quiz you."

While Emma prepares for our makeshift spelling test, I set up the scene for my sketch by moving the lantern over, making sure all the chairs and corresponding shadows are straight, and finally fixing Emma's posture. I fashion her with one elbow on the table, head resting in her cupped hand, and the other arm lying face down on the table, loosely outstretched so that it almost looks as though she's reaching for another hand.

Moving the lantern around some more, I find the perfect spot so that the shadows artfully drape across the upper half of her body like intricate patterns. Just like that, the cozy scene turns into something mysterious and alluring. Something that draws you in and then leaves you wanting more, everything an artist could want.

More than satisfied, I sit in my seat and glance over the list of words Emma's supposed to be learning. "Is this spelling or geography?"

"I don't have any trouble finding these places on a map," Emma moans.

My eyes feast on the scene before me, and my pencil glides over the paper in smooth, light motions while my heart beats the steady beat I know it was created to make. My mind opens itself up and empties itself out, becoming blank and full, focused on the task at hand, but not too rigid as to ignore the way my hand dances with the pencil on the white dance floor in an improvised routine that just feels right.

"Let's start with an easy one," I hear myself say. "London."

"L-O-N-D-O-N," Emma spells back quickly. I keep the stream of words steady; Berlin, Lisbon, Dublin, Hanover. Someone new to the room would never be able to guess that Emma has any trouble with spelling.

"Helsinki," I challenge. My eyes sting from lack of sleep and squinting in the low light.

Without missing a beat, Emma spells "H-E-L-L-S-I-N-K-I."

I long to lay my head down on the table and shut my eyes. To rub the stiffness out of my neck. "Close, but one L. Just remember that if you sink down to Hell, you don't end up in Finland."

"Oh no," Emma's cheeks grow a dark shade of pink, and her eyes pop. "What if Momma heard you say that?"

The sun is rising, chasing away the shadows. My head hurts, and I can't believe it's already this late. Time's almost up. "It's fine; you'll get the next one."

But she doesn't get the next one, or the one after that. Vienna, Cologne, Edinburgh, Bologna, Valencia. Her spelling becomes increasingly irrational, and my pencil lines become increasingly sloppy and out of control. The air gets heavier and heavier, and before I know it, Emma is crying, breaking her pose, and pushing her school books as far away from her as she can reach.

The idea of waking before the rest of the house to sit in total serenity, quietly coming closer to mastering my greatest love, was just an illusion.

"Looks like everything went to hell with Helsinki," I say, which only makes her cry harder.