To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Sun is Too Loud

"Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I" by Gustav Klimt (1903-1907), stolen by Nazis in 1941, held in a gallery after the war until legal battle by family resulted in the return of the painting - value $135 million

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Painting sunlight required skills more complicated than a swoop in the corner of a page. It required science, observation, shading, and practice. It had to be clear, but not quite seen. Obvious, but not quite there. Sunlight was rarely portrayed in brilliant hues of dripping yellows or fogs of glossy radiation.

Yet, that was where I disagreed with artists—because the sun was too damn bright.

Sure, the paintings seemed accurate. But the next morning, sprawled across my bed and tangled in my duvet, I could assure Van Gogh himself the sun was a very, very bright yellow. Very bright. Right through my useless curtains like laser beams of death. The air was even sparkly, as every fleck of dust lit up in the light like remnants of fireworks.

I wasn't usually a drinker like that. I remembered why I usually refrained somewhere around two A.M., cursing out my doorknob for not unlocking. Or near three, when August tripped over Lena's shoes by the couch and nearly fell on top of her, but she was already fast asleep. August and I had tried to move her to my bed, but she'd shooed us off and politely informed August she'd whack him with a pillow if he so much as thought of trying to move her.

I was sure August was thrilled at us and our behavior.

I also remembered why I didn't frequent the bottle around four, when my anxieties broke out of their cage and ransacked my psyche. At that point, I had no idea what was causing the nausea. Anxiety, mixed drinks, and shame were all potent in their own right, but completely monstrous in combination.

"Oh, he wasn't kidding."

"No, go away." My voice was muffled by the pillow being used as a shield from the sun. I prayed the intruder heard it.

Except, I was sure Carrie did hear it, she just didn't care.

The bed bounced as my younger sister flopped down beside me. I couldn't summon the energy to do anything but ride the wave. "August said you'd probably be hungover, but I wasn't expecting this. You haven't been this hungover since that holiday party. Y'know, when you damaged mom's Christmas cactus? She was so pissed. Do you remember that?"

"That was you," I muffled through the fabric with a groan. "You got drunk and broke it. She almost disowned you."

"Oh, right. So rough time after the interview or were you celebrating?"

Interview. What interview? I don't know wha—

I shot up, the pillow falling off my face onto the crumpled sheets.

"The interview!" I gasped. "Did it come out already?"

Then I groaned again, because the sun was too loud and sound was too bright. I flopped back down, hating every decision I'd ever made.

"Your hair is a mess. I'm serious, when they say bird's nest, I always thought that was an exaggeration, but crack some eggs and call you Robin—"

"Carrie!"

"Yes. The interview came out. The internet's on fire. In other world news, another oil spill happened, there's riots in at least four countries, and another congressman is upset about respecting human rights."

I groaned again and rolled over. I didn't know if the internet being on fire was good or bad, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. No, that was a lie. Part of me wanted to know; the sadistic part that wanted me to get what I deserved. The other part didn't ever want to know. Ignorance was blissful uncertainty where hope could still hide. Maybe I could sink into the mattress, and they wouldn't find me until my bones meshed with the springs. Maybe I could sleep and pretend I was a house cat, pleased and content without a worry in the world.