Blueberries and Grey Paint

By Julia Fessenden

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It was Elise’s birthday.

She stood at the sink, hands nearly up to the elbow in sudsy, warm water, now tinged a muddy grey-brown with the pigments that slid off her paintbrushes in inky swirls. She wasn’t focused on the task in front of her, though. Her thoughts were outside. The day was wrapped in the blooming, drowsy heat of late spring, sun the golden yellow of an egg yolk as it warmed the patch of earth situated just outside Elise’s window. She could see the blueberry bushes stretching languidly toward the sky, leaves vivid green.

“It’s taken you ten minutes to wash that brush.” A voice sounded behind her, the very edge of a laugh to it. Elise didn’t have to turn to know it was her husband. She could imagine the wry twist to his mouth, the slight humour that would touch his eyes.

“I’m just… distracted,” she said, dropping the brush into the other side of the sink. She finally did turn, and Henrik was sitting at the table, a mug of coffee next to his elbow as he leaned forward. He was all long lines, all light colours. Pale skin, corn-silk hair, and glacial blue eyes. He seemed insubstantial, somehow, translucent.

“Obviously,” he said. “But by what?”

“My blueberries,” she said, leaning back against the counter. “The lady at the shop told me that they wouldn’t yield any fruit the first season, so I didn’t expect anything last year. But this year, it could be a distinct possibility.”

“So, you’re daydreaming about blueberries, now?” Henrik asked, but not cruelly. It was a gentle sort of teasing, the kind that Elise usually shrugged off with a sarcastic laugh. She did that now, then turned back to rinse off the brush.

“Why aren’t you at work right now?” she asked, a note of chastisement in her voice. It wasn’t serious, though. She didn’t mind if he stuck around or if he left. Not anymore. Or so she told herself.

“Elise, it’s Saturday,” Henrik answered with a little laugh.

“Is it?” she replied, airily, filling up one of the newly-cleaned white mugs with coffee, taking a seat at the table. Four years ago, a week after they had been married, she’d picked out the off-white lace tablecloth, the pastel blue placemats, the vase of cream-coloured fake roses that sat stoic and silent in the centre of the table. Henrik had ribbed her for how soft the colours were. That was back when her colour palette was more akin to hope, more akin to the palette of him.

“Yes. And I’ve just returned from a business trip, so I should hope that they would not call me in on a Saturday,” Henrik answered. His eyebrows were drawn in, set low over nearly colourless eyes. She sensed his worry.

“I’ve just been painting again,” she said, brightly. “I think I’m really going somewhere with this piece—”

“Elise,” Henrik said, and it wasn’t a tinge of worry now, it was a whole flood of it. “Have you been eating?”

Elise sighed, rolling her eyes. “Of course, Henrik. Don’t fuss.”

Henrik stood up, long limbs unfurling as he approached the refrigerator. When he opened it to nothing but a nearly-gone jug of milk, a bottle of mustard, and a mouldy loaf of bread, it was his turn to sigh. He closed the door, turned to her, raised a barely-there eyebrow.

“I wonder when my blueberries will be ready,” Elise said. “Then I can eat all of them that I want.”

“Elise—”

“I’ve been eating, Henrik. I’m only sorry that we’ll have nothing for dinner tonight unless one of us goes to the store,” Elise said, toying with the lace on the tablecloth. She took a long drink of her coffee, then stood, smoothing down the skirt of her blue-and-white-striped dress. Slipping the paint-splattered cream apron from the hook by the door, she fastened it around her slim waist, just above the soft curve of her hips. She scooped her long, dark, wavy hair into a ponytail so that cool air kissed her neck.  

“Where are you going?” Henrik asked.

“To go do my job, Henrik,” Elise said, rolling her eyes.

“But it’s Saturday,” he protested. “Shouldn’t you take a break?” A sigh when he saw her sharp expression. “I’m worried about you, Elise.”

“You’re worried about me?” Elise said, an edge to her voice. She began to dump the rest of her coffee into the sink. It was burnt, anyway. It had been sitting too long. 

“What you’re working on… it’s dark, Elise,” Henrik said.

“What do you mean?” Her hands were trembling around the mug as she rinsed it. She looked outside once more, back at the blueberry bushes that rustled in the slight breeze

She remembered a time when Henrik was just as excited about the prospect of having their own fruit. He had spent an afternoon, up to the elbows in dirt, his jeans and white t-shirt stained brown from the time that he lay back and started watching the clouds instead of helping Elise. She’d nudged him in the side with a dirt-crusted toe, until he’d tugged on her ankle enough to convince her to join him. He’d gestured to the sky with a long, pale arm. This, my darling, is what you should paint next. The sky exactly as it is in this moment. And as she’d explained the impracticalities to him, the crazy setup she’d have to assemble in all of ten minutes before the sky shifted and changed too much, he’d laughed, pulled his phone from his pocket and taken a picture, ever the one for easy solutions. The painting of that picture now hung above the mantle of the brown-brick fireplace, a gift for him.

She suddenly realised that Henrik had been speaking as she had looked out over the expanse of their now nearly-empty garden. All except for the blueberry bushes, still hanging on as the roses withered and the clematis turned brown on its trellis. “I’m sorry, what?”

Henrik was immediately annoyed. If there was one thing he hated more than anything else, it was to be ignored. “Never mind. It seems as though your mind is full of other things that are more important.”

“I was just remembering the day we planted those blueberry bushes,” she said, wistfully. It was a sun-soaked past that she couldn’t quite reach anymore, not with Henrik’s uncharacteristic bluster and her newfound timidity.

“You’re using black,” Henrik said.

“Can’t you just stay on topic for like two seconds?” she asked, suddenly frustrated. Suddenly wanting to talk about anything but her paintings.

“Can’t you?”

There was a silence, at once searing and icy cold. Henrik seethed, Elise stared, and nothing was accomplished. The coffeemaker beeped as it turned off. The ticking of the clock seemed almost too loud. The blue curtains shifted in yet another breeze. Elise finally moved, but this time, it wasn’t toward the stairs, it was toward the sliding glass doors that lead out to the deck.

Henrik didn’t follow as she walked over the red paving stones and onto the little gravel path they had installed in the garden, back when they were both interested in such things and had spent the yellow-red tinged summer dusks digging a path through their poor yard, throwing sod into an ever-increasing mountain, until, exhausted, they’d make tea and sit on the couch, tossing words and laughter back and forth.

She didn’t want to think about what had changed.

Instead, she ran her fingers along the crinkled, parchment edges of the leaves of the rose bush, then pulled it off, crumbling it to dust. Elise went back inside and straight to her studio. It was outfitted with no fewer than six windows, curtains placed strategically so that she could open and shut them for the right amount of light. She closed all of the curtains, but one, high in the wall. It left just enough light for her to see by, just enough to show the shape on the canvas.

It was dark. Henrik was right.

It was her garden, but not quite.

It was her garden, but sideways.

It was her garden, but blackened and twisted, like chunks of jagged metal protruded from the ground instead of roses, instead of clematis, instead of irises, instead of daisies.

But the blueberry bushes remained the same.

They were there. Sketched in, but not coloured. Not quite yet.

She thought that she had nearly decided what to do with them.

Henrik was beside her, all of a sudden. She hadn’t heard him approach. But then, she never seemed to do so these days. He moved so silently.

“What are you going to do to the blueberry bushes?” Henrik asked.

Elise shook her head.  “I… don’t know.” It was the truth. She didn’t know if she could bear to colour them in grey-black like the rest. Or night-dark blue like the sky behind. She knew, though, deep in her bones, that those were the right colours, even though she didn’t want to acknowledge it. Not with the memory of bright leaves against a flawless porcelain sky.

“You have paint under your fingernails,” he said, quietly, echoing the past precisely.

You have paint under your fingernails. Pastel blue, splattered in dots and lines all over Elise’s tanned fingers, a contrast that she had been studying when Henrik had come into the studio, all tall lines and pale eyes. He had taken her slim fingers into his grip. Artist’s fingers, he had said, had kissed each of her fingertips gently.

“Yes,” Elise answered him now. “I’ve missed it.”

Henrik gave her a soft smile, “What’s on your brush is grey.”

“Yes,” she answered again. Precisely, quietly. She lifted her brush, poising it over the canvas.

“What are you doing?” he asked, more worry creeping into his voice. “Elise.”

“I’m finishing this painting, Henrik,” she said. Henrik stepped closer, like he wanted to stop her. “Don’t,” she warned, raising the hand with the paintbrush to ward him off. Henrik didn’t listen. He grabbed her wrist, ice-cold, long fingers wrapping around her arm with an alarming intensity. “Let me go,” she said.

“Elise,” Henrik said, softly, this time. He loosened his grip on her wrist, tugged gently, pulling her toward him. “Elise.” Quieter now, almost a purr. Elise closed her eyes as he placed a frozen hand on her cheek. She closed her eyes, knowing it was fear that drove him to act so harshly, knowing that he dreaded the words about to fall from her lips. They couldn’t pretend anymore.

“You’re dead,” she said. It was barely a whisper. “You’re dead; you’re dead; you’re dead.” A mantra now, louder, louder. It was everything she’d been holding back for what seemed like forever. In reality, it had been eight months since he had appeared as she stood in front of the fireplace, numb, arms crossed over her chest, sniffling occasionally. He’d just walked through the front door, like it was nothing. Like Elise hadn’t seen the twisted wreck of his car wrapped around a tree on the news, blackened metal like the very gates of hell, beckoning, beckoning.

She had thought he was real for too long.

She had tried to explain it away, but eventually, even her most impressive stories couldn’t do it.

But he had acted like he was real. He had stayed, and he had disappeared sometimes, but she had thought that everything would be fine. She could live like this.

Until she couldn’t.

Until she realised that she didn’t paint anymore. Which was not advantageous, because that had been her job.

Until she no longer had friends. She never answered their calls, she never saw them anymore. She never left her house for any reason but the essential.

Until, just this morning, she realised that she hadn’t even gone to the grocery store in nearly a month, because she never knew when he’d appear. Never knew during those long absences if he would appear ever again. So, she lingered. She lingered at home, she lingered in her garden as it withered. She drank coffee and stood in her studio staring at the blank canvas. And she knew that she couldn’t keep waiting. Because life isn’t truly about waiting. Life isn’t about two people just pretending that everything is okay. That one person in a relationship isn’t dead.

When she opened her eyes, his were anguished, his mouth open slightly, in shock or hurt, she couldn’t tell. His fingers on her cheek had become insubstantial—a dream, a whisper, a memory.

“You need to go,” she said, the edge of tears in her voice.  “For real, this time.”

“I thought—” The smooth, amused demeanour Henrik had held tight, crumbled in that falter, the broken thought. When she stepped away, he was gauzy in the light streaming through the window. He looked as if a breeze could knock him over.

“You thought you were alive,” Elise said, tugging on the edge of her dark hair.

“No, I knew—I thought you wanted me here,” Henrik says, regaining a little bit of… shape, a little bit more colour.

Elise had to turn away a moment, the tears cutting off her voice. She picked up her paintbrush, let it touch the canvas. “I did. I still do. But, Henrik…” she let out a sigh. It was resignation. She felt the tears running in rivulets down her face. “I’m as alive as you are.”

Henrik laughed a little, said, “I’m quite alive, Elise.”

“No, you’re not,” Elise said, softly, turning ever-so-slightly away. “I saw that goddamn shitty car wrapped around that tree.” He’d left that morning, in their old, beaten-down Toyota, a grin on his face as he told her how much she’d love the present he’d gotten her, the present he was going to pick up. Happy Birthday, Elise. The police had found the bag on the backseat, in a glittering purple bag. Her favourite colour. She couldn’t bring herself to open it, so she’d thrown it out in the hospital’s dumpster. An hour later she’d regretted it. She’d gone back and tried desperately to find it, but it was already buried under all manner of garbage. “I saw that on the news before they’d even called me to say it was you. I knew, Henrik. I knew, and yet I waited for you to come home. Even after they called me, I waited. I waited for so long. But the moment you walked in that day, I was just about to come upstairs and start this painting. And now I can’t finish it.” She spat the last words out like they tasted bitter.

Henrik seemed to turn even more translucent, then. He was now more the suggestion of himself than any true form. Mist and shadow. A smudge of a sad smile. “I hope that when you finish it, you are pleased with it,” he said, quietly. It was his turn for resignation, his turn to sound so tired it made Elise’s bones ache just to hear it. “And all the ones after.”

Of course, he knew there would be ones after. She knew it, too. This was a creators’ block. She’d had them before, when everything seemed to be going wrong in her life. The loss of a job, the loss of a cat, a sick family member. Every pressing, overwhelming emotion boiled down to moments of intense apathy and too much coffee, followed by periods of frenetic work, only for it to be thrown out to start again, followed by stints of her drinking alcohol in the dry bathtub, staring at the white walls in the vain hope of inspiration. But once she finished one piece, it flowed from her like water. Like blood. And this time, he was the cause of it, and not the benevolent witness, scooping her up from the bathtub after she’d passed out from exhaustion, or taking that cup of coffee from her hand.

But I’m nearly transcendent.

You’re nearly about to have a heart attack.

Elise let out a breath, a goodbye, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to see him vanish. When she opened them again, there was just the barest hint of swirling dust motes that seemed to suggest where he once was. She felt it in her chest. In her stomach. A hollow, creeping sorrow that filled her from head to toe. For the longest moment, it was just the vast emptiness, a dark space with no end and no beginning. A blank canvas.

Elise ran, the stairs barely an obstacle. She was in front of those blueberry bushes before she even knew it, a shovel in hand as she hacked away at the dirt surrounding them. When the roots were free she flung them with considerable force across the yard, letting out a yell that was ripped from some deep, desolate part of her. Each bush came free, and by the time all six were stacked in an uneven pile by the potting shed, decimated branches like crooked fingers, her voice was gone.

She collapsed, falling to her knees, crying now, awful sobs that shook her entire body as she stared at the ravaged flower bed in front of her. Dark, empty, like the hole that had opened up inside her, yawning like the mouth of some monster willing to swallow her whole.

What Elise didn’t realise, but Henrik did, silent and formless and attentive behind the potting shed, quietly observing as she curled up on her side, blue and white dress now stained with dirt, is that, like a blank canvas, a tilled garden can yield just about anything, given enough time. And so, he left, finally dissolving away on a sharp, cool breeze, the sky a pale, glacial blue overhead.