Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

It took her a moment to understand what he was getting at. She was sure that she was wrong.

“You don’t mean Kathy?” she asked dubiously.

When Rushkin nodded, Isabelle stared at him in disbelief.

“That’s impossible,” she said.

“And the numena aren’t?”

“Just because one improbable thing is true doesn’t mean anything can be true.”

“I promise you, I can bring her back to you.”

How many times had she longed to see that mass of red-gold hair tossed aside as Kathy turned to look at her the way she always did, the welcoming smile, the kind light in those grey eyes? How often had she seen something, or read something, or felt something, and thought, Wait’ll I tell Kathy, only to remember that Kathy was dead? Five years had passed, and it still happened. Not every day. Not even every week. But enough.

And how often had she railed against the unfairness of Kathy’s death? How often had she thought she’d do anything to have her back? Anything at all. But this?

She’d considered painting Kathy herself, waking her the way she had John and the others, but knew it wouldn’t work. The numena were new to this world. Kathy had lived here and died here. There was no return for her. This world had been hers before.

But even knowing that, even knowing that Rushkin would call up a ghost, a simulation, not the real Kathy, she couldn’t help being tempted. Because what if Rushkin really could do it? There were so many questions she had for Kathy, so many riddles that needed answers only Kathy could give.

I realized that I had fallen in love with her from day one, but I never once got up the courage to tell her.

I hope I do before either of us dies.

I’m not attracted to men, but I’m not attracted to women either. It’s just Izzy I want. She had to know if it was true.

“Well?” Rushkin asked. “Do we have a bargain?”

Isabelle blinked, startled out of her reverie. She gazed at the insectlike cast into which his features had fallen. Slowly she shook her head.

“You’ll bring her back,” she said. “And what will she be? Like him?” She jerked a thumb in Bitterweed’s direction. “A flawed copy of the real thing? A monster?”

“No,” Rushkin said. “I’ll bring back an angel.”

“I don’t believe your lies anymore, Vincent. I haven’t believed them for a very long time.”

“And if I bring her back first?” Rushkin asked. “If, before you paint one stroke for me, I bring her back and you can judge for yourself?”

“What ... what are you saying?”

“I will bring your friend back to you. If you are satisfied that it is indeed her, you will paint for me. If not, then we will part ways here and I will never trouble you again.”

Isabelle hated herself for what she was thinking.

You wouldn’t be doing this for yourself, she tried to tell herself. Not entirely. Sure, you’re selfish and you want her back, but it’s not like you’d be the only person to benefit. She thought of what Kathy had written about her in the journal:

It’s not because she’s beautiful, which she is; it’s because she’s an angel, sent down from heaven to make us all a little more grateful about our time spent here on planet earth. We’re better people for having known her.

Kathy might as well have been talking about herself.

“These paintings,” Isabelle began.

“I will ask you to do only enough to restore me. Two—three at the most.”

“And your numena?”

“I will give them what they need from my own dreams.”

Could she do it? Isabelle asked herself. Could she bring two or three of her own numena across from the before and sacrifice them for Kathy’s sake?

She knew it would be wrong. She was wrong to even consider it. It put her on the same level as Rushkin. She knew that Kathy would be horrified at the price paid for her return.

“Well?” Rushkin asked.

“It wouldn’t even be necessary for you to make new paintings,” Rushkin said. “You must have one or two left over from before you entered this abstract expressionism period of yours.”

“No,” Isabelle said. “I couldn’t do that.”

It was hard enough that she had to sacrifice anyone for Kathy to be able to return, but not them. Not John and Paddyjack, the wild girl and the handful of others who had survived.

“But you will paint for me?”

41

“Isabelle,” he said softly. “What do you have to lose? If I fail to bring your friend back to your satisfaction, you owe me nothing. If I succeed—surely it would be worth any price?”

“I don’t know.”

God, she felt so confused.

If Rushkin wasn’t lying about being able to bring Kathy back, then perhaps he was also telling the truth when he said that the numena weren’t real. Isabelle couldn’t barter with true human lives—even for Kathy’s sake. But if the numena weren’t real. If they were only paintings. Dream-born figments without any true life of their own ...

But then she thought of something Sophie had told her back when they were sharing a studio in the early eighties. They’d gotten to talking about dreams, and Sophie, who had very vivid dreams, had insisted that you always had to maintain your principles, even when you were dreaming. What you did in a dream might not be real in terms of the waking world, she explained, but that didn’t change the fact that you had done it. That you were capable of doing it. If you killed someone in a dream, you were still guilty ofmurder, even if there was no corpse when you woke, even if no one had really died. Because you would still have made the choice where it counted: inside yourself.

So how would this be any different?

“I repeat,” Rushkin said. “What do you have to lose?”

My soul, Isabelle thought. And everything I’ve ever believed in. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” she said.

Rushkin shook his head. “But I do, Isabelle. I do. We have always had our differences, but I respect your beliefs. Just because I believe your feelings concerning the numena to be untrue doesn’t mean that I don’t understand the torment you are going through.”

His gaze met hers, guileless and clear. She could almost believe he honestly cared for her. Could almost feel herself falling under his sway again. Oh, Kathy, she thought. What am I supposed to do?

XI

There was no answer at the door to Isabelle’s studio.

“Jilly said she was running some errands this morning,” Alan said. “She mustn’t be back yet.”

As he turned away, Marisa stepped up to the door and tried the knob. The lock was engaged but the door hadn’t been completely shut and it swung open at her touch.

“Why don’t we wait for her inside?” she said.

“No,” Alan said. “We can’t just barge in ....”

But Marisa had already stepped inside. Alan and Rolanda exchanged uncomfortable looks, then reluctantly followed her inside. The studio was crammed with boxes and suitcases, but otherwise empty.

“Look at this,” Marisa said, standing by the windowseat.

She held up the painting of Paddyjack and Alan drew a sharp breath.

“That’s a character out of one of Kathy’s stories, isn’t it?” Rolanda said.

Alan nodded. He crossed the room and took the painting from Marisa. In the corner by Isabelle’s signature he found a date, 1974. So it was the original, not a copy.

“This shouldn’t exist,” he said.

Marisa gave him an odd look. “Why not?”

“It was destroyed in the fire—almost all of her early work was destroyed except for the one I’ve got, some juvenilia and the paintings in the Foundation’s waiting room.”

“That must have been so horrible for her,” Rolanda said.