Blank Canvas

By Mere Joyce

Three years ago, sixteen-year-old Maddie Deacon was abducted on her way home from her school’s Art Showcase. Five months ago, she escaped the madman she calls The Painter. Before being taken, painting was Maddie’s life. Now, it’s her nightmare.

Maddie wants to forget her years in captivity. She’d rather spend her time getting reacquainted with her parents and her sister, not to mention her cello-playing, beautiful boy next door and childhood best friend Wesley. But paint is everywhere, and tormenting shadows linger in every portrait she encounters.

When the yearly Art Showcase once again approaches, Maddie has the chance to win a scholarship and start planning a future far away from the horrors of her past. She knows she has to make a choice–confront her memories of The Painter and overcome her fear of the canvas, or give up painting forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Jun 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781772333930

Mere Joyce

Mere Joyce writes short stories as well as novels and holds a Master of Library and Information Science from the University of Western Ontario. As both a writer and a librarian, she understands the importance of reading and the impact the right story can have on young minds. She lives in Post Road, Nova Scotia with her family.

Book preview

Chapter One

Madison, will you tell me what happened?

I give Klara a stare of practiced indifference. You know what happened, I say flatly.

Klara doesn’t respond, only lets my words dissolve until the sole remaining sound in the room is the little desk clock, ticking away the seconds of our session. Klara loves to use the silent method. She thinks if she waits long enough, I’ll be incapable of suppressing my innermost secrets. She doesn’t realize I spent two and a half years of my life in silence. I’m a master at holding my tongue.

I keep my gaze steady on hers, and eventually she speaks again. I’d like you to tell me, anyway, she says calmly. She sits across from me, hands folded neatly in her lap.

When I first started seeing Klara, I thought she’d be taking constant notes about my condition. She doesn’t, at least not while I’m in the room. She only sits, her purple blouse bunched at her waist because it’s a size too large.

It’s my turn not to respond. I hold off answering Klara’s question and let several stiff, awkward minutes creep by. The less time remaining in my hour, the less I have to say. Klara’s familiar with this routine, but she doesn’t try to push me. As much as I dislike being here, I appreciate her patience.

When my fingers start tapping along to the incessant melody of the clock, I finally open my mouth.

I was kidnapped. The words lack emotion, my voice deadpan in the way most people around me find disturbing. It’s like everyone thinks I should be in tears at the mere suggestion of the memory. In reality, I make a strong effort not to cry whenever I can possibly manage to hold it back. Crying is embarrassing, and it’s one more discomfort I don’t need.

I’d like to hear the whole story, Madison, Klara says in her gentle voice. If she weren’t a psychiatrist, I would’ve guessed Klara worked in a spa. Her tone is quiet, soothing. It makes me drowsy, and on more than one occasion I’ve been tempted to ask if she’s ever actually talked until a patient fell asleep.

I’m not sleepy now, though. I’m annoyed.

W-Why do you need to hear the whole thing? I ask, digging my nails into the sides of the leather chair I sit on. I cast my eyes about the room until I notice the manila folder on Klara’s desk, neatly labelled with my name in block letters: DEACON, MADISON. I wish I could take it, and rip it into a thousand insignificant pieces. You know the story. I’ve told you. And yet, e-every single session you a-ask me to tell you again. Why?

Light glints off Klara’s glossy lips as she gives me the hint of a smile. Because it’s important for you to talk about it, Madison. You won’t do it at home, and that’s okay. But you need an outlet. You can’t keep it all bottled up inside. I ask you to repeat the story so you can learn to accept it, learn to live in spite of it. She pauses, and the smile turns into something like a mischievous smirk. You haven’t told me the whole truth, anyway, she adds, eyeing me closely. No matter how playful her lips are, Klara’s eyes always remain serious. I squirm under her stern stare.

I was taking part in my school’s Art Showcase, I recite, ignoring her comment about me keeping something hidden. I was there alone. My parents couldn’t come. They were both working, and my sister was spending the night at a friend’s. But I had a painting in the Showcase, so I had to be there. I–I wanted to be there.

What happened after the event? Klara asks, and I sigh, slumping down into my chair. I hate this part.

I figured I’d just walk home. I o-only live a few blocks away from the school. I’d promised my parents I’d get a ride with someone, but it was warm outside, and I wanted the walk. Besides, it wasn’t like I was a child. I was thirteen, I could . . . I could handle walking home in the dark.

I close my eyes. The memory doesn’t come flooding back––it doesn’t need to, because the memory never leaves. It lives forever just inside my mind, and as my eyes slide shut, the scene of my abduction becomes as clear as the photograph of the beach Klara keeps on her office wall.

I d-didn’t hear him, I admit, cringing inwardly as I work to ensure my voice stays detached. I was listening to music, and I didn’t hear. He came up behind me, and he hit me over the head. W-When I woke up, I was in a house. Locked in a room, with my arms tied to the closet doors.

Tell me about the room, Klara says, as if she hasn’t heard these details at least a dozen times. It was in all the papers. Snapshots of the walls, the mattress on the floor where I slept, the charming chamber pot chipped and stained, the washbasin in the corner where I got a weekly bath. As usual, the visions send waves of queasiness rippling through my stomach. Why does she think this will help me?

I describe the scene as simply as possible, never spending more than a sentence on any one particular feature. Then Klara prods me to tell her about the walls.

They were covered in paint, I say, swallowing hard. My feet begin to tingle, and I resist the urge to curl into a ball on the chair. P-Paintings, I guess, but not really. They were lines and shapes and sometimes words. All in different colors . . . but none of it meant anything. It was gibberish, in paint form.

And who did the painting, Madison?

I open my eyes. I can’t keep them closed any longer. I can’t bear to picture his face.

He did, I tell her. I struggle against my inclination to avoid her gaze, and force myself to meet her eyes directly. My captor. The P––The Painter.

You call him that because he painted a lot, didn’t he? Klara’s interested in my reaction. If I ever react at all, it’s when I talk about him. I’m careful today, though. It’s bad enough I can’t stifle the gentle stammer I’ve developed over the last five months. I refuse to let any other indicators of emotion peek through, especially today. Especially after the phone call I overheard this morning.

He painted all the time. He painted everything he could. The . . . the walls were marks of his insanity. He never stopped painting. N-Never.

Klara pauses her interrogation. She glances briefly away from me, her eyes fixed on the wall of degrees hanging behind my head. She’s working on her next question, wondering what the most effective method of attack might be. I understand her routine, too, and my shoulders ache with tension because I already know what she’s going to ask me next.

Madison, Klara begins cautiously, tell me about your feet.

Discomfort shivers through me from my toes up to my hairline. A faint buzzing takes up residence in my ears, and black dots multiply before my eyes while I try desperately to blink them away. Anxiety grips at me, my heartbeat erratic. My ribs cut into my chest, preventing me from taking a full breath.

I try to collect myself, try not to let the panic take hold. I search for something else to focus on, something to get my mind off my dizzying vision and suppressed lungs.

The only thing I can safely grab onto is the soft metronome of the clock. I peer over at Klara’s desk, careful not to let her see my worry. I let the black lines of the wood-framed clock form into minutes and hours, until the clock’s design finally makes sense again. I watch the ticking hands in relief as my breathing evens out and my heart slows, and smile when I at last notice the time.

Session’s up, I reply, my legs shaking as I stand too quickly. I want to sit again, but I don’t give into the temptation. Klara’s displeased with my sudden movement towards the door, and if I don’t hurry away fast, she’ll corner me into resting a while longer in her office.

I just have to make it out into the hallway. So I give my psychiatrist a fake smile, and walk away with aching feet and half-numbed limbs.

Chapter Two

Wesley’s waiting for me out in the parking lot, and his decade-old mini-van rumbles to life as I hurry unsteadily across the pavement, trying to push unwanted memories to the back of my mind.

How’d it go? he asks as I pull open the door and hop inside. Wesley’s van smells permanently of old fast food, and there’s a lingering scent of stale smoke from the previous owners. It’s a disgusting combination, but I can’t complain. I don’t even have my driver’s license yet, so the fact that Wesley Cole––who is seventeen, and only eight months older than I am––has his own car is an impressive feat.

How do you think? I ask dejectedly, and Wesley smiles sympathetically as he shifts into drive and heads out of the parking lot. I grab my messenger bag from the floor of the front seat, and rummage around for an elastic band to put my hair up. My dull, limp blonde locks are too long. I need to get them chopped off. I’ve been telling myself this everyday since my escape, but I haven’t stepped foot in a salon yet. It’s weird, but during my captivity, my hair was one of the only things still … mine. It’s hard to imagine getting rid of it now, even if it does annoy me.

I find a Scrunchie and loop my hair into a messy bun. Then I sit back against the cushy seat and try unsuccessfully to relax. I get about ten minutes of respite from my life as a psych patient, but the short taste of freedom is wasted on my quivering nerves.

If we skip out on the clinic, we could go grab something to eat. My treat? I try to tempt Wesley with the promise of burgers and fries, but my chauffeur doesn’t take the bait.

You have to go, he says simply, almost casually, like he’s taking me to school and not to another therapy session.

Traffic is busy, so while Wesley focuses on getting us through the gridlock of Bayfield Street, I focus on him. Wesley is my best friend. Or at least, he was. Before. I’m not sure what to consider him now. My neighbor, for sure . . . and I guess he’s still my friend, or still wants to be. Since I came home five months ago, he’s been around a lot, driving me to my sessions and having dinner at our house. My sister told me he hung around while I was away, too. Helped with the search parties and kept my family company on restless nights when they waited to hear something, anything, from the police.

I grew up madly in love with Wesley. But those feelings are as confused as everything else these days. He’s taller than he used to be, lanky in build, his hair the same sandy shade but now gelled into a style reminiscent of a ‘50s preppie. His dark eyes haven’t changed, and he still has the same soft freckling on his cheeks. But his chin is sharper, and there’s the shadow of a beard to mark the passage of our time apart.

Still, while others treat me like I’m a fragile doll, Wesley acts as if I’m nothing but a normal girl. This, more than his eyes or his freckles, reminds me he’s the same boy I’ve known practically my entire life. Three years ago, I wanted to be singled out as someone extraordinary. Nowadays, normal is a relief. Wesley’s always been remarkably good at giving me the attention I crave, or the nonchalance I need.

Don’t you have anything better to do than drive me around? I ask, hugging my bag to my chest and studying his reaction. When he smiles, my stomach still flutters like it did years ago. But I’m not a child anymore. I don’t have romantic visions of the future like I once did.

Wesley makes me feel safe, and for the moment, safe is a blessing. I’m not sure I could have survived this long without him.

Someone has to make you go to therapy, he replies, but even when he says the word therapy it still sounds like it belongs in everyday conversation. Like it’s normal. I lean back against the headrest and let a smile lengthen my lips.

I don’t mind seeing Klara, I tell him, even though I hate sitting in Klara’s office, repeating the story of my abduction week after week. I’m not sure why I lie. I guess it’s petty to complain about the woman assigned to help me, when he’s volunteering his time to make sure I have the chance to receive her help in the first place.

But you hate art therapy, Wesley finishes for me. His voice is tight when he says it, and I’m surprised. My reluctance to attend this second form of therapy has resulted in many drawn out conversations with my parents. Some have ended in shouting matches, others in tears, and most have been dispirited, fruitless attempts to find a solution to please us all. It’s no secret I want to stop my art therapy, nor is it a hidden fact Mom and Dad think art therapy is the most crucial aspect of my rehabilitation. But I didn’t realize Wesley thinks the sessions are important, too.

The van makes a clunky right turn off Bayfield Street, and after driving past a neighborhood of old houses and new townhomes, an office park comes into view. I can spot the windows of the Healing Expressions clinic, three floors up in the far building. My throat is already dry, and we haven’t even parked yet. My legs regained their strength during the ride, but my feet are tingling again. I grip my bag tightly.

See you in an hour? Wesley asks as he pulls up in front of the building. His phone buzzes, rattling in the cup holder. I wonder who’s calling, and wish I could stick around to find out. I would love to sit in this van, answering phone calls or spinning the radio dial, talking to Wesley or not talking and simply enjoying a drive down an endless sunny road.

Instead, I only nod at Wesley’s question, pushing open the door and climbing out of the seat before I lose my nerve and beg him to take me away from the clinic. Wesley gives me a wave before reaching down to grab his phone. I stare at him for a few long seconds, and then turn with a sigh and walk, still a little dazed, towards the building.