Gaze (Finale)

ADÈLE DE L’AIGLE
New Haven, Connecticut (United States), 1979 – Mantes-la-Jolie (France), 2037

La feue Anaya*                                                      2019
Oil on canvas

Private collection of Pierre de l’Aigle (artist's son)

Inspiration: Portrait of Jeanne Samary (La Rêverie) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1877)

*The late Anaya

Isobel

Friday - May 3rd, 2019

Anaya Grace Miller was like a daughter to Isobel Matthews. At least, that is what she liked to tell herself.

This Friday morning was like any other: she awoke to an empty bed, poured herself a cup of coffee, and prepared an elaborate breakfast that her soon-to-be stepdaughter would refuse to touch. When Anaya had left for school, she crept into her room and sat at her vanity to spend two hours meticulously arranging every strand of her golden locks into a braid and delicately painting on a younger version of her face. She pranced towards her dresser and pulled out a silk robe and matching underwear from the bottom drawer. Wearing nothing but these garments, she found her way to her art studio in the room behind the kitchen, the one that overlooked the garden and the dirty pink shed Isobel had been obsessively thinking about for days. She dropped her paintbrush and reached for Aditi’s leather-bound journal, which she opened and resumed reading for the hundredth time like one would their Bible.

At around 10 a.m., the postman rang the doorbell to deliver a package. Isobel loosened her robe and opened the door with a big smile on her face. An hour later, she sent the postman on his merry way. Satisfied with herself, Isobel took off the robe and fished for a sweater and pants in her own closet. But when she placed the robe and underwear back into her stepdaughter’s dresser, she noticed a book she had never seen before. It did not take long for the woman to understand that she was looking at a journal, leather-bound like her mother’s in that same burgundy color. She instinctively grabbed it and flipped to the first page. It was not a diary, it was a novel.

I looked over at Eshe and how I could push her in front of a moving car with much ease. She was practically begging for it anyway, practicing her catwalk on the very edge of the pavement. I imagined her limp body floundering on the asphalt concrete like a fish out of water, a puddle of blood encircling her like a halo. But only I knew that Eshe Tut was not a saint.

Isobel audibly gasped in horror. Across the pages were scribblings of Anaya’s wildest fantasies, the thousands of ways she could seemingly kill every female student in her school. Although every part of her wanted to believe she was incapable of carrying through such a vile plan, discomfort gnawed at her heart. Of all the girls she had decided to begin her novel with, it was Eshe. Kind, charismatic Eshe. And Isobel began to wonder if Anaya’s fantasies would stop at mere compositions on a page.

Emboldened to stop her, she took the vial of arsenic that she used for her art and released two drops into a bottle of water before placing it in the back of the refrigerator. She rummaged through that bottom dresser drawer once more to find the perfect outfit: a tight leather dress worn over a ribbed turtleneck. The perfect outfit to kill your darling in. And then, she waited for the clock to strike eight. She waited for Time to guide her next moves, the nature of her daughter blinding her to her own. From here on out, she was no longer in control.  

. . .

Isobel rose from her seat before the cast finished performing their rendition of “Sunday.” She made her way backstage, clutching her tote bag like a mad woman and waited under the fluorescent lights of the empty corridor for students to gradually flood the space. She finally spotted Anaya, who was looking disoriented. The actress stepped inside the room, frantically blotting away the beads of sweat that kept rolling down her temples and forehead.

Isobel smirked before calling out her daughter’s name. She witnessed the girl’s shoulders freezing, as she slowly pivoted towards her. Her visibly dilated pupils pained to meet Isobel’s blue eyes. She took a few tentative steps towards her, endlessly searching her face for a feature she could recognize.

 “What do you want?” Anaya spat.

“Are you okay?” Isobel asked, feigning concern. “You look sick.” She reached to cup her face, but the image of Anaya’s sweat utterly repulsed her. Any trace of envy she once felt for the girl who could barely stand before her, was gone. The beauty she once desired for herself was now nothing but a distant memory.

“I’m fine! Could you just leave? Please?” She whispered her last word like a wounded lamb who had been abandoned by the world. Isobel looked over at the vanity and the water bottle bearing the starlet’s name. It dawned on her that the state of her stepdaughter was not nerves or anxiety, but someone else who was equally hellbent as her on torpedoing her nascent career. They were making Isobel’s job way too easy. Anaya’s legs finally gave out, and she collapsed on the cold tiled floor.

“Anaya!” Isobel exclaimed. “Get up! Get up!” she looked at at the students in the room, running around and paying them no mind. She grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her farther into the one empty corridor.

“I’m fine,” Anaya muttered as she pushed herself up from the floor. Isobel fished in her bag for the bottle of water she had prepared earlier. She held on to Anaya’s nearly limp body and forced the liquid into her mouth. The girl gurgled and spat some of the content out, nearly drowning in the medicine. With every passing second, her skin grew paler and colder. Isobel released Anaya from her embrace and watched her desperately try to crawl her way towards the emergency doors. Irritated, Isobel pulled her to her feet.

“Here let me help you. You need some fresh air.” Anaya tried to find support but merely rested her hand on a bulletin board before it eventually slipped on a glossy poster, ripping it off and falling to the floor once more. “You’re almost there, Anaya. Come on! Get up!” The two young women stumbled together towards the door. As the harsh lights of the streetlamps hit her face, Anaya’s eyes rolled behind her head and her body instantly froze before falling limp on the dirty pavement.

Isobel pulled her body farther away from the door. She sat down next to her, gently caressing her disheveled black hair. “If only I had met Patrick sooner,” she whispered in Anaya’s ear. “Maybe I could have shown you that I am the mother you need.”

 Before leaving, she took the ruby ring off her daughter’s index finger and delicately placed it around her own. This belongs to me.

She made her way back towards the costume and makeup room, which was visibly less crowded than five minutes ago, and placed a flattened bouquet of chrysanthemums on a vanity. “Make sure Anaya gets this,” she told a girl, who was busy fixing her eyeliner.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m her mother.”