A couple of months after seeing Dr. Stendahl, I traveled to Pasadena, an affluent city just north of Los Angeles, to visit a client.
With a morning to kill before my big meeting, I aimed myself at the Huntington Library, my first visit to an art museum since taking the anti-psychotic meds my shrink had prescribed.
Feeling emboldened, and somewhat curious, I entered their art gallery, which featured a grand collection of British 18th century art.
The highlight for me would be portraits by Thomas Gainsborough, whose work featured prominently in this collection—in particular, his finest work, The Blue Boy.
I stood before this six-foot tall canvas admiring the texture of Blue Boy’s silk suit—a costume dating 140 years earlier than when Gainsborough painted it in 1774 as homage to Anthony Van Dyck, 17th century Dutch master.
I stood before it, mesmerized, a wistful smile upon my face.
When I turned away, it actually surprised me that I remained standing in the large, green-walled exhibition room instead of on a hillside facing Blue Boy.
The meds worked!
Then a painting at the opposite end of the room caught my eye: Pinkie.
Slowly, I walked toward it, believing it also to be by Gainsborough.
The portrait, of a girl clothed in a white gown with a pink sash and pink bonnet is not as large as The Blue Boy, but brighter, with a moody big sky filled with clouds illuminated by a setting sun. It was painted, I learn, by Thomas Lawrence.
Pinkie’s direct gaze held my own. And it wouldn’t let go.
My heartbeat became pronounced and accelerated faster and faster as the portrait beckoned me in… until… until… feeling somewhat dizzy, I stood before… Pinkie.
I shook my head in disbelief. “I’m hallucinating again,” I said to myself aloud.
“You what?” she asked
“You’re not real,” I said.
“Not what?”
“It’s my mind, playing games.”
“You like games?” Her expression changed from a pout to a smile.
“Yes,” I said.
“Come.” She took my hand. “I’ll show you my favorite hiding place.” Her hand was soft. I could feel it—a tactile experience.
Wait till I tell Dr. Stendahl!
A couple minutes later we stood before a tree. She let go of my hand and disappeared into the tree’s cavity. I followed her inside.
“They never find me here,” she giggled. “You mustn’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.” She put a finger to her lips.
“I won’t.”
“My name is Sarah,” she said. “Sarah Moulton.” She held out her hand and shook mine firmly. “But my brothers, Edward and Samuel, they call me ‘Pinkie’ because that’s my favorite color: Pink. How do you do?”
“Charmed,” I said. “Where are we?”
“Richmond Hill. England.” Her expression turned pouty again. “And it makes me very cross. I miss Jamaica.”
“Is that where you’re from?” I asked.
She nodded. “I hate it here. I loathe the rain. That’s why I like my hiding place. It stays very dry inside this hollow tree. Do you want to know why pink is my favorite color.”
“Yes,” I said, truly enchanted by this young lady with the posh accent.
“Pink makes me remember Jamaica, especially the sunset there. I never see the sun here. It makes me very sad.”
“Why can’t you return?” I asked, feeling her sadness.
“I’ve been sent here for school. My grandmother was very stern about that.”
“How old are you?”.
“Eleven,” she said.
“Only Eleven? You look much older.”
“Eleven,” she repeated.
As she looked into my eyes, I realized I had become utterly taken with a girl aged eleven. It bothered me for a moment, until I discerned that my love was not lustful but entirely innocent, akin to the love one might have for a sister—or an imaginary friend, which, indeed, if I were hallucinating, would be the case.
“When were you born? I asked.
“March 22nd, 1783.”
“In Jamaica?”
“Yes. Little River, St. James’s. And I grew up on Cinnamon Hill, overlooking Montego Bay. It is so very beautiful. Life on my family plantation was most idyllic. And now it is so far away. I long to return. I have two years more—but it seems an eternity to me.”
“When did you come here?”
“In September ‘92, aboard the Elizabeth.”
“Why?”
“School. We are taught English manners.” She scrunched up her face. “They say this is the prerogative of the wealthy and privileged and that we must be grateful for an English education.”
“Which school?”
“Mrs. Fenwick’s school, in Greenwich.” She coughed. “I’m supposed to be there now.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“My other grandmother in Jamaica misses me. She commissioned a fancy artist to paint my portrait because she cannot have the original—me.” She patted her chest with mock importance. “I have the letter she wrote to the artist. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“I would,” I said, quite genuinely, if also to collect data for Dr. Stendahl.
Pinkie pulled a neatly folded parchment from inside her sash. “I carry it with me everywhere.” She sniffed it. “Because it smells of home. Here we go: ‘I become every day more desirous to see my dear little Pinkie.’” She looked up at me and smiled. “That’s me. ‘But as I cannot gratify myself with the original, I must beg the favor of you to have a picture drawn at full length by one of the best masters, in an easy careless attitude. As your taste and judgment cannot be excelled, I leave her dress to you.’” Pinkie looked up. “Do you think she will be pleased with the result?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“Maybe,” she laughed, “the painting can stay with Mrs. Fenwick and I can return to Jamaica!”
I suddenly felt a mad urge to rescue her, to abscond with Pinkie and return her to Jamaica, where she preferred to be. I had a strange sense that she could not survive in this environment, and that she would otherwise never see another Montego Bay sunset.
“Why don’t you tell them how you feel?” I said. “If your grandmother misses you so much, perhaps they’ll let you return early?”
“It’s no use.” She shook her head sadly. “All the privileged English children in Jamaica come to Mrs. Fenwick. And none leave early. It’s just not done. But let’s not dwell on me,” she said sweetly. “Tell me about you?”
“I come from the United States,” I said.
“Ah, the colonies,” she said. “Mrs. Fenwick believes your revolution a nonsense and a travesty.”
I chuckled. “Mrs. Fenwick would."
“She says the colonies will soon beg King George to take them back.”
I shook my head. “Don’t count on it.”
“Perhaps,” said Pinkie, brightening, “I will be able to return home sooner if the French invade.”
I suddenly felt overwhelmed by tiredness. I tried to stave it off, knowing from my last into art experiences what would happen next—and I was quite enjoying my exchange with Pinkie.
But blackness consumed me.
When I finally opened my eyes, after what seemed an otherworldly amount of time, I expected to see Eddie the bartender in Asbury Park, New Jersey. So I took my time to open them after regaining consciousness—and was surprised to find myself sitting in a stuffed chair, my feet propped up on an ottoman facing a window.
The aroma of spring greeted me.
Where now?
Slowly, I plopped my feet on the ground and elbowed myself upward. I turned to see a bed—a figure lying beneath its covers, and, as I drew nearer, I could see it was dear sweet... Pinkie. Gone, the rosy complexion, replaced by a pallid, sickly countenance. Her eyes were closed.
“Pinkie?” I whispered.
Her eyes opened and she erupted into a severe coughing fit, gasping for air, which sounded like a whoop as she inhaled.
“Pinkie, what’s wrong?”
She needed to rest after a full minute of coughing, but finally could speak. “I’m unwell,” she said. “My brother…” she spoke with difficulty. “I caught what he had.” An expression of alarm came over her face. “You mustn’t come near me!”
“It’s all right.” I noticed a jug and an empty glass upon the bedside table. “Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please.”
Even in sickness, Pinkie’s expressiveness was profound. She could have been an actress. I poured half-a-glass and propped her head on two pillows.
She sipped, and immediately launched into another coughing fit. Then as she lay flat, a tiny tear welled in her left eye and dribbled onto her cheek. “I miss Jamaica. If only I’d never left.” She looked me directly in the eye. “Do you think I’ll ever see it again?”
Her right arm now rested over the cover. I took her hand, cold and clammy, and held it between mine. “Of course.” My own eyes welled up. “I should have taken you home to Jamaica when we first met, and you wouldn’t be here now.” I looked around. “Why is no one taking care of you?”
“A doctor was here—a very grumpy doctor.” Pinkie threw a quick glance at the door. “He announced that I am infectious and ordered my brothers to leave. No one must come near.” She shook her head. “You mustn’t either.”
I shook my own head. “I’m staying.”
“I don’t feel I will survive.”
“Of course you will. You’ve got to, Pinkie! You have your whole life ahead of you!”
She shook her head sadly. Wearily, she opened her eyes. It seemed to take some effort to shift them from the ceiling to me. “Please hold me.”
I leaned in nearer and placed my arms around her.
Pinkie seemed to have trouble breathing. She began to whisper something.
I turned my head so that my ear was but a couple inches from her lips.
“I’m going,” she said. “I’m going now….”
“Please don’t go, Pinkie,” I sobbed. “Please… please… please don’t go. Please don’t go, Pinkie…”
And then blackness—like death itself.
Twirling and swirling—swirling and twirling.
I twirled and swirled from pitch black to shades of gray, dark to light and cream to white…