Patchwork Reflection

The paintbrush seared her hand, making Novella drop it. Her sister tsked, shaking her head.

“You have to be able to bear it,” Bruna said, the sheets bunching under her grip. “It burns hotter the more you use it.”

Novella found a cloth to pick up the brush for inspection. The round bristles were long; unlike any brush she'd ever seen. Promising to make any painting a challenge. She mentioned this and her sister tsked again, rolling her eyes.

“Of course it's difficult,” Bruna huffed, breathless, voice thinning. “Stealing features shouldn't be easy.” Concern sliced through Novella’s annoyance. She didn’t panic like she used to when the cancer first settled in its invasion.

With a pinched brow, Novella set the brush aside, asking her sister if she was hungry. She walked off without truly listening to the answer. Through the kitchen to the mirror hung in the living room.

A square face framed by dark locks met her. Brown eye, hefty but short nose. Bruna was the pretty one. Snatched all of dad’s features for herself and sat them delicately on her feminine face. Maybe Novella looked like their mother. She would never know.

Novella went back empty-handed, sitting beside her sister's bed. Was changing truly necessary? Bruna had looked the same her entire life.

“Mama did it for Daddy,” Bruna said. That wasn't convincing. Mama's beauty hadn't convinced him to stay.

Bruna was undeterred. “I was foolish. I thought Mama had suffered too much and I didn’t want that. Look where it got me.”

Novella wasn't sure what Bruna meant by that. Her students still sent letters and gifts, wishing well for her health. The school held a benefit for her every year, donating the proceeds to one of their favorite faculty members.

Cancer invaded. Painted features couldn’t change that. Novella was adamant.

Bruna shrugged it off, like she used to when they were kids, and she was determined to be right. “The schools were all moldy and disgusting. Probably wouldn't have got it if I could have been elsewhere.”

Novella rubbed her brow, still not understanding. Still protesting.

Bruna heard none of it. “Beauty comes with privilege.” Maybe she would say more. Maybe she would remind Novella that Dad had left the house and cars. The alimony. Child support. Comforts that ran out when they got too old and beauty couldn’t keep Mama alive.

Still, Novella couldn't deny the truth. They had focused on their careers and had nothing but their mother's possessions to show for it.

She stopped arguing when Bruna fell into a coughing fit. Body convulsing with every vicious rasp. Water wouldn’t fix it. There was no comfort. Cancer dictated and they had to wait it out.

Her eyes floated across the room. Looking into the hall of their seven-bedroom childhood home. Five acres of lush, verdant land around the house. Furnished with lavish and soft comforts.

The wall paint was peeling along the trim and the lawn was overgrown. The furniture had creases and some sofas were torn. Everything was fading away. Like Mama had. Like Bruna was.

Novella looked down at her feet. Waiting until Bruna was allowed to take a deep breath. Her sister panted, their brown eyes met. Bruna watched her like she used to, when she took Novella down to the lake behind the house. Making sure she wouldn’t fall in and be swept away.

“When I leave this place,” Bruna said, as if life was nothing more than a coffee shop, “I want you to take something from me.”

Novella leaned back, felt the sting of the word’s slap. Bruna shrugged, “I won't need it anymore and I need you to remember to never end up like this.”

She hated it when Bruna spoke ugly, wisdom tainted by misplaced guilt. She hadn't chosen illness for herself. Didn’t even smoke.

Novella didn't make any promises. She hugged herself and tapped her foot until Bruna fell asleep.

#

The chairs in her work office were uncomfortable. Perhaps chosen for looks over function. Novella shifted, glancing at the front door in case someone came in.

Usually, she tried to look busy, but today she watched.

There were rows of cubicles across from her desk. Offices were lined up along the walls.

She wasn’t ugly.

Novella didn’t think she was ugly.

It felt rude to consider others negatively. But she needed confirmation.

Her eyes followed the overweight and long-nosed and oddly spaced eyes. They worked. Were thanked and appreciated by peers.

The dainty brows and bowed lips and square-jawed; they socialized. Walked through the halls and hosted important guests in their offices.

She wasn’t ugly. Novella just was. Perhaps a worse crime.

She had been stuck as a receptionist for three years. She had gone to school for business, but the knowledge remained in her mind, never given an opportunity to be utilized. Countless interviews and at some point, she stopped trying. Resigned to the defeat.

Maybe one of the offices with comfortable furniture and high salaries could have saved her sister.

#

“Are you ever going to do what I asked?” Bruna’s eyes were half-lidded. Watching Novella with a weak, unwavering gaze.

Novella couldn't draw.

“You don't have to.” Bruna said, “The brush will do it for you. That's why it burns. To guide your hands.”

Novella paced. Arms crossed tight enough to stifle circulation.

“You have to do it the first time so you can stop fearing it.” Bruna's whisper was shallow. They were in the last stage of cancer’s takeover.

Novella stopped, matching her sister's gaze. Bruna used to run every day and laugh about silly things. Now, the bed had become her life.

With a huff, Novella left the room, turning through the halls until she reached the stairs that led to the basement. Where Bruna had convinced her to dig up that stupid brush. She found the easel, already holding a canvas that was turned backward.

She flipped it around. Her mother faced her.

No, pieces of strangers met her. Were the blue eyes and blond hair from the same person? Who originally owned the diamond shaped face?

She had never seen who Mama was before. This curated image was all Novella knew. She reached out and brushed the tip of her finger down her mother's cheek. The white canvas peeked through under her touch, spreading as the painted image faded away.

Below the easel was a lidded can of paint. All collected and traversed through the halls. Set up in front of Bruna’s bed. Novella sat in front of the waiting canvas. The paintbrush sat on the dresser, still wrapped in cloth.

Bruna watched her. Breathed laboring while their hopes battled each other in the silence.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Bruna asked.

Novella liked all her features. She wasn't ready to part from them.

“You always thought your lips were too thin.” A meager cough interrupted soft words. “Remember? You used to complain about having to draw around them to create an illusion with lipstick.”

Novella smiled through her misery. Looking down at her hands. Soon Bruna would be gone, replaced by memories. Would it be so bad for a part of her sister to live on?

She reached over, wrapping hand around the clothed brush.

Bruna shook her head. “You have to bear it.”

With a sigh, Novella let the fabric drop to her lap. She hissed as the heat met her fingers. Exaggerated for Bruna’s sake, knowing her sister wouldn’t be fazed. She reached down, dipping the long bristles in the paint.

When the wet touched the canvas, the burn climbed her arm like a grip, over her shoulders, up her neck and chin until it flickered over her mouth. She winced, eyes snapping shut as her hand moved. No exaggeration necessary. The misery was true.

Gentle little strokes. Left to right.

The pain eased as she painted. Until she was able to open her eyes.

Full lips were centered on the canvas, topped with a deep cupid's bow. Novella recognized them. She looked at her sister. Jumping softly at the misplaced thin-lipped smile.

“Did you feel it, too?” Novella asked. Bruna nodded, telling her to check the mirror.

Novella trekked through the house again, finding the living room mirror. She gasped, stepping back until she hit the wall. Full lips fit her face better. They looked natural, not like Botox.

But people would assume she had work done, wouldn't they? She hurried back to her sister. “How do I explain this? People will gossip.” Bruna was certain they wouldn't, asking if Novella noticed small details about them.

She had to concede. “I don't talk to enough people to notice their features.” Bruna was certain that would soon change.

#

Nothing changed. Novella had looked for it. Waited for it. Sat at her work desk, anticipating lingering looks or an arched eyebrow, judgment for her vanity.

A month passed. Novella felt foolish.

#

“She's not in pain, right?” Novella asked, holding Bruna's hand. The nurse’s smile was small. Her honey-brown eyes met Novella. The color would have been haunting if they’d been a shade lighter.

The nurse was soft yet certain, assuring Bruna was comfortable. But the nurse wasn't lying here dying; how could she possibly know how Bruna felt?

Novella took a slight breath, trying to rub the tension from Bruna's hand. Her sister gripped her like Novella was an anchor during an invisible storm.

She was trying to be strong. Being the baby sister never prepared her for this.

Novella waited until the nurse stepped out to whisper, “I'll do everything you taught me. I'll never forget you.”

Maybe it was permission. The tiniest smile graced Bruna’s lips and her hand went limp in Novella’s palms. She screamed for the nurse as if honey-brown eyes could bring Bruna back. As if her sister should suffer any longer.

Maybe the nurse was used to it. She ran in, sweeping Novella into a hug. Held her tight and whispered comfort in her ears. Becoming a mother, father, sibling, and friend all at once and just for the moment.

#

Bruna's bedroom became a preservation. Novella couldn't throw anything away. Her sister echoed in the space, bouncing from one object to the next.

Novella sat in front of the easel. Held the brush in a cloth. Stared down at it. The fabric used to be enough, now she could feel the warmth through it.

She had made Bruna a promise. But Novella didn't have friends or enemies. Who could she take from? What did she want to lose?

Novella grabbed the brush, wincing, eyes scrunched shut. Her hand throbbed—she almost dropped it but tightened her grip instead, like Bruna had placed her hand over hers. Guiding her from the paint to the canvas.

The burn shot through her limb, spreading through her face until it reached her eyes. With a soft cry, she painted. The burn vibrated through her orbs, lingering in her irises.

She pulled away, trying to escape the pain. The brush snatched her back to the canvas. Or Bruna did.

Soft, short strokes until the pain faded away.

With a deep breath, she looked at the canvas. Blinked as she realized what she had taken.

Honey-brown eyes. Full of concern and gentle compassion. Beautiful and entirely undeserved.

The brush thunked on the floor. Novella looked at her hand, at her swelling palms.

How the hell had Mama endured this?

Novella refused to face a mirror. She left her sister's reverberation and retreated to her room, collapsing on the bed. Hugging her legs.

No thought of her sister or the stolen eyes. She remembered the night Dad left. The way Mama had screamed and cried. He closed the door on her anguish, never looking back.

#

Could she steal features from a man? Maybe not this man. He had approached the desk half an hour ago and remained. Talking too much. Novella allowed it because she had nothing else to do.

He had no unique features. Nevertheless, he was important. A corporate partner. Money was his unique feature. Didn't need anything else like she did.

When he asked her out for lunch, Novella was surprised. She hadn't said much but maybe quiet was his type.

Novella agreed. Couldn't blame the brush or Bruna for this. She didn't like him, but his prestige was intriguing. It felt like dancing with adventure. Where would he take her? Would he pay? She imagined the rich to be unhealthily frugal.

He took her to a coffee shop. One step above Starbucks. Maybe evidence of frugality. Perhaps he didn't think she deserved more.

She decided to use her knowledge and share opinions.

They traded places. He grew quiet, watching her as he sipped a Frappuccino and took tiny bites of a sandwich.

She hadn't been certain he would pay, so she hadn't ordered anything. He didn't mention this, and she found that interesting.

At the office, he shuffled on his feet and asked if she was free next weekend. Novella hesitated in answering, looking around the office. It felt familiar. Mama had been intelligent, but Dad had been drawn to her beauty.

But Novella knew the script. Knew when to be pretty and when to be vocal and one day, when he faced her to declare his love had withered with each of her wrinkles, Novella would already be gone.

She accepted the date.

#

One date turned into many. Novella thought she would play this part better. Usually, she talked too much and was too poor to be pretty enough.

He stopped taking her out to fancy eateries and shifted to museums and sports games and art galleries. Places with experiences and food included with the price. He always told her a friend had scored tickets for them. She couldn't figure out why he lied.

Six months and he asked if she would like to meet his parents.

Novella hesitated. Bruna would have been proud, would have encouraged chasing the dream. With Bruna’s lips Novella agreed. Without hesitation, he asked about her parents. Novella realized she talked about a lot of things but never herself.

He learned her parents died. She kept Bruna to herself.

#

Novella didn't wait for the flight. She Googled them when she got home. His father was shrunken and gray-haired. His mother had dyed hers an unfitting red.

She scanned through several pictures. Looking for something remarkable. Searching for cracks in their supposed happiness. They’d been married for nearly fifty years.

His mother had the perfect nose. Angled just right. Petite and straight. An infestation of wrinkles surrounded it, rotting away any beauty she might have once had.

His father had stayed.

Could a nose hold a marriage together?

#

His father opened the door. Smiling at Novella before he had actually seen her. Maybe appreciating the stolen eyes or borrowed lips.

His mother wrapped her arms around her as if they were old friends. Unexpected. She claimed Novella made her son happy. Surprising. Novella didn't appreciate being caught off guard. These weren't part of the script.

His mother and her perfect nose grasped Novella's hand and led her through the home. Bigger than the house Novella had grown up in. They didn't have servants like some of Novella's more prosperous neighbors.

They settled in the den and Novella learned his parents weren't born rich. They had met in college and built all this together.

It made Novella smile. She wasn't sure what was expected of her. Should she talk or sit pretty? Novella decided to listen. It was easier. Better to learn than reveal. Safer to keep a distance.

#

When Daddy left, Mama’s soul left with him. She hid from the sun’s warmth, leaving the home only at night. Face covered. Novella only questioned her once, smuggling a beg in simple request to visit the lake together and let the water wash their feet like they used to before Bruna ran off to college.

“I made this face for him,” Mama said. Sitting in his favorite chair, staring at his picture hung on the wall. She was so pale it was haunting. Novella looked everywhere but at her. “He should be the only one to see it.”

The memory repeated in Novella’s mind like a scratched disk. Watching her lover snore softly beside her. If she moved to leave, he would stir, reaching out to her before drifting back to sleep. Perhaps cuddling a prize.

Novella turned her back to him, scooting to the edge of the bed. As far away as possible. Unfortunately, his childhood bed limited her escape.

#

In the morning, his father cooked breakfast and his mother washed the dishes. Certainly too much food for the four of them, like Novella’s presence was a celebration.

His mother didn’t ask about a possible marriage, or children, or how Novella planned to make her son happy. Still, she interrogated. Asking Novella about her dreams and history. Navigated Novella’s defenses like a veteran traveler in a forest. Uncovering artifacts of Bruna and how inseparable they were when she would visit from college. That daddy had a guitar he couldn’t play but he liked to pluck it, and they would all laugh at how horrible it sounded. Mama used to make the best coconut chocolate cake and Novella never got the chance to get the recipe before she died.

That Novella was the only one left in her tiny, miniature world.

His mother pounced, having found the real treasure. She, and her nosy perfect nose, whirlwinded Novella into the tightest hug, Novella’s foundation smeared on his mother’s unabashedly wrinkled face.

“You have to make your world bigger, darling.” His mother said.

His father practically force-fed her food as if attempting to replace misery with indigestion. Novella felt squished, thin and flat under the weight of the two of them.

Perhaps her lover noticed this. After breakfast, they went for a walk so she could see his small hometown. He wrapped an arm around her, met stolen brown eyes, pecked foreign lips, and said, “You never talk about yourself.”

Out here, in the soft breeze of the morning, in the odd familiarity of a town she had never visited, it was easier to maintain the necessary distance.

Novella changed the subject.

#

She hadn't been in Bruna’s room since she became involved. The brush had done its work. A man had been captured, and she had been smarter than their mother.

She didn't need to be here.

A perfect nose would fit delicately on her face.

Novella watched the brush sitting on Bruna's bed. The bristles stared back.

Impatiently.

Waiting.

His mother would feel the change. Would see her feature on Novella’s face. How could she explain? Would she have to? They couldn’t know unless they had a burning brush of their own.

Novella reached towards the bed, crying out when the brush leaped into her hand like it was hungry. It rolled onto her fingers; her flesh sizzled from the burning wooden handle.

The blaze ran up her arm. She struggled, trying to pull away. She had forgotten about the pain. Would his mother feel this agony? That's not what Novella wanted.

The brush desired something else. It dragged towards the bucket. She gripped Bruna's bed frame, trying to get away. The brush yanked harder, and she fell forward, knocking the bucket over. Obsidian liquid traveled the carpet, seeped into it. The brush dragged across the floor. Novella could almost hear its desperate plea.

There was just enough paint to wet the bristle. It snatched Novella to the canvas. She watched as black ink changed as it touched the white. Turning into tan and smooth skin.

The heat traveled to her face. Burning from the bridge of her nose and flowing down.

She fought the brush. Tugged. Jerked. Until it suddenly fell from her grasp.

Her efforts meant nothing. The paint had simply run dry.

Novella fell to the floor, gasping as she tried to catch her breath. She faced the canvas. The nose was incomplete. Leaving a white hole in the middle of a face that wasn't truly hers. Her hand throbbed and she cradled it, inspecting the char and splatters of blood.

She found a rag and picked up the brush, but it wasn’t necessary. It was frigid, almost soothing her pain like an apology. Maybe the magic had been in the paint and the brush had been a slave like her.

She carried it to the kitchen and found a knife. Holding it was a struggle; her dominant hand still ached. Precision wasn't necessary. She hacked at the wood, slashed away the bristles. Until it was nothing more than lint and chips that she swept up and threw away.

Novella walked into the living room, leaning against the wall. She would visit a hospital soon but right now the pain was distracting. Her eyes found the mirror. She froze, stepping forward to gaze at her reflection.

The base of her nose was perfect. Slim and petite. But it spread at the tip. A bulb that didn't match. It wasn't ugly. Wasn't pretty. It simply existed.

Tears fell around it. She plummeted on the sofa. Bruna had only taught her how to take. Not how to give back. She had been impulsive; now she couldn't learn. The brush was destroyed, and the paint was lost.

Novella didn't regret it though. She would find something else to pass down.

Danielle Ellis is a writer from the Quad Cities and a reader for The Colored Lens. Her work has appeared in Third Wednesday Magazine, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Ink in Thirds Magazine, and is forthcoming in Penumbric and Neon & Smoke. You can follow her on Bluesky, @daniellefellis.