Andrea asked, “These are death threats that your grandmother received?”
“Not the death threats, but some of them from over the years. They’re actually not bad, comparatively speaking.” Judith laughed without really laughing. “My politics certainly don’t align with my grandparents’, but one thing we can agree on is that the current conspiracy theory whack-a-doos are pretty terrifying. My family isn’t Jewish, by the way. I suppose the nuts think it’s one of the worst things they can call us.”
Andrea studied the photographs scattered around the nasty invective. Judith had used stitch and colored pencils to unify the theme. Franklin Vaughn with a Star of David drawn over his face. A younger Judith in a school uniform with the breasts cut out. Esther in her robes with ‘X’s scratched over her eyes. A dead rat with its feet in the air and foam coming out of its mouth.
“Found the poor thing floating in the pool.” Judith pointed at the rat. “Granny put up a bird feeder last month and they showed up with their hands out.”
Andrea shuddered. She didn’t want to think about rats having hands.
“I paid some guy in New Zealand to Photoshop the foam around its mouth,” Judith supplied. “It’s amazing what you can find online.”
“It is.” Though Andrea knew that there were a lot of things—and people—who were invisible as far as the internet was concerned. She forced down her artistic jealousy and tried to remember why she was really here. Judith clearly had that small-town habit of oversharing with new people. Or maybe she was simply desperate for someone who understood what she was doing out in the studio. Either way, the woman seemed ripe for some directed questioning.
Andrea asked, “Do you use the Vaughn name for your art?”
“Oh, God no. I couldn’t stand the scrutiny. I use my mother’s middle name, Rose.” She said, “Judith Rose.”
Andrea nodded, pretending like her heart hadn’t fallen out of her chest at the mention of Emily. “You’re really good. She must be very proud of you.”
Judith looked confused. “Cat didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Judith silently gestured for Andrea to follow her toward the back of the room. She stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling storage racks that held large canvas panels. She thumbed through several pieces before stopping to look at Andrea over her shoulder. “Be kind. This was the first collage I ever attempted. I was Guinevere’s age. I was full of angst and hormones.”
Andrea didn’t know what to expect when Judith flipped around a canvas that showed a very primitive collage. The feelings it evoked were still dark and troubling, but not as focused. It was clear that Judith had been working on finding her vision, just as it was clear to Andrea that the subject she’d chosen was her dead mother. Photographs of Emily framed the periphery, stitched together with heavy black thread like you’d see after an autopsy.
Andrea searched for something to say. “It’s—”
“Raw?” Judith gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Right, well, there’s a reason I don’t show this to just anybody. Even my agent hasn’t seen it.”
Andrea tried to ask a question that a stranger would ask. “Is that your mother?”
Judith nodded, but the senior photo of Emily Vaughn in the corner of the piece was so familiar to Andrea that she could’ve described it with her eyes closed. Poofy permed hair. Light blue eyeshadow. Lips drawn into a bow tie. Mascara clumped like cobwebs.
Judith said, “Everyone always says that Guinevere favors her.”
“She does.” Andrea leaned in for a closer look. As with the more recent piece, Judith had broken up the images with strips of text. Lined school notebook was staggered around the canvas in no particular pattern. The missives were all written in the same loopy, round handwriting of a clearly emotional young girl—
People are SO MEAN … You DO NOT deserve what they are saying … Keep working it out … YOU WILL FIND THE TRUTH!!!
Andrea asked, “Did you write the text?”
“No, they’re from a letter I found in my mother’s things. I think she wrote it to herself. Affirmations were big in the eighties. I really wish I hadn’t torn it up. For the life of me, I can’t remember what else it said.”
Andrea forced herself to turn toward Judith. She didn’t want to seem too eager or excited or nervous or afraid or show whatever emotion was making her feel like the soles of her feet were tingling. So many photos of Emily. Some with friends. Some with her caught in moments of searing aloneness.
What could sixteen-year-old Judith’s art tell her about seventeen-year-old Emily’s murder?
“Is it that bad?” Judith was clearly anxious. Andrea knew what it was like to value someone’s opinion and have them look away.
“No, it’s primitive, but it’s obvious that you were working toward something important.” Andrea’s hand had gone to her heart. “I can feel it here.”
Judith patted her hand to her chest, because she clearly felt the same way.
They stood like that, two women with their hands on their hearts, two women who could possibly be sisters, until Andrea made herself turn back to the collage.
She asked, “Do you remember doing this?”