by Kim Harrison
Meg flexed her hand again, thinking there was less pain this time. “Thank you, I will.”
“Okay.” He stood, motioning for her to keep the oxygen mask when she began gathering it up for him. “Keep it until you leave. Just in case you need it,” he said, then beckoned the nearby cop. “Officer Lakes will take your statement. He’s a nice guy.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, but the paramedic was already jogging away to check on everyone clustered in the tiny front lawn.
Officer Lake made one final comment to the fireman who had gotten her down the stairs, and ambled over, his stance wide and his arms swinging to avoid the clutter strapped around his waist. “Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked, squinting down at her in the sun, and Meg stood.
“I should be, yes,” she said, coughing as she brandished her gauze-wrapped hand.
“Is it true you know the man who started the fire?” Officer Lake said, and she winced, wishing she could just lie and have all of this go away, but she knew that Dr. Jillium wouldn’t go along with it.
“I thought I did, but I guess not,” she said, then added, “He’s my ex-boyfriend. Austin Bonnard,” when Officer Lake frowned. It was the third time she had said it, but it wasn’t any easier. “He used my brush-cleaning solution to set fire to her office. I don’t think he meant to hurt anyone.” But inside, she knew he had.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need your cell number. Do you have someone to stay with tonight?” Officer Lake asked as he took out a tiny spiral notebook.
Meg’s focus went distant down the road, hoping Austin was long gone but her luck had never been that good. “I do. Thank you,” she said, quite sure she wasn’t going to tell Rorry and Haley about this. Ever.
Seventeen
Meg’s pulse was slow and her breathing even. Her hand twinged at the pinch of the gauze as she smeared the dark pigment across the background of a goldish, sunset pink. The warmth of the low sun beat upon her as she sat with her back to the balcony windows. It illuminated her canvas with a shocking light, bouncing up from her work and filling her with the peace she craved.
And still…the gnawing need of anxiety threatened to crawl up her feet, following the band of sun inexorably rising from her ankles, to her calves, and finally her hips as the sun set. The “knowing” that she had to be done before the sun vanished was a terrifying goad, one she couldn’t explain but which was as real as the rug that Haley had bought for her under her feet.
She’d called Rorry shortly after giving her statement to the police. Avoiding any mention of the fire, she simply told him she would drive herself home after class and not to bother coming to get her. The scant intervening hour she spent at the coffee shop drinking overly sweet coffee had only spun her thoughts faster until she had spilled into the sanctuary that she and Haley had made with only one need: to forget. Her goal wasn’t to numb, but to obliterate it in an outpouring of expression.
And so she painted.
Rorry was in the adjoining kitchen, the soft sounds of him making coffee hardly noticed. His presence was comforting by its very unobtrusiveness. Meg’s lips pressed as she heard the clink of a spoon stirring in sugar, but she said nothing. Her hand ached, and the gauze wrapping made her grip chancy. The resultant awkwardness showed in her brush strokes, but it only added to the feel of the piece, making it more authentic as she mixed her old, pre-accident style with her new to get something amazingly unexpected.
“One cup of coffee for the lady,” Rorry said softly, and she jumped, startled as he set the enameled flower mug beside her mason jar of brushes.
“Thank you.” Smile fixed in place, she sighed before taking a sip. At least it’s hot, she thought, wincing at how sweet it was. She missed her bitter brew, but it was a small price to pay for their friendship. She’d never go back to the way things were. Cinnamon toothpaste and sweet coffee—a gold necklace instead of a silver ring from a man who had made her life a prison so he would feel empowered. She’d take that any day, and twice on Sunday.
“How’s your hand?” Rorry asked, hovering close with a serious frown. “If it hurts, you don’t have to paint.”
“It’s fine.” Meg set the coffee down and flexed her fingers, thinking it had been an odd thing to say, as if he was doing her a favor, by telling her she didn’t have to paint. “They’re going to get the water heater in my class looked at and turned down. Really, Rorry, it’s fine,” she said, the lie that she’d burned her hand while washing out brushes coming easy. Eyes on her canvas, she felt her ears burn. Anyone who knew anything would realize that you don’t wash oil brushes with hot water, but a solvent. A flammable solvent.
She stiffened when Rorry went behind her to get a better look and his shadow fell cold over her. “Sorry,” he said, shifting until the sun warmed her again. Her feet and legs were cool, and a whisper of groundless anxiety flickered through her as the band of shadow rose. “My God, Meg. That is incredibly beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said, gazing at it in agreement even as she continued to add a wisp of paint to hint at a boat at the quay.
“But…the mountains are higher in Perfection,” he said, and she couldn’t decide if he was teasing her or not. “The sun catches them wa-a-a-ay up there,” he said, pointing. “Even when the bay is in dark shadow.”
“Like this?” she said coyly, adding a few strokes over the background of sunset to heighten the mountains.
“Perfect,” Rorry said around a heartfelt sigh, and Meg let her brush come to rest. Together, they evaluated it. The reaches were gold, blue, pink, and red, and the lower bay in the shadow was purple, gold, and silver with winking lights. The boats at the quay were mere suggestions of broken lines in her new style, and looking at it, it seemed to her as if she had painted a million simultaneous sunsets overlapping themselves to make one firm image. The boats and quay were a subliminal suggestion, a mere flash in the span of time.
It was undoubtedly her best work, the blending of her previous, dull landscapes, and her new, disjointed style creating into a real/not real image that drew and held the eye and mind, expanding both into what had been, what might be, what is but has no meaning.
“Perfect,” Rorry said again, and Meg started, having forgotten he was there, so lost was she.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said, as she set her brush down and wondered how she was going to tactfully get rid of that coffee. Rorry seemed to relax at the click of the brush into the mason jar, his lanky form sliding out from behind her. “Any thoughts about dinner?” she asked, pretending to take a sip.
Rorry shrugged. “Order in?”
“Sounds good to me,” she said, seeing as there was still nothing in the fridge, and they both looked up when the key sounded in the lock.
“Haley!” Meg exclaimed as the woman breezed in, and Meg stood, the feeling of guilt both sudden and shocking. Her new manicure was spoiled, and she felt a mess. “Did you miss your train?”
Rorry’s eyes were wide in surprise. “You got an answer already?”
A thrill jolted through Meg. An answer? For her coming to visit? Haley had been there and back already?
But Meg’s excitement faltered at Haley’s continued, angry, irate expression. “Is everything okay?” Meg asked in a small voice, and Haley tossed her purse to a nearby chair.
“Of course it is.” Mood odd, Haley crossed the room and gave Meg an absent-feeling hug. “Rorry, can I have a word with you?” The woman’s eyes dropped to the canvas, not a hint of her emotion showing as she looked at it.
“She wanted to paint,” Rorry said quickly. “I didn’t make her do it.”
“Now?” Haley said stiffly as she paced into the kitchen and turned to wait.
Rorry and Meg exchanged a quick, worried look, and Meg hid her ruined nails behind her back. “Sure.” Rorry gave Meg’s shoulder a light touch before he followed Haley into the brightly-lit kitchen, the whimsical chickens and wire baskets with their ceramic eggs looking fake somehow.
Meg slow
ly sat back down, her hand going cool where she scrubbed the solvent-soaked rag to get rid of the paint. The red of sunset had stained her, muddying the sterile bandage. It wouldn’t come clean, and her nails, she realized, were ruined.
Creation is messy and ugly. They were Christopher’s words, and she tossed the rag beside the mason jar, wondering if Haley was upset about the untidy state of her and her corner of the living room. Uneasy, she tried to scrape the paint out from under her nails. Haley had hardly given her canvas a glance. No…she had looked at it, but it wasn’t in approval. Did I do something wrong?
Suddenly Meg felt as if she was a dog who had soiled the carpet right in front of the door. Her eyes went to the canvas. Maybe it wasn’t her best work.
“I leave you alone with her for one day, and look what happened,” Haley said softly, and Meg began trying to clean the long-stained handles of the brushes.
“Nothing happened. I swear,” Rorry said, mystified. “She went to work. She drove back. We’ve been here all afternoon. She wanted her car, we got it. Nothing happened.”
“This isn’t about her car,” Haley said tightly.
Is she worried about my hand? Meg wondered. Head rising, she took a breath to tell Haley she was okay, but then stopped, shocked at Haley’s utter anger as she all but pinned Rorry to the cupboards. She felt a wash of relief, then guilt, that she wasn’t the one she was mad at.
Rorry was red-faced and apologetic, even as he was confused. “We’ve been here all afternoon,” he coaxed, and Haley’s eyes narrowed, her quick breath to berate him held when he added, “She’s painted a beautiful picture. You haven’t even looked at it.”
Haley seemed to hesitate as she realized Meg was standing alone by her picture. It made Meg feel like a little kid hearing Mom and Dad argue and knowing it’s about her. But the brushes wouldn’t get clean, and finally Meg dropped them into the jar.
Haley took Rorry’s shoulder and turned him away. “What about while she was at class?” she said, and a cold feeling slipped over Meg. “Did she tell you what happened when she was supposed to be at class? It’s done, Rorry. She ruined herself.”
Meg froze. Haley knew about the fire? How? She’d said there was no incoming news into Perfection. “My hand will be fine,” Meg said, afraid to move from the last of the sun, fearing it would be the last she’d ever see. “I’m getting it looked at tomorrow. Really, it’s fine. I can paint.”
But Haley didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s done,” Haley said, and Rorry shook his head in bewilderment. “She could have killed Jillium, and now they want nothing to do with her. She’s too unpredictable.”
Meg’s lips parted. Haley knew Dr. Jillium? Then Meg hesitated. Haley thought she had set the fire? Chest tight, Meg stepped forward to explain, her words faltering at Haley’s anger.
“We’ve never had a chance like this,” Haley said. “Ever. They’re livid that Fitrecepon might be taken out of trials because of her. We’ll have to go back to aristocratic, untalented debutantes and broken addicts wasted on opium.”
Meg retreated until her back hit the window wall, cold in the setting sun. Haley knew about Fitrecepon?
“I don’t understand,” Rorry doggedly protested. “We’ve been here all afternoon.”
Haley crossed her arms over her chest. “While you thought she was at class, she burned down Jillium’s office.”
Meg froze, the fear and guilt hitting her so hard she couldn’t breathe.
“Is she dead?” Rorry asked, his confusion shifting to a frightened alarm.
“No.” Arms over her chest, Haley seemed to relax. “She pulled Jillium out. God knows why.”
Meg pushed away from the glass window, her knees wobbly as she gathered herself. “That wasn’t me,” she said, voice warbling, and both Rorry and Haley spun as if having forgotten she was there, or shocked maybe that she’d dared to interrupt. “I mean, I pulled her out,” Meg said hesitantly. “But Austin was the one that went bad-boyfriend and torched her office.”
Silence grew as they stared at her, and feeling ill, Meg sat down. Everything she had wanted to hide from Haley was out. She’d as much as admitted she was a basket case, broken and not deserving of friends as beautiful as them.
Her head was down, but she heard Haley tell Rorry to stay where he was and the soft click of her sandals on the tile. Haley’s calm presence sidled up to Meg’s side, and still she couldn’t look up.
“I’m sorry, Meg,” Haley said, sounding truly apologetic. “You can’t come to Perfection. Now, or ever. You’re too dangerous.”
Dangerous? Meg looked up, anger pushing out the guilt that she’d tried to hide who she really was. “Why?” she blurted. “Because I have a crazy boyfriend? He’s the one that torched the place, not me. Why is everyone blaming me for things that he is doing?”
Haley gazed at her canvas with an odd look of longing and anger. “Austin has been dead for three years, Meg. You’re the one who burned her office.”
Meg sat for a moment absorbing that, a dizzy sensation spiraling up and out from her gut. “What? Are you crazy?” Stomach cramping, she looked at Rorry expecting to see outrage or maybe confusion, but he hadn’t moved, still standing sideways to them with his back against the empty fridge, his fingers pressed into his forehead as if he had a headache.
Haley crouched down to put her eyes level with Meg, but her gaze never left the canvas. It was a hungry look, desperate almost, and Meg shivered.
“When you ran into that tree three years ago to feel something?” Haley said softly, almost in disinterest, “He died. You didn’t. Your guilt invented a way to ignore it. You’ve been living in that dull brown apartment full of his things for the last three years, pretending he was still with you so you wouldn’t have to face that you were the reason he died.”
Heart pounding, Meg stood, thinking this was cruel. “How do you know about my accident?” she accused. “I never told you. Did Dr. Jillium tell you? Is this some kind of perverted therapy? Are you working for her? Are both of you!”
Haley stood and backed up, her expression one of sadness as she shook her head. “No, but Jillium’s new medication does more than bring your latent hallucinations to reality so you can deal with them. It lets other things in too.”
“I’m sorry, Haley,” Rorry said from the kitchen. “I should have watched her more closely. This is my fault.”
Her perfect lips pressed, Haley turned away as if Meg no longer existed. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left. I knew better. She was doing so well that I misjudged her. This will not reflect on you. I’ll make sure they know that. They’ve already scheduling an inquiry. We have to go back tonight.”
Meg hated his relieved but guilty look. “What the hell is wrong with you people?” she accused, her arms around her aching middle as she stood between the balcony and her canvas, between reality and the unreal. “Austin is not dead.”
Looking tired, Haley sat on the couch and took off her sandals. “Think it through, Meg,” she said, as first one, then the second hit the floor. “Let the Fitrecepon finish its work. He’s dead. You knocked Jillium out. You set the fire. You broke the glass and took all her meds, afraid that she was going to cut you off. Your hand is gashed, not burned. Look at it. Look at it!” she demanded louder, when Meg shook her head, afraid to.
“It was Austin,” she whispered, scared. “He was trying to destroy my medication so I wouldn’t leave him.”
Haley looked at her, her elbows on her knees. “Because it was forcing you to realize he was a delusion. You were already taking steps to leave him behind. Eventually you would be able to accept the truth and Jillium would have helped you through it.” A sad, disappointed smile settled into Haley’s face. “Or you could have come to Perfection and been adored, but that isn’t going to happen now.”
Shocked, Meg just stared. Then she jerked, her jaw clenching as she found a better answer. Who was she going to believe? Three years of therapy, or some blond bitch she hadn’t known two day
s ago? “What is wrong with you people?” she said as she grabbed her jar of brushes and her canvas, finding strength in them. “If you don’t want me to live here, just say so.”
Breath fast, Meg stomped across the room, shoving her brushes into her purse and tucking it under her arm.
“Haley, she’s leaving,” Rorry said plaintively, but Haley just sat on the couch.
“Let her go,” Haley said. “She almost killed someone to preserve her delusion. She’s too dangerous for Perfection.”
“But she’s taking the picture,” he protested, and Meg’s anger flared.
“Is that what I am to you?” she said hotly. Fumbling at the door, she left, slamming it behind her. She had to talk to Dr. Jillium. Austin was real. Why Haley and Rorry said he wasn’t was a cruel joke.
Unless they were working with Dr. Jillium? They hadn’t shown up until the Fitrecepon, and they knew things they shouldn’t.
Never, she asserted, and then a cold wash of fear almost made her stumble on the stairs. Meg leaned into the wall as another option rose up to explain Haley’s words. Was she turning into Christopher? Had she overdosed on Fitrecepon? Was this a “bad reaction?”
“No,” she whispered, scared as she looked at Haley’s closed apartment door. “Everything tastes the same,” she mumbled aloud. “I’m not sleepwalking. I’m better than I was before. How can this be wrong?”
But she was drinking coffee that was too sweet. She had changed her toothpaste, and she had taken off her silver ring and necklace.
Your hand is gashed, not burned, echoed in her thoughts, and Meg froze, jerking to a stop and staring at the red-smeared gauze as she reached for the handle of the building’s door. Was it red paint, or blood?
Scared, she clutched her necklace, jolted when her fingers found Rorry’s fractured golden drop instead of her mother’s jewel-decked palette. What have I done?