by Scott, Amber
Oh no. These weren’t the usual questions. “Eight or nine hours, I suppose,” Sadie said. Painting? Sleep? How did she change the subject without alarming them?
“That’s sounds like an adequate amount.” Dr. Meyers set her chin to her hand, her lips remained a soft near-smile. Like a parent with a child. Knowing. “How would you describe the quality of the sleep itself?”
Did she look tired? Had Heather been calling in, reporting on her? Jen certainly wouldn’t. Jen treated her as normal as anyone ever had. In the hospital, Jen had brought gossip magazines and Starbucks. No eggshells, no tip-toes.
“Average?” Sadie hedged, hating how clearly it rang like a guess.
“This isn’t a test, Sadie,” Heather said, her fear thinly veiled.
Guilt slid down to the pit of her stomach. She’d let her little sister down two years ago, succumbing to a bizarre certainty that something was inside of her, trying to get out.
Or maybe she’d just decided to check out.
“A restful sleep is vital to managing stress,” Dr. Meyers said. “If you are not getting sufficient rest, we need to know so we can help.”
Sadie merely nodded in response, afraid to speak. Sleep…dreams. The desire to tell Dr. Meyers everything, up to and including today’s cart incident, itched up her throat. She craved telling someone. Anyone. Even with Heather right there to hear it all and panic for Sadie all over again. Elijah. Another shiver raced inside her, the image of his eyes boring into hers. If only she could tell. But they would assume the worst.
Biting her lips, she averted her eyes. The encouragement shining from Dr. Meyers’ gaze tempted her too much. She fought through her thoughts for something else to grasp onto, to wrangle her attention away from shivers and glorious wings. “Heather wants me to move back in with her and Remy.”
Dr. Meyers gave a slight aha nod. Like, aha, so that’s what’s causing all this evasiveness and squirming. Sadie smoothed her hair, wishing she’d brought a ponytail holder. She’d been rushing; her time always vanished when she painted. “How do you feel about that?”
Sadie scratched at her cheek. The paint was not coming off. “What do you mean by feel?”
“Do you want to move back in with your sister and brother-in-law, Sadie?”
What if Jen had seen her painting and had told Heather and then Heather had called the office and told Dr Meyers and this was all a trap? “She thinks my painting is like with our mom’s. Except it’s not.”
“But it has been.”
“Once. Only once.” She leveled her gaze at her shrink. “I only paint canvas.”
“Mom painted canvas.”
“Yeah. And the walls, and the ceiling and the carpet. The inside of the oven.”
“We were discussing moving back in with Heather,” Dr. Meyers said, a hand up toward Heather. “And if you wanted to.”
“God, no. I don’t want to.” She didn’t have to look to know it hurt Heather. She could feel it in a wave emanating off of her sister’s slight frame. “I like living with Jen.” She loved it. Jen gave her space, acres of it. Jen cooked. Jen stayed up late and sat around in pajamas all day and didn’t look at her with anxious eyes if Sadie sat around in pajamas, too.
Maybe she could tell Jen about Elijah. Would Jen get it?
“I see.” Dr. Meyers motioned to stay Heather’s protest. She always had a pen, always a pad of paper, but never any notes. Props. Have paper, will document. Take care with what we say. “Can you think of any reason Heather would be prompted to ask you to come back?”
Heather could want her to come back for a gazillion different reasons. “Most likely, it’s the usual. I want to get off the medication. She doesn’t.” Aside from a lengthy analysis of the mothering role her sister took on and the importance of weaning and balancing and setting goals. They’d all been over and over it. “It’s like she needs me to be sick.”
“Sadie knows that’s not true and she knows why,” Heather said. “And my reasons haven’t changed. They are the same reasons I didn’t want her to move out. I want what’s best for Sadie.”
“I can’t paint at Heather’s.” Painting. Elijah. His ruddy sienna eyes, unforgettable from the first moment across the re-shelving counter, in dreams became a fathomless azure, amid a slew of impossible blues. A dance of dusky kisses. He had a secret to entrust. She couldn’t tell a soul.
Sadie could feel the dream still. So vivid.
Her throat ached even now. She had to steer the conversation elsewhere. “Heather should have a baby,” Sadie blurted out. “If she had a child to fuss over, she would worry less about me.”
She saw the sting in her sister’s hazel eyes. Regret punched through her. Too close to the truth, she knew, but if she revealed the truth, what would they do?
Dr. Meyers tilted her head, her pen suspended mid tap. “Has Heather discussed wanting children?”
Sadie winced. “Yes.”
Heather crossed her arms. She’d confided the very private business to Sadie today under sworn secrecy. She sent Heather an apologetic glance, wishing she could understand. Heather wasn’t having it. Hot anger burned in her stare.
“Do you feel like her child?” Dr. Meyers asked.
Yes. “Sometimes.”
“I’m not mothering. I’m her sister.”
“She forgets that I was once every bit as independent and capable as her. More so, even.” That fact rankled her most. Sadie was older by almost two years yet, suddenly, in the wake of one night two years ago, Heather’s maturity had grown overblown. She already wanted children!
“But you aren’t now,” Heather said carefully. “And I want to keep you safe.”
“Right.” More like Heather displaced her grief over losing their mother, the event that may or may not have precipitated Sadie’s hospitalization, and clung to caring for Sadie as a coping mechanism.
Sadie’s move-in with Jen had further strained their relationship. At first, Heather came by every day, then every other. Finally, the daily annoying phone calls subsided. Sadie should pick up a thank you card for Remy because no way Heather let off on her own.
Maybe a baby would be good for Heather.
Sadie’s attention snapped back to the room. Had Dr. Meyers asked another question? How long had she been lost in thought? Too much pressure. If she could just tell someone. Someone who wouldn’t filter it through a ‘Sadie’s crazy’ lens.
Not Jen. Jen might tell Heather.
Dr. Meyers blinked. “Let’s get back to your sleeping, then. Have you had trouble getting to sleep?”
She touched her cheek. Even if she’d remembered to scrub up at work, the paint wouldn’t—then it hit her. She could tell Ben! Oh yes, of course, Ben. He would know. He would understand. Relief washed over her. She’d almost told him earlier anyhow, right? Plus, he already knew about Elijah, already knew she’d wrecked her cart smack into him today. “No,” she finally replied. “No trouble.”
“Sadie,” Heather said warningly.
“Really. I’ve been sleeping great.” Ben would listen. She would invite him over tonight. Ben would play down her complete ineptitude then sigh right along with her over her gorgeous dreams. And if he then knew too much, so be it. She’d be off meds so soon it wouldn’t matter. In days, really.
The aching pressure to confess released. Then, stupidly, she got curious. “Why?”
“I’m curious about the dark shadows under your eyes.”
Sadie glanced to the fish tank, unnerved. “Maybe I have allergies?” Jen complained allergies gave her dark circles. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sneezed but no one else did either.
“Hmm.” Another vacuous silence.
The emptiness made her want to chatter, to stand up and pace the thin brown carpeting, tap her finger on the tank’s glass. Agitate something. She settled for a deep ragged breath. How many minutes left now? When would Heather spring her latest angle? She always had one.
“Last session,” Dr. Meyers said, flipping
a page on her notepad. “Last session you mentioned dating as a possible goal.”
Why oh why had she gone and revealed that awful truth? Dr. Meyers had a way of seducing all of her secret hopes out. The image of the toppled cart, the look on his face, peeled through her mind. Hot disappointment coursed through her. “I’m not sure about dating any more,” she said.
She got up and walked to the fish tank, gripping her armpits. Tapping the glass would be cruel and revealing. Dr. Meyers always listened in all these long silences. She listened to Sadie’s body language. Every shout of her fidgeting, tattle-tale body. But, what was Heather doing?
Probably seething.
Dr. Meyers rotated her chair to follow Sadie’s trail. “What caused you to change your mind about dating?”
Sadie faced her. She shrugged non-committally, scared speaking would bust the dam wide open. “I don’t feel completely like myself and I want to be me again first.”
“Sadie, you need to accept the fact that this is your new normal,” Heather interjected.
“So, we can’t discuss getting off meds?”
“No, we can discuss it,” Dr. Meyers said. “With Dr. Fox.”
Sadie sat back down, sinking into the sofa.
Her breathing grew easier, her body telling her their hour was closing. Heather hadn’t forced the moving issue. Sadie pulled a tendril forward and let herself envision walking to the bus stop, putting on her headphones, getting on the bus….
“Sadie’s been journaling,” Heather said. “And she refuses to let me read them.”
Sadie’s stomach bucked. Dr. Meyers didn’t speak but her gaze held to Sadie’s, the question in them clear. Is this true? Sadie rolled her eyes. Yes. It was true. She didn’t want Heather to see who she wrote about. Or what. And she’d bet her trust fund that her words weren’t garbled nonsensical. No God talk like their mother’s. Heather wanted proof, though. “They aren’t manic.”
“You can’t know that, Sadie. If they are, you won’t necessarily be able to tell.”
“Well, now, journaling can be very therapeutic, also. How would you characterize the entries, Sadie?”
“Like a diary. I write when I’m upset.”
“Exactly. You’re upset, you’re writing, you’re painting.”
“Not maniacally. No God talk. No prophecies. I swear it.”
“Then let me see them.”
“No way.”
Heather jutted her hand at Sadie as though to say, “See?”
Shit. What if Dr. Meyers asked to see them? “I’ll let Jen read them,” Sadie said in a rush.
“Well, Sadie, considering the family history, I understand your sister’s concern. I also respect your privacy. If you are comfortable with your cousin viewing the entries, it would warrant putting this issue to rest,” Dr. Meyers said. “Heather?”
Heather nodded, her smile curving down. Sadie didn’t wish to hurt her sister, no matter what Heather accused her of, but she also couldn’t help trusting Jen slightly more. Besides, she’d been cornered.
“We’re agreed then. Before we end today,” Dr. Meyers said, leaning forward in her swivel seat, “I’d like to ask you one last question, Sadie.”
Heather perked up. Sadie swallowed a tremor. “A question?” her voice cracked.
“I’m merely curious,” Dr. Meyers said, then paused a moment. “What is it you paint?”
“What do I paint?” She’d gotten so close! “Oils on canvas mostly.”
Dr. Meyers smiled the one reserved for the young and mentally incompetent. “Of course you do, Sadie. I simply meant, what kinds of things do you paint? Landscapes? Portraits? Abstract still life?”
Avoiding the subject had been Sadie’s best defense. She couldn’t lie. Omit, certainly. Any day or night of the week. But outright lie? No. Particularly, to Dr. Meyers.
She detested the long breath that hissed out of her. The part of her that wanted to tell screamed encouragement. It needed validation. The dreams were so vivid, their coded messages so real. “I paint the things I see in my dreams.”
Dr. Meyers’ pupils flashed, her eyebrows flicked upward. “May I see one, of your choosing, at our next visit?”
Sadie stood up, ready for the door. “See one?”
“Yes, I’d like you to bring one of your paintings with you next week. Would that be alright?”
Why would this woman wish to see her paintings unless she suspected something? Sadie bit her inner cheek, wary. If Dr. Meyers saw the things in her dreams, would she tell Dr. Fox and would he up her meds? “Can I say no?”
Heather’s wide-eyed gaze swung from Sadie to the doctor as she slowly stood, as well.
“Absolutely,” Dr. Meyers said quietly, but in her voice, Sadie heard mixed reservation and determination.
Outright refusing would raise more flags. Sadie took two steps, knocking her shin into the low glass table. “Ouch.” She rubbed at the spot. “Um, can I think about it?”
“Of course you can.” Dr. Meyers stood, leading them to the door with all the cordiality of a hostess at a fine restaurant. “I would appreciate it if you would consider it, but the choice is yours, of course. Either way I’ll see you both in two weeks.”
The choice was hers? Then why did Sadie feel like she’d sniffed the cheese on a mousetrap?
~ ~ ~
Chapter Four
Sadie pressed the popcorn button on the microwave and returned her attention to Ben.
Her cousin, Jen, would not be home soon.
“How long has your cousin owned this place?” Ben asked, looking around. There wasn’t much in the way of furnishings in the thirty-five-hundred square foot home.
“A couple of years, I guess.”
“And what does your cousin do for a living to score these kinds of digs?”
If she told Ben the truth, would he guess Jen had gotten Sadie the library job? “She’s a historian. And her dad died when she was young.”
Ben’s assumptions flitted across his face as he nodded. She wasn’t so sure asking him over was turning out to be a good idea. She didn’t know how to entertain and had certainly never done so here. She wasn’t sure whether Jen would freak over it or not. But after today, she’d rather cheese grate her fingernails than sit around alone.
Elijah falling, his “girl’s” laughter, dropping the books. At first, it was like he was actually seeing her, for the first time. And liked what he saw. Until his eyes narrowed, his mouth curled downward. The distaste on his face had branded onto her brain. Had his nostrils flared too, or was her memory filling in the gaps?
Then there was her shrink session. What the hell was she going to tell Dr. Meyers in two weeks when she showed up empty handed?
The microwave beeped. Sadie retrieved the popcorn.
“Please tell me you at least have cable,” Ben said, gesturing to the scantly furnished living room before popping a handful of buttery popcorn into his mouth.
“Yes. We have cable. Jen is waiting to furnish the place one room at a time.”
“Hey, to each her own, I say.” Another buttery handful disappeared. “So do I get a tour?”
“Um, sure.” She would skip Jen’s room. That might be too personal.
Even with all of Ben’s oohs and ahs, her mind wandered. Today should have bent her fantasies back to reality. As in, she didn’t have a chance with Elijah. It hadn’t. Sycophant that she’d become over him, today’s mishap didn’t deter her.
She should have known better. What had she hoped for? A knee-buckling smile? A sparkling conversation ending with a date? Sure. Yeah. Right between him picking up the cart and her stuttering apologies.
“So this is where the magic happens?” Ben asked when they reached her bedroom. “Somebody hates unpacking.”
Sadie ran a palm over her face and smoothed her long hair. “Yeah. I have more stuff than I have room for.” Mostly, she didn’t know what to do with the boxes’ contents. Her mother’s umpteen journals and drawings weren’t exactly appropriate décor
.
“This is nothing, girl. My place? I’m an IKEA wet dream.”
Whatever that meant.
Elijah had been so pissed he’d glared! The man she had a crush on and the man he really was, could not be the same. The guy in her dreams looked at her with heat and desire so intense she felt it in the backs of her knees.
She led Ben to the garage, trying to push her jangled-up feelings back.
Dream Elijah would have at the very least shown some curiosity. Or intrigue. At the very minimum, polite detachment. The real Elijah couldn’t get away fast enough and every nuance of his reaction screamed revulsion. He’d turned his head away. As though she stunk.
“Oh my God, Sadie!”
Sadie jerked back to reality and realized she’d brought him to see her paintings. “Oh no. I didn’t mean to—.”
“Did you paint these?”
Reflexively, she stood in front of one.
“Don’t you dare,” Ben said and tugged her aside. “This is gorgeous. And those too, and that one, oh, very Passion of the Christ, Sadie. Saintly and sexy all at once.”
As if that weren’t enough, Ben kept going. He must have looked at every last one. Sadie wished the concrete could swallow her up. She didn’t want compliments. She never meant anyone to see these.
“Jesus! Twenty-nine paintings of Elijah?” Ben asked. “Uh, stalker much?”
If her cheeks got any hotter she could melt wax on them. “Just, please can we go back inside?” she managed.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I love them. And I totally get it. He’s ideal subject matter and you’ve done him justice in every one. I love the wings.”
“Ben!” She hadn’t meant to shout, though. “Ben. I didn’t actually mean to bring you in here. I was distracted. It’s nothing personal, I don’t share my art.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going. I get it.” He let her usher him out. “I forgot you have reason to be sensitive today, okay?”
Sadie sighed. “I could die.”
Ben plopped onto the sofa. Sadie did as well, hugging her knees up.