“Mr. Rheinhardt, I’m so sorry about everything Simone’s gone through recently. She was a delight to have in my studio, and I’ll miss—”
“Yes, well, she was a delight in many ways. Unfortunately I can’t say she’ll be enjoying much of anything anymore. The point is, she’s been transferred to an intensive care facility, and I’m removing my funding from Sprawling Plains.”
A fist squeezed around Kelsey’s gut. “But, sir, there are so many others here who—”
“If that place knows what’s best, they’ll start actually treating patients and stop mucking around.”
“But we do treat—”
“I don’t mean Play-Doh and crayons. I mean real treatment.”
Fury rolled inside Kelsey at his insinuation, but she swallowed it down, forcing her voice to stay professional, if not neutral. “Art therapy can be very healing. And we do other—”
“I’m not interested in the details or in hearing your plea. I’m telling you, Miss Matthews, Sprawling Plains isn’t getting one more cent from me. You can pass that on to Mr. Eisenman.”
The line went dead.
Kelsey’s head dropped onto her hand. Her skin itched beneath drying, cracking paint, but she ignored it. She felt as if a weight had been dropped on her. Her body needed to scream or weep—something to give her release, but she didn’t have the energy for either.
When she heard a light rap on her open office door, she wasn’t able to adapt a pleasant expression.
“What’s—” Bill, the baby-faced, blue-eyed office manager a few years younger than her, hesitated when Kelsey tipped her head up, revealing her paint-splattered face. “Whoa, what happened to you?”
She sighed. “Gwendolyn.”
Bill nodded. “I saw Misty in the hall with a stack of Jell-O cups. Is that who they were for?”
“Yeah.” Kelsey forced herself out of her chair. Flecks of paint left a scattering of confetti on her desk, and she swept them away with her hand.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Not really, no. I’ve had one hell of a day.”
He arched a brow at her and nudged his glasses back with a finger. “Yeah?”
“Tell you about it later. I have a mess to clean up in the studio.” Kelsey bypassed him as she stepped into the hall.
“Let me help,” he said, following her to the art room.
“Don’t you have forms to fill out or something?”
“I’m free at the moment.”
“Then I won’t turn you down.” After entering the studio, Kelsey grabbed a couple of clean rags from a bin and tossed one at Bill. He caught it in one hand.
“Your shoes,” Bill said.
Kelsey looked down, realizing for the first time that she’d been tracking paint through the hall. She cursed.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
After he left, Kelsey stripped off her shoes and socks and placed them in the sink to be cleaned later. Barefoot, she wet the rag and settled herself on the floor, scrubbing away at the congealing mess.
Several minutes later Bill returned. After grabbing a fresh rag, he sat next to her. “You got some—” He reached toward her face, touching the cloth to her cheek.
“What?” She jerked back, confused, then realized what he meant. “Oh. Right.”
His hand remained poised in the air, hesitant. When she met his gaze, his eyes shifted away, darting to his lap. He cleared his throat. Finally he handed her the rag. “Here. I’ll let you.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry about what happened with Gwendolyn,” he said, resuming where she’d left off on the floor. “That’s rough.”
“It’s not just that.” She sighed. “I just talked to Mr. Rheinhardt on the phone. He’s canceling his funding.”
“Rheinhardt…that’s one of the names on the plaques in the lobby, right?”
“Yeah. He’s one of our biggest donors. Without that source of income, I don’t know how Sprawling Plains will make it.”
“Have you told Mr. Bercovitch yet?”
Mr. Eisenman would know it wasn’t her fault, but the hospital’s CEO was another matter. Mr. Bercovitch didn’t know the ins and outs of the art therapy program, and he didn’t value it the way her immediate boss did.
She shook her head and surveyed the rag in her hand, which was almost entirely covered in purple paint now. “I’m not looking forward to that conversation. He’s already on my case as it is.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but he’s had a chip on his shoulder ever since I got hired. I get the feeling he doesn’t put art therapy as one of the hospital’s priorities.”
“That can’t be true. I mean, he hired you.”
“Eisenman hired me.”
“I meant indirectly. He approved the decision.”
“Maybe he was pressured by the board or something. All I know is, I never can get on his good side for long. And days like today…” She began scrubbing furiously at a spot of blue on the floor. “Sometimes I just wonder if I’m really doing any good at all here.”
“How can you say that?”
“Well, there’s Gwendolyn, with her tantrums…and there’s Robbie, with his especially violent Tourettes episodes…and then there’s Hugh, the silent teen, who won’t even touch the art supplies.”
“Hugh’s an enigma, that’s for sure. That kid must’ve gone through something traumatic.”
“A lot of them have. But most can converse. Hugh, though…” She shook her head. “I just don’t know how to connect with someone who won’t even speak.”
“They say he hasn’t said one word to anyone since he arrived. And he’s been here…I don’t know, years.” A few years out of college, Bill was still fairly new to Sprawling Plains.
“He’s been here longer than me, too,” Kelsey said, nodding.
“How long’s that?”
“I’ve been here five years including my internship the year before I got hired on full time. I think Hugh’s file said ten.”
“Ten years. He hasn’t left the place once—not a single visitor is what the nurses say.”
“And with his condition he can’t exactly leave.”
“Poor kid.”
“The silence isn’t the worst,” she said. “It’s…I mean, he won’t even hold a pencil or a marker. He won’t touch the clay.”
“Makes for some rough sessions, huh?”
“Last time I spent the hour making a sculpture, and he just watched. I couldn’t even get him to sit down.”
“But that’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for the issues in these kids’ pasts.”
“I know that. It’s just…”
Bill stopped scrubbing for a moment and eyed her. “You really care about them, don’t you?”
She nodded. “It’s hard to watch them go through all that and still be so alone when I’m right here, aching to help.”
“That’s why you’re so vital to this place. We all care about the kids, but you…you’ve taken them under your wing like no one else—not even the nurses. You love them.”
“I do.” Internalizing the emotions of her clients wasn’t the healthiest thing, but it was something Kelsey had never been able to relinquish. “I just wish Mr. Bercovitch saw things the way you do. Maybe he would if it weren’t for the financial aspect.”
Bill scooted to his right and scrubbed at a red splotch. His brows furrowed. “If only there was someone else who could replace Rheinhardt’s funding.”
“I don’t know anyone. Do you?”
“No.”
“And if Mr. Bercovitch did, he’d already have their support.” Kelsey bit her lip, thinking as she continued to scrub. “Maybe there’s another way to get the money.”
Bill looked up, an eyebrow arched above the rim of his glasses. “Like?”
“Maybe…a fundraiser or something.”
“We have the gala coming up in a few months.”
“That’s right.” Kelsey had forgotten about the hospi
tal’s annual fundraiser. “But it’s not enough to make up for this. Unless we can make it bigger somehow.”
“Bigger? How?”
“I don’t know. This is more Regina’s expertise than mine since she runs all the events here, but it would be nice if we did something related to art therapy—some way to show people its intrinsic value.”
“That’s a great idea,” he said. “What about an art auction? Maybe you could show off some of the work of the patients here?”
Kelsey let the idea roll around in her brain. It was a tricky subject, considering the personal and therapeutic aspect of the art birthed in her studio. She would never pressure her students to display their work if they were unwilling. The very nature of her job was to protect these vulnerable moments they shared with her. “I’m not sure…”
“I mean, you’d have to get their permission, of course. Some might not want to share their work. But I bet some would, and if we contacted the right people, it could be really lucrative. I bet Mr. Bercovitch has a list of wealthy benefactors who’ve supported Sprawling Plains in the past. Maybe they’ve stopped giving money for one reason or another and could be reminded that we’re still here.”
“An event would be a great way to get back on their radar,” she said. “Especially if it was something fun—like a party.”
“Good point. You could make the auction into a dinner party—formal attire, live music…”
“Dancing,” she added.
“Exactly.”
Kelsey smiled. “I’d have to jump through some hoops, but I think maybe this could actually work.”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
She nodded, a surge of hope rising in her gut. “At least it’s something I can suggest to Mr. Eisenman when I tell him about the phone call I got this afternoon.”
“Let me know if you need my support,” Bill said. “I don’t have much weight to throw around here, but I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to Mr. Eisenman this afternoon.”
Someone knocked on the door to the studio. Kelsey turned and saw one of the nurses dressed in colorful scrubs escorting a tall, pale boy into the room.
“Hugh’s ready for his therapy session,” the nurse said, tucking a weathered hand inside one of the penguin-printed pockets at her waist.
Kelsey stood, tossed her dirty rag in the sink, and faced them, careful that her expression showed no sign of the frustration or anxiety she felt. Instead she drew on what was hidden deeper inside her, on the feelings of compassion for this resident, the silent boy who was special in his own way, even if none of them could figure him out.
“Welcome, Hugh. I’m just about ready to begin. Why don’t you have a seat?” She smiled at him.
He didn’t move. Of course.
After meeting Kelsey’s eyes, the nurse exited the room. Bill finished wiping the last paint-splattered tile and tossed his rag into the sink. He tipped his head to Kelsey and left, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Kelsey pulled out a chair and gestured toward Hugh. “Want to come sit with me?”
At seventeen, he was already a good six inches taller than she. He looked like he weighed less, though. Near skin and bones. He gave neither a change of expression nor any movement that indicated he’d heard her, but he wasn’t deaf. His muteness wasn’t a physical condition but an emotional one.
She felt so exhausted and drained from the day already, but she forced her mouth to soften, for a relaxed smile to take hold of her lips. Leaving the chair out, she took several steps closer and held out her hand. “You don’t have to work on anything. Why don’t we just sit and talk?” She would be the one talking, of course. But maybe just listening could be therapeutic to him. “Or I could show you some pictures from one of our books—would you like that?” She cocked her head, waiting, watching him patiently as if she had all the time in the world. She would give him all her time—every minute in her entire day—if he would just open himself a little and let her help.
His pale blue eyes watched her, reminding her of the color of the sky on a winter day. Everything about him looked icy, like he’d been frozen at one point and never quite thawed. His skin was as pale as polished ivory, and his hair matched perfectly. Even his white-blond eyebrows were so light they faded into his features.
He remained as still as a statue, as if he’d been sculpted there out of marble instead of walking into the room on his own two legs. His eyes moved, his gaze dropping to her offered hand.
Encouraged by the minuscule movement of those pale orbs, she stretched her arm out farther, close enough for him to reach out and take her hand. Instead, he poked an alabaster finger to her wrist, touching the splotch of red she still hadn’t washed off.
She smiled. “It’s paint. I got a little messy today.”
His eyes met hers, and he pointed to another spot on her arm, a dot of bright blue.
“I’m as colorful as a piece of art today, huh?” She chuckled. He was still staring at her arm. It gave her an idea. “Do you want to try it?”
Kelsey hurried over to one of the cabinets and pulled out several tubes of paint. She squeezed a generous amount of each onto a plate and sat at the nearby table that was covered in brown paper. He watched her, his eyes following each of her movements. She took it as a good sign.
“What’s your favorite color? Mine’s green.” She dipped a finger into the green paint and trailed it across the paper covering the table.
Hugh’s eyes widened.
“Have you ever finger painted?”
No response.
“I used to think it felt weird, putting my hands in the squishy paint. But now I love that feeling.” She plunged her index finger into the red paint and made a big, swirling streak. “Wanna try it?”
Hugh moved toward the table slowly, but it still startled her and made the back of her neck tingle. He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, his eyes still fixed on the paint.
She stuck another finger in, swirling blue with red, then smeared it across the paper.
He touched the spot where red converged with blue and mimicked her motions, drawing his hand across the craft paper.
Kelsey’s heart rate went wild. “Yes!”
His eyes met hers, widening, and he pulled his hand back.
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken so loudly. She inhaled sharply, reining in her excitement.
When she spoke again, her voice was calm. “You made violet. Nice.”
Hugh stared at her.
Tension ebbed inside her as she watched him, his purple finger still hanging in the air. She cursed herself for possibly scaring him back into his shell.
After a moment, his eyes relaxed and strayed back to the paints. He reached for the green and made another streak, intently watching the color transfer from his fingertip to the paper.
Kelsey bit her lip to control herself, but her insides danced.
She used the heel of her fist in the orange to add a big splotch of color to their art. Hugh watched, then put a finger in the red. This time he drew it across his bare arm.
“Now you’re starting to look like me,” she said. The nurses wouldn’t be thrilled he was painting himself, but Kelsey didn’t care. This kind of progress was worth any number of lectures from the hospital’s staff.
He scrutinized her arm, then dipped his pinky in the blue and made a tiny imprint on his arm, similar to her own splotch of blue.
“Look at that, we match.”
Hugh studied her face, then plunged his entire hand into the paint, his long fingers nearly tipping the plate over. Kelsey watched, unconcerned about the potential mess, fascinated by his sudden interest. She kicked herself for not getting these out in previous sessions. His age had fooled her into thinking he wouldn’t be interested in finger paints.
He slapped the paint-covered hand to his cheek, and a laugh burst out of her when she realized what he was doing. “Are you trying to paint your face like mine?”
“That’s nice and colorful,” she said. “But do you want to see my favorite way to paint?” Kelsey stretched to grab a paintbrush from a nearby container. She dragged it through the mixed paint on the plate and doodled with it on the brown paper. Hugh cocked his head. He held out his hand.
“You want one?” She grabbed another brush for him, but he pointed at the one she’d been using. “Oh, you want mine? Here.” He took her brush and followed her lead, painting with such focus and determination that it was almost as if the brush drew him along instead of the opposite.
Kelsey sat back and watched. Hugh continued to paint for several minutes, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. That was exactly what she wanted—for him to feel completely free and express himself uninhibited by her presence.
She wondered about his past, what mysteries he held locked away. All the difficult patients here, the violent tempers and her unsympathetic boss—Kelsey could endure all of it if somehow she could only help this boy heal.
~
Ethan gritted his teeth against the sound of fingers tapping the steering wheel next to him. Nicodemus’s jittery hands rapped out beats of three.
Tap, tap, tap.
Pause.
Tap, tap, tap.
Pause.
The pattern was irritating, and it didn’t stop until Nicodemus turned off the main road. Ethan had kept his eyes shut to avoid the jarring strobe effect of driving at night, with streetlights puncturing his vision. Now, he opened them as they rolled into in a bank parking lot. A flash of bright blinded him as they passed a lamp, and then he could see once more.
Tonight’s goal was a simple: their rent was due, and they needed cash to cover it. Nicodemus wanted to use his magically persuasive eyes to take care of every bill, but Ethan refused to rely on his ability for their lodging, among other things. It would be too risky and could potentially leave a trail. Nicodemus’s previous housing arrangement hadn’t worked out so well.
Nicodemus drove past the teller lanes. He edged the car into the corner of the lot, and in the darkness, Ethan’s eyesight clarified.
The car idled while they waited. The lot was deserted, the bank’s ATM lane looking dejected now that the place was closed.
Protector: The Flawed Series Book Three Page 3