by Krystal Wade
The attention and question must have made Megan self-conscious, because she noticed what her arm was doing, as if it acted of its own accord, and clasped it behind her back. “Still in school. But I’m feeling a little lost. My parents want to move to Florida, to retire. It’s complicated. I mean, I stayed here for them, to be near them, and now they want to move.”
“Will you go with them?”
Megan shrugged. “I’m applying to a few larger schools, hoping my credits from the community college will get me in.”
“Rose,” Mr. Briar called, waving Rose over. Next to him, her mother beamed, pride practically emanating from her.
Rose looked at Megan, wanting to say so much more, so many I’m sorrys, so many let’s fix this, but Rose knew that would take time, more casual meetings. “Thank you for coming.”
“Hopefully you’ll keep inviting me.” Megan stepped forward, her cheeks burning bright red. “May I hug you?”
Rose hugged Megan instead. “Come to the after-party?”
“I can’t. I have to work. But soon. I promise.” Sniffling, Megan walked toward the crowd, nudging her way in between people until Rose could no longer see her friend, but she felt the hope, the hope they could rekindle their friendship, find more than what they once had.
The Briars wrapped their arms around Rose as she slid in next to them, almost forcing her to stare at Phillip’s piece. She put her everything into drawing it, every ounce of emotional trauma from the institute, and now Rose struggled to look at it, no matter how inspirational people found him.
She used the melting clocks, but not as she originally imagined while enduring Dr. Underwood’s treatments. Phillip stood on the roof of the institute, the wrought-iron railing in front of him, his face upturned toward the full, time-bleeding moon. Everything below his neck appeared to be melting, long, wide strokes of the charcoal smudged him from existence. Even the railing seemed to disappear. The trees. The grass. As if the only real thing was the loss of time and his face.
The way the light hit his skin, viewers could pick out his fear and insecurities and indecision. They knew this boy was trapped and lost and full of hope and fight and wonder, but they also knew he didn’t have much time. He would die, cease to exist. But what caused the clock to tick? Only Rose knew the answer to that question. And when people asked, she merely answered with, “In time, we’ll all see.”
As the instructor of the institute congratulated her and made announcements, attendees toasted Rose with their champagne, asked her where she drew her inspiration from, what she called it, how the drawing made her feel.
She answered as honestly as possible, without giving away information about her stint in the hospital, and then she’d tink her glass of sparkling cider with their drink and smile. No one ever claimed she wasn’t honest or forthcoming enough, at least not to her face, and that was fine with Rose.
People should wonder. They should speculate. Art means different things to different people. In truth, the image made her afraid, sad, lonely at the truth Phillip might fade from her memory with the passage of time. It made her want to curl into a ball and go to sleep forever. It made her want to go back.
Rose missed Phillip.
“He’s lovely, Rose,” her mother said, pressing her shoulder to Rose’s, giving her exactly what she needed: support. “He really is. I hope we find him someday, before his time runs out.”
And that was all her mother said. Rose’s father merely looked at his wife and offered a sort of half smile, the kind that said he’d met nothing but dead ends again.
Rose wanted to cry when she looked at this portrait. She needed to escape, needed air, needed to get away from the reminder of things she couldn’t have. She might never have.
Because they weren’t real. Or they were, and somehow Phillip and his family had disappeared.
“Do you mind if I run to Clark’s Café and grab some tea?” Rose asked her parents. When they shook their heads, she asked, “Do you want anything?”
Mrs. Briar sat her untouched champagne flute on a waiter’s tray as he passed by and then pulled Rose into a hug. “We’ll be fine. Take care of you. Okay?” Her mother leaned back and searched her daughter’s face. “We’ll cancel the after-party and watch a movie tonight, eat popcorn and ice cream, and just vegetate. Sound good?”
“No. I’m okay.” Though vegetating sounded perfect, all these people came out to see Rose, to support her. She wouldn’t turn them away. “Be back in a few.”
A quick peck on her father’s cheek, and then Rose tore through the crowd and out the front doors where she stripped off her cardigan. The art school was freezing. Outside was quite the opposite. A wave of heat overtook the mountainous region, leaving heavy, wet air behind. Breathing was near impossible. Rose tipped her head back and soaked in the light of the sun. She’d missed this so much while being locked away. One deep breath, and everything hit her: chocolate, trees, car exhaust, fast food.
Home. She was home.
The tourist trap that it was.
Rose draped her sweater over her left arm and made her way through the tourists, weaving and bobbing until she reached Clark’s. The bell above the door announced her arrival, and Clark Jr., a wiry kid from her summer school class with light blond hair and blue eyes and freckles, freckles, freckles, jumped from his chair where he’d been reading something instead of working and smiled. “Usual for you today, Rose?”
“Yes, thanks.” She reached for her purse.
“Don’t worry about it,” Clark Jr. said. “It’s on the house.”
“You sure? I don’t want to get you in trouble.” She hesitated between approaching the counter to insist on paying and taking a seat near the window where she could people watch, where she would hopefully one day catch sight of Phillip meandering down one of her streets.
Clark laughed and waved off her concerns. “My treat as way of congratulating you for your debut. I saw the drawing earlier. Awesome.”
Tears fought their way up to Rose’s eyes. The exhibit. She didn’t want to think about that drawing, about Phillip.
“You okay?”
She shook off the pain and said, “Yes. Sorry. Thanks again.”
Rose took her regular seat, but she couldn’t bring herself to people watch. All she wanted to do was draw, doodle, daydream between the lines. She grabbed a pencil out of her purse and a napkin from the holder on the table, and she swirled a few wispy streaks of lead onto the flimsy canvas. A few lines here, a few lines there, a hole in the paper because . . . well, because this wasn’t drawing paper. Upon inspection, she realized she’d drawn Phillip’s face. Again. His face she couldn’t escape, those lips, the warmth of them, the way they moved against hers. Groaning, she leaned her head into the crook of her elbow and didn’t move, even when the bell above the door dinged.
Even when Clark Jr. set her tea in front of her and said he’d be right back after he helped the next customer.
He loved chatting with Rose about her time at the institute, and for some reason, she didn’t mind sharing with him. He listened, almost as well as Dr. Shorter, and Rose imagined he’d have a great future in psychology.
“It’s a couple blocks down, on your left. You can’t miss it,” Clark told his customer.
After the steamers did their thing, foaming up coffee goodness, the bell over the door dinged again. Clark returned to Rose’s table, pulled out a chair, and sat and stared at her. She felt him staring. She felt him asking unspoken questions with those eyes.
“Are you okay, Rose?” he finally asked, touching the back of her hand. “I thought you’d be excited today.”
She lifted her head and took in the sight of him. He had a long, narrow nose, and long hair and skinny arms and legs. Just a gawky teenaged boy. Nothing like the boy from her napkin drawing. He was a god, an imaginary thing, someone who brought her hope when there was no hope to be had, someone she longed for. “It’s complicated.”
“Because you have to face that man ne
xt week?”
That too, but pointing her finger at Dr. Underwood would be the easy part. Everything else was what upset her: the nightmares, the remnants of Phillip, Gracie, Tony, her worry over what their futures would be like. Rose thought about them from time to time. They were probably playing Checkers right about now, or signing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”
But Rose couldn’t tell this boy that. She met Clark’s questioning eyes and then quickly looked away and gathered up all her things. “I’m okay. I should get back. Thanks for the tea.”
The heat and humidity overtook her as she stepped back outside, and even though she wanted to run away, back to her mother and father and their supporting arms, she forced herself to walk down the sloping streets, through the throngs of people. No need to cause concern if anyone she knew spotted her.
Outside the art studio, Rose took a seat on a black metal bench and peered through the tiny windows of the squat little building, sipping her tea, watching spectators admire her work. She sat here for an hour, two, and smiled and thanked people as they left for the day and congratulated her again until only a few people were left mingling with their friends or still staring at her work.
Her mother and father exited almost last—only one person was left looking at the art; the rest were staff cleaning up from the exhibit—and took a seat on either side of Rose.
“Clark Jr. in the café this afternoon?” her mother asked, earning a low chuckle from her husband.
Smiling, Rose said, “Got a free tea out of the deal.”
“Boy’s got a little crush on you,” Mr. Briar said, pulling Rose into his shoulder. “I’m afraid to tell him my girl’s heart is already taken.”
“Taken?” Rose sat up straight, unsure how to process this line of conversation.
“Relax.” Mrs. Briar took Rose’s hand and held it softly. “At first I wasn’t sure what to think about Phillip, whether he was real or not. But since he was to you, I supported you. Dr. Shorter had an easier time understanding his situation than I did. From your recounting of the events, she knew Dr. Underwood saw you as he saw his mother and wanted to fix her problems through you, and when you developed feelings for Phillip . . . that put the man over the edge because he wanted you to feel for him what he felt his mother should have. It made sense. But Phillip’s disappearance? Not at all. Until I saw him come in today, I knew. I just knew it was him.”
Before Rose knew what she was doing, she was on her feet and tearing into the art school and calling Phillip’s name over and over and over. The person staring at the drawing turned, and for just one second, one split second, Rose held her breath, expecting to see him. But this man was not Phillip, and Rose melted into a sobbing mess in the middle of the floor, crying for someone she would never have, she could never have.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Rose’s mother asked, all pretense of perfect family dropped. She fell to the floor with Rose, pulling her against a warm chest, whispering how everything would be okay.
“You saw him? You’re sure you saw Phillip?” Rose looked up to the charcoal drawing and felt her heart fall out of her chest.
“Certainly appeared to be him.” Her mother looked to her husband for guidance.
“We believe in him, in you, Rose. If that wasn’t him, we’ll find him.”
“He’s not real. I thought he was. I thought he was real, and I thought he’d show up, and I thought you’d find him, and everything keeps pointing to the fact he’s not. He’s not. And I really, really wanted him to be.”
“I knew they would take me away from you.”
Rose’s heart stopped at the sound of Phillip’s voice. She stopped breathing. Stopped moving. She froze. So many emotions controlling her.
“Your drawing is incredible,” Phillip said, his voice soft, quiet. “I can’t believe how well you captured what that place was doing to me.”
It’s not real. He’s not here.
“Breathe,” Mrs. Briar whispered. “Just breathe.”
“Maybe this surprise wasn’t such a good idea,” Mr. Briar added when Rose still hadn’t moved, too afraid she’d look up and see Phillip and then he’d find a way to disappear again. “At any rate, without files at the institute for him, tracking him proved difficult, but not too difficult for me. Guess I could have a job in investigative something or other. His adoptive family had given a false name at the institute to protect their privacy. Just in case.”
“Come on. Off the floor, Rose.”
Mrs. Briar lifted Rose to her feet, and there he was: Phillip, his broad frame, his square jaw, his sandy blond hair, his perfect, perfect lips.
He smiled at Rose and held out his hand. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to make my way back.”
She stared at him, as if he might dissolve the way the mangled-faced man had in the bowels of the asylum. “Where . . . Where were you?”
Phillip took a step closer, still reaching out his hand, as if he wanted to touch her but thought the better of it. Not here, not now, his posture stated. “Dr. Underwood kicked me out when he realized I was taking you from him. He called my adoptive parents and told them I was too violent and they had to pick me up immediately.”
“Why didn’t you try to find me?”
“They have two new kids now—” Phillip frowned “—and I’m dangerous. They checked me into the next facility as fast as they could.”
“But you’re not dangerous. They have to know that now.”
“I could be.” Phillip’s gaze drifted to the floor, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I got you stuck in that place because I didn’t believe it when you said we could trust our parents.”
Rose’s parents looked at each other like they couldn’t believe she would have said something like that.
“She wanted to call you,” Phillip said, holding her father’s gaze, “but I told her how that hadn’t worked with my parents. I was afraid for her, and I’m sorry.”
Rose inched toward him while her father mumbled, “It’s all right, son.”
She blinked, hard, over and over to make sure Phillip wouldn’t disappear. She even lifted her hand toward him and sensed heat emanating from his body. “So, you must have heard what happened?”
He nodded. “When I was discharged, a couple weeks ago.”
“And you’re here now?”
He smiled. “I’m here now. I’m real.”
“You’re real.” Rose couldn’t wait any longer. She flung herself into his arms and asked her mother and father if they could really see him, and then she cried harder and harder and held on tighter and tighter. Phillip was real, here, in her arms.
Rose rested her head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, to the way it raced, memorizing him before he could disappear, all while Phillip pulled her closer, deepening their hug. She melted into his familiarity, the desperation she’d had for him since they were separated, and he rested his chin on top of her head.
Rose’s mother cried and leaned into her husband, all the stark professionalism gone. This was a family moment where a husband held his wife and a daughter held a boy who brought her back from hell.
“Why don’t you two go for a walk? I’m sure you have lots of catching up to do,” Rose’s mother said, lacing her fingers between her husband’s, smiling. “The after-party can start without you.”
Rose hugged her mother and pecked her father’s cheek, and then she and Phillip walked out of the Arrowmont hand in hand, leaving his bleeding time portrait behind.
They had all the time in the world.
The End
Acknowledgments
This section is usually reserved for the precious few people who help authors along their journey, but today, this section is so much more. For I have not only journeyed as an author, I’ve forged a new path into publishing. Asleep is Blaze Publishing’s first ever release, and to say I’m proud of where I am and the people who stand beside me would be a huge understatement.
When I asked Kristen Troiani,
Eliza Tilton, and Mara Valderran to start Blaze with me, when we knew everyone would basically work for free, and they actually said yes? I smiled. I smiled again when we hosted an impromptu meeting on a Wednesday that turned into a regular thing. A thing where we made aggressive plans and grew and shared every bit of information about Blaze we possibly could.
Together, we’re making something great. And together, we’re going to succeed.
Thank you, Kristen, for always cheering me on when I write my character arcs and messy outlines, for seeing the story buried beneath my haste and helping me build what could be mush into something solid. Thank you, Eliza, for reading early versions of my work and helping me make them better. Thank you, Mara, for being my cheerleader through the years and supporting every one of my releases. And thank you all again, for believing in my vision.
And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten the behind the scenes people. If it weren’t for my husband’s ceaseless support, for him keeping the children away from the library when I’m recording and hosting video chats with the team, for him picking up dinner and bath time responsibilities, for him adventuring all over the state of Virginia to buy me a new computer when he realized I couldn’t possibly do work on my old one, none of this would be happening. He’s been a huge fan, but one many of you don’t see or hear from because he’s wrangling the kids!
And I have to thank them too, my kids, that is, for listening to their father, for helping me name Blaze Publishing, for suggesting story ideas, and looking at cover art even when it scares them. I hope you’re proud of this company, because one day it will be yours.
I also want to thank Curiosity Quills for being supportive and offering me tips and advice. I’ve learned a lot from you over the years, and I pray to find success and loyal authors the way you have.
And lastly, but certainly not least, thank you Ben Alderson. Your YouTube channel is inspiring, your friendship is treasured, and working with you makes me feel like I can take on the world.