It closed behind us, and the lock chunked. My body trembled until my teeth chattered.
“It’s okay,” he said.
We went down another hall into the main ward. I readied myself for the smell of piss and cleaner, the screams, the curses, and patients begging for help or sitting on the floor drooling. Because it had been that way in Mason’s facility.
Carmichael used his key card to open another door, and there was only silence. Not void of sound but free of the chaotic symphony I’d expected. Hotel-style rooms, with private bathrooms, were spaced wide from each other.
A couple of the patients waved to us as we passed. They were well groomed and wore regular clothes.
“I take it this wasn’t what you expected?”
I shook my head.
“Are you still in a hurry to paint, or do you want to take a look around?”
“Paint.”
“Okay. The office is this way.”
A simple table and chairs occupied the office. The secretary was sealed inside a side room by a half glass, half steel door. She slid a clipboard full of papers through a slot and onto the small lip sticking out the front.
Carmichael picked it up and led me to the table. I grabbed the clipboard before my ass even hit the chair. “Pen.” I snatched at the air.
“We need to talk first, and you need to read that.”
I gripped the side of my head.
“Breathe.”
I did. Several slow, long breaths.
“Tomorrow, a person from Adult Protective Services will come and see you.”
“Why?”
“In order to keep your sister from removing you, there needs to be an investigation by APS of her alleged treatment of you.”
That didn’t sound so bad. “Okay.”
“After they decide it is in your best interest to be removed from her charge, the state will appoint a guardian who will work on your behalf.”
“What if she finds me before all that can be done?”
“She won’t.”
“How do you know?”
He sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. His gaze slid to the secretary’s office, then back. “I already started the proceedings when Roy told me what was happening. The hospital took photos of your injuries when they did the rape kit.”
“I wasn’t raped.”
“She told you to go home with him.”
“I go home with a lot of men. I enjoy sex. A lot.”
“Yes, but because she told you to do it and has control over you medically and financially, that constitutes as abuse. It’s ammunition. With the authorities involved, we can keep your location hidden until ordered by the court to tell her where you are.”
It sounded good in theory. In reality, I don’t think I cared either way. I was done caring a long time ago.
“I need a pen.”
“Read the paperwork.”
I forced myself to look down at the documents. I read what I could. Some of the words I’d never seen before. Others were probably ordinary, but the spelling prevented me from sounding them out.
“Do you understand what you’re reading?”
I gripped the clipboard so hard my knuckles bleached out. “I didn’t finish high school. And when I did go, I wasn’t a very good student.”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
No. I wanted to paint. But Carmichael was trying to help me. He was on my side. I handed him the clipboard.
So much for five minutes or even fifteen. Between him reading and telling me what the legal words meant, it was almost an hour. When he was done, he handed the clipboard back to me with a pen.
I signed my name so fast I ripped the paper. Carmichael smoothed out the tear and took everything back to the secretary.
The white rabbit sat on the chair beside me. It raised up on his hind legs and sniffed the air. “More time. Need more time.” I swallowed against the burn in my throat.
“You ready?” Carmichael said.
It hopped down on the floor and disappeared under the table. I stood so quick my chair went back. The doctor caught it before it hit the floor. “Take me somewhere I can paint.”
Carmichael led me to a large room down a different hall. The buttery scent of glue hung in the air, and a variety of crafty disasters decorated the shelves.
Who was I to judge? I tried to build a birdhouse once. It needed to be condemned halfway through the project.
I made a beeline to the row of paint jars in the back. Acrylics. I hated acrylics. The colors never mixed well. but it was either them or nothing.
I looked around. “Canvas?”
Carmichael unwound a sheet from a large roll of paper. I hated paper too. “Bigger.” When it reached about six feet long, I nodded. The drawing boards on the easels were too small.
“What about the wall?” he said.
It would work. “Tape,” I said. He already had it in hand.
I grabbed the paint and went for a brush from one of the coffee cans. The white rabbit sat on the shelf between them.
Fuck it. I’d use my fingers.
I attacked the paper, working my hand like I did the most expensive brush. The images, the broken swatches of color poured from me in a mad rush to be expelled. Using substandard acrylic paint, I vomited everything in my mind on the crappy newsprint. I didn’t have to look to know the rabbit watched. I could feel it. And it wouldn’t leave until I’d purged everything boiling inside me the only way I knew how.
By painting.
Sweat plastered my hair to my face. My feet hurt. My back cramped. I was hungry and thirsty. I even had to piss. I knew all these things, and yet I felt none of it. They were inconveniences I could deny myself. Had to deny myself. So I did.
Along with the memories and images I trapped in a multicolored collage was my strength. I didn’t know where the chair came from, but there it was, so I sat.
Around me, soft voices passed words back and forth. A small crowd of nurses and orderlies stood near the door.
Carmichael put a hand on my shoulder. “Feel better?”
My mouth was so dry I could only nod.
“You ready to get dinner now?”
We hadn’t even had lunch.
The sky beyond the mesh-covered window bled purples and blues. I never got used to losing hours. The extent of my exhaustion meant the painting could only hold horrid things.
“It’s beautiful work.” I didn’t see which of the women said it, but compliments were never a good sign either.
Then the picture called to me. I lifted my gaze.
Screaming faces surrounded a naked man held to the floor by a chain around his neck. He couldn’t defend himself from the crows picking the flesh from his ribs. His insides gleamed crimson against the white of bone. He didn’t need a voice for me to know what he wanted to say. His pain-filled eyes spoke for him.
“Why? Why have you put me here? Why must I suffer on your behalf?”
“Because I’m afraid to do it alone.”
Dr. Carmichael leaned down. “Did you say something?”
I shook my head.
“Well, c’mon then. Let’s go get you cleaned up and something to eat.”
Paint covered the Goodwill clothes, and my hands were wrapped in layers of color all the way to my elbows.
He helped me up. “Eat first.” I wasn’t sure if he could hear me through the grit clogging my throat.
“Okay, we’ll eat.”
A woman stopped us on the way out. “What should we do with the painting, Mr. Duvoe?” Her gaze flicked to the horror show on the wall, and her expression transformed into the same kind of hungry mask my sister wore when she saw a profit, but here I was free to decide the fate of the man in the painting. I could choose to condemn him or set him free.
I had to swallow several times to get some of my voice back. To the woman, I said, “Burn it.”
Her eyes widened. “Doctor?”
“Do as he says. Dispose of
it.”
Carmichael led me out.
********
“I’m sorry about the clothes.” I truly was. But even covered in paint, I liked them. Maybe even more.
“I have three more pairs of pants and a few shirts in your room.” He laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. You didn’t exactly have time to pack. I know they aren’t as nice as what you’re used to, but they’ll cover you up.”
“I like them.” He arched an eyebrow. “I do. They’re comfortable, soft, and…” They reminded me of Roy because they were the kind of things he would wear.
“And what?”
“Nothing.” I picked up my plate. The dining room was empty except for us, and I couldn’t find a bin to drop the plate in. “Where do you want this?”
“You only ate half your sandwich.”
“I drank the orange juice.”
“Sit and eat.”
I sat and picked at the bread.
Carmichael folded his hands on the table and watched me.
I rolled up tiny doughballs. Sometimes I ate them, and other times I flicked them around my plate. He kept staring. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I said, “What?”
“Would you mind telling me why it was so important for you to paint?”
I made an attempt to pick at the hair on the back of my head.
“Paris?”
“You’ve followed me around all day. Don’t you need to go see your other patients?”
“There are other doctors, and right now, you’re my priority.”
I’d decimated the top piece of bread so I started on the meat and cheese. The cheese made better balls than the bread. “Then don’t you have to go home?”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Tell me about the painting.”
I bounced my leg.
“Paris?”
I stuffed the rest of the sandwich in my mouth. But like the white rabbit, Carmichael wasn’t going to quit.
I swallowed and said, “Do you think you can show me my room? I’m really tired.”
“I’d really like to talk about this first.” He sat back.
“And I’d really like to lay down.”
“Okay. But tomorrow, I want you to tell me about the painting. Does that sound fair?”
“Sure.” It would never happen.
Carmichael took me to room 12 A. Inside, there was a bed, a small TV, a dresser and a lamp. The walls were sandy brown and the floor gray.
“Kind of empty,” I said.
“You’re welcome to decorate.”
“I hope I’m not here long enough to need to.”
“Good. I like to hear that.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I just keep amazing you at every turn, don’t I?”
“I thought you’d want me to stay.”
“Why?”
“It’s how you get paid, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But if you have to stay, then I’m not doing my job right.”
I’d never thought of it like that.
I touched the keyhole in the doorknob.
“You’re free to come and go as you want. You’re not a prisoner.”
“What about all the other doors?”
“That’s for your safety as much as anyone else’s.”
“So you do lock people up.”
“Only if I have to.”
“When do you have to?”
“If they are a danger to themselves or others.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Thankfully, no. I keep the patient numbers here low. I want people to get treatment, not be wheeled in, drugged, and wheeled out.” He clapped me on the shoulder again. “Breakfast starts at six and goes till nine. I’d like to see you in my office at twelve. Room 231. Straight down this hall.” He pointed. “And take a left. It’s the fourth door on the right.” He started to leave. “Oh, the nurse will be by later to bring you some meds.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of the treatment.”
“Uppers? Downers? What?”
“I’m going to put you on mood stabilizers.”
“What does that mean?”
“Hopefully, it means your extreme mood swings will lessen.”
The sheets on the bed were white and the comforter dark brown. I counted the wrinkles in the pillow.
“Are there any questions you’d like to ask me?” he said.
“Do you know what’s wrong with me?”
“I have some ideas, but I’ll need to talk to you a bit more, run some tests, that sort of thing before I can say for sure.”
I nodded at the phone sitting on the bedside table. “Roy said he would call. He doesn’t know my room number.”
“All calls go through the front desk. The nurses know what room you’re in, and they’ll transfer the call.”
“What if I’m not here?”
“Then she’ll page you.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, inching closer to my hair. I stopped myself. “Do you think he will?”
“Call you?”
“Yeah.”
“Trust, Paris. Trust that he will.”
I wasn’t sure I knew how.
Chapter Twelve
There were even more outrageous toys and gadgets in Carmichael’s office inside the loony ward. All colors, all sizes, some old, some new, brightly colored and often annoying to the point of offensiveness.
Oh, the degree of torment I could inflict on Julia with them.
“What’s so funny?” Carmichael said.
“Just thinking.”
He gestured to the fat chair in the corner.
“You look like you feel better today?”
I picked up a floppy hippo draped over one arm and sat. The legs whacked together when I shook it. “I guess I was tired yesterday.”
“After painting for six hours straight, I can see why.” He steepled his fingers against his lips and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Are you—”
“Why toys?” I held up the hippo. I used it to point at the shelves and his desk. It was about as effective as a wet noodle. “I see you as more of an antique kind of guy.”
“I have an impressive collection of matchbox cars going back to the fifties. Does that count?”
I strangled the hippo. “Not really.”
Carmichael scanned the room as if he’d forgotten what he had. There was a lot so it was possible. “I’d like to believe we never truly grow up. That some part of us always remains the happy innocent child who enjoyed games like cowboys and space invaders.”
His gaze came back around, and I waited for him to ask about the painting.
Instead, he said, “What kind of games did you play as a kid?”
“I don’t remember.” I put the hippo back on the arm of the chair.
“There has to be something.”
“Not really. I stayed in my room a lot. I painted mostly.”
“So your favorite toys were art supplies?”
“Sure.” I searched for something else to play with. Carmichael handed me a Slinky. “Alice had one of these.” I tossed it hand to hand. The spring gave a metallic sigh with each shift.
“You never had one?”
“Nah.”
“You didn’t want one?”
I did. I was so jealous of Alice I wadded hers up into a springy mess when she wasn’t looking. “They’re kind of boring.” I held it out, and Carmichael slowly took it from my hand as if he was trying to communicate something to me by how he plucked it from my grip. He returned the Slinky to its space on the desk.
“So.” I bounced a leg. “What do you want to talk about?”
“What would you like to talk about?”
I dropped my head back. “I hate it when people answer a question with a question.”
“Fair enough. When we did your paperwork, I noticed you put deceased for your mother.”
I sank in my seat. “Yeah.”
“How old were you when she died?
”
“Five, I think.” I counted off the years. “No, six. I think I was six.”
“Would you mind telling me how you lost her?”
“You’re a disease, Paris.”
“Cancer.”
“Was she sick a long time?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“What was she like?”
For a moment, I was wrapped in warmth. “She was the only person who ever loved me.” The pain that came with those words left me gasping.
“Were your sisters close to their mother?”
“I don’t know.”
Doctor Carmichael tipped his head.
“My father married my mother after Julia and Alice’s mother died.”
“I see. How old were they when he married your mother?”
“I think Julia was twelve and Alice was about seven or eight. I’m not sure.”
“And how long was he married to your mother before you were born?”
I ran a hand over my head. “A year, maybe? Two?”
“Do you have any other family?”
“What do you mean?”
“Grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles?”
“I…” Did I? “I’m not sure.”
“You’ve never had any extended family come and visit?”
I rubbed my temple. “I…no. No, I don’t think so.”
“No one at all?”
“He didn’t like visitors.”
“Who?”
Somewhere a door slammed. Was it now or then?
“Paris?”
“Harrison.” Shards of time ticked against the floor. Seconds I’d misplaced. Minutes I’d forgotten. Hours I’d never acknowledged.
Where had they been?
“Your father?”
“He didn’t want to be. Harrison was Julia and Alice’s father, but never really mine.”
”Why do you say that?”
“He hated me.”
“Hate is an awfully strong word.” Dr. Carmichael pulled at the Slinky, then let it fall back into place. Again. Again. Again.
“Not strong enough.” Whatever the man felt toward me had been powerful enough to cause my heart to race. He’d watch me. Follow my movements. He’d loom in the corners as if waiting for something.
Complementary Colors Page 27