Torn between a desire to purchase the print and an equal desire to appease my mother, I’d opted for appeasement. Better to give in than immerse myself in the thick cloud of censure she wore around her like a cloak and was more than happy to share with the ones she loved.
Now, looking at the print with renewed longing, I counted the butterflies camouflaged in its midst. Camouflage, one of the techniques Doolittle is famous for, hidden pictures that speak to you; if only you take the time to look. And understand.
I remembered pointing this out to my mother and her immediate response. “All I see hidden in that picture is an Indian peering at me like he’s about to scalp me.”
So much for hidden messages. She’d come up with a doozy of her own, one that made sense to her, but missed my point entirely.
“If it’s a signed limited edition you’re after,” she said, “why not a Thomas Kinkade? It’s so much cozier.”
“Cozier,” I’d repeated, reading the quote by Chief Seattle etched on a plaque beneath the print. We are part of the Earth, and the Earth is a part of us. The images that made my spirit soar were obviously too pagan for her. She preferred a gingerbread cottage, surrounded by flowers and a white picket fence, with a church steeple highlighted in the background. How comforting was that? I was already living that scene, yet there was still something terribly important missing.
Funny how today, on one of the worst days of my life, I’d come across the print again, as though it were mocking me: See what happens when you don’t listen to your heart? As before, I turned away. Too many butterflies; too many, hidden between the pine needles, pebbles, and plants.
I headed for the reception desk and then called on years of discipline and self-control to get through the ensuing questions and to a vacant chair. I sagged into it wearily; wanting nothing more than to forget, forget about the Voice, pretend it did not exist.
The fear, so familiar now, constricted my chest while a dull, pressing ache grew on both sides of my head. Desperately I searched for a distraction and, again, noticed the boy. He sat to my right, unnaturally still, and appeared to be about seven years old. His blue-black hair fell over his forehead, thick and straight, and in his hands, he gripped something as if for protection.
I followed the direction of his gaze and was surprised to find him staring at the fire opal ring on my right hand. Unconsciously, I’d been rubbing the stone, drawing comfort from its smooth surface.
He looked up. Brown eyes met blue. And with sudden clarity, I realized that he’d perceived my dark mood. But how? He was just a child, too young for such depth, such sensitivity.
“Hello,” I said, in part to cover my embarrassment at being caught out by a kid, but also to distract him from his sudden interest in my hair, my face, my hands. But all I gained, besides an intensification of his stare, was further discomfort, as his companion—suddenly as alert as a bodyguard spotting a paparazzo—looked at me, her eyes dark and disapproving.
I smiled, amazed at how a simple look could make me feel guilty, apologetic, want to say I’m sorry.
Instead of acknowledging my smile, the woman refocused on the stack of papers on her lap, which she proceeded to clasp in her hands and pound against her thighs to force them into line. While the papers thumped and her heavy floral scent wafted into the air, I wondered if she was sending me a silent message: Don’t mess with what you don’t understand.
My skin prickled. My face grew hot. If only it were that easy.
Pretending to be unaffected by the child’s ill-tempered bodyguard and ignoring the inadvisability of speaking to someone obviously awaiting therapy, I decided to ask the boy his name. But before my decision could turn into deed, the receptionist stepped into the room. “The doctor’s ready for you, Joshua.”
Instead of acknowledging the newcomer, Joshua cocked his head and continued to stare at me.
Something cold rippled down the back of my neck. Those eyes. They drew me with a force that was stunning. This child had a story to tell, a story too big for someone his age. By rights, we should’ve had nothing in common. By rights, he should’ve experienced only love, joy, and understanding during his short time here on earth. So, why did I get the feeling this wasn’t the case?
Joshua’s escort got up stiffly. She lifted her bulging briefcase and, with her free hand, gave the child a gentle shove. “Your turn, kiddo.”
My first impulse was to look away. This was none of my business after all. I was a patient, too, a lost soul. Who was I to intervene?
Yet my attention remained riveted on the child, something stronger than force of will directing me. My chest ached with something familiar—something fierce. Time, space, all sense of self suddenly meant nothing. My only thought, my only need, was to comfort the young boy.
Why was it that no one seemed to notice that this was a big deal? An innocent child, no more than seven, was entering a psychologist’s office, with a woman who appeared more concerned about the well-being of the papers in her briefcase than the state of his mind.
Where’s your momma? Where’s your papa?
Are you hearing voices, too?
Joshua halted and turned as if I had spoken out loud.
And then he smiled.
My scalp quivered, seemed to rise from the bone.
He reached out his hand, palm open, and I saw something brown resting there.
Tears burned the back of my eyes. Joshua, I don’t understand.
He took a step toward me, but his companion, using her briefcase in lieu of her hand, blocked his path and angled him toward the door. “Oh no, you don’t. The doctor’s waiting.”
One more glance at the fire radiating from my opal ring and he disappeared into the hallway.
What had just happened here? I eliminated simple curiosity. It was more than that. Yet my mind refused to accept what every muscle, every bone, in my body seemed to know.
The child had read my mind.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, like a message from cyberspace, the Voice muscled its way into my head.
By avoiding the light, you destroy from within.
In my shivering, I lost track of time.
Between Will and Surrender Page 2