Complementary Colors (33 page)

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.

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.

“And Harrison didn’t like visitors?”

“No.”

“So you never had family visit or friends come over?”

“¿Cómo te llamas?”

He came from the small stretch of woods separating us from the neighbors. I stood under a tree hitting the leaves with a stick. The ones weakened by the coming fall fluttered to the ground in flashes of yellow.

He wore a red shirt and brown shorts. His eyes and hair were dark, his skin some shade close to caramel. He smiled, and I’d never seen anything so wondrous.

How many days did we play together in those weeks where summer ended and fall was close to being born? How many times did he hold my hand before that day? That terrible, terrible day when the sun went behind the clouds and never came out again?

The day when the mud soaked my socks and swallowed my shoes. When the blisters burst on my hands and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t dig the hole deep enough.

The dirt stained my skin. Grit clogged my nails. The smell of sour ground saturated the air.

“Paris?”

I blinked, and it was gone.

“Where did you go?”

“I haven’t moved.”

“Up here.” He tapped his temple. “You went somewhere. Where?”

“Nowhere.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” A bead of sweat ran down my neck.

“Paris.” The very sound of my name from his lips plucked at my will.

I picked up the popup book on the end table. “How long have you collected toys?” I opened the book, and a smiling fat bear unfolded from the page.

Dr. Carmichael watched me while I tugged at a tab to make the bear dance.

“Thirty years, give or take.”

The next page had a tiger. I looked at the cover. “Day at the Zoo.” Made sense.

“Tell me about what happened at the pawn shop.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Was it the first time you ever got angry like that?”

“No.” Three monkeys were on the next page, then an elephant.

“Do you remember the first episode of anger you experienced?”

I could never forget. I closed the book and petted the front.

“Paris?”

I nodded.

“What happened?”

“The cat.”

“What about the cat?”

“There was this cat hanging around the school. Everyone petted it. I used to feed it some of my lunch. We all did.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen. I think.”

“What happened?”

The high-pitched scream of little girls made me jump. But there were no panicked children in Carmichael’s office. Just him. Just me. And lots of toys.

“One day at lunch, we were sitting around outside. I was drawing, and some girls were playing with the cat, teasing it with a long piece of hay. Stupid cat would chase it for hours. It would bite your toes too. If you wore sandals. Not to be mean but, you know, just being a cat.

“A guy from a few grades ahead of me walked over.” I popped my fingers by forcing them one at a time to my palm with my thumb. “He killed the cat.”