Complementary Colors (39 page)

“You were probably in shock.”

I muffled a sob with the palm of my hand. “But I lied.”

“About what?”

“When his mother asked me if I knew where he was, I told her I didn’t know.” I curled against the table. “I could have told her.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Julia.”

“She threatened you?”

No. She didn’t threaten. She never threatened. She promised. And Julia always kept her promises. “Yes.”

Dr. Carmichael reached across the table and held my hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But wasn’t it? It was supposed to be me. I was the one he was angry with. He came there for me but the boy…why can’t I remember his name?”

“Trauma can do that.”

“Maybe he’s not even real. Maybe he’s like the rabbit. Maybe he’s just in my head.”

“I don’t think so.” Carmichael gave me a sad smile.

“But what if he is? Are you going to keep me here?”

“I don’t know.” I picked at the bandages. Dr. Carmichael made me stop “But I think this may be why you’re so angry.”

“I don’t feel very angry right now.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“I don’t even feel alive.” Was I?

“You are. I promise.”

I laid my head down on my arms. The table was cool against my cheek.

“What else can you remember about the boy?”

“I loved him.” For a moment, I was falling. I jerked my head up. I rubbed my face. “Why am I so tired?”

“It’s a side effect.”

“No more. Whatever you gave me, no more please.”

“I told you. As soon as I know you’re not going to hurt yourself, I’ll quit the injections.”

I scanned the small room. Vending machines, a coffeemaker, a box of doughnuts on a counter. “Where are we?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I’m not sure.” My words tumbled through the darkness and piled up into a twisted mess. “Have I been here before?”

“Not till a little while ago.”

The walls were blank. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“The Liar.”

Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “You mean the picture you drew?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s back in the room you were in.”

Then where was this? Two vending machines, a coffeemaker, and a box of doughnuts on the counter. The tabletop was white flecked with gold. The chairs were plastic.

There was a fridge in the corner. Where did it come from?

I picked up the plastic cup of orange juice, but it was empty. I licked my lips. There was only the burn of citrus.

“Would you like some more?”

I wasn’t sure. I pushed the cup over to him. Carmichael got up and went to the fridge. Condiments clicked together when he opened the door.

Two vending machines, a box of doughnuts. My fingers were bandaged. My feet were bare.

“Paris?” He held the orange juice out to me.

I drank some, but other than a slight burn in the back of my throat, I didn’t taste it. I drank some more just to make sure. I looked around. “Where are we?”

“Paris, I need you to think.”

But there were no colors to hold my thoughts together.

“What else can you tell me about the boy?”

“Harrison killed him.” I put a hand over my heart to make sure it was still beating. The bandages made it difficult for me to tell. I stared at them, wondering where they came from.

“Yes,” Carmichael said. “I think he did.”

“I saw him.”

“You did.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did he kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Julia saw.”

“Is that why she’s in the painting?”

“What painting?” I looked around. “He cried.”

“The boy?”

“No. Harrison. He sat down in the dirt and wept.”

“And what happened after that?”

A bare lightbulb swung overhead and spiderwebs tickled my cheek. I breathed through my nose because the dust made me want to cough. It caked my nostrils and made mud with the tears on my cheeks.

I wiped my face, but there was nothing on the bandages when I looked.

“The door opened.”
I’d never realized how loud it squeaked before. In the shed, with Harrison crying, it was deafening.

“Who opened it?”

“Julia came looking for Harrison. He was supposed to…I don’t know. But she came looking for him and found him in the shed. She saw the boy.”

“What did she do?”

“She took Harrison inside.”

“What about you?”

“I was hiding, but she saw me.”
The anger she seethed was the same as when she hit me.
“Why didn’t she kill me?”

Carmichael dropped his gaze. “Tell me what happened next.”

“The hammer was right there. She could have killed me.”

“Paris?”

“She made me help her.”

“Do what?”

“She put him on a tarp, and she made me help her drag him into the woods.”
Grit packed my fingernails.
“There were too many roots.”

“For what?”

“I couldn’t get the hole deep enough. She got mad. She pushed me down.”

“This is all your fault, Paris. You’re nothing but a filthy whore. I saw the way you looked at Daddy. You made him do this.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Paris.”

I looked around. The fridge kicked on. Small colored magnets held up notes. “What did you say?”

“I said it wasn’t your fault.”

“But I kissed him. I didn’t want to help her. ‘You’re just like him.’ That’s what she said.”

“The boy?”

I shook my head. “I think she meant someone else.”

“Who do you think she was talking about?” Dr. Carmichael furrowed his brow.

I’d never thought to ask myself that question before. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I mean. I don’t know.”

He nodded like he’d expected the answer. “Do you remember where you helped Julia take the body?”

I curled my hands into fists and pressed them against my temple. “We dropped him into the rabbithole.”

“Get over here and help me move this, Paris.”

I took one end of the thick piece of plywood, Julia took the other. The swollen wood left streaks of green and black on my fingers. As we lifted it, the middle sagged and water seeped from the wrinkles.

Pill bugs, earth worms, and black widow spiders scattered in the daylight.

Framed by the perfect square of bare earth was a hole. Concrete edged the sides. What hadn’t crumbled was covered in moss.

“Get his feet.”

I wrapped the tarp around his shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want him to be cold.”

“He’s dead. He’s not going to get cold. Now help me.”

I tucked in the edges. Julia made an ugly sound and shoved me away. She grabbed the tarp and yanked it toward the edge. Gravity did the rest. But he didn’t come unwrapped so he’d stay warm at the bottom of the well.

“Get up.”

I wondered if I should go down there so he wouldn’t be lonely.

“Get up. Now.” She kicked me in the hip.

Julia’s hair clung to her cheeks, and her mascara was smeared. Sweat made her skin gleam and her cheeks glow. There was blood on her dress.

I promptly threw up all over her bare feet.

“Where did she take you?”

“Huh?”

Carmichael held out another cup of orange juice.

“Where did she take you after you dropped the body down the well?”

“To the bathroom.” I sniffed the cup. “I don’t like orange juice.”

“You drank two glasses.”

I did? I sipped it. There was nothing to like or dislike.

Carmichael pulled out his chair and sat in front of me. “Paris, what happened after she took you into the bathroom?”

“She left me.”

“That’s all?”

“She told me to take a bath.”

“Anything else?”

“She got mad when I couldn’t remember how to get my clothes off.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t remember the name of the boy?”

Carmichael held up a hand. I turned to see who spoke. A white man wearing blue jeans sat on a chair near the wall. A Chinese woman in a purple suit beside him. Next to her, a black woman with long braids.

Where had they come from?

“Who are you?”

“This is Mark Moore, a private investigator who’s a friend of mine, and Mrs. Samson, your court appointed guardian. And Mrs. Chang, your advocate. You met her almost two weeks ago.”

I looked at Carmichael. “How long have they been in here?”

“The whole time.”

I ran another survey of the room. Two vending machines, a coffeepot, a box of doughnuts, a refrigerator, and to my left, a flat screen mounted to the wall. The eyes of a confused man stared back at me from the dark glass.

“Where am I?”

“The break room.”

“I’ve asked you that before.”

“Yes, several times.”

I held up my hands and wiggled my fingers. Gauze covered almost every inch of my hands. “The rabbit bit me.”

“You bit yourself.”

“The rabbit bit me so I could show you.”

“Ask him.”

“Not now, Mark,” Carmichael said.

To Mark, I said, “Ask me what?”

He sat back a little. “Are you sure you don’t remember the name of the boy your father killed?”

Did I? I worried the bandages on my thumb between my front teeth. How did they know about the boy? How did they know about Harrison killing him? I couldn’t remember. Everything was muted. All twisted up. Inside out. Upside down.

Black and white.

There was no color, and I was falling apart.

Dr. Carmichael stood. “C’mon, I’ll take you back to your room.” He put his hands on my shoulders, and I held onto the table.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re just upset.”

This wasn’t upset. I didn’t know what it was, but I’d never felt anything like it. Or maybe I had and simply forgotten. “Please tell me what’s wrong with me.”

“You’re medicated.”

“Why?”

“You had a psychotic episode.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were confused about what’s real and not real. You hurt yourself. I had to medicate you until you calmed down.” Carmichael urged me to stand up, but I refused. “Paris, I think you need to go back to your room.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

I didn’t have an answer.

“Please stand up.”

I did.

“Now come with me.”

I looked around the room. Two vending machines, a coffeepot, a box of doughnuts on the counter, a fridge, a TV, and three people I didn’t know. Maybe they weren’t real. I pretended not to see them just in case.

Dr. Carmichael led me down the hall and into a room that looked like it belonged in a hotel. “I’ve been here before.”

“This is your room.”

The phone on the end table sat under the lamp. “Roy.”

“What about him?”

“Has he called yet?” Dr. Carmichael sat me on the edge of the bed, and I clung to his arm.

“Not yet.”

“He’s not going to, is he?”

“Why would you think that?”

“I got angry. I told him not to call. I told him I didn’t want him to call.”

“He’ll call.”

“What if he doesn’t?” I stared at the phone.
Please ring. Please, please, ring
.

“Lie down and get some sleep.”

“I can’t. He might call. If I go to sleep, the nurses won’t transfer the call back here.”

“He knows he can’t call after five anyhow.”

“Are you sure he didn’t call?”

“I’m sure.”

“Will you check?” I twisted his shirtsleeve between my fingers.

He pried my grip loose. “I’ll check.”

I went back to staring at the phone. “But he won’t, will he?”

“Yes, he will.”

“I told him not to.”

“I called him after you were sedated. I explained to him what happened. He knows you were upset.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he would call in a few days to see if you were able to talk with him.”

“But he didn’t.”

Carmichael glanced at the phone.

“I’ve been in that room for more than a few days. And he didn’t call.”

“If you like, I’ll call him tomorrow to let him know you can talk.”

“You’ll tell him I’m sorry?” I scooted up on the bed. Carmichael covered me with a blanket.

“You can tell him yourself.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “I will. I’ll tell him.”

“Do you want me to have some dinner brought to you?”

“No. I’m going to sleep. Just make sure you don’t forget to call him.”

“I won’t.”

I curled around my pillow. Carmichael hovered at the door for a moment before leaving.

The white rabbit emerged from under the covers near my foot. It watched me from the other side of the bed.

There were still no colors. Just it. Just me.

The rabbit washed its face.

“Dr. Carmichael will call Roy and tell him.”

It scratched its shoulder.

“Roy will call me, then I can tell him. God. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” I hugged the pillow, and it soaked up my tears. “But everything will be okay. I’ll make sure it will be okay.”

The rabbit blinked, and I trembled.

Small sobs butchered my breaths, and the muscles in my throat ached with the strain of holding everything in.

I watched the rabbit, and the rabbit watched me.

“He’s not going to call, is he?” I whispered.

The rabbit shook out its ears and resumed cleaning its face.

Roy did not call.

Eating became a burden I didn’t have the strength for, washing and changing my clothes, an impossible task. Even Dr. Carmichael’s offer to let me paint couldn’t coax me toward the light.

I lay on the floor next to my bed, staring at the tile ceiling thinking about nothing, because creating a stream of thought fed the pain in my heart.

The rabbit sat on my chest all plump and white. Was it sizing up the tastiness of my throat? Just in case, I tilted my head back, giving it full access.

Apparently, the rabbit preferred fingers.

Carmichael knocked on the doorjamb before entering my room. I don’t know why he bothered. “Paris, we need to talk.”

He didn’t use his concerned doctor voice when he spoke. I counted the dimples in the ceiling.

“Your sister has requested a phone conference with you.”