His optimism fades a notch, but in classic Pete fashion, he rallies. “I’ll put it on the calendar in pencil.”
“Okay,” I say, looking up to see Slayde entering the gym.
He’s dressed as always in dark jeans and a black tee. The ink on his arms makes him look like a badass, but nowhere near as much as those pale blue eyes combined with his dark hair. Slayde’s not very tall, but he’s ripped from his boxing days.
Kenny looks up from where she’s working with a client and gives him a little wave. The only time I ever see that boy soften is when he looks at my best friend. It’s enough to make the dreamy romantic in me come racing back to the surface. I stuff her right back down.
“Are we ready?” A tremor is in my voice. I don’t want to be nervous, but I feel like everything is hanging on this meeting today.
“Ready when you are.” He smiles, and I duck under the counter to leave.
Dr. Endicott’s home is one town over from Bayville. Seaside Park is a tiny beachfront community badly damaged by Hurricane Sandy but making a comeback. The doctor lives in a two-story beige structure on stilts with a nice view of the ocean.
Slayde rings the doorbell, and I stand outside waiting, doing my best not to wring my hands. I wore my khaki pants and a white short-sleeve blouse today under my black cardigan. I wanted to look businesslike but not confrontational.
When the old man comes to the door, he’s not what I expected. He’s stooped slightly, and his grey hair is short all over his head. A pair of John Lennon wire-rimmed glasses is perched on his nose and he evaluates us sternly.
“You’re the Heron girl?” he says, looking me up and down.
“Yes, sir,” I say, infusing my voice with as much confidence as I can manage. It’s not much.
“And you are?” His voice is more forceful when he addresses Slayde.
Slayde answers in a quiet, but controlled tone. “Backup.”
The doctor nods, and makes a humming sound under his breath as he steps aside, allowing us to enter. “Come this way.”
We follow him down a narrow hall into an open living area. The sun is shining brightly through sliding glass doors, and white blinds are on all the windows. It’s too bright. It hurts my eyes, and scenes from my nightmare make my stomach clutch.
A woman is in the kitchen. She has short grey hair, and she’s wearing polyester capri pants and a lavender sweater.
“Would either of you like something to drink? I’ve got soda, tea, lemonade…”
The mention of lemonade makes my breath stutter. Slayde’s eyes fly to me, and I shake my head.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“I’ll just have some water,” he says, and the woman nods, hustling around to fetch a tall glass with bright yellow flowers on the outside.
It all seems so boring and normal. I don’t know why I feel such a sinister vibe. I suppose because this otherwise unassuming man holds so much power over my life.
“You’re here about a diagnosis I rendered twenty years ago?” His voice is controlled irritation, and Dr. Endicott’s thick grey brows clutch together like two caterpillars over his glasses. He sits in a recliner on the edge of the room.
I go to the couch near his seat. “Yes, it was a diagnosis about me.”
“Hmm,” he nods as he assesses me. He takes the folder I brought and begins to read. “After that much time, it’s impossible to think I might remember anything specific about your case.”
“I understand, but if you could try. It would mean a lot to me.”
He continues scanning, occasionally reading under his breath. Slayde sits beside me on the sofa, water in hand, and he reaches over to squeeze my arm. I glance up at him with a grateful smile. He arranged this meeting. He found this doctor and convinced him to give us a few minutes today. I can’t thank him enough.
Time ticks slowly past, and I’m starting to lose hope I’ll get any satisfaction here today when the old man grunts and makes a positive sound.
“Oh, yes,” he says. “I remember this. Little girl, admitted for Reye’s syndrome. It seems your grandmother gave you aspirin when you had a fever, and you didn’t respond well.”
“I don’t remember that from the notes I had.” I scoot forward.
“It’s right here,” he says, turning the folder so I can see it. Sure enough aspirin with fever is noted. “Looks like when you got to the hospital, however, the nurses had reason to believe something additional was going on. They were concerned you might have an autoimmune disorder, so they ordered blood work.”
“I read something about HERV-X, a retrovirus?”
The doctor pokes his lips out as he continues reading. “Very controversial. The suggestion that a virus might be the cause of mental illness.”
My voice trembles as I speak. “I need to know if that happened to me. I need to know if something’s wrong with my mind. If I should be preparing for a psychotic break.”
His eyes flicker up to my face. “You’re asking for something I can’t tell you today.”
“Oh.” I exhale, allowing my shoulders to fall.
The man uncrosses his leg and sits straighter in his chair. “What are you hoping to find, Miss Heron?”
“I don’t know. All of this is new to me. I came home and discovered this folder.” Shaking my head, I try to make sense of the turn my life has taken. “I just need to know who I really am… If I’m stable.”
“I’m not a psychiatrist. I can’t give you that sort of comfort.”
His lack of bedside manner reinforces his point, I think ruefully. “I’m not expecting you to do that, but if you could give me your honest opinion… at least I’ll know what I’m up against.”
The man’s hands go to the arms of his chair, and he pushes himself to standing. Slayde and I both stand as well.
“The notes I have here aren’t enough for me to give you the answers you want. I’ll have to go back and do additional research.” Studying me, he pauses. “But you haven’t had any additional experiences or problems since this diagnosis was made?”
“I was six when this happened,” I say quietly. “I don’t have a very good memory of what was going on, which worries me.”
“The drugs you were given were powerful sedatives. It’s natural you wouldn’t remember much from this time.”
“Still, I want to know if you stand by your diagnosis, or if you think it might have been something else.”
“You’re asking a lot, Miss Heron. You’re asking me if I might have made a mistake.”
“I only want peace of mind Dr. Endicott. I’m not looking to cause any trouble.”
Slayde steps forward, extending his hand. “We’re going to head back to Princeton. You have Mariska’s number to call?”
“Yes, I believe I do.” The doctor tentatively shakes Slayde’s hand.
“We’ll expect to hear from you by the middle of next week if not sooner.” Slayde’s tone is firm, and I’m thankful that he won’t let this drag on forever.
“I’ll do what I can,” the man says, and we’re heading for the door.
Once outside, we stand for a moment looking across the empty lot separating Dr. Endicott’s house from the Atlantic Ocean. A strong blast of wind pushes my short hair away from my face, and I inhale the scent of the sea.
“Remember that time you said I would take a sea voyage,” Slayde says, grinning at me sideways.
“Yeah.” The reference to a coffee reading embarrasses me now.
“I was certain you were full of shit. I can’t swim, and there was no way I was ever going anywhere on a boat.”
Watching him as we head to his car, I don’t speak. I have a feeling I know where he’s going with this, but I’m not sure.
“And?” I say once we’re inside and headed back to Bayville.
“And six months later I was getting on the Sea Empress for a voyage that would change my life.”
Looking out the window, I release a deep breath. “Your point is…”
&nbs
p; “You are special, Mare. You do have a gift. I don’t care what that old man in there says. I don’t care if he decides his reputation is more important than giving you peace of mind. You don’t have a mental illness.”
My insides warm at this unexpected vote of confidence. I feel the tears rising in my eyes, and I hastily blink them away. “Thank you, Slayde.”
“Just my unqualified opinion,” he shrugs. “Now come on. I’ll take you back to your place, then you’re coming over to have dinner with Kenny and me tonight.”
“I’d like that.”
* * *
Inside my apartment, I square my shoulders and go to the closed door of my little art studio. I’m not ready to open the door, but I want to paint. I need to stretch a new canvass and get these emotions out of my head.
Turning the handle, I brace myself for the sight of him, but when I look, I’m not overwhelmed with heartbreak. I walk through the room inspecting these exquisitely sensual drawings of him, and when I lean closer, I see the face of a man—a beautiful man, a stubborn, dominant man, but still only a man.
I see him through the eyes of a young girl in love for the first time. My emotions are clear on the canvass, trying to make him larger than life, more than a mere human, but Stuart Knight is only human. He is strong and capable, and he’s right more often than he’s wrong. But I was wrong to force him to be something more.
Again, I trace my fingers along the lines of his jaw, the shading of his cheekbones, and the contours of his eyes. All of it was done with so much care. My stomach aches when I realize how much I depended on him to be unshakable.
These thoughts are in my head as I place a new canvass on the easel. I walk to the closet where I keep my supplies and sort through the different colors. I take out tubes of white and blue, brown and yellow, purple and green, along with my brushes. Setting all the items on a tray, I walk to my bedroom and change into my old jeans and a shirt spattered with paint. My hair is too short to put up in a ponytail, so I have to settle for large barrettes on each side.
The first stroke is the hardest. It’s a long swath of green, the prairie grasses dark as they blow in the wind. Taking the yellow, I touch the tips with the gold from my memory. The glowing light that surrounded us in that sacred moment. Hours pass as I work on the grass, the bluebonnets scattered in the field, the edge of yellow where the daisies were. In the center is a blank space. I’m working up the courage to fill it.
With my eyes closed, I can still see her. The sun, if it was sunlight, danced off the honey highlights of her long curls. Her eyes glowed green above her round cheeks, and she was so happy as she danced. I’ll start with the filmy white dress she wore, working my way to her chubby baby arms and hands, before adding the golden wings that grew and grew until they lifted her from the ground, carrying her away from me.
The harsh ring of my phone cuts through the silence. I open my eyes, and my face is wet with tears. Only the outline of a little girl is on the canvass. She’s not complete anywhere but in my mind. My phone rings again, and I drop the brush in the jar of turpentine before going into the kitchen to find it.
“You okay?” My best friend is on the line, and I glance up at the clock. It’s after seven. “We thought you’d be here by now.”
“Oh, no…” I look down at my clothes. Other than my hands, I’ve somehow managed to keep from getting paint all over me—a first. “I was painting, and I lost track of the time.”
“You were painting?” Kenny’s softens. “It’s okay. You want to take a rain check so you can keep working?”
“No, no!” Reaching for the barrettes, I take them out of my hair and smooth the bumps away. “I’ll just change clothes and be right over.”
Slayde has grilled steaks, and Kenny has prepared her special dairy-free mac and cheese. She’s lactose intolerant and always experimenting with non-dairy versions of her favorite dishes.
“I think I’d like another tattoo,” I say, scooping up a forkful of the large yellow noodles covered in a golden cheesy crust. “Oh my god.” Covering my mouth, I have to duck. The dish is buttery and creamy and so comforting. “How did you do this?”
“Lactose free milk and goat cheese. Isn’t it amazing?”
“It’s like heaven!” I take another huge bite, and she laughs.
“So what about this new tattoo?”
“Mm,” I lean forward in my chair, taking a sip of wine. “Do you have a pencil?”
Slayde leans to the bar and grabs one, and I sketch the outline of a pair of wings connected by an infinity symbol. Under it in small Roman numerals, I add the year.
“Think you can work that into my constellation?”
My friend smiles, her eyes shimmering. “Of course I can. Let’s meet at the White Lotus tomorrow after work.”
“Sounds good.” I nod, sitting back, thinking about it. Jessica belongs with the stars.
Stomach full and heart comforted, I leave Kenny and Slayde’s place before ten. Instead of going straight home, I turn off toward the beachfront. When I’m at the old pier, I get out and walk along the wooden boardwalk. It’s a spot I’ve visited countless times to think or not so long ago, to feel closer to my grandmother.
The night is warm, and I’m only wearing my sleeveless black shift. No need for a sweater. Looking up, I see the sky full of stars. Emptiness aches in my chest, and I remember how I was before this summer.
“I used to think you were up there looking down on me,” I say softly. The waves make a gentle lapping sound against the pier posts, and I walk along the edge from one to the next, watching the black water sway. “I lost my dream then I lost everything. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I lift it to see who’s calling. An old familiar tingle moves through my chest at the image of Stuart’s face, and I touch the screen to answer.
“I was thinking about you,” his warm voice touches me through the line. “How did it go today?”
I take a deep breath before answering. “The doctor said he needed to go back through his charts. He wants to review his notes before he’ll let me know something.”
“Whatever he says, it doesn’t change anything.” His voice is calm, confident, and I instinctively want to lean into him.
Instead, I straighten my shoulders. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Not much. Reading, looking over some cases Derek sent me.” A pause. “Waiting for you.”
I gaze across the water as the ocean breeze pushes my hair back and think of him catching it in his hand. “I’d better go.”
Another moment of silence, then, “I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere this time.”
“Goodnight.”
Changes
Mariska
The White Lotus tattoo parlor is in a strip mall on Tom’s River. The owner is a former client of Kenny’s and as they worked out together, she learned my best friend is a licensed tattoo artist. It’s how Kenny met Patrick.
I drive over to the small shop as soon as I get off from work at the gym, my mind at home on the painting I started. As soon as we’re done here, I plan to head back and finish it. I’m ready to fill that space.
Kenny’s car is already in the lot. She only worked a half-day at the gym. When I walk in Wren, the owner, is sitting in the back with a muscular guy lying on a table. She’s in the middle of an elaborate leopard tattoo scene on his back.
“Hey!” Kenny hops out, dressed in a black mini and tank top that reveals a one-inch strip of her pale torso. “I’ve got everything all set up, and I brought the sketch you did last night. Did you want to stick with that design or change it?”
I follow her to a chair around the corner. It’s the same spot where she put the constellation of stars on my side.
“Let me see it again.” I take the napkin and study the little sketch I made at her house. “No, that’s still what I want.”
She smiles and takes it from me, putting it under transfer paper and tracing it out
. “Want the year in Roman numerals like that?”
“Yep.” I sit at the chair, and pull up my light green polo shirt. It makes my eyes appear slightly green, which is unusual. They’ve always been mostly caramel with hints of gold. I remember Stuart telling me they’re like the sunset in Montana.
“I still can’t get over preppy Mariska,” Kenny laughs.
Curling my nose, I rest my head on my hand. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing! You wear it well. It’s just… different.”
I slide my short hair behind my ear and lean forward on my elbows. “I think of it as me being neutral. Nothing special.”
“Hmm,” she says, and I can hear she’s switched into focused mode. “You’re special to me.”
That makes me smile right before I wince as the needle pierces my skin. Blue eyes flash to mine, evaluating my reaction.
“Sorry. This won’t take long. It’s a small mark.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got a higher pain tolerance now.” In more ways than one.
She’s finished quickly, as she predicted. Finishing touches made on the numbers, and the swirling wings of my angel are forever with me on my skin. I stand while she cleans it and puts a strip of clear plastic over it.
“You can take this off and just put lotion on it after a few hours. It won’t need much healing time.”
I turn to the side and look at it in the mirror. “I like it. It feels right.”
“Another satisfied customer!” She grins. It’s her favorite line after finishing a tattoo, and I dig in my wallet for the cash to pay her.
“So Patrick’s driving up with Lane tomorrow. Why don’t you come over and say hello? I’m sure he wants to see you.”
My shirt’s tucked in, and I stop at the door thinking about the little boy who looks more and more like a Knight every day. “I think I can do that,” I say, giving her a little smile.
A month ago, my response would have been very different, but the more time passes, the more I can see the small steps I’m taking toward being whole again.
Broken and Beautiful Page 116
