Forever Sheltered

by Deanna Roy

  My head popped up. Darion’s dad! Holy shit!

  “You can have a seat, Dr. Marks,” she said.

  Dr. Marks glanced at the chair. “I’m going in,” he said.

  The secretary stood up, looking more energetic than I’d ever seen her as Dr. Marks pushed through Duffrey’s door. She followed him in, saying, “I’m so sorry, Dr. Duffrey.”

  But she was clearly waved back out, as she returned to her desk and angrily stuck a pencil behind her ear.

  I decided now was not a good time to turn in my late forms.

  I dashed back to my room and typed out a quick message to Darion.

  Your dad is at the hospital! Just bullied his way into Duffrey’s office!

  He wrote me back right away, saying he was on his way.

  I’d never be able to concentrate on art therapy with this going on. I glanced at my schedule. The toddlers were being visited by some puppet troupe, so I wouldn’t see them. Thankfully, the only thing for the next couple hours was Albert.

  Whew. Good.

  I got out my painting of the ocean sunset and Albert’s last drawing, in case he was up for working on it. I wondered if I had time to make another run down to the office, to be there when Darion’s father came out.

  Probably not.

  I picked up Albert’s image, the circus scene on top of the crumbling cliff. That top clown still really bugged me. I knew I had seen it before.

  I had about ten minutes. I searched my phone for the shot of the clown I had taken and loaded it into Google image search.

  And suddenly everything became clear.

  Tons of hits. The clown on oil paintings. Posters. Mugs. Calendars. Coffee-table books. Two entire galleries devoted to it. Of course. I’d seen it a million times.

  I pulled up the Wikipedia article, and there was an image, clearly of Albert, although a much younger version, his crazy curls brown instead of gray. But the artist was named Claude Van du Seaux.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Claude Van du Seaux. He was ubiquitous in art circles and had invaded pop culture in the 1970s. There was no mention that this was an assumed name, but of course, if they’d listed Albert before, I could have found it the first time I searched. And if I’d found Claude, I would have recognized Albert immediately.

  I scrolled down the article, then stopped with shock.

  It said he died three months ago.

  I scrolled back to the top. I’d missed that. 1937–2014.

  I scanned through the headlines of the related articles.

  “Famous artist commits suicide at studio.”

  “Studio a bloodbath after artist slits wrists, says assistant.”

  “Image of blood-splattered clown goes viral after famous artist suicide.”

  I remembered this now. It happened right before I graduated. I was still talking on the self-help circuit, so people had forwarded me the links.

  But he wasn’t dead.

  Was Albert his brother, maybe? They looked so much alike.

  Not possible. I’d seen him draw that clown with my own two eyes. Plus, the scars on his wrists.

  Had he faked his own death?

  I paced the room, waiting for him to arrive.

  The time came and went. He didn’t show.

  Darion texted me.

  I’m in Cynthia’s room. All seems fine here.

  I wrote back.

  I’ll be there when I can. Class now.

  Except I didn’t have class. No Albert.

  I called up to the nurses’ desk to ask about him. The phone rang and rang with no answer.

  I slammed it down. Forget that. I checked my roster. He was on level six. I’d go find him.

  My heart hammered as I ran up the stairs, too worried to wait on an elevator. What if he had really died? When did they update my list? Would anyone tell me?

  Tears pricked my eyes. No, I wasn’t going to let that happen. Not today. Not with everything else going on.

  No one was at the desk, so I stopped a nurse. “How can I find one of my patients’ rooms?”

  The woman glanced down at my badge. “Ask the desk nurse.”

  “She isn’t there.”

  The soft voice of the paging system called a code. I had a sudden terrible feeling that it was Albert. “I need to find Albert Cisneros,” I say, my voice breaking.

  “Oh.” She pointed down the hall. “He’s right in there. 614.”

  “He’s okay? He didn’t come for therapy.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  I hurried in that direction. I knocked a couple times. No answer.

  The door was only partially closed, so I pushed it open. “Albert? It’s Tina.”

  Albert lay in bed, staring out the window. His hands trembled on top of the sheet.

  “Albert?”

  With great effort, he turned his head. “Tina,” he said, but his voice was strained and soft.

  I rushed over to him. “Albert? What’s going on?”

  “New drug is a bust,” he said.

  I took his hand. He didn’t have the Fall Risk bracelet anymore. I guess they didn’t expect him to try to walk at all now.

  “Are they going to try something else?”

  He stared at me, his eyes milky. “I think I’m done here.”

  “You have to help me finish the image! The cliff!”

  He clasped his other hand around mine. “You already know what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t!”

  He smiled. “But you do. What did you paint first?”

  I thought about the oranges and pinks on the canvas. “The sunset.”

  “Not the drop? Not the danger?”

  “No.”

  “See? What would you have painted first before?”

  He had me there. “The rocks. The fall.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve changed.”

  “Exactly.”

  Was Darion the change? Or was it me?

  “Are we supposed to change? Do artists change?” I asked.

  He coughed weakly, and said, “All my life I was known for these dark images.”

  I thought of the clowns. Yes, they had a definite sinister look.

  “But for a while, I drew unicorns.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Unicorns?”

  He laughed until he gasped. He let go of my hand to press his palm to his chest. “I know. But they were gorgeous.”

  “Did you paint them as Claude?”

  He dropped his hand to his lap. “So, you know.”

  “I figured it out just ten minutes ago. It was the clown on the cliff.”

  “My silly redundancy,” he said. “I never could get that face out of my head. They said to paint your demons until they had no power. Never worked for me.”

  “Maybe you are what you paint,” I said. “And not the other way around.”

  “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I should have stuck to unicorns.”

  “What started the unicorns?”

  “A little girl a lot like you. Blond. Dramatic. Her own person.”

  “Your daughter?”

  His face scrunched with emotion. “She was. Her mother was a true psychopath. Viciously disappointed that I hadn’t ‘made it.’ Drove the two of them into a lake when she was six. They both drowned.”

  “Oh my God.”

  He swiped at his eyes. “That was long, long ago. I switched to sinister clowns. Only then did I become the artist she had always expected me to be. Funny how it works. Or not funny. Satirical, really.”

  “The world thinks you’re dead.”

  “Ah, yes. When I lived, my assistant was embarrassed for saying I was dead. I pay a boy to edit the Wikipedia entry if it gets changed. I like being dead. In fact, the world lamenting my demise was one of the things that kept me going after I botched my own real death.”

  I reached over. “I thought I was what kept you going,” I teased.

  “And the doctor
keeps you going. You still haven’t drawn him, have you?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “There’s your assignment. Your trouble in paradise with three-point perspective.”

  He relaxed into the pillow. “And don’t let Duffrey bully you into being a therapist OR a social worker if you don’t want it.”

  Had I told him about that?

  He closed his eyes, and I rose slowly from the bed.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow,” I said.

  He unlaced his hands and lifted one shaky finger but did not open his eyes. “With a draft!” he said.

  “With a draft.”

  But as I wandered back to my room, I realized something. I had NOT told him about the new position. I referred to my one-day absence only as an administrative hiccup.

  And then it dawned.

  The wealthy powerful man funding my position.

  Was him.

  Chapter 44: Darion

  Cynthia and I were deep into a cutthroat game of Go Fish when two orderlies arrived with a gurney.

  “Where is she going?” I asked. When I sent Angela home, she hadn’t mentioned any procedures.

  “For a bone marrow aspiration,” they said. “We have the papers here, signed yesterday.”

  We put down her cards. Right. I had ordered it myself, assuming I’d be doing it. “Have they done the PET scan on her kidney?” I asked.

  They stared at the paper. “Not listed.”

  Damn it. They were already dropping the ball. I’d have Clements paged.

  “Are you coming with me?” Cynthia asked.

  “You can walk with her until we get to the room,” they said.

  Cynthia clutched my hand. “You won’t be there?”

  “Not this time, Cyn.”

  Her eyes got wet. “But you’re always there.”

  I tried to muster all my sincerity when I said, “You’re in good hands.”

  The orderlies helped her move from the bed to the gurney and locked the side rails into place. I walked with her as we rolled down the familiar halls. We were buzzed into the surgical hall, and I glanced over at Surgical Suite B.

  The orderlies pushed Cynthia into another suite. Inside, two nurses I didn’t know were waiting.

  “Hello, Cynthia,” one said. “You ready for this?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ve had this done many times, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Many times.”

  “Lay on your side for me, okay, sweetheart?”

  Dr. Hammonds, a pediatric oncologist I worked with often, came in. He stopped short when he spotted me. “I didn’t expect to see you,” he said.

  I took him aside. “She’s my sister.”

  His confused expression told me everything. The staff knew I was on leave, but not why.

  “Time for you to wait outside,” one of the nurses said.

  “How about you let me stay with her?” I asked Hammonds.

  He hesitated. “I think you should wait in her room. We’ll have her right back.” He turned to Cynthia. “Hello, Cynthia!” He gave his usual silly introduction that he did with pediatric patients.

  One of the orderlies held open the door. “This way,” he said.

  The nurses watched me. Probably ready to give a report.

  Be a normal parent, Duffrey had said.

  I hated to go. I didn’t want to go. But I did.

  I went straight to the admin offices. When Duffrey’s secretary saw me, she jumped straight up. “Not again!” she said.

  “Pardon?” I knew she was confusing me with my father. He must have caused a scene.

  “Oh,” she said. “You looked like…someone else.” She sat back down. “Dr. Duffrey isn’t in at the moment.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I had to cancel everything until midafternoon,” she said. “Didn’t exactly make MY day.”

  I backed away. For all I knew, he was at lunch with my father, plotting my next career move. He was probably striking some sort of deal I didn’t need or want.

  I went back up to Cynthia’s ward to wait in her room. I half wished I hadn’t sent Angela home. I might be needing her still.

  At the last minute, I veered down Tina’s hall. She had a group of teen girls with her, but she waved when I passed.

  That was pretty much the only thing going right at the moment.

  And thank God for that.

  When I got into Cynthia’s room, it wasn’t empty. My father was sitting in the rocking chair, staring at his phone.

  “Fancy seeing you here, Dad,” I said. “I thought Cynthia didn’t exist in your skewed little world.”

  “Hello, son.” He tucked his phone in his pocket. “Didn’t realize you’d resort to involving your supervisor in our little family matter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Duffrey. He faxed me Cynthia’s file. Including your bone marrow HLAs. You should have told me you were a ten-point match.”

  “It’s not my fault you were a blindsided idiot.”

  My father jumped out of the chair. “If you discovered that you two were one-hundred-percent siblings, you should have told me.”

  “I always knew. She’s been fine without you for eight years. And you turned out not to be worthy of my mother. Why would I give you my sister?”

  He whipped around to face the window. “Your mother was living in communes, staying at artist colonies. No telling who might have fathered that child.”

  “The only father that mattered was you.”

  “The paternity test was negative.”

  “It happens. You should have figured it out for your own damn self.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Getting a bone marrow aspiration.”

  He sighed. “I flipped through her file. Are you going to do another stem cell transplant?”

  “We’re not eligible for another three months.”

  “Have you contacted Mayo? St. Jude’s? M. D. Anderson?”

  “Yes. M. D. Anderson had the best match for a trial.”

  “You took it?”

  “Yes. I pulled a thousand strings, but I got her on it.”

  He turned back around. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “I’m not sure you deserve to know.”

  “Damn it, Darion. I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

  The door pushed open, and an orderly bumped the gurney through. Cynthia lay on her side, sleepy from the sedative.

  “Dary, I think I see two of you,” she said.

  I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t exactly introduce him as her father. Not after all this time.

  “I think you should go,” I said to him. “This is not a good time whatsoever.”

  The orderlies carefully transferred Cynthia back to her bed.

  “Is this your friend, Dary?” Cynthia asked. “I have seen his picture in Mommy’s photo books.”

  “Yes, Cynthia, it is. His name is Gerald.”

  “Hi, Gerald,” she said.

  “She looks like your mother,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Were you friends with Mommy? What was she like before I was born?” she asked. She could barely keep her eyes open.

  My father glanced at me, then pulled the chair closer to her bed. “Your mommy loved to sing,” he said.

  The orderlies left us. I backed against the wall, so full of rage I could punch a hole in it. He could not just walk right in here. He could not mess with her now. He didn’t deserve her.

  “I remember,” Cynthia said. “I know her favorite song.”

  “What was that?”

  She yawned, but still she managed to sing a few lines.

  I spent my life in old Kentucky.

  Moved to Cali when I got real lucky in love.

  I knew exactly when my father realized the lyrics were about him. His jaw clamped down.

  Then you found a whole new love to make you happy.

  T’weren’t an
other woman but a job overseas.

  You traded workin’ for my love.

  Cynthia’s voice faded out. My father sat there a minute, then he said to me, “Your mother wouldn’t come with me.”

  “You asked too much of her.”

  He stood up, his voice charged with emotion I had never heard in him, not when his own mother died, and certainly not when he left mine.

  “I can’t have this conversation now,” he said.

  And he walked out.

  Again.

  Big surprise.

  Chapter 45: Tina

  When I finally got free of my therapy sessions to get to Cynthia’s room, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

  Cynthia was sitting up, coloring on her pad. And Darion was fast asleep in a chair, leaning over her bed with his head on his arms.

  “Shhh,” Cynthia said. “He’s sleeping.” She giggled. “I don’t think doctors are supposed to sleep in the rooms.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to let on that I knew they were brother and sister.

  Cynthia turned the pad around. “Dr. Darion wanted me to make you green, but I said you weren’t an ogre.”

  The drawing was of me, dressed as a princess. Darion had drawn it. I could tell by the sweep of the lines. “That’s very good,” I said. “I’m glad I’m not green.”

  “I missed art class,” she said. “I had to get an aspiration.”

  “That doesn’t sound very fun.”

  “They stuck a needle in my butt.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  I wanted to reach over and run my fingers through Darion’s hair. He really was out. “Does he do this often? Fall asleep in your room?”

  Cynthia opened her mouth to answer, then changed her mind. “He’s just my doctor.”

  I decided enough was enough. “He’s also your brother.”

  Her eyes got very big.

  “It’s okay that I know,” I said. “I’m a friend now. Not just the art teacher.”

  Cynthia set the drawing pad down. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  “I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you!”

  She giggled. “We have secrets!”

  “We do.”

  “You want to draw with the new markers?” she asked. “I’ve been saving them.”