Bleed Through

by Arrington, Adriana

  Unable to procrastinate any further, Liam resigned himself to visiting his stepfather. The oppressive afternoon heat rammed into him as he exited the BX and picked up his bike. He darted through traffic until he came to a beige building proclaiming itself the “Base Support Center.” Along with a number of other departments, it housed the JAG offices and like most other buildings on base, conformed to the peculiar nondescript blandness of military architecture. He leaned his bike against the side of the entrance. A river of sweat slid down his hand as he wiped his brow. Isaac would no doubt be pleased to see him in his current sweaty condition.

  At least he smelled nice.

  He walked up the wide steps to the entrance and swung open the doors, welcoming the blast of air-conditioning on his skin. He gulped in the cool air as he walked down the hallway, lined on the left with small, square offices and on the right with beige cubicles. The patter of rapid typing and buzzing of phones filled the air. Between a brief break in cubicles stood a large copy machine, humming as it spit out dozens of warm papers. The young airman standing next to it tightened her lips when she saw him but didn’t demand he stop. His presence here was nothing new.

  A bronze nameplate engraved with “Lt Col Northman” shined next to an open door frame. Isaac sat in a black leather rolling chair, not unlike Dr. Jen’s. Cradling a white phone to his ear, he put his pointer finger against his lips and motioned Liam into his office. Liam plunked down on the chair opposite Isaac’s and tried to get comfortable on its cheap blue fabric.

  Awards and plaques from various posts around the world―Turkey, Germany, California―decorated the white wall behind Isaac. Liam’s eyes stuck on the plaque from Lackland AFB. Isaac had been stationed there when he met Allison. It also happened to be the station where Liam’s symptoms had first spiraled out of control.

  Captain America’s accolades didn’t stop with the military. He’d also received numerous awards and commendations from various civil rights organizations during his law school years. One award in particular captured Liam’s attention. Gold letters set against a black plaque read, “The Organization for Mental Health Rights recognizes Isaac Northman for his steadfast and relentless support.” Below hung a picture of his stepfather, younger and happier, shaking the hand of some muckety-muck.

  Isaac caught him staring at the award and frowned.

  “Andre, let me phone you back in five minutes. An unexpected appointment just popped up. Yes, thank you, I appreciate it.” Isaac placed the phone in its cradle and regarded Liam. His Air Force blues, starched to perfection, crinkled when he leaned back.

  “Allison send you with my lunch?” he said.

  “You know it.” Liam swung the bag to Isaac, who caught it with his left hand. His stepfather “forgot” his lunch on a fairly frequent basis, so they’d developed a certain rhythm for these encounters. At times, he considered telling Isaac he possessed other skills besides fetching ham sandwiches. That, however, would require a real conversation. He’d rather keep biking to Isaac’s office than have a heart-to-heart with the man.

  “You look hot. Want a drink?” Isaac asked.

  A small white refrigerator vibrated in the corner. No doubt Isaac cheated on his mother’s strict soda ban while at the office.

  “Nah. I’m not thirsty.”

  Isaac nodded a curt dismissal. “See you at home, then.”

  Glad to complete their interaction, Liam rose and waved a desultory goodbye. He savored the last few paces of air-conditioned relief before stepping out of the building.

  The bright sunlight temporarily blinded him, and he shielded his face with his hands. Once his eyes adjusted, he dropped his arms. Despite the heat, his body froze for a long moment.

  There, smoking on the steps, awaited the murderer from the yacht club.

  ancy meeting you here,” Cull said. His black polo shirt and khakis marked him as one of the many civvies who worked on base. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  Liam kept mum and hurried toward his bike. Dr. Jen had advised him not to engage new hallucinations. And if the man was real, Liam doubted he wanted to share a friendly conversation. He swung a leg over his bike and jerked the seat upright.

  Cull stepped in front of him and blocked his path.

  “What’s the rush, man? We’ve got business to conduct.” Cull took the cigarette stub out of his mouth and ground it onto the handlebar. Flecks of ash sprayed over Liam’s legs. One ember sizzled on his knee.

  “I don’t want any trouble. All I want is to go home,” Liam said.

  Cull wagged his finger. “If you didn’t want trouble, you shouldn’t have stolen from me.”

  His pulse raced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You think I’m dumb? I saw you take some of my product. As a favor to Colonel Northman, I’ll let you off easy, but you still owe me. And this little indulgence of yours is going to cost you $150. My theft surcharge is a hefty one. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I’m not giving you any money, Cull.” He kicked one of the spokes on his bike and dug his other heel in the ground.

  The killer froze. “So we’re on a first-name basis now, huh? You think I’m gonna let you off easy ‘cause you figured out who I am?”

  “No. You’re going to let me off easy because I saw what you did. I’ll tell the police about it.” Liam forced himself to meet Cull’s eyes. Hallucination or not, he wasn’t in the mood to be bullied.

  A harsh laugh erupted from Cull’s mouth. “‘What I did?’ You don’t know the first thing about me. Your empty accusations don’t scare me.” He placed his face directly in front of Liam’s. His breath stank of stale tobacco and coffee.

  Eager to put some distance between them, Liam walked his bike backward.

  “Not so fast.” Cull grabbed hold of the bike and stopped the backward progression. He glanced around to check for witnesses. After he confirmed no bystanders watched his actions, he jerked Liam’s face up toward his.

  Blood poured down Cull’s lips, forming a crimson cloud that swirled around his body. It morphed into the shape of a man whose red-stained eyes stared lifelessly ahead. With a gasp, Liam realized he looked at himself.

  “What’s the matter, son? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost. Keep your mouth shut or maybe you’ll become one yourself. I’ll be expecting payment soon. Make it $200 for the disrespect.”

  With a harsh snort, Cull shoved him away. Liam lost his balance and crashed over to the side. The bike landed hard on him. Concrete scraped the side of his face, and a back tooth wiggled loosely from the impact.

  His former restraint evaporated. If Cull wanted a fight, he’d give him one. He kicked off his bike and jumped to a crouch.

  The only battle to be had, however, was with himself. Cull had disappeared.

  llison switched off the vacuum to the sound of her cell phone ringing. She dashed over to her purse and rummaged through its interior until her hand folded around the buzzing device. The caller ID read “Callaway Realtors.” Thank heavens. She needed a diversion from cleaning.

  “Allison Northman, how may I help you?”

  “Hey, Allison, it’s me, Lexi. Listen, I’ve got a promising lead for you.” Lexi’s voice held the deep, gravelly tone of a lifelong smoker. “A couple called wanting to tour the property on Hugh Drive. They’re already in love with it from internet searches.”

  “Who wouldn’t be? Bayou front and recently renovated? Of course they love it,” Allison said. If her family’s issues didn’t consume her every waking moment, she’d fantasize about buying the place herself.

  “It gets better. Did I mention they’re planning to pay in cash? Slam-dunk client. Since you haven’t been in the office much lately, I thought I’d throw this opportunity your way. You deserve a break.”

  Butterflies collided in Allison’ stomach. The house on Hugh Drive boasted one of the higher price points to go on the market lately. It’d be a great sale. “You’re th
e best, Lexi. When does the couple want to see the house?”

  “Saturday morning. You up for it?”

  “Most definitely. Thanks, Lexi. I appreciate you thinking of me.”

  “I got your back, girl. I’ll e-mail you the details. Call me after you make the sale.” Lexi hung up, and the dial tone replaced her voice.

  With the prospect of a big sale on the horizon, Allison buzzed around the house, tidying up Tasha’s toys. Her daughter left a trail of pink and glitter in her wake. A smile snuck up her face. Tasha’s innocence and sweetness soothed her soul like a balm of joy. They counteracted the daily reality of living with Liam.

  She paused her housework frenzy long enough to select “Black” by Pearl Jam from her playlist and blare it from the living room speakers. Though one of her favorite songs, she didn’t play it often because it reminded her of Sean and a time when life had been simpler. Happier. From before schizophrenia entered their lives like an avalanche of horrors.

  She hummed under her breath and entered Tasha and Liam’s bathroom. No drops of water dotted the tub. Liam hadn’t showered today. He hadn’t yesterday, either. She tried to brush away her concern that his lack of personal hygiene indicated a relapse might be imminent. Liam had never enjoyed bathing, even as a small child. One skipped shower didn’t mean much. He’d work up a sweat biking to Isaac’s office. If he didn’t take a shower after returning, she’d allow herself to worry then.

  A shadow passed by the frosted bathroom window. Shortly after, the doorbell rang. Allison wiped her hands on her jean shorts and walked out to the foyer.

  She opened the front door and tried not to grimace at Sara Channer’s glossy red smile. When they’d first met, her grin had come off as genuine. Now it looked as fake as the rest of her. Her perfectly coiffed hair shined a blonde rarely, if ever, seen in nature and much too young for her years. Sara wore a tennis outfit meant for a twenty-year-old without leathery, sun-spotted skin.

  “I wanted to stop by and say hi,” Sara said. “It’s been a while since we last chatted.”

  If by a while you mean since you learned my son has schizophrenia, then yes, it has.

  Allison cleared her throat. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Only if I’m not imposing.” Sara didn’t wait for an answer before she walked into the house. She glanced around at the minimalist aesthetic, which mostly reflected Isaac’s preferences. Allison had given the bulk of her belongings to Sean when he moved to Ohio with Liam.

  “Spotless and beautiful as usual.” A note of disbelieving admiration tinged her voice and reminded Allison of the first time the woman had visited. “You’ve done such a lovely job on the décor. It’s not what I expected,” she’d said.

  Why exactly Sara hadn’t expected a tasteful interior, Allison could never decide. Was it a slam against her African-American husband? Was it because she had previously been the wife of an enlisted man? Either way, it had cut short any endearment the backhanded compliment had meant to impart.

  Allison resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Thanks. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” She waved her hand. “I can’t stay long, just a quick check to see how you’re doing.”

  What she really meant was she wanted to be gone before Liam returned home. She wouldn’t have come over if she hadn’t seen him leave on his bike.

  “We’re doing great.” Allison pulled out a chair for her.

  She compressed her thin lips into a tight smile and sat. Sara had perfected the art of passive-aggressive sympathy. One little twitch of her lips broadcasted a patronizing “I know you’re lying, but I’ll go along with your fib so we both feel better” vibe.

  “How’s work going? Tough time to be a realtor.”

  Allison coughed. “Yes, but I’ve got a great prospect for this weekend. Potentially my biggest sale of the year.”

  Another passive-aggressive smile. Sara tapped her nails on the table. “And Tasha, she’s enjoying school this year?”

  “She loves it. Her teacher, Mrs. Grist, is absolutely wonderful. Best teacher we could’ve asked for.”

  Sara nodded inattentively and patted down her hair like she suspected a few strands had the audacity to free themselves from whatever product she used to tame them. As far as Allison could tell, none had.

  Sara allowed a lull in the conversation, probably hoping Allison would confide in her about Liam.

  Instead, Allison asked, “How are you and Allen doing?”

  The question caught her off guard. She blinked and temporarily lost her glossy composure. “Oh, fine. He’s been TDY to Barksdale for a few days now. Gets home tonight. I’ve cooked up a storm all day.” She didn’t meet Allison’s eyes.

  Both women knew how Allen had occupied himself while away. In fact, all the officers’ wives knew. Quite a few of the enlisted wives, too. Allen flaunted his infidelities and spent his days satisfying himself and ignoring Sara.

  Allison inhaled. Wrapped up in Liam’s issues, she sometimes forgot other people had their own little hells to wade through. Sara could be petty, but her poor behavior didn’t excuse more rudeness. And even though today was her first visit since learning of Liam’s diagnosis, that was one more visit than most of Allison’s friends had paid her. Some avoided her because they didn’t know what to say, others because her son scared them. Most shunned her due to a mixture of both fears. As a result, she was almost as lonely as Sara.

  “When do your kids come home for break?” Allison asked.

  “They’ve both got fall break in mid-October. Ainsley will be driving herself home from Auburn. I’m a little worried about the distance.”

  Allison tried not to feel jealous about the mundane concerns Sara held for her children. If only her biggest worry for Liam revolved around his long drive home from college.

  A loud clanking noise resonated from the carport. Sara jolted upright. Her eyes shot to the front door and opened wide as Liam burst in.

  He looked a hot mess. His red, curly hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his legs and arms oozed blood. When Liam laid eyes on Sara, he stopped midstride. Shit. He had some ongoing delusion about the woman that made him act bizarrely whenever she was near.

  “Liam, won’t you say hi to Sara? She’s come over for a quick visit.”

  Nose wrinkled in disgust, he glared at Sara before stomping off to his bedroom.

  The dining room chair scratched over the linoleum as Sara pushed it out and stood. She ran a shaking hand down the buttons on her tennis shirt. “I don’t want to be a nuisance, so I’ll get going now.”

  “You’re not a nuisance. Feel free to stay a little…” Allison didn’t get a chance to finish her farewell. The front door slammed behind her neighbor’s hasty retreat.

  She sat alone at the table, staring out the back window at the ocean. Whatever high she’d felt after her conversation with Lexi fizzled into anxiety. She waited a long time to hear the shower start from the hallway bathroom.

  It never did.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 28th

  f Liam didn’t take his mind off yesterday’s incident, fear might strangle him. He’d taken Dr. Jen’s advice and broken out his oils as a distraction tool. His mother’s disapproving scrutiny prevented him from painting at home, so he now sat between the baseball and softball fields at Gulf Coast State College, trying to ignore the fire ant mound to his left and the heap of goose droppings to his right.

  He should’ve worn his baseball cap. The sun’s late morning rays focused into a single laser beam pointed straight at his face. He squinted against the intense sunshine and bemoaned his painting conditions. Besides the oversaturated light, his canvas lay directly on a crusty, brown patch of grass. Dirt stained the corners of his work in progress, and occasional gusts of wind threatened to flip it over.

  Thick layers of paint glistened on the canvas. He didn’t use a brush, preferring instead a palette knife’s sharper edge. While most people would call his style abstract, he thought of i
t as extreme impressionism. In high school, he’d fancied himself an artist in the vein of Van Gogh, Degas, and Cezanne, with a touch of Kandinsky. His teacher, though, had fancied him more the serial killer type and held a conference with his parents to discuss the “disturbing” themes he gravitated toward. A sudden end to his formal art education had followed shortly thereafter.

  Unwilling to give up the one activity he enjoyed, Liam had begun to paint in private. Or, like today, in extreme public. Sometimes the two could be unnervingly similar.

  Both the tone and color in his latest creation deviated from his norm. Broad, fluid strokes of tomato red and warm amber combined into a loose circle dominating the canvas. Smaller ovals of scarlet and mustard yellow broke through the sphere and smatterings of turquoise fringed its edge. A few licks of obsidian black streaked through the work.

  A voice called out from near the baseball field. “Liam? Is that you?”

  Stiff blades of grass prickled Liam’s elbow as he leaned against it to face his guest.

  Mai.

  Smarter than him, she wore a white ball cap. Her dark hair peeked out below the hat, outlining the delicate contours of her face, and her lilac sundress swished in the breeze as she walked to his impromptu workstation.

  “You’re an artist?” She sidestepped the tubes of oil paint scattered around his large canvas backpack and leaned over to inspect his work in progress.

  Struck with an immediate case of cotton mouth, he stared blankly at her, waiting for her to shy away from his painting or to ask why he sat in the middle of a field. She didn’t.

  Instead, she whistled long and low. “That’s one big ball of desire you’ve created, Mr. Murphy.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. You’ve got it bad for someone.” She settled on the dirt next to him, her knee touching his.

  Sweat rolled down his throat.

  “What I can’t figure out are the bits of black you’ve integrated into the piece. Like you consider desire toxic,” she said.

  “It’s not the desire I consider toxic.” Liam bit his lip. How did Mai always manage to make him share more than he intended?