I didn’t like painting in hospitals. I saw things I didn’t want to see. And I could always tell the people who weren’t going to make it. Not because they looked any sicker than anyone else. Not because I saw their charts or overheard their nurses gossiping. It was easy to tell because their dead always hovered nearby. Without fail, the dying would have a companion at their shoulder. Just like Gi did before she died.
I’d painted a mural in the children’s ward in a French hospital several years ago. A row of sick kids, cancer patients, had watched from their beds as I created a swirling carnival, complete with dancing bears and cartwheeling clowns and elephants in full regalia. But I’d seen the dead standing at the shoulders of three of the children. Not to drag them down to hell or anything sinister. It didn’t frighten me. I understood why they were there. When the time came, and it would come soon, those children would have someone to meet them, to welcome them home. By the time I was done with the mural, the three children had died. It didn’t scare me, but I didn’t like it. And hospitals were filled with the dead and dying.
The mural I’d done for Dr. Andelin and the Montlake Psychiatric Facility had inspired several more around the valley. The cancer center came knocking about a month ago, applying a little pressure and doing a little hand-wringing, and I ended up agreeing to donate my time and talents to painting yet another hopeful, happy mural. It was good publicity. Publicity that I didn’t want or need. But Tag was looking for sponsors for his club and when he told me one of the hospitals biggest patrons was on his list, I made sure the patron knew my price for the mural was a donation to Tag Team. But the mural had taken its toll on me.
I was tired. Incredibly so. And maybe the exhaustion was leaving me more vulnerable to small ghost boys and memories better left forgotten. Seeing Georgia had messed with my head and brought back the hopelessness of the old Moses. The Moses who couldn’t control himself. The Moses who lost himself in paint. I didn’t ever want to go back to Levan, or Georgia, or the time before. I had never wanted to go back, so over the years I had piled rocks on Georgia’s memory, and I’d buried her at the bottom of the sea. But every time I parted the waters and let people’s memories across, my memories of her would rise to the surface, and I would think about her, I would remember her. I would remember how I had wanted her and hated her and wished she would leave me alone and never let me go. And I would miss her.
And when I missed her, I would list the things that I hated. Five things I hated. She always had five greats, I had five hates. I hated her innocence and her easy life. I hated her small-town speech and small-town beliefs. I hated how she thought she loved me. That was the worst thing.
But there were things about her I didn’t hate. So many things I couldn’t hate. Her fire, her stubborn streak, the way her legs had felt wrapped around me, her eyes locked on mine, demanding that I give her everything as I tried to take her without falling in love with her. She had wanted all of it. Every last, private piece.
She was so beautiful still.
I pulled the pillow out from under my head and groaned into it, trying to smother the memory of her stunned face and her wide brown eyes, locked on mine. She was all grown up, with slightly fuller hips and breasts but a leanness to her face that made her cheekbones more prominent, as if youthful flesh had fled her face and settled in better places. She was a woman, straight-backed and steady-eyed. Even when she saw me and realized who I was, she hadn’t shrunk or slunk away.
But seeing me had rocked her. Just like it rocked me. I saw it in the way her mouth tightened and her hands clenched. I saw it in the lift of her chin and the flash in her eyes. And then she’d looked away, dismissing me. When the elevator came to rest and the doors slid open, she stepped out without a second glance, long, jean-clad legs moving in a way that was both achingly familiar and totally new. And the doors shut without me getting off, even though we’d reached the top floor. I’d missed my floor. I hadn’t wanted to get off and walk away. So I let her walk away instead. Little good that had done. I didn’t know why she was there or what she was doing. And she hadn’t smiled and given me a quick hug like old friends did when they ran into each other after many years.
I was glad. Her actual response was more telling. It mirrored my own. If she’d smiled and exchanged empty small talk, I would have had to make an appointment with Dr. Andelin. Several appointments. It might have wrecked me. Georgia had haunted me for more than six years, and from the look on her face when I’d stepped on the elevator, my memory hadn’t left her alone either. There was solace in that. Miserable solace, but solace.
I lifted my pillow and peeked under my arm to see if he was gone. I breathed out gratefully. The little bat had flown. I bunched the pillow under my neck and switched sides.
I cursed and shot up from my bed, flinging the pillow wildly. He hadn’t left. He’d just moved. He’d moved so close I could see the length of his lashes and the curve of his top lip and the way the Velcro on his black cape curled up at the edges.
He smiled, revealing a row of small white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. I immediately regretted my string of curses and then swore again, the same words at the same volume.
I felt the butterfly wings of a visiting thought tickle the backs of my eyes and I threw up my hands in surrender.
“Fine. Show me your pictures. I’ll paint a few and slap them on my fridge. I don’t know who you are, so I can’t exactly send them to your folks, but go right ahead. Let me see ‘em.”