CHAPTER THREE
A week later, I walked out of my physical exam class with Jenny. We’d been cooped up all day in the lab taking fake medical histories and listening to the normal heart sounds of our fellow classmates. Actually, one of them had a tricuspid valve murmur, so that was pretty cool to listen to. We’d practically attacked the poor girl with our stethoscopes.
Anatomy lab was the only place where you were celebrated for your physical ailments and oddities. Most of our training so far had been on plastic dummies and fellow students, who for the most part, were disappointingly healthy. We were always thrilled to find the occasional anomaly. Last semester, there was a girl in our lab with a third nipple. She’d become a superstar.
Jenny and I exited the building and were turning down Eighth Street when she asked, “Are you signing the Work Horse Petition?”I shook my head. Jenny was referring to a petition that a group of nurses had initiated at the hospital. It was in protest of working three twelve hour shifts in a row. This grueling three day schedule allows little time to do much else except work like a beaten horse.
A nurse had recently been terminated for making a medication error while working the long shifts. Although it had been her error, inarguably, working such lengthy shifts and the ensuing fatigue, had played a part in the nurse’s poor judgment.
My colleagues were petitioning the hospital to mandate that the shifts be broken up and not worked consecutively. There were pros and cons to both sides of the argument. Some nurses liked grouping their shifts together so they could have longer stretches of time off.
I personally never thought working the long shifts consecutively was a good idea. I’d worked enough of these hellish back to back schedules to know that my brain was fried by the end of the three days. But I didn’t want to get involved. I was happy to have a job and didn’t care to make waves. The hospital didn’t look favorably on staff who created dissidence. I was never one to toot horns or rally a crowd. I stayed far away from trouble. I rarely have a problem speaking my mind when asked my opinion, but I’ve always managed to keep my head low and stay under the radar.
I had too many responsibilities and obligations resting on my shoulders to get embroiled in something that could distract me from school, or pose a potential threat to my livelihood. There was too much riding on my income.
“We could really use your help,” Jenny said, seizing my attention. “It’s good to be proactive. I know you hate working the long hours.”
“Sorry, Jen.” I shook my head. “I’m way too busy with school and working two jobs.”
Jenny looked disappointed but didn’t push me. She knew my family situation. Abruptly, she stopped in her tracks, then grabbed my arm and leaned in, smiling.
“I think someone’s here to see you,” she whispered and nodded to the white Bentley parked on the corner.
I followed her gaze to Charles, who was leaning casually against his Bentley charming the panties off two sorority girls—something he was apparently very good at considering the collection in his apartment. The girls could’ve been twins with their gleaming blonde hair, matching purple Alpha-Phi-Beta sweaters, and indecently short plaid skirts.
I’d told Jenny about Charles, and she’d thought it was hilarious that this youngster was my boss. Apparently, he had quite a reputation around campus. Immediately, Jenny burst into a low chorus of Rock-a-bye baby, and I shoved her playfully. I wasn’t in the mood. I hadn’t told anyone about what had happened at the house. Guilt and shame were still riding me hard about my inexcusable behavior. I hadn’t been back to the house since the day I’d spied on Mr. Whitmore. All week I’d been anxiously waiting for Charles’ call or text to tell me that I was fired.
Charles spotted me and said a few words to his fawning entourage. He headed in my direction with a long legged stride, but instead of the arrogant smile I was used to, his face was serious. I gulped, beating back dread.
“You better tuck the girls away,” Jenny chuckled, her chin jerking toward my cleavage. I was wearing a T-shirt with a V-neck, and although you couldn't see actual cleavage, the neckline was low for me. I groaned and shot her a look that silenced her.
Charles stopped in front of me and I introduced them. Smiling, Jenny made an excuse about needing to be somewhere to baby-sit and took off, giving me a wink behind his back. I suppressed my smile and focused my attention back on Charles, who was now regarding me through narrowed eyes. His anger was obvious, tinting his fair complexion. I didn’t know what to say. The look on his face was scattering anxious flutters in my belly.
“I just came from the house.”
I bit my lip hard and waited.
“What the fuck happened?” he glowered.
I felt the blood drain from my face. Usually, I’d be pissed that he’d spoken to me so callously, but I was so full of shame that I couldn’t even bring myself to look him in the eyes. “I…I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Why haven’t you been there? Didn’t you get my text?” He looked exasperated.
“No.” I frowned, confused, my heart still pounding like horses hooves in my chest.
“I texted you to let you know that the supplies are there. They’ve been there for a few days now. I thought maybe you were still pissed or something.”
“No, no.” I shook my head, relieved. My pulse finally slowed.
“I’ve had to work and study. I’ve been taking midterms.”
His gaze zeroed in on my face. “You didn’t mean to what?”
I blinked. I blinked again. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just never got your text.”
“Okay.” He smiled, his anger dissipating quickly. His mood shifted with the wind. His gaze brushed over me and I had to force my eyes not to roll. “We good?”
I nodded.
He smiled again and handed me an envelope.
I looked inside, shuffling through the crisp bills. It was significantly more than what he owed me.
“I think there’s a mistake.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I know the house is in pretty bad shape. I’m sure this job hasn’t turned out to be what you expected.”
That was certainly true…on many levels…
“It’s a lot of work. You’ve already made progress. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, and yes, the house is in bad shape,” I said slowly, thoughtfully, trying to tread carefully. “I still can’t believe that your father lives there.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Like I said, he’s been there forever. He likes it there.”
“But it’s not safe. It’s a fire hazard. There could be mold.”“There’s no mold. We’ve had it tested.” Charles swiveled his gaze around, as if he was looking for something or trying to avoid eye contact. “I’ve tried to get him to move, but he doesn’t want to. He’s not well.”
A knot pulled tight in my throat. I shouldn’t pry, but I was obsessively curious about his father. “What do you mean?”
He looked around the busy street again then brought his gaze back to mine. “He’s schizophrenic. Paranoid sometimes. It got worse after my mother died. He stopped taking his medication.”
My skin paled as the activity of the street dulled and faded into the background. White noise rushed between my ears, filling my head. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, but an acute sadness ribboned through my chest and wrapped tight around my heart, squeezing.
After what happened at the house, I’d gone online and looked up the Whitmore family. Anna had gotten the story only partially right. Charles’ parents, Grayson Whitmore and his wife, had been in a terrible car crash four years ago. They’d been hit by a drunk driver. His wife had been killed and he’d survived.
There were nonspecific reports of Grayson’s hospitalization after the crash, but no follow up news. This was strange because I’d found numerous articles about the business tycoon before the accident, but it seemed he’d just dropped off the face of the earth. There’d been no mention of any mental illness, and surprisingly, no pictures of Grayson Whitmore.
Charles must have seen the look on my face because concern pleated his brow. “I hope you’re not afraid. He’s harmless, really. You probably don’t even know he’s there. He keeps to himself.”
“No. I’m not afraid,” I responded truthfully. One other question had been gnawing at me. “How old is he?”
Charles thought for a moment. “Forty-three…no forty-four now.” He looked at me directly. “Why?”
I shrugged and looked away, trying to hide my surprise. The numbers on the painting must have meant something else. Shit, he was only a year younger than my father. I floundered for an excuse. “I—I was just picturing a frail, little old man. I’m just concerned about him being in the house by himself.”
He laughed loudly at that and shook his head. “My father is not frail physically. Only mentally.”
“I’m sorry.” I said genuinely, wondering what could be remotely humorous about that. Guilt ballooned inside me. The man was mentally ill. Somehow that made my actions even more inexcusable.
Something else had been bothering me. “Don’t get me wrong. I really want this job, but I’m just curious why you haven’t hired a professional cleaning crew, a company that could come in and sort everything and clean? They’d probably be done in a week, two tops.”
“I don’t know how he’d react to that. My primary concern is his mental stability. I don't want to frighten him with too many people crawling about the house, so I haven’t done it. Like I said, he’s very particular.”
His eyes shifted away and I had the feeling he wasn’t being entirely honest.
“You have time for lunch?” he asked.
The topic detour pulled me from my thoughts. I shook my head.
“I have class soon, sorry.”
He nodded, but skepticism dropped his lids as his gaze probed me. I really did have class, although soon was a relative term. Three hours to me was soon.
“I’ll catch up with you soon then,” he said, before turning toward the Bentley. I noticed then that the two sorority sisters were sitting in the back seat.
The rest of my day drifted by in a fuzzy haze. Only half of my brain was devoted to thinking. The other half had shut down. I took my sketchbook to the park and tried to get lost in the form and texture of the world. After several failed attempts, I balled up the drawings I’d created, and slam dunked them into a nearby trashcan. Although I didn’t think they were any good, there were a few sketches I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. Sketches that filled me with both longing and deep sadness.
My heart stayed heavy for the rest of the day. By that evening I’d come to a decision. I needed to apologize to Grayson Whitmore. I felt horrible for what I’d done, especially now that I knew he was mentally ill. I needed to release the contrition locked tight in my gut. Maybe then my mind could rest and I’d stop thinking about this man.
It was still light out when I keyed in my password and entered the house. I had to make a conscious effort to regulate my breathing. It wasn’t from the mildew this time. It was from the nervous tension skipping inside me. I saw the stack of my long-awaited cleaning supplies piled in a corner: rags, mops, dusters and a vacuum. I meandered through the clutter to my cleared area and was surprised to see that the coffee I’d spilled during my hasty exit had been cleaned up. Had Charles cleaned it up when he’d come to the house? Somehow I doubted that.
Everything else was how I’d left it a week ago. My eyes moved toward the picture of the beautiful man and I swear his gorgeous blue eyes smiled at me. So different from real life. He’d been angry when he’d caught me spying. Livid. Ferocious. Crazy. Was he truly crazy? Would he accept my apology? Would he scream at me again to get out? The thought had my stomach doing somersaults.
I slowly climbed the back stairs with my heart in my throat, my breath puffing out shallowly. My hand curled around the knob and I pushed. The door was locked.
I swallowed hard, thinking I should just go away. But I’d come this far. I had to do what I believed was the right thing.
“Hello?” I yelled through the door, my finger pads pressed lightly against the wood.
What was I doing? Obviously, the locked door was a sign for me to go away.
“Hello?” I yelled louder. I knew he was there. I somehow knew he could hear me. I took a deep breath, feeling a swell of undefined emotion.
“I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry…for…for…the other day. I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, knowing I was talking about much more than my inappropriate spying.
I’m sorry that you’re sick, I wanted to say.
I waited, feeling like an ass. Maybe he wasn’t even listening. Maybe he was asleep, or out? Did he ever leave this house?
Nothing but silence greeted me, a stale, cumbersome weight leaking from the walls. Dejected, I turned and headed down the stairs and out of the house.
The next day I was able to squeeze in a few hours of sorting and cleaning. Having the right supplies made things go so much faster. I managed to demolish more stacks of junk and I cleaned and vacuumed some of the smaller furniture. By the end of the day, I had at least three contractor bags filled with debris and tattered books. I’d left the front door open while I worked in an attempt to let in fresh air and dilute the ubiquitous dust that clung to me like a second skin. I worked in a peaceful quiet, determined to set my mind to the job.
I was tempted to try the door at the top of the stairs again, but forced myself to stay away. A few times, that feeling assailed me, the sense that I was being watched. My skin would pop with goose bumps and the hairs on the back of my neck would stand on end. But whenever I looked around, no one was there.
I packed up early. My physics midterm was tomorrow and I couldn't wait for it to be behind me. At least I’d been able to cover the rent with the extra money that Charles had given me. It really helped. That was one less thing to worry about.
Finished for the day, I closed the front door behind me and stood on the lawn. I couldn’t help myself. I stared up at the second floor, goose bumps peppering my skin again as the memory of what I’d witnessed last week filled my head. My cell phone rang, scattering the images, and I answered as I turned and walked toward the gate. It was my dad.
“Hey, your mom wants to know what time you’re getting here on Saturday.”
Saturday was Anna’s birthday and mom was making a special dinner. My little sister was turning seventeen.
“I’ll be there by three.”
“Great. I’ll let her know.”
“See you soon, Dad.”
“Love you.”
“You too.” I signed off and prepared myself for a brisk walk.
My midterm was brutal. It would be a miracle if I passed Physics. Shit! I hated that class. I walked out of the classroom in a stupor, went directly to bed, and pulled the covers over my head. I needed to block out the world for a little while. Why the fuck would I need to know the fission rate of Uranium unless I was building a bomb. And the last time I checked, terrorism wasn’t my major. Considering the world we lived in there should be classes on how to resolve conflict, on diplomacy, or how to be tolerant and accepting of others. Instead, I was tortured with useless bullshit. I slept until my phone woke me late that evening.
“Where are you?” Jenny’s voice shocked me from sleep. I could barely hear her above the riotous background noise.
“What?” I asked, slightly dazed.
“We’re celebrating! ” she yelled. “We’re at Flannigan’s!”
Oh, shit. I’d completely forgotten. Since I’d missed the last bar hop, I’d promised to meet my friends out tonight. Ugh. I’d been courting melancholy all week and was now seriously bummed about my midterm I was sure I’d failed. I really wasn’t in the mood to socialize.
“Um…” I started picking through my brain for an excuse. Sitting up in bed, I checked the clock. It was already ten pm.
“Come on, Angie. You have to come. I have a surprise for you,” she cooed sweetly.
“Surprise?” I frowned.
“Hey, gorgeous! I’m your surprise.”
I smiled with disbelief when Mark’s voice boomed over the phone. He’d left me three messages today. I’d sent him a quick text right before falling asleep.
“Mark, I didn't know you’d be there.”
“I left you a message saying I was coming.”
“I’ve been sleeping.”
“Come on out…or better yet,” his voice dropped an octave. “I’ll come there and join you in bed.”
My hand tightened on the phone and I laughed lightly. “I think Jenny will kill me if I don’t come out. I promised her.”
“See you soon then,” he said with a smile in his voice. After a few of my rapid heartbeats, I relaxed.
An hour and a half later, I was leaning against a bar in a noisy pub, downing my third beer. I let the alcohol reach tentacles of warmth deep inside me and squash my inhibitions. I welcomed the lightness in my spirit and the slow numbing of my brain. Mark had elbowed through a throng of people on the other side of the bar and was ordering refills. He spotted me over the bowed heads and shot me a sexy wink. I smiled back, then looked away when my cell phone went off again, signaling a text.
Remember what I want for my b’day!!!!
I shook my head and laughed at Anna’s text. She was relentless.
Blonde! Gorgeous! Rich! I want introduction!!!!
No!!!!!
Pleeeeease!?!?!?!
No. See you tomorrow!
I tucked the phone back in my purse and downed the last of my beer. Anna was driving me crazy. There was no way I was introducing her to Charles. She was still a virgin. The way she panted over boys, I wondered how long that status would last. Introducing her to Charles would ensure a rapid demise of her innocence. I sighed, knowing my strong-willed, rebellious sister. She’d just started dating this year. Maybe I should be giving her condoms for her birthday instead of the present I’d gotten her.
I turned just as Mark approached. He pushed my butt against the bar and kissed me deeply, groaning into my mouth. Jenny came over with some girlfriends and we all did a round of shots. Despite Mark’s encouragement, I declined a second round. I was already pretty tipsy and didn’t want to be hung over during my visit at my parents’ house tomorrow. Anxious about my exam, I’d barely eaten today. Alcohol and an empty stomach didn’t sit well with me.
As the night wound down, Jenny left with a guy she’d met, telling me she’d see me in the morning. My friends gradually trickled out and Mark took my hand and led me from the bar through the back door. I wondered why we were going through the back, but he’d gone out to the alley several times to grab a smoke and I figured he wanted company this time. He was already pretty drunk and I was glad neither of us were driving.
Outside was cool and the night air felt good against my flushed skin. I could hear the music blaring from inside and it pulsed through my body like a second heartbeat. I bounced my head to the steady rhythm. I was feeling pretty good and relaxed, pleasantly drunk, but not completely trashed. Mark crowded me, backing me up against the brick wall and covering my lips with his. The kiss was sloppy and wet, and after a minute, I needed to take a breath that wasn’t saturated with the smell and taste of cigarettes. I attempted to break the kiss and turn my head, but he cupped my jaw and held my face still.
“Come on, Angie. No games tonight. You’re driving me fucking crazy,” he mumbled into my mouth.
I tried to pull back to tell him that I didn’t play games, but I couldn’t get words around the mouth that was strangling mine. His hand snaked under my shirt and he palmed my breast roughly, squeezing my nipple until I cried out in pain.
“I know you want my cock…” he slurred against my lips.
Rational thought struggled to break through my alcoholic fog, but the cloud was dense and smothering. I frowned, anger filling my head.
“Mark, let me go!”
He pulled back slightly, but still kept my chin captive. His muscular thighs pinned me to the wall and I could feel his erection digging into me.
“You’re a cock tease, aren’t you? You say no, but you really want to get fucked, don’t you? You owe me, remember?”
His other hand was still groping me, now squeezing my other breast painfully. “You walk around with these big fucking tits, teasing the shit out of me. I know what you want, you little cunt.”
My eyes widened with alarm. I shook my head, not believing the crude words coming from his mouth. I knew he was drunk, but he’d never been a pushy guy. I took a deep breath, still trying to clear my head and say the words that would make him stop. His hand pushed under my skirt and he dragged the crotch of my panties aside, trying to sink a finger inside me. I twisted my hips, a sob rolling up from my throat.
“Ma—Mark! Stop this! You’re drunk! You’re hurting me!” My voice cracked with panic.
I could hear his breath raking through his nostrils as he used brutal force to keep me pinned against the wall. He fumbled with his pants, trying to open his zipper while keeping me immobilized. The smell of cigarettes was clawing at my stomach and causing bile to bubble up my throat. I tried to push his body away, sobbing now. I screamed when his fingers dug into my flesh and he pushed roughly inside my sex. He moved the hand that had a vice-like grip on my chin and clapped it brutally over my mouth.
“I’m going to fill this tight, little pussy.”
Black terror gripped me. A maniacal chant filled my head. He’s going to rape me. He’s going to rape me. He’s going to rape me. Oh, God…
I bit his finger, and swearing crudely, he slammed my head against the brick wall.
Pain exploded in my skull, but I bit his palm again. He slackened his grip on my mouth.
“Mark, no!” My scream was muffled again as I kicked out at him. He turned sideways, avoiding the impact, while still trying to free his dick through his zipper. The action, at least, disengaged his fingers from my body, and I started struggling wildly, water flooding my eyes. Fear lanced through my system, energizing my flailing limbs, but his strength was overwhelming.
Then something happened. Mark’s body was violently jerked away from mine. A bigger man bunched his shirt by the collar, pounding him with a relentless fist, over and over. The image blurred through my tears, but I could hear the crunch of every impact. I slumped over, sobbing deeply from my belly. My hair fell in a heavy curtain around my face. Emotion surged through me like a tidal wave and before I knew what was happening, I was vomiting on the ground. I wretched and wretched until there was nothing left inside me, until I felt like my organs had loosened and shriveled up.
It seemed to go on for an eternity, until small spasms were coursing through me and shaking my body. Hearing absolute quiet behind me, I collapsed against the wall, feeling the cold brick against my back. I pushed my hair from my face and swiped a forearm across my mouth. My chest rose and fell deeply, sucking in great gulps of air.
He was still there. The man. My savior. He was standing incredibly still and watching me. I couldn’t make out his face in the shadows claiming the alley, but I knew immediately who he was. He was Charles’ father.
My gaze flew to Mark, who was laying in a broken heap on the cobbled stone. I looked back to the man who had come to my rescue. My heart lurched in my chest and I shook my head in disbelief.
“Have you been following me?” I frowned. It was the first thought in my head.
He turned toward Mark’s body. “He can’t hurt you anymore. Go back inside.”
“Wait!” I reached out a hand when he made a move to leave, my heart battering my rib cage. “Grayson, wait…please!”
He hesitated at the sound of his name.
“I—I want to talk to you.”
“Go back inside,” he said again, then disappeared into the shadows.
Fuck! I wanted to run after him. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted so many things. Tears wracked my body again and I looked down at Mark’s body and shuddered. I could see the asshole’s chest rising and falling and wanted to spit on him.
A cool breeze raked against my neck and I shuddered violently. I wiped my face with my palms and snaked my arms around my torso, trying to get warm. My head hurt like it was squeezed in a vice. Numbly, I peeled myself away from the wall, walked through the bar, and collected my bag. Outside, I hailed a cab, already sobbing again. I didn’t think I had enough tears for the tremendous emotion exploding inside me.
I don’t know how I got through the next few days. I was drowning in an emotional soup and it was hard keeping my feelings from boiling over. It taxed all my energy to plaster a smile on my face for Anna’s birthday celebration, but I wasn’t going to ruin it for her. She was already disappointed that we weren’t going out to celebrate, but I’d repeatedly explained that we just couldn’t afford to.
Dad got laid off six months ago from a job he’d held for almost twenty years. Shortly after that, my mom needed surgery to remove a tumor from her abdomen. Thank God the tumor had been benign, but the subsequent medical bills ate up whatever they had saved. We were still paying them off, plus the mortgage on the house as well as regular monthly bills. Even with mom’s full time job at Walmart, my dad doing odd jobs, and me working, it was hard making ends meet.
A good portion of my paycheck went to help pay the bills. I didn’t mind. They’d supported me through my undergraduate program without a complaint. They’d made sacrifices so that I could have a good education. At sixteen—now seventeen—it was hard for Anna to understand that we had to be frugal and cut back when her friends were getting new cars and designer handbags for their birthdays. I hoped as she got older, she’d start to see the world more realistically.
I worked at the hospital on Sunday and Monday, and was happy to be doing what I loved. Nursing always gave me tremendous satisfaction. Knowing I could ease someone’s suffering was rewarding in itself.
Tuesday morning I pulled on my jeans and an old T-shirt and went to the house. I was nervous walking through the door. My insides felt as unsure as a dry twig trembling in a breeze and just as brittle. I’d been thinking about Grayson all weekend. I hadn’t been able to see his face in the shadows, and my mind turned over image after image, wondering what he might look like. What had he been thinking? How long had he been following me? Had he been watching me while I worked in the house? Why did he hide away?
I took the back stairs and tried the door. It was locked. I wasn’t surprised. I took a deep, long breath.
“Grayson?” I waited an empty minute, standing rigidly still. I knew he was there. I could sense him. “Thank you.”
As I was heading back down the steps, I heard a door slam. I frowned, turning into the main room. I saw it from across the room. It was taped to the door. I realized it was the door to the other staircase that led up to the second floor. The words became clearer as I drew closer. They were scrawled in black across plain white paper.
DO NOT ENTER
Well then. In case I didn’t get the memo, this was loud and clear. Annoyance rolled down my spine. Was it time to jerk off again?
I stood for a moment, then a smile pulled the corner of my lips. I turned around and headed for my backpack and returned to the door with a black sharpie. I put a line through the word: NOT
I stepped back and smiled. That was much better. I don’t know why, but that simple communication, even though it was a negative directive, warmed me from head to toe. I weaved my way to the painting and stared into the riveting sky blue eyes. My fingers move over the textured surface, stopping at his lips. I don’t know what overcame me, but I leaned in and pressed my lips to the canvas.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and stepped back.
I don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t stopped Mark. Part of my emotional tumult was my corrosive self-blame. I couldn’t believe I’d allowed myself to be in such a vulnerable position. I wasn’t a naive virgin. I knew what men were about. But I’d used poor judgment Friday night and was hating myself for it. I hadn’t heard from Mark and didn’t expect to. His face had been bloodied, his nose probably broken. I hope it took him a long time to heal.
My gaze moved to Grayson’s face again. I wasn’t a psychiatric nurse, but I’d done a psych rotation when I was in school and spent a semester at Bellevue hospital. There’d been many patients admitted with schizophrenia. Admittedly, I saw them at their worse, when the disorder had become so consuming they needed to be hospitalized. I squeezed my eyes closed at some of the disturbing memories. My heart always broke seeing the effects of this mentally fracturing disorder.
Most of the patients I nursed could not discern reality from fiction. I remembered one man who saw a constant parade of green dinosaurs marching down Second Avenue, and another who insisted on wearing a helmet made of tin foil to prevent aliens from reading his thoughts. It was truly heartbreaking because in their minds these events were very real and very frightening. One of my patients had repeatedly tried to commit suicide because he could no longer stand the riot of voices in his head. One of the voices had told him to jump off the roof of an eighty story building in the middle of Midtown, and he’d obeyed, finally putting an end to the clamor—and his life.
Charles had said that Grayson got worse and stopped taking his medication after his mother’s death. Experiencing trauma, or certain stressful situations could throw a borderline schizophrenic into full blown, florid psychosis. I wondered about Grayson’s relationship with his wife. With his son.
The man who’d come to my rescue Friday night did not appear psychotic. If anything, he’d seemed wary and had been able to accurately assess that I was in danger. From what I read online about him, he’d been a shark in the banking industry and a prominently successful business man. His mental condition could not have been that impaired by the disorder. Although, I knew the public persona was not always representative of what really transpired in one’s personal life.
I pivoted and looked around the room, taking inventory of the stifling debris and the shamble. I recalled how dilapidated it was upstairs. Would someone in his right mind live like this?
With more questions circling in my head, I got to work. My little oasis was growing and I was setting more and more bags aside for garbage. Soon I would need to have Charles send someone to remove them. Unfortunately, I had to do the dusting by hand because the vacuum stopped working. I didn’t know what happened to it. It had been brand new. It probably seized and self destructed when it saw the amount of dust in the house. This slowed my pace, but I was glad I was still making progress. The monotony of the work somehow soothed me, the rhythm an internal lullaby.
Looking for another flat surface to work on, I spotted an unassembled table. The parts were stacked against a far wall. Later in the week I’d clean it and tackle the assembly. It would do nicely for some of the smaller items I needed to wash and dry. I worked for several more hours, emptying one of the barrels I’d found. It was filled with delicate pieces of china that looked to be handmade. Unfortunately most of the pieces were shattered and ended up in the garbage pile. It saddened me that such precious beauty had to be discarded simply because of neglect and improper care.
The next day I walked into the house carrying an envelope. I walked up the back stairs and stopped at the still locked door. I pulled a roll of tape from my bag and tore off a strip with my teeth, then taped the envelope to the door. It was a thank you note. If I couldn’t thank him personally, at least I could convey my gratitude in writing.
I bit my lip, thinking for a moment. On impulse, I pulled out my sketch pad. I ripped out the two drawings I’d completed in the park, folded them, and stuffed them quickly into the envelope before I could change my mind. I almost took back the second drawing. The thought of it made a blush fan over my skin, but I decided to leave it. I went back into the main room and approached the door that still had the sign taped to it and stopped. I smiled, wondering if Grayson had seen my editing.
I was able to come for about an hour each day that week, and each day I checked the door and saw that my envelope was still there, taped like derelict mail at an abandoned house. I knew he’d seen it because I saw subtle signs in the kitchen that he'd been there. Even with all the clutter, I noticed that things had been moved or used. Charles texted me a few times to see how things were going. My answers were always short and direct. He made several attempts to draw out our dialogue, but I always cut him off with an excuse to get off the phone. He called several times, but I never answered. I had no desire to speak to him.
After class on Friday, I found I had some time on my hands. I was itching to sketch, but wanted to get in some work hours at the townhouse. I had shifts at the hospital for the next three days and wouldn’t be able to come. I wanted to get as much cleaned out as possible. I entered the house and as usual checked the door at the top of the stairs. My body froze when I noticed that my envelope was gone and had been replaced by a different envelope. It was taped to the door in the same spot where mine had been.
My breathing picked up and my fingers shook as I removed it. I was so shaken up I couldn't bring myself to open it. Instead I stuffed it in my bag, then numbly made my way back down the stairs and out the front door. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I wanted to open it in private. I needed to clear my head and prepare myself for whatever was in the envelope. I delayed because part of me was afraid. I was afraid it would be a note like the one on the door warning me away.
In my room, I locked the door and sat cross legged on my bed. The envelope lay reverently in my lap like it held a sacred scripture. I watched my knees bounce nervously. My palms were clammy and my heart threatened to burst out of my chest. Those deep, piercing blue eyes flashed in my mind and I sucked in a breath as a shudder moved through me and raised the hair all over my body. I scolded myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why was I acting like this? Why did I feel like everything rested on what was in that envelope?
With a grunt of disgust, I snatched it up and ripped it open, mentally preparing myself for the worse. After all, I’d given him a drawing of himself masturbating. Oh God…
My hands stilled and I stared down in disbelief.
A ticket to see Maroon 5.
I let out a squeal and hugged it to my chest.