Stuart

Standing at the edge of the ocean under the light of a full moon, I watch her walk away from me, back inside the club to where that douche Pete waits for her. She’s so utterly beautiful, so changed since the last time I saw her.

Before, she was golden and ethereal. She was bewitching and elusive with her long, wavy hair and endless jewelry. Now she’s elegant and controlled. Her black dress hugs her slim body, and her short hair blows in straight lines around her neck. Her walls are strong, and she’s fighting. Still, I could feel the heat simmering just below the surface. My passionate Mariska is still inside this guarded woman.

When she reaches the steps, my eyes trace the length of her smooth legs as she reaches down to put on her boots. She straightens and jogs up to the porch, disappearing inside. Only then do I follow her into the noisy club. I hate places like this. If Derek hadn’t told me she would be here, I’d never have come, but I had to find her.

Two days ago, when I went back to the condo in Princeton, everything came crashing down, and I felt just how much we had lost. It all happened so fast in Montana, from the good news to the tragedy. We lost sight of how much we had.

When I walked through the door, I was greeted by a vase of wildflowers with a list of all the things Mariska needed to do to get ready for this fall. We needed to pack and move her stuff from Bayville to Princeton. She had to collect all her paintings and decide which sketches were appropriate and which should be hidden.

When I saw that line item, a broken laugh escaped on an exhale. I remembered her cute little face, her golden eyes so intense as she peeked out at my naked body from behind a sketchpad. Her long waves would be twirled up around a pencil as she drew me from all angles. I’d see her cheeks pink, and I would catch her toe and nip it or trace a finger up the inside of her thigh to watch the chill bumps rise.

I remembered how when she worked on her art, she usually had a smudge of charcoal on her nose or a streak of paint on her cheek. I remembered how she would walk through the room in only those fucking boy shorts to drive me crazy.

We’ve been through hell, but I won’t let her go. Mariska is the mother of my children. We lost one. It was tragic and heartbreaking, and I can’t forgive myself for the way I reacted. At the same time, I won’t lose her over it. We will survive this, and we will come out stronger because of it.

Then Derek told me where she’d be tonight. Slayde had mentioned she was with him and Kenny, and I had to come here. Even if she walked away, I had to see her.

Now I’ve said all the things I needed to say. I’ve also seen what I needed to see in her eyes. I saw the desperate pain I feel reflected back at me, and I felt her struggling not to give in. My beautiful girl is fighting me, but she’s not going to win. We belong together, and she believes it as much as I do.

This suggestion of schizophrenia is complete and utter bullshit. Some quack doctor gave her grandmother a faulty diagnosis, which the woman was smart enough to ignore. I don’t understand why Mariska believes it. Still, if Slayde is helping her find the truth, I can give her time to realize what I already know. She’s unique and flawless.

She might decide she doesn’t have special gifts, but I’ll never forget the dream I had of her all those nights ago when I was trying to run, trying to get back to the desert. She saved me, and I won’t let her forget it.

I’m turning over these thoughts in my office when Slayde knocks on the open door.

“Hey, come in.” I sit forward in my chair, and he crosses to the desk. “What’s up?”

“Our appointment with Dr. Endicott is at two this afternoon.” He sits in a leather chair. He’s a good man, and he’s on our side, which makes me like him even more.

“What is she hoping to find out?” My hands are clasped in front of me, and I watch him closely.

“Kenny said she wants answers. She wants to know if he believes he was right all that time ago or if he has any doubts. She’s worried stress or even the pregnancy might cause a sudden or unexpected break.” He leans forward resting his forearms on his knees. “I think she feels out of control.”

“Understandable.” I look down at my hands. “It makes sense for her to feel that way. But she’s not mentally ill.”

“Kenny and I feel the same way. Kenny’s worried. Hell, I’m worried about her.”

He looks down, rubbing a hand up and down the ink on his forearm. Slayde was a fighter before he got into trouble and came here. Tattoos cover his arms and neck, and his pale blue eyes burn with intensity under his dark brow. He reminds me of a wolf.

“What can I do?” I’m ready to do anything to protect my girl. I won’t let her down this time.

He stands, going to the door. “I’ll be there. If things seem to be headed in the wrong direction, I’ll do what I can.”

“I appreciate you looking out for her.” My chest burns with frustration at having to sit by helpless, waiting. “If I could be there, I would.”

“I know.” He pauses. “I’ve tried to imagine the shoe being on the other foot, and I can’t. I’ll keep you posted.”

---

Mariska

Slayde is punctual in picking me up for our appointment. I’ve been at the gym all day, cleaning up, making smoothies, and being completely distracted by what’s coming.

“I had a great time last night.” Pete stops in front of me at the juice bar, spreading his arms and flexing his muscles for my benefit.

I smile and turn to my notebook. “I’m sorry I pooped out early. I don’t seem to have as much energy as I used to.”

“No worries.” He gives me a wink. “We can give it another try. Maybe Friday?”

Poor Pete. I’ve had this thought so many times. As much as I try to make myself fall for him, like wet kindling, my feelings never seem to ignite. “I don’t know. Let’s just play it by ear.”

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…”

“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.”