Deadly Little Lessons (26 page)

B
ACK AT HOME TWO DAYS LATER
, one of the first stops on my agenda is to see Aunt Alexia. “Do you want to come with me?” I ask Mom.

Both she and Dad are in the kitchen, whipping up a tofu-ginger dish, which on its own is a huge step for Mom. For one, the dish requires cooking. For another, it’s actually edible, complete with pasta and soy sauce. A far cry from her
rawt
roast (made with pureed nuts and dehydrated kale paste).

But I digress.

“No, thanks,” Mom says. “You go. It’ll be good for you and Aunt Alexia to spend some time together. And your father and I will finish up here.”

Dad slides his arms around Mom’s waist and kisses the nape of her neck. It’s the happiest and closest I’ve seen them in a long time.

As soon as I got home yesterday, Mom called Dr. Tylyn to schedule a family session. “It’ll be healthy to discuss everything,” she said.

I couldn’t agree more.

I say good-bye and then grab Mom’s car keys. The ride over to the hospital goes by far too quickly. I feel like I could use another hour to mentally prepare myself to see Alexia.

Sitting in the parking lot, I flash back to my short but memorable stint in the emergency room, when the doctors wanted to lock me up, too. And what if they actually had? What if I hadn’t gotten away? Would I be sitting on the inside looking out, rather than procrastinating in the parking lot about to go in?

Up on Aunt Alexia’s floor, I silence my cell phone and then ring the doorbell outside the entrance to the mental-health wing. One of the staff members, a new guy whom I don’t recognize, answers. He’s wearing a beret (even though it’s July).

“Well, I don’t need to ask who
you’re
here to see,” he says.

“And why is that?” I ask. Did Aunt Alexia tell him that I was coming? Or maybe she showed him a picture.

“The resemblance is striking,” he says.

“I’m here to see Alexia,” I tell him, feeling nervous just saying her name.

“Let me see if she’s up for a visit.” He closes the door again.

About five minutes later, he invites me inside, has me fill out a form, and then inspects my bag, making sure I haven’t brought along any sharp objects.

I step into a large lounge area. A group of middle-aged men watch a tennis match on the big-screen TV that hangs suspended from the ceiling. There are a couple of women playing a game of chess, and a smattering of patients reading books or doing crossword puzzles. It takes me a few moments to spot Aunt Alexia. Sitting at a table in the corner, she’s staring straight at me. The paleness of her skin accentuates her ruby-colored lips and the olive tone of her eyes.

I join her and take a seat.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, reaching across the table to take my hands. Her palms are stained with light blue paint.

I nod, thinking about the last time I visited her—almost a month ago now—when I promised I’d come the very next weekend. Has she been waiting for me since then? “I was away for a little bit.”

“Yes, your mother said.”

“My mother,” I repeat, testing the word in the air, checking her face for a reaction.

But Alexia’s expression remains neutral. “A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other, hasn’t it?” she says.

“It has,” I say.

“Every time I see you”—she squeezes my hands, as if sensing something significant—“you’re so much stronger than the last.”

I squeeze her hands back, noticing a mole above her wrist bone—in the exact same spot where mine is.

“You’re doing such great things,” she continues. “I’m so proud of you—of all you’ve been able to accomplish, of the person you’ve become…”

“Thanks,” I say, unable to help wonder if she can sense what happened with Sasha, or if maybe Mom told her. When I called my parents from the police station, I ended up telling them about my involvement in the case. Most surprising was that Mom didn’t explode. She’d known that something was up, especially after our previous phone conversation, when I’d told her that my power of psychometry was screwing things up for me in class. But, this time, instead of talking about her own personal growth, she actually listened when I explained that I felt it was my duty to search for Sasha.

Little did I know then that I would also find myself in the process.

My father, on the other hand, was absolutely crushed that he didn’t know, telling me over and over again how much he wished he’d been there for me, and how he never should’ve let me go.

“I helped save a girl’s life,” I told him. “This isn’t a time for blame or regret. It’s a time to be truly grateful.”

Helping to rescue Sasha—and my whole philosophy about what truly matters with respect to my future as a potter—is one of the first things I plan to discuss with them in our session with Dr. Tylyn tomorrow.

Aunt Alexia’s eyes are unblinking. It’s as if she’s studying my every move.

“Are you able to do your art here?” I ask her, eager to switch gears.

“I am,” she says, letting go of my hands. “Would you like to see my most recent piece?”

“Of course.” I let out a breath, relieved to have a moment to myself while she goes off to her room to get her latest work.

She returns a few moments later, holding a large piece of canvas behind her back. “Any guesses as to what this could be?” she asks. Her eyes are wild with excitement.

“Something blue?” I guess, because of the color of the stains on her palms.

She brings the canvas around in front of her, so that I can see it.

My whole body tenses. It’s a picture of a faceless woman wearing a light blue hospital gown, lying in bed and holding a baby. The sharp angles of the woman’s face, her porcelain skin, and the loopy, pale blond hair that hangs down over her shoulders make it clear the painting’s a self-portrait. It’s definitely Alexia.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

I swallow hard, flashing back to the photo that Mom showed me of Aunt Alexia in the hospital holding me. It looked exactly like this painting.

“Well?” my aunt asks.

“Why is she faceless?

She shrugs. “Because I’m not really sure who she is.”

I nod, though I wonder what she means. Does she not know that it’s her? Is there some subconscious part of her—a part she’s yet to uncover in therapy—that’s leading her to paint bits of her past, stuff that she’s not yet ready to remember? Or maybe she’s simply trying to find out what I know—curious to see my reaction.

“So, what do you think?” she asks. “Because as a fellow artist, I respect your opinion.”

“It’s amazing,” I say, feeling my eyes fill with tears. Maybe Aunt Alexia was able to sense that I’d found out the truth about my birth.

She looks at it, holding the canvas out. “Maybe someday I’ll know the identity of the woman. Until then, I’m calling it a work-in-progress.”

“Isn’t that what we all are?” I ask her. “Works-in-progress, I mean.”

Aunt Alexia sets the painting down on the table. “Do you think I could have a hug?” Her voice is almost too low to be heard.

I stand up from the table and wrap my arms around her. She smells like baby powder.

“I’m glad you like the painting,” she whispers in my ear, “but don’t let anyone ever take
your
baby.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, taking a step back.

“Don’t let anyone ever paint your baby,” she says, louder now. “Wait until your child is at least three years old before you have any sort of portrait done. It’s bad luck, just like opening an umbrella in the house or dancing in wet clothes.”

“What?”
I ask, still confused.

“The day is done when the day is done.” She’s giggling now, but the light has gone from her eyes.

I shake my head, completely bewildered. In one moment she seems so together and articulate and insightful, and in the next, she comes apart.

She’s sitting in her chair, in a pink dress with matching ballet slippers, laughing uncontrollably while tears stream down her face. And a part of me can’t help asking myself: is she truly crazy? Or just choosing crazy? I wonder if I’ll ever know.

A
FTER MY VISIT TO THE HOSPITAL
, I drive to Knead, feeling more inspired than I have in a long time.

“Hey,” Spencer says as soon as I come through the door. “You’re just in time.”

“For cleaning something offensive?” I ask.

“For coffee.” He pours us both a cup. “I just brewed it.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. I glance over at my work-in-progress, still sitting beneath a tarp at the end of my worktable.

“I’ve been keeping it moist for you,” Spencer says, following my gaze.

“Thanks,” I say again.

“No sweat.” He smiles. His face is no longer scruffy. He’s shaved and gotten a haircut. What used to be long and scraggly dark hair is now chin length and artfully tousled.

“You’ve been really good to me,” I tell him, taking a seat at the table. “I really appreciate all you did to help me out at Sumner.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asks, joining me at the table.

I nod, feeling like I owe him an explanation, and suspecting that he’s already heard the other side of the story. “Sumner was amazing,” I assure him. “It was beautiful and inspiring, and there were so many talented students.… In some way I feel like I screwed up an amazing opportunity.”

“And in another way?”

“In another way, I feel like I got closer to where I need to be.”

“And where
do
you need to be?” His dark eyes narrow.

I take a sip of coffee, trying to put into words what I’m feeling without sounding like a total ditz. “Remember how you once told me that a bowl doesn’t always want to be a bowl—that I shouldn’t force my work into something that it doesn’t want to be?”

“I do,” he says, frowning at the taste of his own coffee.

“Well, while I was at Sumner, I was inspired by something else—something outside of Professor Barnes’s lectures. And I know this may sound selfish and bratty, and perhaps even a little bit like a cop-out, but I felt like that ‘something else’ was way more important—for me, at least. At that time, I mean. I’m probably not making any sense, am I?”

“You’re actually making perfect sense,” he says, adding five packets of sugar to his coffee. “The class wasn’t a good fit for you at the time.”

“But hopefully, someday, I’ll have another opportunity like it and I’ll be in the right frame of mind to actually appreciate it.”

“Sounds like you learned a lot,” Spencer says, clinking his mug against mine.

I nod, knowing that he’s right. I did learn a lot. And I feel like I accomplished more than ever. I’m not sorry that I enrolled at Sumner, because if I hadn’t, I might never have helped rescue Sasha. I might never have met Sasha’s mother and in turn grown closer to my parents.

“Well, for the record—and this is the main reason I’m still speaking to you, by the way—Professor Barnes said that you have a lot of talent.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask. “I mean, he treated me like dog dung.”

“Which is his form of flattery. He wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t thought you had something great to show.” Spencer chokes down his coffee and then gets up from the table.

“Leaving so soon?” I ask, watching as he reaches in his pocket for his keys.

“I have an appointment. I’m meeting with someone about doing an art exhibit. Hence the new do.”

“Good luck,” I say, glad to hear he’s trying to show his work again, because he’s amazingly talented, too. And sometimes I think he forgets it.

After he leaves, I pour myself another cup of coffee and get to work. My vaselike bowl looks just as I left it: the sides turn inward to resemble entangled limbs, while the rim turns outward, sort of like a mouth.

I grab a sponge and moisten the surface, hoping that now that Ben and I are back together, I’ll finally be able to get the sculpture to where it needs to be. And so I spend the next hour getting reacquainted with the piece, running my fingers over the edges, smoothing the interior, and reinforcing the curves. And at last, it occurs to me what this piece of clay wants to be. Not a vase, nor a bowl. I close my eyes, able to picture the shape in my mind.

I fold the mouth downward and gather up the sides, continuing to work for another four hours straight.

It’s my first abstract piece: a heart made of hands, of all different shapes and sizes. Some of them are entwined, others are reaching to hold on to something meaningful, while still others are open or balled up in fists.

A moment later, Ben comes in. “Hey, you,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“I kind of got wrapped up in my work.”

Ben looks at it, turning the tray to the left and right to view it from different angles. “I love it,” he says, meeting my eyes.

I wrap my arms around his neck, forgetting that my fingers are muddied by clay. “Thanks.”

“And what’s it called?”

“Touch,”
I whisper, aching to feel his hands on me.

Ben kisses me, sliding his hands down my back, beneath the hem of my T-shirt and then over my hips, either reading my mind or simply aching to feel me, too.

I kiss him more deeply, feeling him almost pull away.
Don’t stop
, I scream inside my head, pushing him down into a seat. I sit down on top of him and press my forehead against his, feeling perspiration mixed with clay.

“So, I take it you’re happy to see me.” He smirks.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Good. At least I finally know where I stand with you.”

“Because I’m so hard to read, especially for a mind reader.”

“Can you read
my
mind right now?” He’s staring straight into my eyes.

“I hope so,” I say. My heart beats fast.

He continues to look into my eyes as he kisses me again, pulling me closer to him. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.” I place my hand over his chameleon tattoo, knowing that we’re meant to be together. “For always.”