Complementary Colors (31 page)

“No. I’m good. I am. I swear. Oh God, please don’t let me puke or piss myself.” I shook my head. “I did that once. Don’t ever piss yourself, Roy. It chafes.” I grabbed his arm because I was sure I would faint.

“Breathe. Just breathe.”

“Easier said than done.” I clung to him. “I think my balls are in the way.”

“C’mon.” He tried to turn me around.

“No. I have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What if it’s a test? What if I don’t go and they lock me up? I can’t get locked up again. I can’t. I’ll lose what little is left of my fucking mind.”

“This isn’t a test.”

“You don’t know how these psychiatrists think. They aren’t normal. Hell, I don’t even think they’re human.”

“I hate seeing you like this.”

“This is nothing. Wait till the puking and pissing starts. I’ve already told you about that. Shit. I did. I forgot. Holy Christ on a popsicle stick, I can’t shut up. Make me shut up, Roy, before the wrong thing falls out of my mouth.”

I didn’t expect him to kiss me. Right there in front of doctors, nurses, orderlies, and stoned out druggies sweating ten pounds of toxins a day.

The warmth of Roy’s lips, the wet of his tongue, the softness of his touch on my cheeks while he cupped my face, it made everything disappear, if only for a second or two. The whole world ceased to exist.

He pulled away.

“I’m okay,” I said.

He kissed me on the forehead.

“The mouth, Roy. The mouth. Kiss me on the forehead, and I’ll cry.”

He chuckled.

“Right. Twenty feet. I can walk twenty feet.” I gripped his arm so tight there was no way I wouldn’t leave bruises. “C’mon, Roy. Don’t be a chicken shit.”

Roy stayed by my side one painful step after another.

Dr. Carmichael’s office had three large chairs and a love seat. He sat at a desk facing the wall and clutching a red ball in one hand.

Books lined the shelf in the back, and a variety of colorful trick toys cluttered his workspace. On the end table next to the love seat, there was a top hat with a stuffed white rabbit peeking over the edge.

I laughed, and I kept laughing. Even when I covered my mouth, I couldn’t stop. Dr. Carmichael waved us in, and Roy led me to the couch. The rabbit watched me with glass button eyes, and the last of my laughter died out. I turned the hat upside down so I wouldn’t have to look at it.

“Mr. Duvoe.” Doctor Carmichael held out his hand.

“Just Paris.”

“And Roy, good to see you again.” Roy shook the doctor’s hand, and it was like watching a boa swallow a mouse.

The doctor looked at me. “Would you feel more comfortable talking to me alone, or would you rather your friend stay?”

“Stay.” I nodded. “Definitely stay.”

Dr. Carmichael motioned for Roy to sit beside me.

“I wanted to thank you for trusting me enough to see me.”

I clutched Roy’s thigh with my un-IV’d hand. “I don’t mean to sound…no. I mean it. I do. The only reason I’m here is because of Roy. Thank him. Not me.” I plucked at the hair on the back of my head. Roy made me stop by holding my hand.

Dr. Carmichael tossed the ball from one hand to the next. “I supposed you’re feeling better after a few days rest?”

“Yeah. I think.” I looked at Roy. “Am I?” He patted my hand. “Yeah, good. Great.”

Carmichael stopped throwing the ball and propped his elbows on his knees. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to start with a few questions. Are you up for that?”

“Sure. I mean no.” I rubbed my forehead. “I’m sorry. I just…” I rubbed my palm against the arm of the sofa.

“It’s normal to be nervous.”

I nodded.

“Just take your time.”

I nodded again. Doctor Carmichael watched me, Roy watched me, the fucking toys in the room watched me. The rabbit in the hat didn’t, but only because I’d turned it upside down.

“Go ahead. Ask your questions.”

His chair squeaked as he sat up. “How many times a week would you say you use drugs?”

“I can’t count that high.”

“Try.”

“Sometimes once a day, twice a day, five times. Fuck…”

“Is it just the heroin?”

“What? No. No. I only use that once or twice a year.”

“A year?”

“Not my thing.”

“Then why did you use it the other night?”

“It was there. I didn’t want to be. I figured I might as well not remember it.”

He squeezed the ball, and it collapsed in his hand only to spring back out when he relaxed his grip. “Would you like to try it?”

“What?”

He held out the ball. “Helps with stress.”

“How?”

“Gives your hands something to do.”

I stopped rubbing the arm of the sofa and took the ball. The rubbery foam squished between my fingers. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right.” I squeezed it again.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t feel any different.” I tried to hand it back.

“Hang on to it for a little while.”

I didn’t know what good it would do.

“You said you didn’t want to be there. Where was it you didn’t want to be?”

“With him. Dan Brunswick. The guy who bought my painting.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“I couldn’t. I mean…” I squeezed the ball hard enough to turn my knuckles bone white, and bits of red rubber pushed between the cracks of my fingers. “Julia told me to go home with him.”

“Does she make you go with people a lot?”

“No. I usually take them home with me.” I laughed. No one else did. I squeezed the ball. I couldn’t stop squeezing it.

“Tell me about Julia.”

“She’s a bitch. The end.”

He picked up a cube with multicolored squares on each side and twisted the sections up and down. There was a soft tick-tick as the mixed colors separated and the like colors gathered on opposing sides.

“Do you have any other family?”

“Alice. She’s my other sister.”

“What’s she like?” Red, blue, green, white, yellow. The colors replaced him, the room, and Roy.

“She’s fragile.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I broke her. Now she doesn’t work very well.”

“Do you care to explain?”

Explain what? How she’d been so destroyed by her father dying she didn’t even cry? When she finally did cry, she didn’t stop? Then there was the silence. Weeks of silence. She’d stare at me, watch me. Not in the same way her father did but with tremendous sadness. As if I’d torn open her chest and ripped out her soul.

“Next question. I don’t like that one.”

“How about we talk about your paintings?”

“Anything you want to know about those, you can read in an art magazine. Or watch that interview.” I snapped my fingers. “What’s his name? Rock. Allen Rock. Does he look as much like a Cheeto on TV as he does in real life? Someone should tell him to stop using spray paint and get a tanning bed.”

“Sorry, I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing his program.”

“Very prestigious. He’s interviewed vice presidents and has the best sounding chairs ever.” I slapped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling.”

“It’s quite all right.” Dr. Carmichael continued to twist the cube. “Will you tell me about your paintings?”

“What’s to tell?”

“How do they make you feel?”

Round and round, colored squares went.

“Paris?” Carmichael leaned forward. “How does painting make you feel?” Green. Click.

Like the heavens were folding up, the sky was tearing apart, and the blood of every lost life stained my hands. “I hate them.” I said.

“Why?” White. Click, click.

“They’re terrible.”

“The art community seems to think you’re quite good.” Red. Click, click, click. “I’ve seen your work myself, and I have to agree with them.” Blue. Click, click, click, click, click.

“That’s because they can’t see.” I met his gaze. “You can’t see.”

“Can’t see what?”

“The truth.”

Yellow. Carmichael put the cube on his desk, and everything returned. “What do you mean by the truth?”

I opened my mouth. “
You breathe one word, Paris, one word.”
I closed it.

“Paris?”

“I’ll make sure you rot in there. I’ll make sure you never get out.”

“Paris?”

“This is all your fault. You did this. If you hadn’t been here, none of it would have ever happened. You ruined it. All of it. You’re nothing but a filthy boy.”

“What are you thinking about right now?”

My arm trembled, and the tendons in my wrist stood out. There was nothing left of the ball in my hand. I forced my fingers open, and it reappeared, whole and unscathed. “Can you ask a different question? I don’t think I want to answer that one either.”

Every word fell flat.

“Sure.” Dr. Carmichael picked up a pen lying next to a set of chattering teeth on his desk and scribbled on a notepad. “Do you ever hear voices?”

“Pick it up, Paris. Now.”

“It’s too heavy.”

“Quit whining and pick up the tarp
.”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you see things?”

A withered leaf tumbled across the floor.

“Paris, do you see things?”

“Yes.”

I wasn’t sure if he heard me until he said, “What kind of things do you see?”

“Colors.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lines of color, sprinkles, streaks, splatters, shapes.”

“When do you see them?”

“All the time.”

“Is there any particular time you see them more often?”

“When people talk.”

“Are colors the only thing you see?”

Three more leaves followed the first.

“Paris?”

“Yes.”

A wrinkle appeared over the doctor’s eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes. I waited for him to keep prying, but instead he said, “Roy said you’ve spent some time in a hospital before.”

“Yeah. I have.”

“Do you remember who you saw?”

“Dr. Harold Mason.”

“Do you still see him?”

“Sometimes.”

“Has he talked with you about medication?”

I pressed the squishy ball against my temple. “Yes.”

“Are you taking any now?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what and how much?”

“Pink round ones when I’m tired. White ovals when everything is moving too fast.”

“You don’t remember the names?”

“He never tells me.”

“What’s written on the labels?”

“There aren’t any.”

The clock on the wall counted off the seconds.

Dr. Carmichael put the pen down and picked up the cube again. He switched it from one hand to the next like he’d done the ball.

“Dr. Howell thinks you might benefit by staying with me for a while. I want to know what you think.”

“I have a doctor.”

“Do you think he has your best interests at heart, or your sister’s?” His eyes said he already knew the answer.

“Julia will never allow it.”

“What if it was no longer her choice to make?” Something must have shown in my face because he smiled. “Would you be open to staying with me then?”

For the first time, I’d been given a door out of the darkness, and I was terrified to look on the other side. Until I remembered Roy held my hand, he would stay with me, and he cared.

“Yes,” I said.

Roy gave me a cautious smile.

“But what’s the catch?” There always was one.

“You have to stay here with me for a minimum of thirty days. Then, if you’re ready, you can leave. After that, you will come to see me twice a week. You must stay on the medication I give you, and there will be no alcohol or drugs. You will be tested every time you step through my door. You fail, and you will wind up back at square one, which means another thirty days.”

“I can do that. I can. I think I can do that.”

For Roy, I would. Or die trying.

“I’m sorry.” Roy put the pair of jeans he held in the duffle bag.

“Quit saying that. You have to go home sometime. You have a job, an apartment.”
Please God, don’t leave me here by myself.
I chewed my thumbnail until the quick bled.

Roy walked over and shielded me in his arms. “I’ll come back.”

I nodded. “You shouldn’t. You’re too good. You deserve good things.” And I was anything but. “You should find yourself a cute little twink or maybe a bear. You’d go good with a bear.” I laughed. “Settle down. Adopt some kids. Buy a dog.”

“I’m coming back.”

“Thirty days. Thirty days is a long time. Lots could happen. You could meet the twink or a bear.”

“Paris.”

“You could win the lottery.”

“I don’t play it.”

“You should play it and get rich.” I clung to Roy like some scared kid.

“I couldn’t forget about you in thirty years, let alone thirty days.” He kissed the top of my head.

“I’m a fucking mess, Roy. You don’t deserve a fucking mess.”

“Paris.”

“Don’t come back.” A punch to the balls would have hurt less than saying that.

“I will.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to. Maybe I’m done.”

Roy pulled my chin up and covered my mouth with his. I welcomed the invasion of his tongue and swallowed the growl he made.

He pressed his lips against mine until it hurt.

I hooked a leg around his hip and climbed up his body. He squeezed my ass with his powerful hands.

I broke the kiss to suck the soft spot near his pulse. Roy pushed my head back and attacked my neck.

With every rock of my hips, my cock ground against his stomach. Roy carried me across the room and pinned me against the wall.

“Paris.” His voice, my name, his touch. I should have burst into flames.

“Want you.” I clawed at his shirt, but it was trapped between us. “Please.”

“I’m here.” Roy pushed the hospital gown up and slid his hands over my skin.

“I need you inside me. I need to feel you.”

“We can’t.”

“Yes.”

“People.”

“Don’t care.” The door was closed, the room was private, and to be honest, I didn’t give a shit who saw us. I bit his ear.

“Fuck.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

I latched onto his first two fingers and sucked them down my throat. If he wasn’t going to do what I wanted, then I was going to make sure he knew what he was missing out on.