I knew Dr Wilson was ready for me because there were two full boxes of tissues on the table. I was almost inclined to reach for a couple just in case, but I didn’t think I would be crying that day.
“How are you today, Peyton?” Dr Wilson asked. His grey eyes were still magical.
“I’m OK. How are you?”
“I’m very good, thank you.”
I wanted him to read me something, anything, just so I could hear his voice instead of mine. But this hour was mine.
“So the boy I met shared something really personal with me the other day and now it makes me feel like I should share something with him … I want to. At least I think I do … I mean, I already have. I told him about these therapy sessions, even though I’m embarrassed about them. I know I shouldn’t be though. I was worried he would like me less. But we’re still hanging out.” I pulled at my sleeve. Rolled my lips. “There’s something I could share with him and sometimes I think maybe I should. He knows I’m into art and he’s said he wants to see some of my work. But I haven’t got around to showing him anything. I kind of keep dodging that subject, because part of me is still unsure.”
I could tell Dr Wilson was about to speak. But words escaped my mouth. “Sometimes I think it’s best if I show him my art. You see, words are his thing. And I know he knows drawing and painting is mine, but sometimes I believe he might think a picture isn’t enough, especially after what he just shared with me … Or, if I tell him about that certain moment, then we won’t be the same. And I don’t want him to look at me differently. I don’t know if I could handle that. Not from him … I’m trying to believe that he won’t judge me, but I don’t want to take that chance and then never see him again. I think if I tell him what happened, he won’t want to get to know me more or be with me.”
“What happened to you before, Peyton, when you were …”
“I don’t want you to say the word.”
“Sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know you said you don’t want to relive the experience and that you want to forget. But what I wanted to ask was if you had remembered anything more?”
“There are some things I remember …”
“Would you feel comfortable telling me? Maybe if you tell me it might be easier to tell this boy. Or show him that artwork.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t like Dr Wilson. It was just a risk I was still unprepared to take. When I thought about what had happened to me for too long, I would feel like I was drowning. I knew the sessions were confidential and he hadn’t told anyone about my past. But I had to latch onto an idea to convince myself not to share more details with him. I knew if I told Kai he’d keep my secret. He promised he would. But there was also the chance he’d never want to look at me again. Maybe the day of me not seeing his beautiful eyes was coming much faster than I expected.
“I don’t know if I can tell you. I mean, I know I can but …”
“But you’re not ready.”
“No.”
“And that’s fine, Peyton. Talking about your true feelings is a difficult thing. And when you’re ready to talk, I’m right here.”
Would I ever be ready to talk?
The next few days I was at home. Lonely. Before the accident I would just spend the day in my Art Cave and create. I’d play music and stare at the empty pages and canvases, wondering what I would ink upon them. The music would enter my ears and spread through my veins, directing me towards a chromatic creation. I’d gently tip the page or canvas so the watercolours would bead. My fascination always lay with people. Their faces, profiles, smiles and eyes. I wanted to know what they were hiding. I loved intertwining the flow of the paint to create a story in their hair. Layer their eyes, blending my own thoughts, feelings and stories into the piece. The genre I played usually had an impact on the outcome – the colours I’d used, the strength of the lines, the secret I’d conceal – and I liked that. But since I hadn’t even stepped inside my Art Cave, I was bound to my room, the lounge and the kitchen. I didn’t want to spend more time in my room than I had to, because that was the place where I had the nightmares about my past. The darkness I was trying to keep hidden from Mum, Liam. Everyone.
Recently Kai hadn’t been round much. He’d been given extra shifts and took them to help fill his bank account. Things grew grey when he wasn’t with me, and I found myself trying to keep things dark. Every time I tried to see a colour, it felt forced. For some reason Kai was the only one who could make me believe that the colours I saw were genuine. Valid.
He and I spent the days texting. I enjoyed seeing his name displayed on my screen.
Kai: Done any drawing?
Me: No.
Kai: Do u plan to anytime soon?
Me: I’m not sure.
Kai: Well please remember I’m first in line for the substitute of Liam. I don’t see anyone else fighting for that title … Is there anyone else?
Me: No.
The next morning, for some strange reason I grabbed my iPod and made my way to the lounge. The battery had almost run out. I smiled as I scrolled through the list of songs, thinking back to the simple notion of when I could play a tune and it echoed my mood. I remembered when I allowed myself to feel. When I’d soak in colours like a sponge and seek out inspiration. Now I wouldn’t even crack open an art book or set foot in my Art Cave, and I pushed my feelings aside. But they crept to the surface. Deep down I knew I couldn’t keep this fight up forever. This battle was hanging over me like a noose.
My finger hovered over a song. A three-and-a-half-minute memory that once had held the power to soothe me. I knew I could let it do that again. Suddenly, my phone beeped.
Kai: Why haven’t u been to the coffee shop lately? Lost the use of ur legs?
Me: No. I just haven’t been there.
Me: Are u at work now?
Kai: Yeah. Meet me at our picnic table in 30 mins. I’ll bring the hot chocolates with marshmallows.
Me: I’ll bring the blanket.
On his lunch break, we sat at our picnic table and spoke about whatever we wanted. Just normal things, like the weather and what our days were like in a general sense.
We spoke a little more about his past, his childhood and some of his fonder memories. It wasn’t hard to imagine Kai when he was younger, and how he took sheets from a cupboard and flung them on the grass and over a tree branch to create a tent and then he’d get lost in his own world. A place where he was always content with his pure imagination.
Later that day I was helping Mum prepare dinner. I wasn’t hungry, but for some reason I found myself wishing that the deep breaths I was committedly drawing – taking in the sizzling vegetables and the Teriyaki sauce – would make my stomach rumble and Mum would hear it and then that could be used as more proof that I was OK.
I found myself disappointed. My stomach rumbles were only whispers. It was like my body was betraying me. Maybe because deep down I knew the rumbling of my stomach was no way to convince Mum I was all right.
Mum seemed to be more herself around me these past few days. Telling me about her driving stories after she got home from a long day at work – all of which included her driver’s-tongue cuss words. We watched TV and the anxiousness I would feel about not knowing when she was going to ask me about my accident seemed to minimise. She hadn’t asked me about it in a little while. But I still felt my guard was up.
As Mum tossed the noodles in the wok, my phone beeped. I stepped to the counter where it was and read the message.
Kai: I see green and gold. White, grey and black. Shapes take a hold and the sounds attack. I see pink and purple and all things blue. But nothing compares when I look at you.
I didn’t know if it was an original poem. But it felt like him. It sounded like him. I didn’t know to respond to such sweet words so I left it alone for a little while.
Later that night I decided to try and write my own little poem.
Me: Roses are red. Violets are blue. I really am lucky to have found someone like you.