Beautiful Musician Page 7

  “Why did that make a difference?”

  “I don’t know. But Jack had his theory, of course. He said that I couldn’t slip off to the other dimension with the foster care system watching me so closely, so I had to stay grounded to this world.”

  This world. That world. As fearful as I was that I was losing my mind, that he was too damned close to my creation, I couldn’t get up and walk away. I kept questioning him, anxious to hear his answers. “How did you feel about being in foster care?”

  “I hated it, and I wanted to go back to Jack.”

  “Weren’t you afraid of living with a delusional man? Of him regarding you as his adoptive son?”

  “As delusional as he was, he wasn’t dangerous or violent. He treated me with love and kindness. He gave me a sense of belonging that foster care never did. And he encouraged my artwork. I used to graffiti when we were on the streets.”

  The parallels continued, right along with my crazy fear. “Are you an artist now? Is that how you make your living?”

  He shook his head, surprising me with his answer.

  I double-checked his response. “You’re not an artist?”

  “Yes, I am. But that isn’t how I make my living. I’m a freelance locksmith. I know, and with the name Lock.” He shrugged, laughed a little. “I get ribbed about that a lot.”

  A locksmith named Lock. If this was a hallucination, why had I created that identity for him?

  “I actually have my first art show coming up,” he said.

  I blinked, grappling to break free of the locks. “You do?”

  “It’s in a few weeks, if you’d like to go. It’s at a gallery a friend of mine owns.”

  A showing. At a gallery. By an owner-friend. How could he be a product of my imagination if he had a life outside my mind? “I’d very much like to go.” To see his work. To talk to his peers. “Can I bring my aunt with me?” If Carol met him, then I would know, without a doubt, that my sanity was intact.

  “Sure. That would be great.”

  It was beyond great. He had to be real. He absolutely had to be. “Then we’ll both come.”

  “Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll write down the information for you.”

  I dug through my purse and found a pen, but no paper. He got up and grabbed a napkin to write on.

  He gave it to me afterward, and I noticed how striking his penmanship was. Most guys scribbled, but not this one. His script looked like a natural form of calligraphy.

  “What’s your artwork like?” I asked. “Can I see any of it online?”

  “Not yet. Not until after the show. But it has a street vibe, like the graffiti art I did when I was a kid. I’m a fantasy artist, too. Mostly I just paint whatever feels right. I did a self-portrait that depicts my unknown identity. It’s a nude. To me, that’s the purest form of self-expression.”

  I merely nodded, wondering, shamefully, what he looked like without his clothes. Then I caved in to curiosity and asked, “Is it going to be at the show?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. Do you think I should include it?”

  Feeling like the virgin I was, I fussed with my coffee, peeling bits of plastic off the rim of the lid. “That’s up to you.”

  Silence drifted between us, intensifying the moment. I waited it out, hoping he changed the subject.

  He said, “I did a portrait of Jack that I’m definitely going to include. I painted him from memory, the way I remember him most, with his chipped smile and a frayed beanie pulled down low on his head.”

  “How did he become homeless?”

  “He didn’t have any family left and he was too mixed up to hold down a job or make it in mainstream society. The only place that made any sense to him was being on the streets.”

  “How long ago did he die?”

  “It’s been three years.”

  I did the math. “When you were seventeen.”

  He nodded, his voice brimming with emotion. “I was still in foster care and missing the life I had with him. I used to get on a bus and go downtown and see him whenever I could. Then on one of those visits, I couldn’t find him anywhere. Finally, I went into the shelter where he sometimes stayed and learned that he’d had a heart attack and was gone. It happened the night before I got there. I was one day late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It helps to talk about it. That’s why I joined the support group. I wanted to connect with people who understand what it’s like to love someone like Jack.”

  Someone like Jack. Someone like Abby. “I understand.”

  His gaze sought mine. “I can tell that you do, and I appreciate you listening to my story.”

  What would he say if I told him about the warrior? Would he think it was a twisted coincidence? Or would he think it was some sort of beautiful fate? I was still trying to get a handle on it myself.

  “Thanks for being here, Vanessa.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Tenderness swirled between us, soft and slow, pooling low in my stomach. Suddenly I wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to feel his body pressed close to mine.

  He was looking at me as if he wanted to do the same thing. The attraction we’d dismissed earlier was clear and present now. But it was awkward, too.

  Not knowing how to handle it, I said, “I should probably get going so I don’t hit traffic.” It wasn’t anywhere near rush hour, but it was the best I could do.

  He frowned, and I assumed that he didn’t want me to leave. But he said, “I’ll walk you out.”

  We disposed of our cups and went outside. I noticed that his tattoos shined in the sun, the abstract lines appearing darker. Everything about him seemed more pronounced.

  I gestured to my hybrid, letting him know which car was mine. Then we both fell silent. I just stood there, and he shifted his stance. Should I lean forward and try to initiate a hug? As much as I wanted to, I didn’t have the guts to be that bold. He seemed to debating if he should break the barrier and go for it, but he kept a proper distance instead.

  Staring at each other in boy-girl torture, we said goodbye and promised to meet up at the gallery. I got in my car, and he stayed on the sidewalk, watching me pull away from the curb.

  Already I couldn’t wait to see him again, to hear his voice, to look into those deep brown eyes.

  While absorbed in vivid thoughts, I merged onto the freeway. An hour later, I pulled into my driveway and entered the house, still thinking about Duncan.

  I fixed a sandwich and picked dreamily at my food. I added ice to my apple juice and sipped slowly, letting the cool, sweet beverage slide down my throat.

  Then, finally, I gave up the fight and got into bed under the guise of taking a nap. Reaching for my pillow, I fantasized about Duncan, wishing that he was next to me, steeped in his purest form of self-expression.

  Strong and gorgeous and naked.

  Chapter Two

  I spent the next two days consumed with romantic thoughts of Duncan, touching myself in secret places and whispering his name. But I couldn’t indulge in those sweet, hungry feelings today. I was on my way to see Abby.

  Should I tell my sister about him?

  No, I shouldn’t. Because if I did, she would insist that he was the warrior, and I would have to debate otherwise.

  Convincing my delusional sibling that he was just some random guy I’d met online would be next to impossible, especially with his similarities to the warrior. I couldn’t explain it. Heck, I couldn’t understand it myself. But it didn’t matter. I was just grateful that he was a real person with a real life. I’d already asked Carol if she wanted to attend his art show, and my aunt seemed thrilled at the invitation.

  Clearing my mind, I walked onto the grounds of The Manor and headed toward the garden, where Abby would be waiting for me. The garden was available on visiting days, with wrought-iron benches beneath big shady trees. Of course there would be a staff member nearby. There was always someone within eye-range.

  The mission of T
he Manor was to help the residents grow and change, providing the tools they needed to return to society and live productive lives. The program included things like mood management, social skills, and cognitive behavior therapy, along with cooking classes and other group activities. Once the basics were tackled, job interests and education were explored. The average stay was six to eight months, but some people required longer care. It was impossible to know how long Abby would be here.

  I noticed her sitting off by herself. She preferred the company of her make-believe people to the other residents.

  “Hey, sis,” I said, and sat next to her. Abby appeared fresh and clean, her short blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. At least she’d gotten the concept of bathing regularly since she’d moved into The Manor. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before our conversation turned stagnant, I glanced at the flowers. African lilies decorated the walkways, and combinations of annuals and perennials, like lavender, poppies, and hibiscus, made a colorful presentation. “It’s always so pretty in the garden.”

  “I like it.”

  “It’s good that you’re living at The Manor for now.”

  “It’s okay. It’s better than Carol always peering at me from beneath her lashes. She can’t be trusted.”

  It was useless to argue with Abby’s paranoia, especially when Aunt Carol was the subject of it, but I couldn’t stand for Carol to seem like a villain. “She’s always taken good care of us. And she loves you, Abby.”

  “She still can’t be trusted.”

  I sighed. “I think she can.”

  “She doesn’t watch you the way she watches me.”

  “She’s protective of both of us.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  That was true. But I didn’t have Abby’s illness, thank heavens. At least now I knew that I was sane. Funny, how meeting someone who resembled the warrior had helped me tackle my fears.

  “Guess who’s here?” Abby said.

  Obviously it was one of her people: Bud, Face, Dingo, or Smiling Seven. “I can’t begin to guess.” Any of them could have showed up. “Why don’t you tell me who it is?”

  “It’s Seven. Do you want me to tell him hello from you?”

  “You can tell him whatever you want.” Smiling Seven was inspired by Nikki Sixx, the bass player for Mötley Crüe, and the very first character Abby had ever created. When she was little she used to sit on Mom’s lap and watch their videos. Then, a few years after our parents died, Smiling Seven began to appear.

  But he wasn’t an adult then. He was young, just a couple of years older than Abby was at the time. He loved rock and roll, and wanted to grow up to be a musician, so whenever he appeared, they would spend countless hours listening to music and dancing around her room.

  But there was more to him than met the eye. Right from the start, Abby claimed that he “knew” things that other people didn’t know. According to my sister, he had psychic abilities and had earned the name Smiling Seven because he had a secret smile that boosted his power.

  Nowadays, she described him as tall and lean and dangerously handsome, with messy brown hair and a boatload of tattoos. He’d become a musician, of course, and was working on his career.

  I often worried about his influence on her. I suspected that she’d always had a bit of a crush on him, and he was just too wild for a girl like Abby. I wished that she hadn’t created him, but I didn’t have any control over her delusions.

  She gestured to the empty space in front of her, where I assumed our visitor was standing, lording over the garden like the hot commodity he supposedly was. “Seven thinks that being at the loony bin is fun.”

  “You shouldn’t call this place that.”

  Abby waggled her fingers, waving at her hallucination. She and Seven were always waving at each other. “I didn’t call it that. He did.” She paused as if she were listening to him speak his clairvoyant rhetoric. “He’s trying to get a reading on you. He thinks something is up.”

  I squinted into the sun, where Seven was supposed to be. He was notorious for threatening to reveal what he knew, which never turned out to be anything. “There’s nothing to read.” Nothing except my meeting with Duncan, and I wasn’t going to let on about that.

  “I’ll bet there is.” Abby stared straight at me. “You seem different.”

  I was different. Better. Calmer. “Everything is fine.”

  “Seven doesn’t believe you.”

  “Seven isn’t real.”

  Abby got frustrated, as she often did, flailing her arms around, the tree above her looming like a woodsy ghost. “He’s as real as the warrior. Seven says so.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. It almost seemed as if Seven had just gotten a reading on my experience with Duncan. But that was impossible. The rocker wasn’t standing off to the side, morphing into a genuine psychic.

  “What do you think his name is?” Abby asked.

  “What? Who?”

  “The warrior. He has to have another name when he’s here. People in this world have regular names.”

  “I have no idea what he’s called.” Nor did I want to continue this conversation. “Can we please talk about something else?”

  “You’re acting weird.”

  Look who was calling the kettle black. A schizoid who didn’t know reality from a hole in her head. “You’re always weird, so we’re even.”

  “When the warrior shows up, he’s going to prove that everything I said about Room 105 is true.”

  “He isn’t going to show up.” Duncan was already here, but he wasn’t the warrior.

  “Do you think that’s why he hasn’t appeared yet? Because we never gave him a regular name? Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for.”

  I didn’t reply, hoping that if she remained quiet, this discussion would go away.

  No such luck. Abby persisted. But she was always relentless in her pursuits. “Seven thinks we should do it now.”

  “I’m not helping you give him a name.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself. Let me have your phone so I can get on the Internet.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want any part in this.

  “Give it to me or I’ll throw a fit and make everyone else stare at us. Then I’ll tell them how mean you are.”

  “Fine.” I removed my phone from my purse and handed it to her. I wasn’t in the mood for one of my sister’s tantrums. Besides, what difference would a fake name make?

  Abby got online and dallied around, taking her time, scrolling from site to site.

  I coaxed her to hurry things along. “Come on, sweetie. Just pick one and be done with it.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up.”

  “By calling you sweetie?” I often used endearments for her. I leaned sideways, gently bumping shoulders. I didn’t like it when we fought. “I said that because I love you.” I gave another little nudge. “Even if you’re a pain in the rear.”

  My sister laughed and the tension between us faded. We sat in companionable silence, with Abby making her slowpoke search.

  Then she said, “I’m trying to find a name that means warrior. How about Boris? No, that sounds too harsh. Oh, here’s another one. Evan. No, wait. That means young warrior, and our warrior isn’t a boy anymore. Oooh. This one is perfect. Duncan.”

  I flinched, my pulse jumping, my breath catching. How could Abby have stumbled upon that name? How was that possible?

  My sister smiled, as bright as the summer sun. “It means dark-skinned warrior. That’s part of why they call him the dark warrior in Room 105. That and his big black horse. Remember?”

  Yes, I remembered. I’d created those details. As far as I knew, there wasn’t a horse to speak of, but there was definitely a dark-skinned man known as Duncan.

  Confused, I clutched the arm of the bench. I couldn’t handle any more coincidences. There were just too many of them.

  Making me feel as if I was going crazy again.
/>
  ***

  On the day of Duncan’s art show, I was still reeling from the meaning behind his name and the manner in which Abby had chosen it. All I could think was that it was Smiling Seven’s fault and that he’d interfered somehow, even if I knew better.

  “Slow down or you’re going to cause an accident,” Carol said, grabbing my attention.

  I glanced over at my aunt who sat nervously beside me. Carol was always bug-eyed on road trips. Of course I was anxious, too. We were on the freeway, en route to the show.

  Easing up on the gas pedal, I said, “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be a lead foot.”

  “I just want us to be safe.”

  “I know.” Carol was our dad’s older sister, and she still had nightmares about how he’d lost control and flipped his car, sending it into an embankment. I tried not to dwell on the crash that took our parents’ lives, but Carol’s antsy behavior sometimes put it in the forefront. She was even more nervous behind the wheel than as a passenger. Since the accident, she’d stopped driving freeways.

  I was grateful that I didn’t share her panic. I had enough problems of my own.

  We rode quietly, then Carol said, “I meant to tell you how pretty you look tonight. You always take such special care with yourself. It makes me proud.”

  “Thank you. You look pretty, too.” She was wearing a tweed suit from the early House of Chanel, embellished with a strand of pearls. I had gone retro, as well, donning a brightly-colored 70s halter dress. Both of our outfits had come from the consignment store.

  Carol fussed with her hair. She’d styled it in a poufy bob, reminiscent of the old Jackie Kennedy ‘do. “I considered wearing a pillbox hat, but then I thought it might be too much.”

  “You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “I’m not the artsy sort.”

  “Yes, you are. Thrifting is all the rage, and you own the best vintage store in the state.” Not only did we carry sought-after clothes, we stocked tons of shabby chic furnishings.