Flashed Page 7

  PAT

  “What’s changed in your routine?” Kayli asks, her voice is bright and there’s curiosity in the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. She hangs her stethoscope back around her neck.

  We’re in the room that was meant to be my office, adjacent to my bedroom. There’s a desk and a swivel chair that still smells like it came out of the box. She takes a seat on the chair while I tug my shirt back on.

  She’s got a practice in Big Sky, and I trust her enough to let her see me, but thankfully she’ll make the trip to my house instead. My older brother went to school with her sister, so there’s family history there, even if it’s ancient. Still, I remember a time when she used to run in our yard with arm floaties, so I feel a little weird referring to her as Doctor Maffei.

  She clicks off her tiny silver flashlight and pockets it, knitting thick brown eyebrows while she waits for an answer.

  “I do the same thing every day that I’ve done in the last six months.”

  She smirks like she’s used to patients withholding truths from her. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not true?”

  “It’s part of the truth,” I mutter.

  “Patrick,” she says. Just my name, like that’s enough to get me to be the sort of man that’s rational. None of this is rational. Not the way I live and not the way I’ve been feeling, like there’s something lodged in my chest, like there’s still a chunk of glass they never fished out right beneath my skin.

  “My diet’s different,” I say.

  Kayli tents her fingers like a villain in a spy movie. “I’m glad your sodium intake will decrease.”

  “Not the way Lena’s been cooking.”

  “Lena?”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t play cute. I’m sure Scarlett has already filled you in on what she’s done here.”

  “Actually, I haven’t spoken to Scarlett since she went into her ‘writing cave.’ ” Kayli uses air quotes for the last couple of words. “Why do writers call their offices that? I mean, imagine if doctors did that? Be right back, I’m going into my surgery cave. Doesn’t have the same ring. Anyway, go on.”

  “Is that what you think about?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair. The scar tissue on my scalp is becoming more and more familiar to me as my locks get longer. I let out a slow breath. “Scarlett hired a housekeeper for the summer.”

  Kayli does that doctor thing, where she cocks her head but makes no facial expression. “What’s she like?”

  “She’s loud and talks too much. Doesn’t listen. She broke the first rule of the job the minute she got here.”

  “Is this like Fight Club?”

  “Kayli—”

  “How’s the food?”

  “It’s good. Really good.”

  “I’m not understanding, Pat. Everything sounds normal. Your house is spotless, though it always was when Scarlett was the one doing things. Why did you call me? Your checkup isn’t for another two weeks.”

  I bury my face in my hands and let out an exasperated sigh. “I just know that something is wrong.”

  “The pain in your face?”

  I nod. “What if there’s still glass under there? What if—”

  Kayli clears her throat. “What happened each time this pain occurred?”

  “I don’t know, I think—” I run my hand over my forehead, then back. I need a haircut and I can’t exactly get a barber to come see me. I let Scarlett chop my hair off once, but it looked like I’d let a kindergarten class use me for a craft project. Maybe Lena knows know to cut hair in addition to everything else she knows how to do. Lena. All of my thoughts keep going back to either her or the accident and it makes everything in my head a clusterfuck of confusion. “I was texting.”

  “With?”

  “With Lena.” I set my face into a deep frown. “It’s nothing really. Why, why are you looking at me like that?”

  Kayli gets up, her shoes make hushed sounds as she closes the space between us and takes my face into her hands. I hold on to the sides of my desk and tilt my head back.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Pat,” she says, tracing her thumb across the right side of my face where the skin is smooth and unblemished. The half of me that seems to be the only proof I have of the man I used to look like if all the other evidence was burned. “There is nothing wrong with you other than your sudden amnesia to manners. Your blood pressure is a little high but still lower than it’s been the last few months.”

  I huff into her hold. “Then what’s happening to me?”

  “Well, cheekbones tend to hurt from smiling.”

  I swat her hand away and get up. “That’s your medical, your professional opinion?”

  Kayli’s laugh is like the chime of bells and I’m glad the women in my life seem to think my misery is hilarious. “Next time it happens, really think about what’s going on. Your muscles recuperate in different ways and I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you have absolutely not smiled since the accident.”

  I hate doctors. Even Kayli, whom I’ve known practically her whole life. They have this coldness, which I don’t always think is intentional. But when she just says “the accident” like she’s saying “since the baseball game,” I feel that familiar heat at the center of my chest. I still haven’t forgotten about the panic attack I had when I tried to leave the house. I utterly failed to make it a hundred feet to my garage all because of her. Everything Lena related is bad for me, clearly.

  “If you truly think it isn’t your face learning to smile again, then I’m happy to get some X-rays done but you know what that means, don’t you?”

  I cross my arms and turn to the window. Out on the road, Scarlett’s truck is kicking up dust. They’re going to paint my house. I’m not exactly thrilled, but the more Lena’s busy, the less she’ll be in my hair.

  “I know,” I say, acknowledging that in order to get an X-ray, I have to leave the house and I can’t bring myself to tell her that it’s getting worse. That I fucking puked and crawled back inside and blacked out in the shower. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “Pat, have you thought about what I suggested last time?”

  I walk to the door and hold it open, the universal symbol for “get out.”

  “The shrink? I haven’t really . . . I don’t know.”

  “Take your time.” She pats my arm and leaves.

  Doesn’t she realize, while I’m in here, I’ve got nothing but time?

  LENA

  A gorgeous woman in a hip-length white coat is walking down the stairs when I walk in the house. She’s strikingly beautiful with a strong jaw and bright blue eyes. When she sees me, she pauses, coming down slowly. I can imagine the questions that must be forming in her head. Who are you? What are you doing here? At least, that’s what I think until she gets to the last step and approaches me with her hand extended.

  “You must be Lena,” the woman says. “I’m Doctor Maffei.”

  A dozen questions run through my mind, but the one I settle on is, “Is Patrick all right?”

  She looks over my shoulder at where Scarlett is bringing in the second box of sample paints. “Kayli! You’re not due here for another two weeks.” Her face blanks and her voice drops the excited. “What’s wrong?”

  I look back and forth between them. Kayli inhales as she smiles, settling her blue stare on me. “He’s fine, I promise. He had a few concerns, but I’ve hopefully given him peace of mind.”

  I blow a steady breath, then scoff. “Maybe that’s why he’s been extra quiet lately.”

  “There’s definitely something different,” Kayli says, arching a perfectly trim brow. “But it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Anyway, I should get going.”

  “Aw, come on,” Scarlett says, beckoning the doctor toward the kitchen. “Between my deadline and the influx of Californians coming in for dehydration treatment, I never get to see you anymore.”

  “Whatcha having?” Kayli asks curiously.

  “How do you feel
about burgers?” I ask.

  “I feel I very much love them,” the pretty doctor says.

  “Let’s go out back,” Scarlett says. “I’ll help you with the spread.”

  We get the burgers going after I take the paint swatches into the separate guest rooms. This is shaping up to be the strangest job I’ve ever had. Scarlett chops up the fixings while I dust the burger patties with Adobo and salt. My mom would have made a sofrito, but I’m not as good as she was. I take the tray of patties and Kayli helps me out with the grill. While the girls bring out local beers around the fire pit, I make a burger for Patrick, with the lettuce, tomato, and cheese on the side because I don’t know how he takes it.

  I text him.

  Me: Soup’s on.

  Patrick: I thought you were making burgers.

  Patrick: I could see you all from the window.

  Patrick: I wasn’t watching you all.

  Me: LOL. You’re welcome to join.

  Patrick types and stops. Types and stops. I shake my head and pocket my phone. What is up with this man? I shouldn’t keep thinking about it, but the more I see glimpses of his life and the people in it, the less I understand what’s happening.

  It’s not your business, I think to myself. Do the work. Get paid. Move on. Go see your sister.

  I check my phone and he still hasn’t replied.

  When I step outside, I look up, but the windows of his bedroom are dark. Even though I can’t be sure that he’s looking at us right now, I wave.

  I take a seat around the fire, which Scarlett has already gotten started. Kayli has swapped her jacket for a wine-colored Grizzlies hoodie.

  “So, Lena,” Kayli says, balancing a paper plate on her lap. She doesn’t seem concerned that she might get her jeans dirty with ketchup. “Scarlett says you’re studying over at Bozeman. You a Bobcat yet?”

  I laugh. “I suppose I have to be, right? The colleges in New York don’t have a strong rivalry, so I never used to think about it.”

  “Rivalry only about half covers it,” Scarlett says, twisting the cap off a Moose Drool beer. “I’ve seen couples divorce over lost games.”

  “That’s why I’m not married,” Kayli says.

  “Cheers to that,” Scarlett answers, and the women kiss the tips of their beers together.

  “Didn’t you just spend the last two weeks writing a book about true love?” I ask.

  Scarlett nods vigorously and waits to chew her food before answering. A bolt of sadness crosses her brow, and I know whatever she’s going to say next is going to be deeply personal.

  “I believe in true love,” Scarlett says softly, touching her bare ring finger with her thumb. The day I met her it was still there. She sees me notice. “I finally got rid of it. The ring, I mean. I had a hard time over it. You know, I always believed that when it’s right, so right that vows and words mean something, love is the best thing a person can have in their lives. But when it’s wrong, well, I haven’t felt that kind of hurt over anything else.”

  “I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I didn’t know,” I say, and she brushes my comment away with her good-natured smile.

  “We were together since we were fifteen. High school sweethearts and all that. That’s twenty-three years together. Didn’t seem to matter, in the end. I couldn’t have kids but his secretary could.” She makes a raspberry with her lips. “Even I couldn’t write that cliché. So, I started writing about happily-ever-afters because I couldn’t have one. It gives me a little bit of hope that there are still good men out there even though you have to wade through garbage-fires first.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ve never been good at relationships. When I was in high school, I broke up with my first boyfriend after a week. He cried. Then I dated another guy. I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t seem to connect and so I broke up with him. The third one called me a cold-hearted robot. That one stuck. Robot Girl was my nickname until I graduated.”

  Kayli makes a guttural sound of disapproval. “I grew up with the Donatello boys. Every girl was in love with them. Jack Donatello was my prom date.”

  “Really?” I ask, curling up on the Adirondack chair with my beer in hand. “Does everyone around here know each other?”

  “No,” Kayli and Scarlett say at the same time.

  “Anyway,” Kayli says. “Jack and I went our separate ways. He went and became a smoke jumper like his big brother, bless his soul, and I went away to school in Seattle to become a doctor.” She looks down at her bottle and a sad smile tugs on her lips. “Doesn’t matter since he’s in New York now.”

  “Jack is in New York?” I ask.

  The two women, the only women that Patrick seems to let close in his life, exchange a knowing glance.

  “I feel like I’m in the middle of some Jane Austen novel set in Montana,” I say and laugh. “I figured you were close since you were allowed in to see the Wizard.”

  “What did you guys go into town to get?” Kayli asks, taking a hard left on the conversation.

  I glance over my shoulder. Is Patrick standing there? I have the sensation that I’m being watched. Or maybe it’s that as the afternoon passes, the temperature cools and I’m just shivering. I throw another log on the fire and listen to Scarlett recount our adventure in the hardware store. We picked outrageous colors, and Kayli finds it hilarious.

  “Can I be here when you tell Pat that his guest room is going to be pink?” Kayli asks.

  “It’s salmon,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No sense for colors.”

  The girls laugh, and I feel something inside of me soar at this sensation. Of course, I’ve had Mari as a housemate, but I have missed this. Sitting around with a group of girls and just talking.

  “Now I really should be going,” Kayli says, checking her watch. “Today I had three people come in after attempting to hike around Mt. Ellis without bringing an ounce of water with them.”

  “I didn’t know hydration therapy was a thing,” I say.

  “It’s mostly a Vegas thing,” Scarlett says, then raises her beer to her lips. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  “One word of advice if you decide to go into the woods,” Kayli says. “Be prepared. All the trails out here look the same.”

  “I’ll stick to my car,” I assure her.

  “Though if you ever want to take a long walk,” Scarlett says, pointing to the woods in front of us, “the trail through here takes you out all the way to my house. Just a quick left, and you’re there in two miles.”

  They laugh at the face I’m making.

  “See you on the Fourth,” Scarlett waves at Kayli.

  “Good to meet you, Lena. You’re exactly what this place needed,” she says, and then with a final wave, she’s gone.

  Scarlett and I settle into a comfortable silence, but I can’t help but feel bothered at what I said to her before.

  “Hey, Scarlett, I’m really sorry about the romance comment. I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories or anything. I’m terrible when it comes to this stuff. Robot Girl, remember? I swear, this is why I’m single.”

  “First of all, there is nothing wrong with you and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Scarlett points a finger at me. “Secondly, it’s fine. It’s the best thing that happened to me. I choose to see it as a blessing. If I had never gotten divorced, I never would have started writing again, and I never would have gone to Vegas for my divorce party, and I never would have seen Pat again.”

  “You know,” I say, “I’m trying really hard not to pry, but I grew up with some of the gossipiest aunts in the world and that might have rubbed off on me.”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything about Pat he wouldn’t tell you himself,” she says. “Lord knows I want what’s best for that boy. But I swear, he’s talked more to you than he has to anyone else in his life and I see that as progress. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. You’re a goddamn miracle.”

  We have such a different way of seeing things, but it�
�s nice to be appreciated.

  “I don’t know about that, but I am going to play with some paint,” I say, and take the empty plate to throw into the trash.

  When I take out my phone to put on my playlist, I have a message from Patrick waiting.

  Patrick: Thank you for lunch.

  Hot damn, maybe there are miracles happening around here after all.

  5

  Pink

  LENA

  The smell of paint is intoxicating. I’ve missed this, even if it’s just the feeling of dipping a sponge brush into the can of salmon-pink wall paint. I streak an X on the main wall, and then repeat the same with a slightly brighter coral. When Patrick said he doesn’t like pink, I took that to mean that he doesn’t like the color he associates with Barbies or Pepto-Bismol. Most people don’t.

  But there’s something about the perfect pink that is soothing to look at, especially against the white furniture. Every day, I’ve worked on this room, sweeping up the kernels of Styrofoam peanuts and wood shavings, it’s right around sunset. The light hits the walls from the wide windows and it feels like the embrace of the sun itself.

  I snap a few pictures of the colors and send them to Patrick with a smiley face.

  Me: What do you think?

  Patrick: I think I said no pink.

  Me: The one on the left is salmon. The right is coral.

  Patrick: Those are uppity ways of saying pink.

  Me: Correctly identifying a color is not uppity. It’s my line of work.

  Patrick types and stops.

  I grumble, and take the opportunity to change the music from Selena to the latest Enrique Iglesias songs. I’ve had a love affair with Enrique since I first heard “Bailamos” on the Wild Wild West soundtrack and all of my friends made fun of me for it. But when it comes to my music, I am faithful. Then, I get a better idea and pull up an Aerosmith song I think Patrick will enjoy.

  Me: This song is dedicated to you.

  “Pink” by Aerosmith blasts from the Bluetooth speakers in the kitchen and I paint a few more swatches. One is a little paler, like the bottom of a blush rose starting to bloom. Now that one I will admit is pink. Another color dries too dark, like the shade of rust over metal.