Authors: Vicki Hinze
She lifted a fingertip. “But you haven’t done it.”
“No.” He stuffed his fists into his pants pockets. “I haven’t done it.”
“So, that’s progress.” Worried that she was gaining too many points without conceding any, and he would see the scales as unbalanced on give-and-take, she asked, “Can the music stay until we get some other relaxation techniques going?”
“For now. If you think it’s keeping the rage away.” He nodded toward the box. “What’s in there, besides that paintbrush?”
“Paint.” She laughed. “Big surprise, eh?”
“A real shocker.” He cocked his head, clearly amused and determined to hide it.
“You said white made you uneasy, so I thought you would like some color. We’re going to paint tons of color in here.”
“And die from fumes.”
“Nontoxic.” She crossed her chest with the paintbrush. “Scout’s honor.”
He grunted, doing his best to look irritated, but the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. As if afraid she’d notice it, he turned away.
Sara’s heart swelled in her chest. God, but she loved making Joe smile. She passed him a brush and a small can of paint.
He hesitated at taking them. “No red?”
“No.” Her heart felt squeezed. “No red.”
He took the can and began painting on the far wall, next to the gouged wallpad. Sara painted a sun, sky, and a green meadow, then dotted the grass with small blue flowers.
When it occurred to her that Joe had been quiet for a long time, she covertly glanced over to see what he had drawn. A black box. A coffin? Maybe.
He put the finishing touches on another item and then stepped aside. Sara stared at it, her heart stuck in her throat. “Joe,” she rasped in an unsteady whisper. “Why did you draw an electric chair?”
“It’s not electric. It doesn’t have headgear.”
Odd answer. But it didn’t have headgear. Still, she’d known immediately what it was. “Why did you draw it?”
He frowned at it, and then at her. “I don’t know. I just see it in my head all the time.” He moved on down the wall, painted trees, a rock-strewn brook, and in the water, a body.
Sara wanted to interrupt, to ask whose body it was, but she had the feeling she would learn more about what had happened to Joe by watching from a distance and keeping her mouth shut. She painted a fish, a bird, a street lamp, and a row of buildings.
Before long, she and Joe had come full-circle, painting scenes on all four walls within the room. The ripped-out padding was now a creative cave. A pretty good one, too. Just looking at it had her feeling stirrings of claustrophobia.
Sara put the brush back in the box, braced a hand at the aching small of her back, and surveyed his work. Nothing else questionable after the coffin and chair. “You’re quite the artist.”
He put his paintbrush down by hers. “I used to like color.”
She smiled. “Glad to hear it.” She reached into the box, found a sketch pad, and taped it to the wall. On the floor beneath it, she set down a box of twenty-four crayons.
Joe grunted and nodded toward the crayon box. “I’m a little old for that.”
“How old are you, exactly?”
“Thirty-three.” A devilish twinkle lit in his eye. “And you?”
“Thirty-four,” she answered without missing a beat. So he knew his age. Encouraging. “Coloring is good relaxation therapy. I highly recommend it. Draw whatever the mood tells you. Whenever.”
A furrow knit between his brows, and he stared down at his pajamas as if surprised to see himself wearing them. “Where are my clothes?”
“I’m not sure.” She wasn’t. “I’ll check for you.” She walked around the room, closely studying all he had painted. Everything centered on a theme. So subtle a theme that initially she’d missed it. A dog in the middle of a country road, a car coming around a blind curve toward it. A huge oak, but a tiny tombstone beneath it. A crashed plane near the body in the brook. Definitely a theme. Death and dying.
Joe came up behind her. “I like the flowers.”
His breath warmed her neck, and her senses went on alert.
God, please not another attack. Please.
“Thank you.” She stepped away, cursing herself as forty kinds of fool, because even as she feared him, she was attracted to him. “Well.” She swiped her paint-smeared hands on her lab coat. “I’ve got other patients to check up on.”
As if sensing he had frightened her, he laced his hands behind his back.
The thoughtfulness in the gesture tugged at her heart. She lifted the box, then looked up at him. His expression was unreadable, and she hated the sudden tension between them. “I hope you’ll color, Joe.” She’d learned more from his paintings than from their talks.
“Maybe I will.” He spared the sketch pad and box of crayons a glance. “I used to like color,” he said again.
Now, he hated red and white. “Tomorrow we’ll focus on some meditation exercises and, if the rage has still stayed away, we’ll go outside and see the sun.”
He blew off that remark, clearly doubting her.
“I don’t lie, Joe.” She willed him to believe her.
He rewarded her with a smile. It was magnetic, and she smiled back, feeling drawn to him in ways she shouldn’t, in ways she had promised herself she wouldn’t.
He’s your patient, for God’s sake.
Guilt rammed through her, bore down on her, unrelenting. “I’ve got to go.”
“It’s okay to think someone is special, Sara. You shouldn’t feel bad about that.”
She snapped back to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know what you feel. I feel it too, and it’s okay.”
No, it wasn’t okay. It was
not
okay. “Joe, you’re my patient. You’re special to me as a patient is special to me.”
The warmth in his eyes shuttered, closing her out. “You think I’m less of a man because I’m—”
“No.” She elevated her voice. “No, of course not. You’ve suffered a trauma, Joe. Soon you’ll be your old self again, only different because experience teaches. But you’ll be fine.”
“Yes, I will.” He searched her face, her eyes. “So will you, Sara.”
Rattled. Not uncomfortable that he’d seen her feelings. Not uneasy. Nothing that simple. No, this was complicated. Definitely rattled. “I’ve, um, got to go now.”
Joe nodded.
She hit the buzzer. The door opened, and she walked out.
Just as the door closed, she remembered something. Propping the box on her hip, she knocked on the door. “Joe?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t open the box of crayons.” Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn. How could she be so stupid? So thoughtless and stupid? “All of the colors are in the box. I forgot to take two of them out. Can I come back in and do that?”
No answer.
“Joe?” She knocked harder.
Still no answer.
She dropped the box. Hit the alarm. “Koloski, open the damn door!”
The buzzer sounded, and she shoved the door open.
Joe stood staring at the crayon box, his shoulders slumped. “Joe,” she said, shaking head to toe, feeling lower than a slug. If she hadn’t been preoccupied with this attraction, she might not have forgotten the damn things. And never had she been more at risk for an attack than now. “Can I come in?”
He didn’t respond.
“Please, Joe.” She licked at her lips. They were desert-dry. “I’m sorry. I really am. I was thinking about
. . .
about something else, and I forgot.” She stepped inside, held the door open with her foot. “It was a terrible mistake for me to make, but I did it. Can I please come in and take those colors out of the box?”
His shoulders heaved. He bent down, picked up the box, and then thrust it at her as if touching it had scalded his hand.
Damn it, why had she messed up? He had been doing so well. She took the box. “I’m going to turn around so you don’t have to see them, okay?” And she was going to pray he didn’t grab her from behind in a stranglehold.
He stared at the box. Mesmerized. Terrified.
“Joe, is that okay?” Her mouth dry, her palms damp, she clutched at the box.
He jerked a nod.
Sara swallowed hard, then slowly turned around, praying he could contain the haze of rage simmering in his eyes. She opened the crayon box, pulled out the red and white colors, stuffed them into her lab coat pocket, and then turned back to face Joe. His eyes shone bright, and he blinked hard and fast.
He was fighting tears. And she had done this to him. He’d been so fierce and noble, fighting the rage. Why tears
. . .
?
Fool, your emotional involvement is blinding you. Can’t you see, Sara? He never trusted the rage. He could always fight it without feeling conflict. You, he trusted. You betrayed him.
Oh, God. No. Why hadn’t she thought? She passed the colors back to him, fighting down a lump in her throat. Whatever he had been through, he’d suffered enough. Why in the name of all that is good did she have to add to his pain? A tear slid down her face. “I am—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, and then tried again. “I am so sorry.”
He looked up at her, saw the tear, and frowned. But the rage slowly faded from his eyes. He reached out, touched a fingertip to her tear, and then clasped her hand in his and gently squeezed her fingers. “It’s all right, Sara.”
He’d won. He’d battled the demon and won! A second tear followed Sara’s first. Being thoughtless, she had caused him more trauma, and from the paintings, she knew now what had happened to him, if not why it had happened.
He had been tortured.
Looking torn, seeing her anguish, he pulled her closer, into a hug. “It’s really okay, Sara. Don’t cry.” His chin at the curve of her neck and shoulder, he whispered, “Your music’s on. The rage won’t come while your damn music is on.”
Cry?
She could fly. Shout from the rooftops and fly. Joe, her darling Joe, had attached.
Her joy bubbled outward. She wrapped her arms around his sides, rested her face against his chest, and smiled. “Thank you, Joe.”
He stiffened, pulled back, and looked down into her upturned face. “My name isn’t Joe.”
“I know, but we agreed to call you that. Remember?”
“No, I don’t.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “My name isn’t Joe. Don’t call me that.”
“Okay.” Her smile faltered. “What do you want me to call you, then?”
“Jarrod.” A wrinkle furrowed his brow. “My name is Major Jarrod
. . .
” His voice trailed off, and his gaze went blank. “Major Jarrod
. . .
Something.”
Sara left Isolation on such an emotional high over Jarrod’s progress and his being attracted to her, she swore she could float. And she left on such an emotional low, over crossing the professional line, that she would have to climb up to be down.
Talk about a walking contradiction!
Flushed, she walked past the heavy metal doors. Koloski was gone. William sat at the monitors, glaring at her. No need to ask. He’d seen what had taken place. She stiffened her shoulders. “Hi, William.”
“You hugged him, Major. I saw it.”
Great. Just great.
Shank was coming up the hall, definitely within earshot. She pulled her cart to a halt beside the desk. “What’s the problem, William?”
He turned his glare from Sara to Shank. “She hugged ADR-30. I saw it on the monitor. And she painted the pads in his room. Color is banned in the Isolation Wing. Everyone knows it.”
“William—” Shank started.
“I’m aware of the rules, William,” Sara interrupted. “And I can see that you’re genuinely distressed, so I’m going to explain this to you—once.” She forced her voice stern, hoping it didn’t waver. “But after this, if you question me again, I’m going to take disciplinary action against you. I outrank you, and I’m a doctor. You’re not. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
A muscle in his lean face twitched. He jerked a nod in her general direction.
Sara clenched her jaw and borrowed from Fontaine. He, William respected—enough to accept a demotion and a fine and still spy for him. “Yes, ma’am, if you please. Or, yes, Major. Either is fine with me.”
“Yes, Major.” Anger glittered in William’s brown eyes.
“Fine.” Sara leaned against the Plexiglas barrier. “Rules are made to help, not hinder. If they hinder, you break them. They were hindering, so I broke them.”
She pulled back, softened her voice but kept the lecture tone that had served her so well in the past. “Joe has an adverse reaction to white. Being in a room that is absent of any color but white isn’t conducive to his healing. It’s stagnating him. Because of his recent attack on me, and not wanting to endanger the other patients, I couldn’t move Joe to a regular room with color, so I compromised and painted some color in his room.”