The Devil Inside, page 13
She blinked, focused.
Dark. Shadows. Flames. A woman and a man she didn’t know drawn over and over. Something that looked like an alleyway as glimpsed from a darkened doorway at night. A room engulfed in flames.
All the paintings spoke of panic, of loss, of fear.
Not one of them was from a part of her life that she could remember and according to Phil, they weren’t from her time with him. But why not? Why couldn’t she remember him? Or them? What she’d felt through that kiss—
‘Is this it?’ Alan paused to look over the last painting—one of those she’d done that morning. It was of the vision she’d had in the hospital of the woman sitting on the bed, crying over the photos in her lap.
She had to pull her shit together or Alan would notice—and she didn’t want to explain about why she’d asked Phil to kiss her or how it had somehow hurt him. And her. She swallowed hard and pointed at the sketch books. ‘There’s more in them.’
Alan started sorting through the sketch books on the table. ‘Where’s the one from the hospital?’
‘It’s not there. I must have put it down somewhere and haven’t been able to find it.’
‘That’s fine. We can look at it later when it turns up. For now, if you can try to remember what sketches you put in it, that could help us sort through some of what you’ve done and find some links.’
Melissa nodded. The sketch book from the hospital was filled with more drawings of Phil and Arwen than anything else, but there were a few sketches of things she remembered from her dreams and she could remember them distinctly.
She went over them with Alan now. He taped their conversation on his phone for later reflection, but when they were done, she couldn’t see any links between the drawings and paintings other than many of them featured the same couple. And no memory surfaced to help explain them.
Damn it. Surely they meant something?
‘What do you think?’ Phil asked, drawing her attention to him. He’d come back like he said he would and was doing a pretty good job of pretending nothing was wrong. That used to be her specialty—perhaps he’d learned some tricks from her. He stood, back to the railing, the expanse of the window behind him, the light creating a halo around him.
Saint Phil. She smiled briefly at the thought, but then frowned. It was true. He was a saint. Always so thoughtful, so ready to do anything to help her, to make her feel better. Trying to hide his pain and confusion—which he did far better than he hid his disappointment.
Not that it was surprising he was disappointed. How could he not be? And not just about the dark, mysterious images she’d painted. She’d practically ignored him and Arwen this last week while she’d gone on a manic painting-sketching spree. He’d tried to engage her so many times, as had the others—these friends she couldn’t remember. Lexi and Dae had been down every day to invite her up to the main house to have dinner or lunch or afternoon tea to tuck into Bev’s famous scones—but she’d refused every offer. She’d even refused Phil’s suggestion to go and see the horses with him and Arwen. That wasn’t like her at all. She would never have avoided a chance to go spend time with horses, and yet, she’d not been down to the stables once in the last week.
Her painting mania had been all-encompassing.
Then she’d asked him to kiss her.
What the hell was going on in her head? It was no wonder Phil was confused and disappointed—she was too. Disappointed in herself. Confused about … everything.
‘Tell me about this one.’ Alan pointed at a sketch in the book he held. ‘You’ve drawn it a number of times.’
She looked down. It was one of a small, dark room, a blanket on the floor, a white rabbit in the middle of the blanket, a chubby hand holding onto it. The painting was dark except for the light that shone from a torch that lay on the floor illuminating the rabbit and the hand that held it. There was something shadowed at the edges of the light, but it wasn’t clear. The feature of the painting was the hand and the rabbit. ‘It looks like the rabbit I had when I was a baby—I called it Krolik.’
‘That’s Russian for rabbit.’
‘Is it?’ She glanced at Alan and then back down at the sketch. ‘Why would I call my stuffed toy that? We aren’t Russian and Mama and Papa didn’t have any Russian friends. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Don’t concentrate on that now. Think about why you’ve drawn and painted this image over and over. Why is it so important to you?’
She stared at it for a long moment, then sighed. ‘I have no idea. Krolik always used to comfort me when I was upset. Maybe that’s why I’m drawing it so much.’
‘But why this image in particular? It’s not just the rabbit, it’s the room itself perhaps. I’m pretty sure there was one of these in the missing sketch book. One that showed more of what this is here.’ He pointed to the shadowed shape just beyond the light. ‘I want you to think more about this image and try to draw more of the room, the things that are hidden in these shadows.’ His finger ran over the shaded areas.
Her shoulders sagged. ‘I don’t know how to do that.’
‘I can lead you through a meditation that will help to get you into the right frame of mind.’
‘Meditation?’ She shook her head, backing up a little. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Meditation isn’t very different from the breathing exercises I’ve given you.’
‘It’s pretty close to hypnosis though, isn’t it? I don’t like that. I don’t trust it.’
Alan looked at her closely, his brows creasing together. ‘You mentioned that before, but I’m now wondering why such a strong aversion? Have you undergone hypnotherapy previously?’
‘No!’ She took another step back. ‘I … it’s just … I don’t like the thought of anyone messing around in my mind.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t want to do it.’
Alan stared at her, as if he was seeing through her, into her mind. She took another step back. ‘Don’t push me about this. I don’t want to do it, okay?’
‘I didn’t say you had to. I’m quite happy to keep going with the art therapy method if you are.’ He looked around him. ‘Although, it does seem to be posing more questions than it is answering at the moment.’ He smiled at her and clasped his hands in front of him. ‘But hopefully that will start to change soon now that you’re settling in here. Tell me, have you gone outside yet, maybe down to see the horses? I understand you spent a lot of time with them prior to the accident.’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘I see. And why is that?’
‘I’ve been busy with this.’ She gestured sharply to the paintings around them. ‘As you suggested.’
‘The art therapy is a good start, but it’s also important to return to doing some of the other things you did before the accident as a way of helping to jog your memory. There is nothing like the familiar to do that.’
She glanced at Phil. There was something about him … And the kiss. She had never experienced anything like the explosion of light inside her when his lips touched hers, the way everything in her had come alive as if shouting, ‘Yes! This! Him!’ It had frightened her with its intensity. She looked at him. He was staring at her, that aching look in his eyes that hurt. She rubbed her knuckles against her chest as she blurted, ‘I’m going down to the stables with Phil and Arwen later this afternoon. After you’ve gone.’
‘You are?’ Phil asked. ‘I thought you said—’
‘I changed my mind. I just didn’t have a chance to tell you.’
‘Well, great.’
‘Yes. That’s wonderful,’ Alan said. ‘But you need to do something every day. Not only could it help to jog your memories, but it will be good for your health.’ He looked out the window. ‘It’s too beautiful here to lock yourself up inside, don’t you think?’
She nodded, knowing she couldn’t disagree with him. Her past self would have been outside every day as much as possible. So why had she suddenly become a shut-in? Just another thing that had to change—although it burned that it was Alan who had to point it out to her. ‘What about the painting?’
‘Keep going with it. Just don’t spend so much time doing it. It’s not supposed to be a crutch or an excuse for you to ignore everything else in your life. And try to interact more with Arwen. I know it’s probably scary to have this little life suddenly thrust on you, and I’m not suggesting you start doing everything right off the bat, but maybe just start by holding her once a day, maybe feeding her, being there for her baths and bedtime. Okay?’
She nodded reluctantly. ‘I was thinking of doing that anyway.’
‘You were?’ Phil asked again.
She nodded.
He stopped swaying. ‘We’d love that.’
He smiled at her. Her stomach flipped over and her skin zipped with energy. She swallowed hard. ‘Great.’
‘Excellent, then my work is done here for the day. Unless you want to talk about anything else?’
She shook her head. She didn’t want to mention the kiss. And she certainly didn’t want to mention hearing things in the middle of the night. Or the phantom phone call. Those things coupled with her forgetting where she’d put the first sketch book and the incident in the hospital with the imaginary man in her room would most likely lead to more tests and she was not going back to the hospital any time soon. ‘No. I think I’ve got enough to go on with at the moment. Thanks, Professor Alan.’
‘My pleasure. Now, you know if you need anything, I’m just a phone call away.’
‘I know. Thanks.’
Phil walked him to the door leaving Melissa in the nook, staring at her work.
After a moment, she shook herself, took a breath and started to stack the canvases against the wall. Phil came back and began to help—she’d noticed he was really good at holding the baby with one hand and doing something with the other. His arm brushed against hers as they reached for the same painting. The heat of him filled her with a longing so sharp it made her wince—even though her mind didn’t remember him, her body certainly seemed to, the already simmering attraction skyrocketing after their kiss.
‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling away.
She missed the warmth of him immediately. ‘It’s okay.’ They stood there, not looking at each other, but not moving. After a moment, she cleared her throat. Aware that she was clenching and twisting her fingers together, she tore them apart and gestured at the painting they’d both reached for. ‘I wish I could remember who they are.’
‘Does that really matter?’
‘Of course it does.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t mean that the way it sounded. You always said your paintings were as much about the emotion than anything else.’ He gestured at the painting they’d both reached for. The one of the couple dancing in the dark room. ‘There’s anguish in this one. Yet, there’s love. And longing. So intense.’ His hand fisted over his heart. ‘It’s almost painful. But beautiful. Those emotions—they’re as important as the who.’
He was right. That was exactly what was in the painting. She’d been concentrating so much on not knowing who they were that she hadn’t seen the obvious.
But he had.
She knew these people. They weren’t just a couple she’d seen in a movie or met somewhere briefly. She. Knew. Them.
Excitement thrilled through her. ‘What about this one?’ she said, gesturing to the one at the front of the pile, the one of the dark alley, shadows at its end.
‘Fear. But comfort somehow. There’s that shadow of an arm there, as if the person we’re viewing the scene from is being held by someone. But not held back. Held in.’ His arms tightened around Arwen.
‘Yes.’ That was exactly it. It was from the perspective of a child. A frightened child. ‘What about—?’
Arwen made a squawking noise that made both of them jump. ‘Sorry. This might have to wait.’ He looked down at the baby, patting her bottom and began to sway again. ‘Mummy and Daddy aren’t giving you any attention. But we can now. How about we go visit the horseys like I promised earlier? As it turns out, your mama can come now.’ She made a noise that he must have taken for assent because he laughed and rubbed his nose against the baby’s. Then he looked up at her. ‘That’s if you still want to come?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we should go before the storm comes in.’
‘A storm is coming in?’ Melissa glanced out the window at the blue skies of the late afternoon—nary a cloud in them.
Phil nodded. ‘Karl says his bones say a storm is coming from behind the mountains.’
‘His bones?’ It was something like what Papa always said—had said.
Phil nodded. ‘Yep. I’d take his bones over the weatherman any day. I’ll just go get the baby carrier and we’ll go.’ He looked down. ‘You might want to change your shoes.’ She looked down at her feet encased in fluffy green monster slippers.
‘Phil.’ He turned at her call, brow lifted. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For …’ she gestured at him, the baby, the paintings. ‘For understanding. For not making demands.’
He came back over to her. Touched her cheek. ‘I love you, Mel. Whether you remember it or not, that’s still true.’
Her lips wobbled and she had to fight the need to lean into his touch. ‘That’s what makes this so hard.’ Even more than the insane attraction she couldn’t deny, the fact he loved her so completely and she couldn’t remember a moment of it. She was coming to think that it must be wonderful to feel that kind of love all the time. ‘I wish I could say it back to you, but I don’t know when I can.’
He smiled at her, sadly. ‘There’s no need to worry about that, Mel. I’ll wait for you until the end of time.’
He turned and left her standing with the shock of his words rippling through her and a tight feeling clenching around her heart.
Chapter 13
Melissa went off to bed that night feeling a little better about herself. She’d enjoyed going to the stables with Phil and Arwen, meeting Starlight—the horse that had been hers. Phil introduced her to Karl—who she’d heard so much about from Bev and Jerry and the others and he certainly lived up to the stories. She also met Tony and Stan, two of the hands who had just come in from a day in the paddocks and who did most of the work with the horses.
She talked to Karl about when she might be able to go riding again—she was excited about that prospect—and had chatted with Tony and Stan about types of feed and the hay they were using and what they used to oil the tack. She hadn’t remembered anything particular while down there but had admitted that the stables did feel familiar—whether that was because she remembered these stables or because all stables had a feel about them, she wasn’t sure. But Karl, Stan and Tony had felt familiar too, although she couldn’t rustle up a single memory of meeting them before.
Phil seemed happy with the fact they were familiar to her and the way she fell into such easy conversation with Karl about when she could start to care for Starlight again, as well as maybe doing some things around the stables as she got stronger.
When they’d returned to the Barn House with Phil and Arwen she’d actually stuck around while he got a bottle ready, watching while he fed the baby then helped to give her a bath and put her to bed. She still hadn’t been able to bring herself to hold the baby, but she had stroked her cheek, touched the soft silkiness of her dark hair. And she’d stayed, hadn’t made excuses and run away.
Progress.
Jerry had come to help and weigh and measure Arwen—as he did every few days—but Phil sent him away, saying he had Mel to help tonight. Jerry had given her a look, but she’d nodded that she was fine and wasn’t being pushed into this—god love him for looking after her like that. He was so special.
All in all, it had turned into a pretty good day and she felt positive about the future for a change as she went to sleep.
The dream gripped her as soon as she was under. She shifted in the bed, moaning. It was dark. So dark. The moon had slipped behind grey clouds and now the clouds were crying, quickly soaking her to the skin. She shivered. Cold. So cold. And tired. She wanted to stop but couldn’t. She was being pulled along. She stumbled, her legs too tired to carry her further. Hands lifted her, swung her close, held her tight against a strong firm chest she knew so well.
Papa.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he continued to run. What were they running from? They must be big and mean. She’d never seen Papa look like that before—like he was worried. Frightened.
The sound of feet slapping against wet pavement echoed all around them. She looked over Papa’s shoulder. Mama—not mamochka—was behind him, her face pale, frightened, sad, but determined with a harshness in her eyes that Mel had only seen once or twice when she’d surprised her in the bedroom looking through a box of papers that she’d pushed under the bed covers.
‘They’re coming, Mikhail.’
‘I know, Katya. I can hear them. Through here.’
They ran into a narrow alley where there was little light, then ducked into a doorway. She made a noise but Papa shushed her, holding her close. ‘It’s okay, kukla. We’re still playing the game. Hide and seek. We need to be quiet. If we’re quiet, they’ll never find us and we’ll win the game.’
Mama rubbed her back and stood close to Papa, her body pressing into Melissa. She could feel the fast beat of their hearts, the harsh pants of their breaths quickly steadied as they played the quiet game. She liked playing hide and seek. She was good at it. Mamochka and Papochka had played it often with her. That and the game of secrets. She was good at that one too.
She held still. Made her breathing go quiet like theirs. Footsteps echoed louder and louder. Torchlight flashed in the distance. Voices called her name. Called for Mikhail and Katya, talking in a language that wasn’t English. She understood it all.
‘Katya. Bring her back now,’ a man called out, his voice rough-edged and angry. ‘If you bring her back now, we’ll let you live. Don’t be a fool like your sister. Don’t give up your life for something that’s not yours.’
