Stowaway: Chapter 4

When things go wrong, I paint. When things go right, I paint. I am an artist. Without a degree. Without a job. Without a home. But this one thing no one can take from me. No, what I do is not who I am, but it helps me, and it helps others. That’s why I do it. What other reason do I need?

When the girls left Morgan and Jon’s, it got difficult. Morgan’s relationship with Jon was so different from the one she once had with Liam, and so different from what happened to her in that room that sometimes it was hard to reconcile in her mind. While Libby was home, probably channeling her feelings into a painting, while Emily was setting up lunch dates and meetings with congregants at church, while Jess was curled up next to her husband, falling asleep, Morgan was fighting.

Old voices from the past came back to taunt her. One told her Liam was right, she was just a drug addict now. Another, that she was so filthy, no man could ever love her, and if he said he did, he was lying. The last voice and the loudest voice did its best to convince her about what Jonathan really wanted. He was a man, and all men were after the same thing.

“You’re quiet,” Jon observed, sitting beside her on the couch.

Against her will, Morgan let go of the quilt she had held so tightly around herself. It didn’t reveal much but her layered tank tops, but Liam had loved those. Buddy had loved when she took them off.

“Morgan, look at me,” Jon said, his tone decisive.

He hated when she got like this. Trapped, she called it, or getting lost. With Buddy’s voice and Liam’s voice warring inside her head, talking shit to her. In those moments, she stopped seeing Jonathan for the man he was, and saw him as a faceless person who just wanted take from her and control her and use her. Her eyes looked dead and distant, as she remembered whatever torture her mind had in store for her. Jon was sure the interview hadn’t helped.

Morgan blinked, seeing Jonathan clearly. His messy blond hair and warm brown eyes. His green plaid drawstring pants and brown shirt, he always wore to Madness. His strong jaw line and the way he had his hands up, to show her he wasn’t a threat. Even so, she shuddered, pulling the blanket back around herself.

“Sorry,” she apologized clearing her throat reflexively. “This was just a horrible night.”

“Yeah, it was,” Jon nodded. “But you’re safe here, we’ve got all our boundaries in place and I’m sticking to them,” he reminded. “Are you?”

She hesitated. Usually, she felt so much safer knowing that they had separate bedrooms and that they never slept together. Not even in the innocent sense, like falling asleep accidentally on the couch. However, tonight, she felt genuinely afraid to be alone. Sure those nightmares would haunt her.

“I don’t want to sleep by myself,” she confessed. “I hate the nightmares…”

Jon sighed. “This is what it is, Morgan. It’s not changing. So, what’s your plan B?”

Morgan took a deep breath. She didn’t like it, but Jon was right. She wouldn’t feel any safer sleeping in the same room with him; in fact, it would probably mess with her head and make everything worse.

“Call you, or call somebody else and talk about it. Knock on your door. Do some house chores,” Morgan remembered, knowing it always helped her integrity to state her intentions out loud.

“You’re not alone with this, all right? So, don’t shut me out when things get tough. Talk to me, okay? I don’t understand it all, and I don’t expect any big confession. Your business is your business. But I care about you as a friend, and I want to know where you’re at in your head,” Jon told her, squeezing her hand.

“Thanks,” she said, squeezing back. Then, she got up and excused herself, taking the quilt with her, and hoping it would shield her from some of the things she most feared.

--

Emily spent the next couple of days really getting comfortable with her new job. Technically, it didn’t really pay, so she didn’t know if she could call it a job, but she still loved the church and its openness. They accepted her. They were grateful for her offer to serve as a lay counselor. She also offered to be an extra set of hands for their small youth group - which, as of now, only had five or six members - but that was okay by Emily. She had already worked out where she would be when. Hands-on and involved during the services or youth group, but for a half hour to two hours afterward, Emily made herself available in a side room with a glass sliding door. That way, people could see her when she was available, and there were vertical blinds that could be pulled if the room was in use.

Today, though, Emily was making house calls. She had gotten a list of a few elderly congregants who were recovering from an illness or injury, or just lonely. Emily asked questions about how they were, and mostly just listened as they talked about their lives and shared with her. It had taken a little while for them to open up, with her being a new face around town.

Emily dressed in a business-casual fashion for these visits, foregoing her usual loud crazy style for something more subdued. Though she had given many of her clothes away on the road, she still had collared dress shirts to wear under a suit jacket and matching slacks. She pulled her hair back with a clip and wore matching earrings and a necklace

“Are you a tourist?” they all asked suspiciously. “Never seen you around.”

However ironically, Liam’s interview had done some good. Now instead of wariness, Emily found warmth and sometimes even kinship.

“I saw you on the television the other night. The program with that Rock Hudson, or Samson or whoever. He sure is handsome.”

Though Emily enjoyed her time with these people, she found herself happiest when she talked to referrals. People that her regulars recommended. These people sometimes had never been to church before. One woman she visited that day was a Holocaust survivor. Mrs. Marek. Emily hadn’t pried, but had seen the numbers tattooed on the inside of the sweet lady’s arm. She had white hair and soft wrinkled skin. Her eyes, Emily noticed, were kind, not bitter.

Mrs. Marek recognized Emily and held her hand tightly, staring into her eyes for a long time.

“You tell your friends. You are not victims. You are survivors. There are bad people. But the world is a good place,” the woman said, her voice colored by a beautiful Polish accent.

“I will. I promise. Is there anything I can do for you?” Emily asked, looking around the small cluttered house. So much needed to be done, and she was a widowed woman, living alone. The house could use a coat of paint. The drive could be shoveled. “I know the handyman here. He’s a good friend of mine. He could help you out.”

However, the woman just shook her head, and said simply, “Live. Live your life. That is what you can do for me.”

Emily blinked tears from her eyes and nodded. Instead of meeting the reverend for lunch, she stayed with Mrs. Marek and had sandwiches and lemonade for lunch, listening to this brave woman share about her life - the Holocaust and more - and what she planned to do, even now.

“Never stop making plans. Never stop dreaming.” Mrs. Marek urged. “You come back anytime. And I will tell the neighbors that you are a good person, so they will not give you a hard time.”

“They don’t give me a hard time. I’m just new. This is my number. If you need anything or just want to talk, call me. Anytime,” Emily urged, tucking the piece of paper into the woman’s hand.

“Thank you,” she said, and as Emily headed for the door, Mrs. Marek called to her again.

“Emily. Are you going to stay?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be here,” she promised.

--

“So, I was thinking of getting a dog,” Nate mused the night after Liam’s interview at dinner.

“Well, stop,” Cary decided. “Our bed still smells like pee.”

Nate snickered. “Oh, it does not. You’re just in a bad mood. A dog would be so nice. Or a little puppy like Snoopy.”

Cary rolled his eyes. “Why do you want a dog all of a sudden?” he asked irritably.

It wasn’t just that Jess and Coby’s dog peed; it was Cary’s awful night at work. He had been behind all night and had gotten screamed at by his ass of a boss. Then there was the talk. It seemed like everyone in town had seen Liam’s interview and was asking him if he was Nathaniel’s partner. Was it true, what the young man said about Nate? Was Nate upset watching it? On and on, until Cary wanted to storm out of the mercantile, the elementary school, picking up Christian for Coby, and God, even the Ben and Jerry’s!

“We don’t need a dog,” Cary maintained, stabbing his meatloaf with his fork.

“You don’t. I do,” Nathaniel maintained. “Can’t we just talk about it? They’re man’s best friend!”

“I thought we were enough for each other,” Cary said softly.

“We are! Jesus, Cary! A dog won’t take your place, but it would help me. Don’t you understand? I need something to take care of. Something to focus on. Something that needs me, so I’m not always thinking about the awful shit in my life!”

With that, Nate had scraped his chair back and left the kitchen.

Now it was Thursday and just based on that, Nate was a hot mess. He slept through his alarm, was late to work, and tripped over something on the way out the door. In his sleepy haze, Cary had heard him cursing as the door slammed. Now, he was home, and instead of being up, doing things together before Cary had to be back at work tonight, Nate had gone back to bed. When Cary tried to wake him, Nate just mumbled something. The next time Cary had checked, the bedroom door was locked.

Usually, he never thought twice about Thursdays, but ever since Liam’s stupid interview, Nate seemed extra jumpy. Come to think of it, the only time Cary had seen Nate calm was when he had Snoopy for the night. It hadn’t mattered to Nate that the puppy peed all over both of them and the sheets. He had just held the dog close and talked to it about how “everyone had accidents” and “it was okay.”

Cary knew he hadn’t been fair to Nate earlier in the week. He hadn’t even tried to hear him out, and that wasn’t okay. Therefore, even though Cary wasn’t crazy about it, Nate deserved to have something that brought him comfort. That was how Cary ended up driving an hour to the Central Vermont Humane Society in Montpelier, to pick out a dog.

That was how, an hour later, Cary ended up driving home with an eight-month-old Border collie mix puppy. Cary named him Linus on sight, after seeing the way the black and white puppy refused to part with his blanket. Cary figured it fit. Jess and Coby’s dog was Snoopy and Nate loved him. He figured Nate could learn to love a Linus, too. Plus, they really seemed perfect for each other. This dog was timid and shy, and needed a lot of positive reinforcement. A lot of activity, too. Therefore, he was simultaneously like Nate, and everything Nate needed.

Having made a stop at a local pet store on the way to Montpelier, Cary was all set when he arrived home three hours later. As he hoped, Nathaniel hadn’t moved, and the door to the bedroom was still locked.

“Ssh, it’s okay. You have to be quiet, because you’re a surprise,” Cary told the puppy, carrying him quietly down the hall and picking the lock with a paperclip. Linus jumped in Cary’s arms, and shook nervously.

Quietly, Cary set the dog beside Nate’s head and flipped on the light.

The bedroom had been totally dark, the way they both liked it, and the shift from darkness to light was abrupt. The covers on the bed were rumpled and Nathaniel slept with one arm over his eyes, bare-chested. When Cary’s eyes adjusted, he took in all the framed black-and-white pictures and some paintings that Nate had done that hung on the wall with their wedding picture.

By now, Nate was blinking and looked about ready to let Cary have it. Then his eyes fell on the tiny puppy staring at him, with a plaid piece of cloth between his paws. Nathaniel stared, uncomprehending, as the puppy backed up in terror.

“Surprise,” Cary said simply, sitting down beside him.

“It’s ours?” Nate asked, still not quite sure this was real. He had just been having a really nice dream that they owned a dog, but every time they left the house, it grew bigger and bigger, until it was the size of a horse, and no good to cuddle.

Cary scooped up the puppy, and dumped him into Nate‘s arms. “Linus?” he asked, testing the name for Nathaniel to judge. “I thought it was appropriate. He wouldn’t let go of that thing,” Cary gestured towards the blanket.

“It’s perfect. He’s so perfect,” Nathaniel said, breathlessly, his eyes full of light and adoration. For the first time in days, he smiled, holding and loving the newest member of their family.

Leaning over, he gave Cary a kiss.

“Thank you,” Nate whispered.

--

“Did you hear that Nate got a puppy?” Christian asked, distractedly swirling purple paint across his paper. “Cary got it from the Humane Society, and named it Linus, like our dog is Snoopy. I can’t wait to meet him. Maybe Nate and Cary will bring it over to play with our dog.”

Libby had kept her word, and was now painting with Christian for an hour or so each night in Coby’s workshop. When it was occupied, Libby hung an old sock on the handle just to give Jess and the others a heads up.

Honestly, while Libby loved doing art with anybody and everybody, she was having a hard time concentrating. Liam had been calling nonstop. Their last conversation echoed in her head:

“So, did you see me?” he had asked excitedly. “It turned out better than I thought, really. What did you think?” He sounded so eager, and Libby wondered if he was delusional or if he really thought his tell-all interview was something she enjoyed watching.

“It was better than you thought to tell the world what happened to me? To out Morgan’s struggle with drugs? To call Jess a bad mother?”

“Oh, Libby, come on. Don’t be so dramatic. Mom and Dad already knew about you. I told them right away after I found out,” Liam said, as if to ease her mind. “And as for Morgan and Jess, I was just telling the truth as I saw it,” Liam defended.

“Oh, my God…“ Libby moaned, devastated not only to learn that her parents knew, but that they had known for years, and hadn’t yet said a word to her about it. “And you didn’t lie about yourself, but you lied about them?” Libby challenged, angry, and wishing that she had someplace private to talk, where she didn’t have to worry about three or four people overhearing at any given time. “You never brought Morgan to the hospital when she OD’d! I dropped out of school because I couldn’t get out of bed for it! And in what universe do you honestly think that I’m okay? After putting up with your pressure to be just like you, to do everything you did, how you did it, when you did it. I’m not you, Liam! And I am not okay!”

“Libby, jeez, I just thought I was helping. Nothing I ever do is good enough for you, is it? I didn’t do this for me. I did it for you. All you guys. So you wouldn’t have to. You know those people wouldn’t have stopped asking for an exclusive until one of us gave it to them. Listen, I know you don’t like to hear this, but sometimes you have to lie. I didn’t want everyone watching to get a bad impression of Christianity as a whole, based on me. People over generalize all the time, and if they heard that I abandoned Morgan… Well, that wouldn’t have been a good impression. I made sure to put you in a good light.”

“Because if you didn’t, it would reflect badly on you!” Libby seethed.

“When are you coming home? I don’t think all that time out there is good for you,” he said gravely.

Libby had hung up on him and turned her phone off. She had yet to turn it back on, and didn’t care whose calls she was missing. Everyone she cared about was right here.

“Hey, Libby, so what am I painting?” Christian asked. “I’m done with my purple sky.”

Taking a deep breath, Libby made herself focus. This was what was important right now. This was what she could give to the people she was around. A way to express everything inside.

Every day, she started by letting Christian do a free project. Paint something that he wanted to paint. Then they talked about it, and then, when he seemed relaxed, she asked him to paint an emotion. So far, he had painted sadness, happiness, loneliness and fear.

“Paint your anger,” Libby encouraged, and then she watched, amazed, as he immediately went to work, dumping little cups of paint onto the paper and smearing them with his hands.

“That looks confusing,” Libby observed.

“Yeah,” Christian answered, distracted. “Sometimes my anger is confusing.”

“Like when?” Libby asked.

“Like…when I got in trouble in school, and I knew I should get in trouble but I was still mad,” Christian said, matter-of-factly.

“You don’t sound mad,” Libby observed.

“No, I’m over it.” Christian said, dumping black paint on his messy paper.

“Okay,” Libby agreed. “So, why did you get in trouble at school?”

“Because I wasn’t staying seated,” Christian remembered.

“What were you doing instead?”

“Looking out the window and opening the door,” he said, working the black in with both hands.

When she asked why, he just shrugged.

“Hey, CJ? Look over here for a second,” Libby said, getting his attention. “Which of these do you think you were feeling on the day you were looking out the window and opening the door?” On her easel, Libby had displayed his four previous paintings. They all had a color-theme. Sadness was blue and green. Happiness was orange and red. Loneliness was gray. Fear was yellow.

“The yellow one,” he said thoughtfully. “I was just checking for my mom and dad, but they weren’t there yet. It reminded me of when I was in the daycare with all the other kids. We had to stay in there with the lights off and be very quiet. And then the lights came back on and everybody had people come and get them, but nobody came for me. Because both my mom and Coby got shot, right?” Christian asked.

Libby nodded, surprised to hear Christian address Coby by name. “Right. But Legend came as soon as she could, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the same as your mom coming to get you,” Christian pointed out. “And you know what? I just remembered. My mom got left when she was almost my same age. So she knows how it feels probably.”

Libby nodded, impressed. “She probably does. You should ask her about it.”

Christian was quiet a minute, thinking. “Can you ask her? Can you write it on the back of my yellow painting?”

So, Libby took a pen, and wrote carefully, transcribing the words as Christian spoke them:

How did it feel
When you got left?
Did you feel scared and lonely
And out of yourself?
How did you get over it
And be brave again
And not be scared
Anymore?

A knock sounded at the door, and Coby poked his head inside. “Hey guys. Sorry to interrupt. I wasn’t sure what the sock meant…”

“It means ‘occupied,’” Christian passed along knowingly. “I’m going to give my fear to Mom,” he said, taking the yellow painting from Libby.

“Can I have one?” Coby asked, intrigued. He came in, dressed in a black leather jacket, knit cap, blue jeans and boots. Looking from him to Christian, Libby could see the similarities. Christian, with his Spongebob boots, blue jeans and red knit cap and matching jacket.

“Sure, you can have that one,” Christian pointed. “As soon as it’s dried.” Then he took off toward the house, before Coby had the chance to ask anything else.

Coby looked at the painting, intrigued. “What is this?”

“His anger,” Libby passed along. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way. I’m sure you have things to do in here,” she said apologetically, gathering up her art supplies.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could paint with you. Unless you’re starving. I asked Jess to hold dinner for us. She said she’d leave our plates in the oven,” Coby said, uncertain.

“Um…sure.” Libby answered, setting her paints back down. This was the last thing that she expected, but who was she to deny Coby this if he was coming to her? So, she poured out fresh paint and got new brushes. She hadn’t ever done an art session with a peer. Christian was the only one.

“Just do what you do with Christian with me,” Coby encouraged.

So, Libby tried. She put Coby at the easel and then stood behind it. She asked him to paint the one thing that seemed the hardest for him to deal with.

“Paint your helplessness,” she said, and sat on a stool to wait. Libby wasn’t sure if Coby would be up for this. Maybe he would leave. Maybe he would get upset. Maybe he would refuse.

Libby held her breath, and Coby started to paint.

She wrote in her journal while she waited, staying instinctively quiet. She wrote about what art meant to her and why it was important to share with others, even if she didn’t have a lot of material possessions. Then, she painted tiny flowers around the thought, in brilliant colors. She had started adding paintings to her journal and really thought they completed each entry.

Coby, meanwhile, bit his lip and painted furiously for upwards of half an hour. When he was done, he was breathless, and turned the easel so she could see it.

There - in expertly mixed colors - was a leg. The skin was a near-perfect match to Coby’s own. He hadn’t missed the small details. Hair. The ragged edge of his jeans where Morgan had cut them open with Buddy’s knife. Morgan’s belt wrapped around his thigh, each notch in the belt visible. And the wound, with blood gushing from it.

“When did you feel this last?” Libby asked, breathless.

Coby looked her in the eye. “I feel this every day. When Jess can’t think of the word for garlic. When Liam does ridiculous TV interviews. When Nathaniel blushes, as if he couldn’t possibly receive a compliment. When Christian can’t leave my side. When you show up here and pretend to be okay. I feel it every single day.”

“Why?” Libby asked, unflinching.

“I don’t know why. I just do,” Coby insisted quietly.

“Well, think about it.”

“Because I couldn’t help them,” Coby admitted, ducking his head.

“Jess?” Libby guessed.

“And Morgan… He pulled her right out of my hands. I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

Libby nodded, swallowing.

They had all been hiding beneath the same table. Libby had watched, scared silent as Morgan lunged forward, saying she wasn’t going to let Buddy - who was showing the gun - do this, and Coby had grabbed her by the hood of the sweatshirt to hold her back. She still fought, and Coby had held on. Then Buddy had come over and grabbed her, jerking her away from Coby. When he came out from beneath the table, Buddy had shot him. Libby took a breath, steadying herself from the memory, and addressed Coby, speaking softly.

“None of us had control then, okay? But it wasn’t our fault. The thing is, we have control now. We can choose what kind of people to be. Our attitudes. The way we parent. The way we’re there for one another. You can choose the kind of husband you are to Jess now and the kind of father you are to Christian. The kind of friend you are to all of us.”

There was silence and then Coby nodded. Libby thought she saw tears in his eyes.

“Will you do me a favor?” she asked gently.

Another nod.

“Before you go, will you paint me your strength and your power?”

So Coby got to work, throwing the leg painting aside and starting on a new one. All the while his mind was working.

The kind of work Libby was doing deserved its own space. Not just his workshop, which had one source of light and a crappy space heater. So as he painted calligraphy-style initials in black and red across the page, Coby thought about the spare bedroom. It had exercise equipment that was never used. He could easily give it a new paint job. Maybe hang her Independence painting on the wall and get her a few new supplies.

Even as he thought and worked, Libby stayed. For over an hour while he added little details.

When it was done, he thanked her, and then simply got up and started for the door.

“Wait! Don’t you want it?” Libby called.

“Keep it,” he said.

When Libby was alone, she walked around easel and studied it. What she found took her breath. Initials danced across the page, intertwining with one another, as if they‘d been penned, not painted.

Coby’s initials were connected to Jess’s and Jess’s to Christian’s. Coby’s were connected to Bryan and Aaron. Aaron’s to Jess and Legend. Legend’s back to Christian. Jess’s were connected to Morgan’s, Libby’s and Emily’s. Morgan’s, Libby’s and Nate’s were connected. Libby’s and Emily’s were connected. Nate’s and Cary’s were connected. Cary’s and Jonathan’s were connected. Jonathan and Morgan’s were connected. It had the delicate strength of a spider web. Finding the initials was like working on finding hidden pictures in a magazine.

In the spaces, there were paintbrushes and paint. Books and food. A cross. A snowboard. A motorcycle. A skateboard. A van. A home with a lit porch. Music. Everything seemed perfectly selected and was placed in a space near someone’s initials.

Libby knew he said she could keep it, but she didn’t even want to touch it. It was too amazing. So she left it where it was to dry and hurried in the house for dinner, wishing she had a place to hang it.