An Ounce of Hope(7)

Great. So Elliot was handing him over to some Renoir-loving asshat who no doubt balked at the mere mention of the word "abstract." Not that he had anything against Renoir, but still.

"If you don't like it, you can try something else," Elliot said, all but reading Max's thoughts. "But I want you to engage, express yourself, and communicate. Besides, I remember reading on your admittance form that you liked painting."

Max shrugged. "Carter wrote that. I haven't done it for a long time. I used to paint the cars that came into the shop when I was younger. Then I took my work onto the buildings of New York. Dad used to brag about how his kid could paint the entire island of Manhattan single-handedly . . ." His words caught in his throat.

Elliot placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Paint what you can't say, Max."

Max cocked an eyebrow, dismissing the kind gesture. "And if I don't?"

Elliot stood up straight. "Then I withhold your gym pass." He turned on his heel, leaving Max gaping at the back of him.

"But . . . you said that- Hold the fuck on, Doc!"

"Two weeks," Elliot said calmly from the door. "Two weeks with Tate, improvement in group, and I'll allow you to start working out with a trainer. Deal?"

Max slumped against the pillows. He may have pouted like a child, but he knew he had little choice. "Deal."

The art room was nothing like Max expected. It was huge, light, airy, and reeked of paint and soap, punctuated by the underlying but instantly recognizable aroma of paint stripper. It was a heady smell that knocked Max headlong into a nostalgic memory of working in his father's shop, spraying the Mustangs and Buicks while rock music shook the entire building. His father loved rocking out to Pink Floyd and the Who. The louder the better, he'd say-




 

 

"And you must be Max."

Max turned. The man in the doorway, although older than Max, was young. Younger than he'd anticipated. He was tall and broad, had dark blond hair that was trimmed closely to his head, large hazel eyes, and an even bigger smile. He held out his left hand, while his right gripped the top of a dark wood cane.

"I'm Tate Moore." They shook hands. "Elliot set up our meeting today." He noticed Max's gaze on the cane. "Eh, the chicks dig a guy with a cane and a limp, what can I say?"

Max pushed his hands into his pockets, his eyes wary. "You're the art guy?"

Tate grinned. "Not what you were expecting, huh?"

The guy was wearing black jeans, Converse, and a T-shirt that, underneath the outline of a Tardis, read "Trust Me I'm The Doctor."

Max shook his head. "Not really."

Tate waved a hand dismissively. "I get that a lot." He walked into the room, past Max. In fairness, the man's limp wasn't so bad. "We have the place to ourselves for a little while before my next sitting. Tell me about art."

Max frowned. "Huh?"

Tate smiled as he settled onto a rolling stool, propping his cane against his thigh. "What's your experience? Are you a beginner? What do you favor? Paints, pencils, charcoal? Tell me."

Max glanced out the large French windows, which looked out onto the snow-covered land of the center. "I like paints. I painted when I was a kid. Spray-painted cars, detailing. I got busted for graffiti a few times."

Tate smiled and nodded. "Ah, so you have a steady hand and you like color."

"I guess."

Tate gestured for Max to take a seat, which he did. "So I have to ask, what do you want to gain from this, Max?"

Max laughed without humor. "For Doc to leave me the fuck alone."

Tate snorted. "I hear ya. But you need to want to do this for it to be of any benefit. I know Dr. Watts arranged this and the reasons why, but I want to know that you're going to give it a chance."

Max scanned around the expansive room, seeing the wooden easels, paintbrushes, color-splattered oilcloths and sheets, and sensed a small lift of exhilaration in his chest. He exhaled. "I want to be able to . . . express myself better. I need to express myself better because I need to get better."

Looking back at Tate, he met a beaming grin. "I like it," Tate said gently.

Max smiled. "When do we start?"

They started the following day.

Max found that getting out of bed was a little bit easier that morning, despite waking twice with night terrors, and was almost five minutes early to his allotted time. He wouldn't say he was excited per se, but he was certainly looking forward to picking up a paintbrush again. Tate greeted him with a smile, a handshake, and another T-shirt that, beneath a picture of Leonard Nimoy, stated "Spock On." Max considered briefly that maybe Tate needed an appointment with Elliot more than he did.