“Sounds,” he murmurs. “Fear.”
I tend to forget that everything I went through was Devin’s life too. “Is this what you talked about in therapy?” I ask him.
“After rehab, yes,” Devin tells me. “And on and off I’ve seen therapists. They can’t prescribe me enough to really get me through it. I can’t go through that again.” I remember it all. That part of my life is crystal clear. Devin on pills, heroin, crack, speed, meth, coke, anything he could get his hands on. I won’t let him slip again, and I nod in agreement.
It’s almost noon. We have a lot of unpacking to do, and get some light clothing on since it’s another hot day. We need to empty the truck, and I feel like shit, but I ignore the feeling and we get started.
We decide to set up the stereo first and Devin attaches his phone to it so we can listen to his music as we work. Within an hour I hear a combination of Talking Heads, David Bowie, Pixies, Butthole Surfers, Morphine, and even Velvet Underground.
“This reminds me of Dad…Jack,” I say, faltering.
“Me too,” Devin admits, “but it’s still a favorite,” and I have to agree. The song is “Pale Blue Eyes” and reminds me of something. Not an event “something”, but a feeling. Like when things were good. I know Devin is feeling the same way, but we just give each other a smile and go back to lifting, sorting and emptying boxes.
At around 5:00 we have to stop. The truck has been emptied into the garage and we are exhausted. Devin has to return the truck. Since I can’t drive, he calls Justin to follow him in his car and drive him back to the house. When they leave, I set to unpacking some more boxes. The boys are planning to return with some dinner, mostly because when I checked the fridge, all that’s left of Louisa’s leftovers are two meatballs and a roll, which means Kate must have been hungry last night when she came home. Devin only bought breakfast stuff from the market that’s within walking distance so we definitely need to do some serious grocery shopping soon. I need graham crackers or cookies or something to snack on when I’m sitting around.
As I open boxes in an attempt to organize them by room, I come across canvases of Devin’s that have been painted and stuffed into a box. This strikes me as strange since Devin so carefully packed all of the projects he was currently working on and covered them so as not to damage them. I can tell these works are older. His technique had been honed over the years and these paintings are rough and almost primal. As Devin matures and calms down, so does his painting, but as a teenager, his artwork is angry and uncontrolled. They are brilliant, though there is a definite difference. His colors are darker in these paintings I am pulling out of the box. The subjects are much more obscene than I’ve ever seen from Devin. A woman with her legs spreading and flies pouring out from between her legs. A man eating the face off of another man under a bridge. A boy crouched in the corner of a room looking dirty and shamed, eating his own hand. Everything makes me sick, yet I can’t look away. I feel horribly strong emotions with each painting I see. Shame. Guilt. Anger. Rage. Nothing I see leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy. Then I see something I know I should not.
It’s me, I know it. I recognize the pitiful look in the girl’s hollow eyes. The small scrawny body still belongs to me, only it’s softened up a bit, though not very much. The girl in the painting is nude, draped on her back across a bed, in a position so awkward and uncomfortable that it tells me the girl is broken. There is a shadow cast across the girl’s body. I can tell it’s a man, with horns on his head. Maybe the devil, but I know it’s Jack.
“Quite a vision you were back then,” I hear Kate whisper in my ear. “Like a rag doll. Torn up and discarded. Used when needed and tossed away.”
Tears spring to my eyes. I see “To Store” written on the side of the box I have open. The secret contents splayed out in front of me make me wish I’d seen what was written on the side before I decided to check what was inside. “Fuck you!” I whisper, whirling around to hit her. She ducks my hand and laughs. “Get away from me, Kate. What the fuck did you do last night?”
She smiles and sits down next to me and traces the portrait girl’s face and then spits on it. “Why not call Drake and find out?” With horror, I scream and leap at her, but she runs out of the room and away and I know she will be gone for now. She is starting to show up less and less with me and more as me, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.
I stand up and walk to my room and find my phone. With shaky fingers I dial Drake and hear it ring once. “Hello Jenna,” he says. “Or should I say Kate?”