Painting Sage Read online

  Painting Sage

  Rachael K. Hannah

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Text copyright © 2017 Rachael K. Hannah

  ISBN-13: 978-1544806020

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Solemnity

  Chapter 2: Sojourn

  Chapter 3: See the Forrest for the Trees

  Chapter 4: Elsewhere

  Chapter 5: The Things I Cannot Change

  Chapter 6: The City

  Chapter 7: On Standby

  Chapter 8: Conference Room North Side

  Chapter 9: Distant Memories Past

  Chapter 10: A Long Way from Tacoma

  Chapter 11: Kith and Kin

  Chapter 12: Sixteen Candles

  Chapter 13: Compulsion

  Chapter 14: Sea Change

  Chapter 15: The Tire Iron

  Epilogue

  *

  I never pictured myself as someone who could be responsible for the life of another person. As self-interested as that may sound, there had always been a part of me that was primarily concerned with my self-preservation. I’m not proud to admit this. I’d been told before that this need I had for independence—for control—had the power to wear others down to a fraction of what they once had been. They’d become withered and drained; until they could no longer provide whatever it was, I was looking for in the first place. Whenever I did seek that basic need for human connection—no matter who it was with—I, too, usually ended up feeling exhausted, defeated. Always focused on the outcome, never the process. Always looking for external answers and definitive solutions, but never reflecting deep within myself.

  Until Sage.

  They say when a parent looks at their child for the first time, something so powerful, so instinctual and beyond the self takes over. Sadly, before Sage came to be, I never believed I’d ever experience this overwhelming instinct of self-sacrifice for another. That image persisted in my mind—that cautionary tale of the kind of woman who never quite comes to experience the gift of unconditional love. You may have met her before. She is emotionally unavailable, void of intrinsic warmth and devotion. Empty, hollow, altogether broken. I feared that I might be her.

  If I was, how then would I possibly be able to give to another person without wanting anything in return?

  Until Sage.

  From the very first moment I saw her, I felt overcome with the need to protect her. Her fragility and defenselessness struck me in a way I hadn’t imagined possible. Sage forced me to think outside of myself, to think of another.

  Although I know most parents adamantly tout the unquestionable uniqueness of their children, from the start, I could see there was something very unusual about her. As the years passed us by, I could tell there was something distinctively different about the way Sage perceived our world and her place within it. She was not like other children.

  Something would happen.

  It was a late night in December, just a few hours before Christmas Eve, when it happened. So truthfully, I knew it would. My daughter was fifteen years old, and by then, something inside me just knew that she wasn’t okay.

  But like parents sometimes do, I deflected and ignored this feeling. I refused to recognize or acknowledge what was in plain view for me to see. Looking back, maybe it was my fault. Maybe I should have done something—anything—sooner. I didn’t know the answer. But what I did know was that I had to protect her. I’d find a way somehow. I would find it within myself to become the person we both needed me to be.

  Chapter 1

  Solemnity

  Julia - December

  “Julia?”

  I blinked.

  “Julia, are you there?”

  Overwrought, overwhelmed, I couldn’t bring myself to break the silence. I had called my friend Connor for help but found it impossible to speak. My phone repeatedly tapped against my cheek as I clenched it inside my trembling hand. Somehow—I don’t know how—I managed to keep Sage propped up against me, clutched firmly to my shaking body, as I gently stroked her damp, clammy forehead.

  Looking back at it all, I am still haunted by the aching wish that I had reached her sooner. The problem was that when we deal with illness—of any kind, really, but especially this one—we’re genuinely so vulnerable, so helpless. So human. It overwhelms us as it becomes this presence… this thing with which we have no choice but to exist, day by day. In the dark, we are left defenseless, clinging on to the simplest of hopes that maybe tomorrow will be just a little bit better.

  “Julia?”

  And it never helped when other people didn’t seem to understand. Many times, it was either spoken about in whispers—hushed, silenced—or completely overblown until it almost felt as if your very humanity was stripped down to nothingness. So, those rare times when you came across that one other person who had seen it, experienced it, and understood where you were coming from, you felt completely overwhelmed by the absolute solace of empathy.

  “Julia? Are you there?”

  I could hear Connor’s voice growing frantic and began to wonder if I had made the right decision by calling him. But at that moment, he was the closest thing to family we had, someone Sage and I could rely on. My father didn’t need the extra trouble, and Sage’s father…

  Opening my mouth to speak, I still found that no sound came out. The words—I could almost feel them—were trapped inside my dry, tight throat. Still, I was determined to remain strong.

  Taking a deep breath, I found my voice.

  “Connor, we have to go to the hospital.”

  With that ever-trembling hand, I tenderly stroked my daughter’s long, thick, chestnut-colored hair. It had become soaked and weighed down heavily by her sweat. My dry lips found their way to her forehead.

  “It’ll be okay,” I whispered, making my best effort to sound composed, reassuring, in control. Her only response was a slow nod.

  “Lia, just hang on. I’m heading over right now,” Connor said.

  “We won’t be here.” I paused, distracted by the intensifying wail of sirens as they grew closer. “I… I don’t know the train schedule if anything is running up here now—”

  “Never mind that. Just tell me what you need. Is there anything you want me to do? Call anyone?” There was a long pause. “Call Mike?”

  “No.” I shook my head vigorously — not her father. “Not yet,” I insisted.

  “Okay. Listen, I need you to text or call when you know exactly where you’re going to be. Please.”

  “I will.”

  I felt a tug. Sage tightly clasped my hand in her own and then gently squeezed.

  “I can’t. I can’t,” she whispered over and over, her deep, dark eyes staring imploringly into my own. Her body, rounded, slowly curled itself inward until she resembled a tiny kidney bean. Frail, defenseless, she appeared even more childlike and vulnerable in my heavy arms. Utterly shaken, I tightened my grip around her wilting body.

  I can barely recall what I saw or heard next within those vital moments when help finally arrived. But sometimes now, when I close my eyes, I can almost feel myself there again, overcome by unyielding darkness. I can feel how every inch of my body was nearly fr
ozen, paralyzed, on the brink of surrender. How I had to force myself to think, not to give in, and to imagine every step my feet took forward. How I had to force myself to move one foot in front of the other… in front of the other.

  And I still remember how, despite it all, I resolved to keep all my future promises to her.

  *

  We had once been a family of three.

  It was two days before Sage’s tenth birthday when her father left us. I wish I could say it was a surprise. The proverbial writing had been plastered all over the wall for quite some time. Even still, it came as a rather painful blow. Mike started a new family overnight, or so it had seemed, and we were no longer a part of his picture. The man I had known almost my entire life had become a distant stranger.

  A successful copywriter, Mike had worked his way up the ladder of the creative department at an up-and-coming Internet media company that was quickly gaining a substantial following amongst the Brooklyn twenty-something hipster crowd. He wrote pieces that, at first glance, appeared to be fun, quirky stories about life below Manhattan’s 14th Street. That is until you read a bit further. That’s when you’d recognize these articles for the shameless product endorsements they were. It was all quite clever, and he did it exceptionally well. His new wife, Abigail, was a former account executive for the same media outfit. It was Mike’s overwhelming success that allowed her to leave the company eventually and become a stay-at-home mom to their twin boys. And so, having realized the American dream, both Mike and Abigail were of the firm belief that Sage would benefit more from a traditional home like theirs and less so from one like mine. Thus, a seemingly unending power struggle between the three of us was born.

  Mike would have loved nothing more than for Sage to move into their picturesque home in Westport, Connecticut, that Christmas. Sage ended up in a room at Sherwood Pines instead.

  Isolated from the residential homes and small businesses that made Darien one of Connecticut’s quainter and more charming communities, Sherwood Pines Hospital was known for treating various forms of psychiatric and addictive disorders. Although the hospital mainly catered to affluent professionals who lived within the Greater New York City area, the occasional Hollywood celebrity or political figure passed through its doors as well, usually to evade unwanted media attention. This was all made possible due to Sherwood’s secluded location and, more importantly, its long-held, impenetrable practice of maintaining absolute discretion for its guests. The adolescent treatment house, which could best be described as a breathtaking colonial-style mansion, was a sight to behold itself. Admittedly, Sherwood Pines was well beyond my pay grade, but Mike wasn’t about to hold back a single penny—especially if it made him look like a hero.

  It was at Sherwood Pines that we found ourselves looking for answers.

  Sage was sick, and I felt ashamed. Mike and I were her parents. It was the most important job we had ever been given, yet somehow, we had messed up. How had we failed to recognize the full weight of her sadness?

  Given my family history—with my mother—well, I always knew there would be a possibility that this could be passed down to my children. But again, like well-meaning parents sometimes did, I had failed to recognize what had been right in front of me to see.

  Each day that passed without Sage weighed heavily on my heart. I visited her faithfully. Every day and every night. It became an odd routine of sorts for me. Visiting hours somehow made all time sit still, and the empty hours between those morning and early evening shifts simply didn’t pass fast enough.

  We were approaching Sage’s sixth day at Sherwood, and I felt myself growing unsure of everything as I became increasingly anxious.

  Tat, tat, tat. Tat, tat, tat. My right foot tapped against the waiting room floor. I nervously flipped through magazines, the kind that featured the latest trends in DIY home décor, or boasted the benefits of getting the whole family on board with clean eating. My baked turkey mashed potato muffins never seemed to come out as perfect as the ones featured in those glossy photos, no matter how hard I tried. It was the kind of publication that managed to make me feel as if I lacked in some basic skill all the other mothers had effortlessly picked up along the way.

  My tablet, coat, and other random belongings were scattered carelessly around me. An outright disheveled mess, I was no longer worried about being noticed or concerned that someone might try to strike up a conversation or gaze at me, eyes filled with pity, wondering if I was, in any way, to blame. I was tired and worn.

  Unable to relax, I shifted around. I sat on a plush sectional upholstered in what another patient’s mom had described to me as walnut-colored, textured twill. My eyes wandered all around me, overtaken by all that I saw. An exquisitely constructed Persian rug rested beneath my feet. One of those newly crafted electric fireplaces warmed the room. And a Christmas tree so grand, so tall, stood magnificently across from me. Its needles delicately grazed the ceiling.

  I took a deep breath. The comforting, distinct scent of pine lingered throughout the room and adjacent corridors.

  Dry-eyed, with a slight sniffle in my nose and tickle in my throat, I reached into my bag for a compact. Opening it up, I critically examined my tired, makeup-less face — a few obstinate tendrils of black baby-hairs curled around my forehead. My usually rich, honey-colored complexion appeared a dull, almost sullen yellow. Tiny little freckles, which usually delicately dotted my cheeks and the tip of my nose, now splashed and splattered against my face. Giving up, I snapped the lid shut and tossed the mirror back into my bag.

  I shifted my attention back to the tree. It was under a similar tree in the adolescent common area where Sage and a few other girls had opened their presents on Christmas morning. There, I had tried my best to pretend it was no different from any other Christmas we had celebrated together. I had decided not to notice when girls, some even younger than Sage, would tip-toe by, peeking from the doorway with wistful eyes—girls whose families never visited. We played a game of imagination, pretending it was just a regular Christmas morning. We played a game of imagination as nurses and orderlies looked on.

  I didn’t even notice that Connor had entered the room until his voice pulled me away from the unpleasant memory.

  “I’m starting to worry about you. Weren’t you just here?” he asked. Connor tore through the room, noticeably agitated, pacing and inspecting every corner. It was as if he somehow thought the room had changed since his visit the previous day. I would have stood up to greet him, but my arms felt so heavy and dense at my sides. So instead, I managed a small smile and motioned to a spot beside me.

  It was uncomfortable seeing Connor this way. We had been friends since childhood, and even though we had been through so much together, for whatever reason, this felt different. The three of us—Connor, Mike, and I—grew up together on the same street in the same Bronx neighborhood called Norwood. Connor had always been the funny yet reliable one. Incredibly bright, somewhat of a contradiction, he was a financial analyst who worked and lived in the city, but he had probably missed his true calling as a loveable game show host. At that moment, though, he seemed irritable and somewhat apprehensive. It was very uncharacteristic of him, and I didn’t know what to make of it. I could tell he wanted to help me but wasn’t quite sure how.

  “You should talk,” I replied. “You’ve been here every day, too.”

  “Not every hour. Here, I got you something.” Connor pulled off a black knit ski cap from his head and shook it, lightly dusting the floor by his feet with melting snow. Dark auburn hair messily, almost mischievously, spiked out in every direction; he didn’t even try to smooth it out. Settling down next to me, Connor handed me a large cup of coffee and then plopped his blue backpack on the floor. I lifted the cap and inhaled about a quarter of the cup in one gulp.

  “Did you just get up here from work?” I asked.

  “No,” he said while opening his backpack. “I took a few days for the holiday. They actually approved the time off, for once.
Here,” he handed me a small brown paper bag. “It’s just a few things I picked up. I would have brought you something from a diner, but I don’t know where anything is around here. It’s all trees. I don’t get why Mike followed Abigail up here.”

  I smiled. It was such a Connor comment to make. Connor was the type who couldn’t get a peaceful night’s rest without the white noise of ambulances and sirens in the background.

  Even though I wasn’t very hungry, I didn’t want to dismiss his kind gesture and pulled a granola bar out of the bag. Taking a small bite out of it, I nodded to show my appreciation.

  “It’s okay,” I said between mouthfuls. “This is perfect right now.”

  “Mike here?”

  I shook my head. “He came yesterday. He’s taking the boys ice skating tonight, and then they’re staying with Abigail’s parents in Rye Brook. He mentioned coming by tomorrow. We need to meet with the staff and discuss a discharge plan.”

  Connor nodded. “What’s going on with that?” His nose and mouth scrunched up a bit awkwardly, and then he mouthed, “How is she?”

  “You don’t need to whisper. We’re the only people in here, and even if we weren’t, the visitors are all here for the same reason. Well, anyway, she’s on fifty milligrams of some new anti-depressant I’ve never even heard of, and going to some sort of behavioral therapy — individual and group. It’s supposedly very effective. I’ve met with Dr. Warner, the physician who’s been assigned to her. I also managed to do a little Internet research on my own, checked out a few books from the library.”

  “Thomas say anything?”

  I shook my head. Although I had told my father about what had happened, it was the last thing he needed to hear. “What can he possibly do to help me?” I asked.

  Connor nodded understandingly. “I know this is a lot to deal with. Taking more vacation time?”

  “I don’t know.” Being a teacher didn’t allow for taking random vacation days throughout the year. Our schedule was pretty much fixed. I was given the standard winter and spring breaks, then one or two weeks between the end of the regular school year and our summer sessions. “My guess is that I’ll have to go to work, take the train back up to Bronxville, and then drive to Darien every night. It’ll be long hours and a lot of driving.”