I See Me (13 page)

“The pills aren’t good for you,” he said. “I don’t think you should take them anymore.”

We had both slept after the mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-reaffirming sex, but I shouldn’t have. I’d dreamed of the latest hallucination and it made me edgy. Edgy enough to fight. I wasn’t a fighter, though. I was a walk-awayer.

“Oh, so you’re a head doctor now?”

“No, but …” Beau hesitated. “I know people we could see.”

“We?” I countered. “It’s my head. You think I haven’t seen everyone there is to see?”

“Not like that. Not those people,” he said. His tone was completely nonconfrontational.

I’d gone to the bathroom and was now bringing his cold coffee and my cold juice back to bed with me. He was sprawled across the bed, absentmindedly rubbing the satin-bound edge of the felted, pink blankets between his fingers. His dark caramel skin looked amazing, even surrounded by the garish green, orange, and brown decor of the Brave. But then, I bet his skin looked good in or around any color.

“Not those same people,” he repeated. His voice was remote, thoughtful.

“What people then?”

“I bought pastries,” he said, instead of answering my question. He pointed behind me to the brown paper bag on the kitchen counter.

“Not in the bed.”

“No?” he asked coyly. “What else am I not allowed to do in here?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, aware that he was distracting me and attempting to do an end run around the conversation.

“I still don’t like the pills,” he said, proving my point as he climbed out of bed. “They dampen you.”

“That’s what they’re supposed to do.”

He couldn’t step by me in the narrow hall without knocking me aside, but he didn’t need to. He simply reached his long arm over my head, snagged the paper bag on the counter, and carried it back to the bed.

“Hey,” I exclaimed as I followed him.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he said, lifting the edge of the blankets to invite me back in.

I didn’t budge. I did glare.

“You said you were cold.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” he asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.

I was getting accustomed to this look. He was like a cat with a mouse. A nice cat. A playful cat, rather than a murderous one. Though maybe such a beast didn’t exist. I didn’t know. I’d never had any sort of pet of my own.

I was hit once more with the need to sketch him. To forever capture him as he was now, sprawled across the too-small bed and clothed only in old blankets and sheets. But in color, not in charcoal on white paper. I never drew in color.

I climbed into bed instead.
 

He’d bought danish pastries this time.

∞

When we finally admitted we needed to get out of bed again, it was way after dinner time. I still had no idea where the hell we were camped.

It was dark and drizzling outside. Beau had hooked up the Brave with fresh water and electricity.

“We should have bought more groceries,” I said as I looked at the meager offerings in the fridge. A couple of slices of cheese, mayo, and the outside crusts of a loaf of bread weren’t going to yield much nourishment.

“Let’s get seafood for dinner,” Beau said. “Right after I run.”

“You need to run now?”

“Yeah, sorry. I know it’s not great timing, but it’s something I have to do every couple of days and I’ve delayed it too long.” He spoke as he pulled a T-shirt on and retrieved a set of sweatpants from his backpack. “I’m going to cut through the forest along the beach. If you’re starving, you don’t have to wait on me. Bike the path into Lincoln and we’ll meet at the restaurant.”

“Bike the path? Lincoln? Restaurant?”

“Yeah.” He tugged on a baseball cap with the Seattle Mariners Logo on it. “Lincoln City. We’re parked at the Devil’s Lake State Recreation Area.”

I couldn’t see any sign of a lake as I tugged my hoodie up over my head and followed Beau out of the Brave. We appeared to be parked in the middle of a forest. Though, I could hear the surf crashing behind me. Our campsite was buffered from the next one over by a thin line of evergreens.

“I was thinking Pier 101 for dinner,” Beau said. “My treat.” Then he lifted his chin to draw my attention to the rear of the Brave.

He’d bought me a bike. It was locked to the back of the Brave. Its frame was black, but its wheels, handles, wire basket, and seat were white. It was one of those modern bikes made to look old fashioned. I loved it instantly, completely irrationally. Yes, me. The girl who was pleased — even self-righteous — that all her clothing fit into one suitcase.

“This is too expensive. I thought you only had enough for the apple pie?”

“Cash,” he said. “I hit the ATM. There’s one in town.”

“I can’t —”

“Yeah, let’s not do that.” He cut me off with a deliberate and lingering kiss.

“You have to let me contribute,” he added, just as I was about to melt into the lip lock.

Then he jogged away toward a dirt path and what I guessed was Devil’s Lake. He turned around, jogging backward, to flash a grin and say, “Pier 101. Take that path to the highway.” He pointed to his left, further through the campsite. “The restaurant is right off the highway. Blue awnings, gray shingles. It’ll take you ten to fifteen minutes to bike there. Don’t forget your phone in case you get lost.” Then he disappeared into the trees.

In case I get lost? Then what? Beau didn’t appear to own a phone. So I guess I was googling the restaurant if I couldn’t find it.

∞

It was still drizzling as I rode along the dirt path that Beau had indicated, but the tall evergreens on either side kept me dry until I cut over to the highway. My bag fit perfectly in the white wire basket hanging off the handle bars. Despite the lack of lighting along the path and highway, I could see fairly well because Beau had also attached a strobing bike light to the handle bar, along with a bell that had a black butterfly on it.

Just like my tattoo.

If I paused to think about it, I would be terrified of how far into Beau I was after only a couple of days.

So I didn’t think about it.

I didn’t see a specific sign, but I was fairly certain I was now on the coastal highway, because I could hear the pounding surf just on the other side of the trees. That helped me place Lincoln City firmly in Oregon. The maps I’d studied before heading across the border had shown a highway twisting all along the edge of the coast from Astoria at the tip of Oregon through to the California border. The map had also highlighted a plethora of campsites all along the coast highway, though most were seasonal.

I assumed that Beau had driven over the wide bridge that spanned the Columbia River, and then through Astoria to continue along the coast to Lincoln City. Just as I’d planned to. While sleeping off the last round of hallucinations, I’d missed a lot of what I really wanted to see. It took hours to drive that distance, especially in an RV.

I refused to pout about it further, even silently. Beau had done what he thought necessary for me at the time. We could always backtrack up the coast tomorrow morning so I could see what I’d missed. That might be silly, but this was my life now. I could be all the silly I wanted to be.

Cars and a few campers passed by intermittently as I peddled west. I stuck to the generous paved shoulder obviously meant for cyclists until I came to the edge of Lincoln City.

I didn’t care about the rain dampening my hair or face, because the bike was perfect. Though, I was seriously glad there were only three gears to figure out. I hadn’t had regular access to a bike since my pre-teens.

From what I could see in the dark, downtown Lincoln City ran all along the very edge of the Pacific Ocean. The beach stretched as far south as I could see. The pounding surf was high and strong. It was the kind of beach that surfers would flock to year round. It was definitely more of a town than a city, though. None of the buildings on the main street were over four-storeys, and those that were all appeared to be hotels. The shops and bakeries heavily favored antique white paint with cornflower blue doors, window trims, and awnings, obviously going for the quaint tourist dollars.

I instantly liked it. It wasn’t artifice. It was a choice.

Everything was closed as I biked through town except for the pharmacy and Pier 101. The roof of the restaurant was blue metal, the same color as the awnings. But Beau had neglected to mention the huge orange-red crab painted on the blue-gray shingles that faced the main road. That might have helped with his navigational concerns.

I locked the bike up on one of the front patio pillars. Beau had bought some crazy-heavy-duty U-lock with a key. It was so cumbersome I was ready to start cursing in my struggle to get the bike secured. I wondered if he’d purchased the bike in Lincoln City, after he’d hooked up the Brave but before I’d woken. Or if he’d seen the store somewhere along the highway and stopped impulsively. If the store was in town, I’d have to go pick up a helmet in the morning.

Pier 101 actually hung about ten or fifteen feet over the beach below. The entire dining section was supported by pillars and concrete in the sand, though the surf didn’t seem to come high enough up the beach to wet the pillars. Or at least, from what I could glimpse in the dark, it didn’t tonight.

A short bar ran just off the right of the entrance along the parking-lot side of the building. A small gift-shop area sat behind and to the left of the host station. Keychains, magnetics, and personalized pencils didn’t interest me much. Rochelle wasn’t a common enough name to be printed on a generic souvenir.

It was quiet enough on a Wednesday night in January that getting a booth by the windows was not a problem. In fact, only three other tables were occupied, and the bar stools were all empty. Of course, it was a rather late for dinner.

The booth seats were cornflower blue vinyl. The windowsills were painted blue to match. And most of the seafood was deep-fried. Very American. I had a feeling Beau would love it. I was going to need to ask if the clam chowder had pork in it. Oh … and onion rings. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had onion rings.

The front door opened with a gust of air and heavy rain that indicated the wind had picked up since I arrived. The weather did change quickly on the West Coast. I lowered my five-page plastic menu and looked toward the door, expecting to greet Beau with a big smile.

He’d be wet from the rain, like he had been the first time I laid eyes on him …

It wasn’t Beau.

A dark-haired, dark-suited man walked through the entrance with not a drop of rain on him. He scanned the room, then looked directly at me. He was carrying a black leather art portfolio that was a twin to mine in size, but of more expensive quality.

My heart stopped — literally.

I couldn’t breathe.

Then, my pulse started hammering frantically in my chest, making up for the lost beats and then some.

The wind from before inexplicably rushed through the room, blowing my hair back, tingling across the exposed skin of my face and hands, and plugging my ears, as if the altitude had suddenly changed. Then the gust subsided as quickly as it had come.

“Can I help you?” the host asked. But she wasn’t speaking to the dark-suited man, who strode by her as if she didn’t exist, his gaze still locked to mine.

“Yeah,” a man answered. “A seat at the bar there and a beer would do.”

I tore my gaze away from the dark figure walking toward me to see Hoyt grinning at me as he moved toward the bar.
 

Hoyt from Vancouver. Hoyt who’d spoken to me in the alley behind the Residence. Hoyt who I’d seen in Long Beach.

Hoyt was here with the dark-suited man from my hallucinations.

“No headache,” I whispered. “No white light. No warning.”

Oh, God. I was hallucinating in the middle of the restaurant and … and … my hallucinations could see me, could move toward me as if to start a conversation. That was not good. That was a terrifying progression of my condition.

Desperate and trying to hide it — I had years of experience hiding the hallucinations — I reached for my bag. I’d grabbed it from the Brave because Beau had reminded me of the cell phone, but it also held my sketchbook.

The dark-suited man stopped beside my table. “Lovely view, even on a cloudy evening,” he said as he gazed out at the pounding surf beyond the window. “Quaint town. Though it doesn’t suit you at all.” He had an accent. Not British but something close.

I ignored him as I placed my sketchbook on the table. I flipped it open to a blank page as I dug deeper into my bag for charcoal.

“Ah, you’re going to sketch. Perfect,” he said. “May I join you?”

I shook my head, too frantically for my own slipping sanity. I was letting him in. I was acknowledging him. I shouldn’t acknowledge him, right?

Right?

I didn’t know anything about my own brain anymore.

My hand closed around a bottle of my pills instead of the charcoal I was seeking. Brilliant. I was still riding the fumes of the last two I’d taken, but I would willingly overdose to get him out of my head.

I pulled the bottle out of my bag.

“Don’t,” he hissed, sliding into the booth seat across from me.

I popped the lid off the bottle.

He snatched it from me.

The pills flew into the air, scattering over the table, seat, and floor.

Oh, God, oh, God. How could he touch me? This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he swept the pills on the table toward him. “I need you sharp. From Hoyt’s recounting, these pills dampen your sight.”

He lifted the portfolio he’d been carrying onto the table and unzipped it.

Just get up and leave. Just leave.
 

Hoyt might be part of the delusion, but Beau had chosen the restaurant.

And Beau was real.

So just get up and leave.

The dark-suited man opened the portfolio. It contained easily a dozen of my original sketches. Sketches that I’d sold through my Etsy shop. Sketches ranging back years that featured him or his amulet. It was odd to see how my style had refined and sharpened from the first few to the newer drawings of him and the golden-haired woman in the castle. These were from my hallucinations last fall.