Abandoned Sand Castles (2/8)
by Lavinia's Premonition
"Doctor Evans?" The young nurse knocks nervously before letting the artificial light spill unto the blackness of the room. "There's someone to see you."
"That's nice."
Shock registers on the young girl's face. She gnaws at her fingernails for a moment before answering. "Do you want me to tell her to go away?"
"No." I open my eyes slowly but the light still burns. The nurse turns her back primly as I put on my shirt and make my way to the reception desk.
Isabel hasn't changed a lot since high school. Taller, angrier and blonder. Manipulative until the end. In the few moments that she can look me in the eye, I realize, whether she knows it or not, she's profiling me. At the moment, I'm just another one of her disheveled, shaky hand patients on the couch wasting her time. With a cool superior look that only psychologists posses, she smiles. "Max, you look like hell."
"Thanks," I say dryly. I can find no reason in denying what I've already realized for pride. My pride is somewhere wandering the empty hallways of a place she no longer recognizes. We walk in silence until the parking lot. "Your car or mine?"
Isabel grabs my keys from my hand. "I don't want you to ruin my upholstery."
The restaurant is cold, sophisticated, distant and expensive, much like my sister. Across the table, she sips her tea and swirls it absently in the cup. It spills over the edges but she never notices.
"What brings you here?" I nudge some of the salad that Isabel ordered for me around the plate with my fork. The strident noise it makes seems to ground her.
"There's trouble." Isabel sets down the tea and although there is no need, she decides to name the wrongs with some hesitancy. "Michael."
"Again?" I can't help but feel disappointed.
Isabel leans in closer to me and I watch as a few strands of her hair dip into the buttery sauce of the salad. She glances around the room to make sure no one is listening and then whispers it like a dirty word. "Bar fight. He was drunk."
"Again," I repeat as Isabel leans back and squeezes the sauce from her hair.
Every time we have this conversation, I can fell Michael slip away from us. Every time we try and help, we seem to be pushing him deeper down the rabbit hole. Once upon a time, a time which people only remember with puzzled glances and shrugs, Michael could paint. Critics called him the next Picasso, the next Renoir or anything they could think of to try to compare and classify his work. Some got close, but none could begin to describe in words what Michael did with color.
He woke up one day and his hands were shaking. A violent shuddering that the best doctors simply shook their heads and pumped him full of drugs. The Golden boy was tipped from his pedestal and broke into a million sharp and bleeding shards. The only thing that keeps him steady is alcohol. His disease is his cure.
"Bail's set at a thousand." Isabel unconsciously fingers her purse. "Could be worse. It wouldn't be his first offense."
"It won't be his last," I mummer.
Isabel glares at me sharply and then with a hint of nostalgia behind those cold eyes, continues. "Maria came down from D.C and got her hands on four hundred from her saving account. She says the rest is our problem."
"Is she still in Roswell?" I try to fit that impish grin and caustic wit in a black uniform waving her gun and badge for the world to see.
"After she paid, she took the first plane out." Isabel smiles ruefully. "Then she took the next flight right back."
"Wonder what Freud was to say about that?" I chuckle. Curiosity piqued, I ask casually, "Are they still together?"
"You could say that." Isabel stares at me with those cold, unfeeling, frightening blues eyes that used to be so comforting. In them, she is no better then Michael or myself. "What's wrong with you Max?"
Where to start? I could never hide anything from you, I sigh. I couldn't shield you. I was never good at protecting anyone. I have failed five times over. Avoiding her eyes, I mumble: "Liz."
I can hear her choke on her tea. With the precision of the machine that she has become, she cleans it with a napkin and calmly sets her cup down on the saucer. Her voice betrays her though. There is warning in it. "Max..."
"I know, I know. That's years ago. It's just that..." I stumble and trip on my emotions.
"She is dead Max." Isabel says it as if we were talking about weather or a patient. "Liz Parker was killed seven years ago. End of story." She pulls from her purse, a plane ticket. She meets my eyes and I know that somewhere inside her, she is sorry.
I take the plane ticket from her hand. Two way from Chicago to Roswell, New Mexico.
She lays two twenty dollar bills on the table and stands. "We leave tomorrow."
by Lavinia's Premonition
"Doctor Evans?" The young nurse knocks nervously before letting the artificial light spill unto the blackness of the room. "There's someone to see you."
"That's nice."
Shock registers on the young girl's face. She gnaws at her fingernails for a moment before answering. "Do you want me to tell her to go away?"
"No." I open my eyes slowly but the light still burns. The nurse turns her back primly as I put on my shirt and make my way to the reception desk.
Isabel hasn't changed a lot since high school. Taller, angrier and blonder. Manipulative until the end. In the few moments that she can look me in the eye, I realize, whether she knows it or not, she's profiling me. At the moment, I'm just another one of her disheveled, shaky hand patients on the couch wasting her time. With a cool superior look that only psychologists posses, she smiles. "Max, you look like hell."
"Thanks," I say dryly. I can find no reason in denying what I've already realized for pride. My pride is somewhere wandering the empty hallways of a place she no longer recognizes. We walk in silence until the parking lot. "Your car or mine?"
Isabel grabs my keys from my hand. "I don't want you to ruin my upholstery."
The restaurant is cold, sophisticated, distant and expensive, much like my sister. Across the table, she sips her tea and swirls it absently in the cup. It spills over the edges but she never notices.
"What brings you here?" I nudge some of the salad that Isabel ordered for me around the plate with my fork. The strident noise it makes seems to ground her.
"There's trouble." Isabel sets down the tea and although there is no need, she decides to name the wrongs with some hesitancy. "Michael."
"Again?" I can't help but feel disappointed.
Isabel leans in closer to me and I watch as a few strands of her hair dip into the buttery sauce of the salad. She glances around the room to make sure no one is listening and then whispers it like a dirty word. "Bar fight. He was drunk."
"Again," I repeat as Isabel leans back and squeezes the sauce from her hair.
Every time we have this conversation, I can fell Michael slip away from us. Every time we try and help, we seem to be pushing him deeper down the rabbit hole. Once upon a time, a time which people only remember with puzzled glances and shrugs, Michael could paint. Critics called him the next Picasso, the next Renoir or anything they could think of to try to compare and classify his work. Some got close, but none could begin to describe in words what Michael did with color.
He woke up one day and his hands were shaking. A violent shuddering that the best doctors simply shook their heads and pumped him full of drugs. The Golden boy was tipped from his pedestal and broke into a million sharp and bleeding shards. The only thing that keeps him steady is alcohol. His disease is his cure.
"Bail's set at a thousand." Isabel unconsciously fingers her purse. "Could be worse. It wouldn't be his first offense."
"It won't be his last," I mummer.
Isabel glares at me sharply and then with a hint of nostalgia behind those cold eyes, continues. "Maria came down from D.C and got her hands on four hundred from her saving account. She says the rest is our problem."
"Is she still in Roswell?" I try to fit that impish grin and caustic wit in a black uniform waving her gun and badge for the world to see.
"After she paid, she took the first plane out." Isabel smiles ruefully. "Then she took the next flight right back."
"Wonder what Freud was to say about that?" I chuckle. Curiosity piqued, I ask casually, "Are they still together?"
"You could say that." Isabel stares at me with those cold, unfeeling, frightening blues eyes that used to be so comforting. In them, she is no better then Michael or myself. "What's wrong with you Max?"
Where to start? I could never hide anything from you, I sigh. I couldn't shield you. I was never good at protecting anyone. I have failed five times over. Avoiding her eyes, I mumble: "Liz."
I can hear her choke on her tea. With the precision of the machine that she has become, she cleans it with a napkin and calmly sets her cup down on the saucer. Her voice betrays her though. There is warning in it. "Max..."
"I know, I know. That's years ago. It's just that..." I stumble and trip on my emotions.
"She is dead Max." Isabel says it as if we were talking about weather or a patient. "Liz Parker was killed seven years ago. End of story." She pulls from her purse, a plane ticket. She meets my eyes and I know that somewhere inside her, she is sorry.
I take the plane ticket from her hand. Two way from Chicago to Roswell, New Mexico.
She lays two twenty dollar bills on the table and stands. "We leave tomorrow."