11 | I Drew This For You (part 1 of 2)

"Hello, young man," a man with white hair and large black glasses knelt and held out his hand. "I'm Dr Clay."

The little black haired boy scowled at the skinny man half crouched in front of him. Dr Clay was funny, his hair too big for his head. It looked like a halo, except instead of gold it was white. He didn't smile like the other doctors either and he smelled like cigarettes. Daddy smelled like cigarettes.

"John Thornton," his mother warned, her voice stern. She jerked her head at the doctor's hand. "Be polite."

"It's alright," Dr Clay said with a dismissive wave of his hands, and clambered back to his feet. As soon as the skinny man straightened, John raised his little chin and held out his hand. The doctor chuckled and shook it firmly. "You've a nice strong handshake. Would you like to come into my office and sit down?"

"No," John said.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to talk to you about my pictures."

The doctor raised his eyebrows, and glanced at Mrs Thornton. "Did your mother tell you I wanted to talk about your pictures?"

"That's what all the other doctors did." John shrugged. He was tired of talking about his pictures with people who didn't understand them. Their questions were stupid and they never liked his answers. "They didn't listen to me."

"Tell you what," Dr Clay said slowly. "I promise to listen to you if you promise to answer my questions truthfully, like a real man, okay? Can you do that for me?"

John stared at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he nodded. His mother followed the doctor into the next room, where she and John sat on a green couch facing a large leather chair. Dr Clay sat in the chair and picked up a clipboard and pencil. "We'll start with the easy questions first. How old are you, young man?"

"Seven." John's legs swung as he studied the room. It was like a doctor's office but inside of a house. He liked the green couch but it was too flat and smelled funny. It would make a good fort. "But I'll be eight soon."

"Eight is old."

The little boy nodded solemnly. "I know."

"When's your birthday?"

"December 31st."

"And where do you go to school?"

"Holy Angles Catholic school."

"Do you like it there?"

"The shirts are too tight. They make my neck itch until mother washes them a bunch." He rubbed at a red splotch on his white shirt. "Mother hates when we have spaghetti at lunch because red is the worst stain."

"I don't like white shirts either," Dr Clay smiled. "Are you good at your schoolwork?"

"Yes. I'm real good at reading," the little boy said proudly. "Sister Agnes said so, and I read the whole King Arthur by myself last summer."

"Do you like Sister Agnes?"

"Not anymore."

"Because of your picture?"

He nodded, frowning. "She doesn't like it, and she gets all fidgety and worried like mother when daddy works late."

"Will you tell me about this picture you drew?" The doctor pulled out a file from his desk and held out a battered piece of paper. It was the first picture he'd drawn for Sister Agnes.

"Why?"

"Because it will help me understand."

The little boy shrugged. "That's my truck." John pointed to the left hand corner. It always started with that truck with a big red letter 'M'. "I have lots of them and they drive all over the country carrying stuff to people. That's my job when I'm big."

"And is this you?" The doctor pointed.

John nodded, smiling sheepishly. "I'm really tall and I have a big voice—bigger than daddy. I get to shave too and wear boots and drink coffee."

"What are you holding?"

He hesitated. The doctors always asked that, and they never liked his answer. One doctor got so mad, John wanted to cry. But he didn't—he wouldn't. He thought about lying to Dr Clay for a moment, but he'd promised to tell the truth.

"What is it?" The doctor asked again, his face serious, but not angry.

"A gun." The answer was soft and serious. John rubbed his hands along his charcoal gray uniform pants. He could almost feel the cold metal and rubber grip in his hand. Daddy would be mad if he knew. "It's a gun."

The doctor and his mother traded a look and John felt his stomach twist. He picked at a scab on the back of his hand where Joey Whitmore had whacked at him with a stick at recess two days ago.

"Can you tell me about it?"

John tilted his head to one side, and closed his eyes. "It's my daddy's favorite, the one he keeps in his desk in the bottom drawer. It's always locked away. I'm not supposed to touch it or he'll whip my ass."

"John!" Mrs Thornton snapped.

"Why does big-you have that gun in this picture?"

John's eyes snapped open and he looked up. The doctor wasn't looking at his mother. He kept his eyes on him. No one had ever asked that. But of course he knew why he had his father's gun, even if he didn't understand how. "Mother gave it to me."

"But it's your father's gun. Why didn't he give it to you?"

"He's...He's not there anymore."

"Where is he?"

The little boy stopped kicking the couch with his heels and shrank back a little. Mrs Thornton and the doctor exchanged another look. John hated this part, hated when the stupid doctors tried to get him to say the thing that scared him the most, the thing that made his mother turn pale, the thing John knew would happen, even if it hadn't yet. But instead of trying to make him tell them why his daddy was gone, Dr Clay asked another question no one had asked before.

"Who is this?" The doctor pointed to the woman in the middle of the picture. John relaxed, smiling a little.

"She's..." A grin stole over his face, and he blushed. "She's pretty and soft. Her eyes are a nice blue, and she smells really nice too, like the little purple flowers in Nanny's garden." John tried to find the right words, but he couldn't quite explain her. Part of him wanted to keep her a secret, but part of him wanted everyone to know about her. He really liked her. He shrugged, "She doesn't like me very much."

"Why not?"

"She thinks I'm mean because of my gun," he growled, kicking the back of his leather school shoe against the couch leg again. They were too small and pinched his toes. "I'm not mean. I don't want to shoot anybody. Not ever."

"Then why are you pointing the gun at her?"

"I'm not. Not at her—at him," John scowled at the third person in the drawing. "I can't let him drive my trucks anymore. He doesn't listen. He'll hurt someone. He'll hurt her."

"Why?"

"Because he's drunk." John crossed his arms and frowned. "Asshole."

"John Seamus Thornton," His mother hissed. "I'm so sorry, Dr Clay—"

The doctor raised a placating hand, but he kept his eyes on John. "Do you always draw this same picture?"

John stared up at the doctor, and tried not to blink. He always won the staring contests at school when he tried hard. He wondered if Dr Clay was teasing him. The older man looked perfectly serious, his wrinkled hands folded in his lap, waiting patiently for John's answer, staring right back. He didn't blink either.

Finally, John sat up straighter. Maybe this doctor did understand. When Sister Agnes asked them to draw a picture of themselves all grown up, he couldn't stop himself. The picture just happened. He had lots of pictures like this he hid under his mattress so his parents wouldn't yell at him.

"Well, little man?"

"No," he said truthfully.

"But?"

"But I always draw her." John looked at the lady in the center of the drawing, remembering. "I try hard, to make her look pretty, but I'm bad at it. She never looks right."

"Do you know her name?"

"No," He frowned and looked at the doctor, who was watching him carefully, "Is she real?"

"You said she smelled nice," Dr Clay rubbed his chin. "How do you know that?"

John thought for a moment and then said, "I smelled her."

"When?"

He frowned.

"You've never met this woman," the doctor continued.

John turned back to the picture. "Not yet," He slid a finger over the woman's crayon face, almost able to feel the skin under his fingertip. Soft, like the pink dress Nanny bought for Fanny last Christmas. "I think I'm going to."

"I think so too," Dr Clay folded up the picture and held it out. "But not for a long time."

"I want her to like me," John said, his voice small and worried. "I don't want her to think I'm a mean asshole."

His mother sucked in a sharp breath, her hand clenching the top of his shoulder. He wriggled in protest, knowing she would wash his mouth out with soap when they got home. He wasn't supposed to say the swear words his daddy always used when he was mad.

"If this woman is who I think she is, " Dr Clay said thoughtfully, "She will like you—eventually. I promise."

"Well doctor?" Mrs Thornton murmured, as they prepared to go. "Is he alright or is he—troubled?"

The doctor chuckled, glancing over to where the little boy was pretending not to listen. He was a clever kid, sharp and intuitive. The older man gave him a subtle wink.

"He's just a boy, Mrs Thornton. A normal little boy who just so happens to have a soulmate."

"A what?" She scoffed. "Surely not."

"It's only a theory, but I would bet serious money on it. If you want to keep bringing him for therapy, that's your decision. But you're wasting your money."

"He's got dozens and dozens of these pictures," Mrs Thornton interrupted. "Every time he draws it's always that woman. I don't understand how he—he's never even met her. It's like he's remembering her but—"

"He is remembering her...in a way."

"How is that possible?"

"I don't know," the doctor shrugged. "I'm a child psychologist not a physicist. I've merely learned to recognize the symptoms."

"But can't you stop it?" She continued. "Can't you give him anything to—"

"Nothing I do will cure him, Mrs Thornton. Love is not a disease."

"He's a little boy," she pleaded. "He doesn't understand what love is."

The doctor raised his eyebrows, "I think children understand a great deal more than we give them credit for. My advice is to leave him alone. If he doesn't understand now, he will soon enough."

"And what about—he's told other doctors that his father—that he—dies."

"We all die, eventually." Dr Clay removed his glasses, polishing the lenses. "Very little is known about soulmarks. I can't tell you anything about what may or may happen except that one day John will meet a woman he remembers, but has never met." He tried to smile. "The rest must be lived one day at a time."

Mrs Thornton looked as if there was a great deal more she wanted to say, but she only nodded, her face hard and worn, but determined. "Thank you, doctor."

John cursed and scribbled over the sketch in the back of his calculus textbook. No matter how many times he tried, he could never get her eyes or mouth right. Usually he didn't try, leaving her face blank.

"What are you drawing?"

He snapped the book shut, "Nothing." A small twinge of guilt pinched his gut.

His girlfriend, Lucy Jo, plopped into the seat next to him and made a grab at the textbook. "Let me see it, Johnny."

"Don't call me that." He slid the book out of reach and shoved it into his backpack. "It's nothing—"

"It's not nothing." Lucy Jo pulled a wrinkled sheet of notebook paper from her jacket pocket, unfolded it, and tossed it onto the lunch table. "I'm not an idiot, you know. So who is she?"

"Where did you get this?"

"I found it in your locker."

"You broke into my locker?"

"Tell me who she is."

"She's no one," he growled, crumpling the sheet of paper into a ball.

"You're a liar, and you—"

"I've never lied to you." he said. He stood and yanked on his backpack. "I said I don't know her and I don't. If you don't believe me, tough shit."

"Why didn't tell me you had a soulmate?" Lucy Jo looked up and held his angry stare. Soulmates were a fairly uncommon occurrence, as far as his research could tell. But there was some debate if that was due to under reporting or misdiagnosis. There were only a few hundred documented cases of soulmarks in all of Blanding. His mother had made damn certain he wasn't one of them. But now that Lucy Jo knew, everyone and their mother would know.

"Because it's none of your goddamn business—"

"I'm your girlfriend," Lucy Jo snapped. "You didn't think I'd want to know you're soulmarked?"

"I'm not anything," he turned and started to walk off, the crumpled bit of paper still in his hand. "And you're not my girlfriend anymore."

"Wait, that's it? That's all you're gonna say?"

"Yes."

"You're just gonna dump me because I'm not her?"

"No," he snorted, and turned. "I'm dumping you because you broke into my locker instead of just asking me like a decent human being."

"You're an asshole, John Thornton."

"Maybe I am. But that's not really your problem anymore, is it?"

"I feel sorry for her, whoever she is," she said, standing. "I hope she gives you hell."

He paused, grinning, his fist tightening over the paper, "So do I."

AN : I've had this wee snippet on my pc for a while and thought I'd polish her up and let you all have another short read. Are you lot tired of these yet? Should I keep going or quit while I'm ahead? Cheers.