Chapter 107

These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face

With her coffee sending billows of steam into the crisp March air, Robin walked towards the small cluster of outer buildings on the far end of the property. It was a large property with several small buildings set away from the main house that Noah had suggested she explore at her leisure. She liked the sound the snow made crunching under foot as she approached the smallest of the buildings. Yellow paint was peeling away from the side and chipped white paint dotted the door frame. The screen door let out a creaky protest as she pulled it open. Beams of bright winter sun light flooded the sparsely decorated room and Robin felt bathed in the warmth.

Shrugging off her jacket she hooked on the back handle of the inner door and took a long sip of her coffee. There was an old rocking chair set near the window offering the most incredible view of the beach and the water lapping at the frozen sand. Casting an inquisitive glance around the room, a small smile formed on her lips as she saw an easel perched, forgotten, in the corner. There were paint splatters strewn across it in a rainbow of colours as she was drawn towards it, she wondered briefly who the artist in the Drake family was. She doubted it was Patrick as he had never shown much patience for art - looking at it or discussing it. She paused though and reconsider her assumption. One of things she had discovered in the last few weeks was that many of the things Patrick claimed to have little interest in, like opera, were actually reminders of his mother.

Drawing her finger along the top of the easel and sending dust floating to the floor beneath her, she understood why the easel was positioned where it was; it allowed the painter the most complete view of the property from the window. A brush lay in the cradle of the easel and picking it up she saw Mattie's name engraved into its side. It shouldn't have surprised her, everything she had heard and discovered about her all pointed in the direction of a creative woman bustling with energy to spare and surrounding her husband and son in complete and total love.

As she replaced the brush where she found it she could not help but wonder if she would have been to Mattie's liking? When Mattie dreamed of the woman she wanted for her son, would she have fit the bill? If it were her son would there be any woman she would ever consider suitable.

Her son. A child.

Her hand instincitvely landed on her belly. A few years earlier in Paris she had looked into the options available to her if she wanted to have a child. It was painfully evident at the time that if she wanted to do so, she would be a single mother; there were no men in her life then who had any interest in raising a child. She had sought information on adoption and artificial insemination but in the end put it all on the backburner to return to Port Charles. This was the first time she had thought of it since her return and she was unsure of what she felt. There was still that pull to be a mother, that voice inside her that told her she was meant to have a child to love and raise but now she was in love with Patrick and wanted to build a life with him. And the prospect of being a single mother grew less appealing with every passing month.

They had not yet talked about children. In fact she was clueless as to how he felt. On some level she knew he was opposed to the idea - not because he disliked children but because the wounds of his father's failings ran deep and in so many aspects of his life he was afraid of being like him. She also knew that Patrick would never do something unless he was sure he would be brilliant at it - not good, not adequate but brilliant. There would be time some day for a conversation about children but she knew that time was not now.

Spying a door at the back of the room she followed its silent invitation and pushed it open. She gasped as she entered. There were three selves stacked one upon the other stuffed full of canvases. Standing in front of them she reached up and carefully extracted one. It was a painting of the main house with the back garden in full bloom. It was clear to her that the Drakes had once lived a life jam packed with colours but Mattie's death had muted them. Reflecting back on how she saw things after Stone's death she realized that something very similar had happened to her. Life with Stone was broad and rich with colours and feelings but for a long time after his death life existed only in black and white for her. She wondered if Patrick saw colour or believed in it.

She pulled several more canvases down admiring both the talent and the passion in them. Glancing at her watch she was surprised to see that it had been more than two hours since she had strolled through the front door. With great care she returned the canvases to where she found them. As she slid the last one onto the shelf another canvas, about half the size of the others tipped out and fell in to her hands. Looking down at it she felt a rush of warmth wash over her.

It was a painting of Patrick. He couldn't have been more than about five years old and he was dressed in brown shorts and a white t-shirt with mud streaked across the front. He had on yellow rain boots that gaped around his small legs. He was holding his finger out in front of his face staring in wonder at the butterfly perched delicately on it. Peeking out from his pocket was a small blue anchor. Her heart swelled as she traced her fingers over the outline of his face, bringing them to rest on the small indent of his dimple. There was a story behind the painting, she could feel it and so tucking it under her arm, she left the small storage room pulling the door shut behind her. Reaching for her coat, she slung it over her shoulders and excitedly walked back to the main house.

xxxxxx
Ass.

Noah looked up from the board and over top of his glasses, giving his son an incredulous look. "Patrick 'ass' is not a points scoring word in Scrabble."

Giving him a defiant look, his son crossed his arms in front of him. "Y-yes"

"Fine" he sighed dramatically, "maybe it is a points scoring word but the whole reason we're playing Scrabble is to help you recapture some of your words - I'm not sure I want 'ass' to be near the top of that list."

Shrugging, Patrick smiled. "M-my...my....wh-wh-whules" he stammered. Why the fuck can't I say an R? he scribbled in frustration.

His father smiled sympathetically. "It's a hard letter to get your tongue around. It'll come - you're already getting much better."

"T-too sl-sl-sluw," he growled. "S-s-s-slow."

"Too bad you don't have any letters to spell those words with" he teased, "cause I'm still kicking your ass" Noah grinned broadly as he dropped an M in front of ass.

Patrick narrowed his eyes in mock irritation.

It was his speech therapist who, recognizing his patient's low tolerance for traditional methods of therapy, had suggested Scrabble as a way to work on his words. Patrick had rolled his eyes and exhaled with great exasperation at the suggestion. He grudgingly played a game with Robin and his father not convinced at all of its merits. With each passing game he seemed to be able to master a new word here and there and while he was loathe to admit the game had anything to do with it, he had come to look forward to it. Scrabble, set up on the kitchen table, had become a haven of normalcy for him. It became the place where everyone was themselves - no one hovered or flinched at the slightest slip or stumble. They laughed hard through the games and a familiar feeling had started to envelope him - a feeling of family. The absence of memories of the last six months left him wondering about so many things. As he would lie in bed with Robin at night he could feel this pull inside him wanting to make their relationship more permanent but he had no idea if they had discussed it or not. The lack of ring on her finger told him that he had not so far asked her to marry him but he wondered how many conversations about their future they had shared. Did he know before his surgery that he could see his future with her? He didn't want to ask Robin for fear of hurting her - it might have been discussed and dismissed or it might not have been discussed at all. If the latter were the case and he brought it up, he was sure she would tell him to leave it until he was stronger. It was her answer for almost any difficult subject.

"You okay Sport?" Noah asked as his son continued to gaze off into the distance.

Patrick nodded. "T-t-tied" he admitted.

Noah had become an expert at speaking 'Patrick' and inserting missing vowels and consonants so as to better understand him. Truthfully he didn't need the vowels or consonants, he was his son and some 30 years earlier he had learned to communicate with him when there was a lack of vocabulary and he would do it again. He not told him of his near slip outside the bar the other night. He knew Patrick would feel terribly and would blame himself, thinking it was the stress of caring for him that made him want to drink but the reality was it was coming face to face with his past - over and over again - that pushed all of his buttons and reminded him of all that was lost and the time that had been wasted.

"Why don't we stop for now?" he suggested. "We can play again tonight after dinner and maybe if we gang up on Robin we can finally beat her!"

"So it takes two men to topple little old me?" Robin asked as she came through the door.

"It may take three" Noah joked, "but two is all we got."

She slid on to Patrick's lap and kissed him softly. "You been spelling naughty words again?"

He grinned, waggling his eyebrows. Seeing something peeking out from under her arm, he gave it a gentle tug.

Robin took the painting and laid it gently on the table. "I found what I guess was Mattie's studio" she said quietly. "And this painting literally fell into my hands." She turned to Patrick. "You really were an adorable little boy."

Picking up the painting, Noah stared at it for several minutes. "Oh my" he said hoarsely. "Patrick was four and a half when she painted this." He laid it back on the table and pushed it towards his son. "Do you remember it?"

Patrick moved his hand from side to side as if to say 'a little bit'.

"Is there a story about it?" Robin prodded, curious as to what it meant and why it had fallen into her hands.

He nodded. "I took that photo of Patty that spring. He was mucking about in the garden and he had...he had held up his hand somehow and that butterfly landed right on his finger. And my big, brave son was stunned into inertia."

They both laughed. Robin curled her fingers through the fine wisps of hair at the nape of Patrick's neck. "Was he afraid?"

Noah shook his head. "No - he was just surprised and fascinated. He stared at that butterfly for a good two or three minutes before it flew away."

"Can I ask - can I ask why he has an anchor in his pocket?"

A wistful look crossed Noah's face and his green eyes shone with unbidden tears. "Mattie added that. She said the butterfly was magic and an omen of things to come. She said that it was a reminder from the universe that our son would fly high." Pinching the bridge of his nose and a whirlwind of memories swirled inside him, he inhaled sharply before continuing. "So she put the anchor in his pocket so that no matter how high or how far he flew that he knew he would always have roots - a place that was home."

Patrick looked at the painting and then back at his father. A heavy silence hung in the air as Noah waited for some kind of reaction. With a small smile, he nodded. "T-thanks" he told him.

"Noah," Robin hesitated for a moment and then started again. "Would you....I'd kind of like this painting to hang in our apartment" she told him before looking at her boyfriend. "Would that be okay with both of you?"

Moved by her suggestion all Noah could do was nod his agreement. He pushed back his chair and quickly left the room, not wanting either to see his struggle to stay in control.

Patrick kissed her softly, resting his forehead against hers. "M-m-mazing" he whispered.

Robin looked to the painting and then to him. "Yes it is."