Drawn to Life (7 page)

Chapter 10

Samuel—Am I a Stalker?

En route to Budapest, June 2012

I rose from my seat and stepped into the aisle, where her black sketchbook was still lying on the floor. She apparently hadn’t noticed it had fallen.

I picked it up to hand it to her. She’d closed her eyes again, her chest gently rising and falling. She’d tucked up her legs, and her arms were wrapped around her knees. Her entire appearance was different now.

When I’d first seen her sleeping, she’d seemed happy and at peace, but now . . . Now she seemed fragile, vulnerable . . . as if she needed protection to keep the world at bay.

She was so still. How could someone fall asleep so fast? It hadn’t been more than five minutes since she’d settled down.

I was still holding her book. Looking down, I opened to the page marked by a ribbon. I couldn’t help myself. It seemed important that I know more about her.

I saw an astonishingly skilled pencil drawing showing the vigorous new growth of a plant rooted in the palm of a hand. The rendering was amazing, the hand incredibly realistic. I was impressed.

My curiosity grew as I turned the pages. Countless drawings, each one better than the next—flowers, meadows, sunsets in a city. Life in all its vibrancy. Faces, laughter. Portraits of men and women, all depicted in high spirits. Many of the drawings were of one man, her artist’s perspective capturing every angle of his face. His eyes. His mouth. He must be special to her.

On the last page, I found a self-portrait. The most beautiful smile I had ever seen on her face. Yet there was more to it. Her eyes beamed with the joy of being alive. With energy. Her loveliness was breathtaking. She looked the same right now on the train—and yet different.

In the drawing, an abundance of long, straight hair framed her face. As far as I could tell, she now had short hair under her hat.

“Give that to me!”

I started. She snatched the book out of my hands. Our fingertips touched, but only for a second.

I raised both hands, palms out, and apologized, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I only went to pick it up, but then . . .” I tried an apologetic smile and added, “You draw damn well.”

She looked at me as if she wanted to kill me, pressing the sketchbook to her chest as if her life depended on it. Her breath had quickened. Her posture was stiff and her eyes wide, but her pupils were only pinpoints. I hoped she wasn’t having a panic attack. Had I really infringed on her privacy that much?

I felt like a big asshole for leafing through the book without her permission. Usually I didn’t do things like that. I mean, I would have been outraged, too, if someone didn’t respect my privacy. But I simply couldn’t stop myself. Once I’d started turning the pages, each sketch had pulled me onto the next. Her drawings were awesome. It was as if the deep emotions I sensed behind them were speaking to me. It was as if I were right there in them. With her.

When she didn’t respond, I returned to my seat, but I couldn’t seem to quit staring. It was as if it were impossible not to. What an idiot—I was coming across as a clueless jerk. Maybe even a stalker.

She was staring out the window. But I could tell by the tense way she held herself that she was aware of my gaze. And I must have stirred her curiosity, as well. I caught her throwing furtive, timid glances at me. Sometimes, when our glances met, I smiled, but she didn’t smile back. Her emerald eyes just lingered a little longer each time, and I thought I detected a spark of interest, which encouraged me to keep my gaze pointed in her direction.

“I’m really sorry about what happened,” I finally said. “It was rude to open your book. I usually wouldn’t act like that, honest, but your drawings fascinated me.”

Frowning at my words, she blinked, then shook her head and stared out the window again. But she kept casting those glances over at me.

I should leave her alone. But there was something about her . . . I wanted her to look at me again. Then keep looking at me. I needed to see her eyes. I needed to hear her voice.

“I’m Samuel, by the way . . . Sam,” I said, breaking the silence.

Her gaze flickered, then she loosened the tight grip around the book and eventually placed it on the small table in front of her.

My instincts continued to tell me to leave her alone. But I couldn’t. I looked from her to her luggage, a big backpack. She was traveling on a Eurail pass, most likely. But why would a woman like her journey alone?

Suddenly, she froze, her body tensing again. She fisted her hands so tight that her knuckles turned white. Droplets of blood appeared on her palms as her nails pressed deeply into her skin. It was almost too much to watch. Why did she inflict so much pain on herself? I scrambled for some way to distract her from whatever thoughts had led to her reaction.

“Are you going to Budapest? Or are you connecting there?” I realized my intentions went beyond distracting her. I also just wanted to know. I suspected my friendliness, though, was probably only frightening her. Why wouldn’t she speak with me?

As I had before, I heard her inhale, then exhale. Like one of those relaxation techniques, maybe to control her nervousness. Then she finally looked into my eyes, without saying a word.

And I drowned in an emerald sea.

She needed no words to communicate; she spoke with her eyes. She was tired. Not tired in the sense of wanting to sleep. It was something different. Exhaustion. Sluggishness. Something she was missing.

She held my gaze, blinking only occasionally, still doing those rhythmic breaths. Eventually, I noted her muscles relax. Her fists loosened, and she wiped the blood on her palms off on her dark gray jean shorts. She didn’t seem to care if they got stained. Or maybe she didn’t notice. She continued staring and waited through a few more breaths before finally speaking.

“So, you like to sneak through other people’s stuff?” She sounded annoyed.

It wasn’t what I had hoped for, but she had a point.

I scratched the back of my head. “Look, as I said, I’m really sorry. Your book was on the floor in the aisle. I didn’t want anybody to step on it. I wanted to give it to you. Then I looked at that drawing. I was fascinated and began to leaf through it.” I looked at her apologetically. “It won’t happen again.”

She blinked again and whispered, “OK.” That was all.

Chapter 10 ½

Mia—Nothing Is OK

Graz, December 2011

No, I was not OK. Nothing was OK. Everything sucked. Everything made me want to throw up. And throw up I did, constantly.

I wanted to pull my hair, which I would have, had there been any left to pull. I wanted to scream so loudly that the whole world shattered.

Anxiously, I looked around the room. I scratched the scar on my arm. The pain reminded me that I was still here.

I heard the soothing voice of Dr. Weiß. “I’m here, Mia. And so are you. Everything is OK.” I stared into his eyes, without focusing. “Breathe evenly, like we practiced.”

I looked to the side. With the exception of my fingers still scratching where I’d cut myself, I didn’t move. I couldn’t do what he wanted. My head felt as if it would explode any minute. I sensed an oncoming panic attack. I was panting. My body had stiffened. I couldn’t control the spasms in my muscles, which just about knocked me out. So much for
everything is OK
.

I’m not well. How can anyone deal with a situation like this? No, no, I’m not well. Nothing is OK.

I
will
be OK, though. Just not today or even tomorrow. One day, though . . . Maybe.

“Mia, listen to me.” I stared at my therapist. “Relax your hands. Leave the scars alone. Breathe calmly. Inhale and exhale.” He raised his arms to signal when I needed to inhale, and lowered them when he wanted me to exhale. My heart rate slowed. I stopped scratching. Dr. Weiß motioned for me to flex my fingers.

“Just do as I do. Don’t forget to breathe.”

I took in mouthfuls of air, normally and slowly. The feeling I was going to explode any minute finally vanished.

He smiled. “You’re doing great.”

I smiled wearily.
Doing great.
I shouldn’t be needing to do this at all.

“What happened? Where were you?”

My expression darkened immediately. I didn’t want to remember the trigger for my reactions. It would propel me back to my previous state. I wasn’t ready to discuss what set me off. I needed to know how to prevent the spasms, that’s all. I squirmed, nervously tapping my foot and worrying my lower lip.

“Mia,” I heard Dr. Weiß’s voice. “Breathe. You can do it. Tell me what led you to panic. Breathe evenly. You can do it,” he said again.

I can do it.

Hoarsely, I said, “I—I—”

“Keep breathing,” my therapist repeated.

“It’s the . . . the question.” I inhaled and exhaled and paused. I needed to maintain my control. Otherwise, I would suffer another attack. Dr. Weiß sat in his leather chair and waited.

“It’s the
OK
, the saying
OK
,” I said quickly. Done. It was out, and I was still there. No panic attack.

“Very good, Mia. I knew you could do it.” He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “And now I’d like to know why that’s the case.”

“Why . . . ?” I squeezed all the air from my lungs. “How often can you hear a phrase before you feel you need to puke? Can you stand to hear it every day? Several times a day? I can’t,” I said quietly.

He looked at me and frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Nothing is OK.
OK?
” My voice grew louder. “Every day, I hear everything’s OK, everything’s fine.
Nothing
is fine. Nothing will ever be fine. For god’s sake, don’t you ever look at me? Look at me! What’s OK about me? Skinny, hollow cheeks, almost no hair. My body is a shell,” I yelled at him, then added, barely audible, “an empty shell.”

He nodded. “You are a strong person. Believe me when I tell you that you will heal and that you will live. Everything
will
be OK.” He rose, moved over to me, and patted my shoulder. “Remember how far you’ve come. You’re alive. You’ve survived the worst. You’re making progress here.” He smiled at me.

I had no clue how to answer and just stared at him blankly.

“Appreciate what you’ve already achieved, Mia. Focus on that, not on how far you still have to go. I know you’re not where you want to be, but you’re also not where you were anymore.”

I responded with a faint smile.

I was not OK. But I would be. Not today, not tomorrow . . .
someday
.

Chapter 11

Mia—Soothing Eyes

En route to Budapest, June 2012

Everything was OK.

The guy was only giving me back my sketchbook. Or was intending to give it back, before he’d started poking around inside. I hated when people looked at my drawings without permission. My sketchbook was private.

Then, when he did hand it to me, our fingertips touched. It was only a very brief, light touch, but my body immediately went into defense mode. Anxiety gripped me. I sensed an emerging panic attack. I breathed evenly, stretching my hands, clenching and unclenching my fingers. Dr. Weiß’s damned breathing technique wasn’t helping much, though. It always took too long to relax me. And those pointed glances that guy was throwing my way weren’t helping any.

I had barely begun my trip, and someone was already on my case. No, not just someone—Samuel Winter, the bulldozer, demolisher of human lives. I’d seen the newspaper ads sporting his image plenty of times, so I’d recognized him right off. If you dug even a little into the architecture and real-estate world, it didn’t take long to understand what kind of business he was in. Nobody wrote much about it. Things like that got covered up. But my coworkers and I had stumbled onto the truth. How could he lend his face to something so underhanded?

I ignored him. I didn’t feel like small talk, and certainly no small talk with him. Though I would have loved to look into those eyes once more.

So I finally turned around.

Incredibly long eyelashes framed his dark gray eyes. He was smiling broadly. I knew about his company’s dirty schemes and would never want to socialize with someone like him, but I couldn’t help being intrigued. He was stunning. More good-looking than any newspaper ad could convey. Far too good-looking. He was tall. Taller than I had first thought. Wavy black hair. The light stubble on his jaw and slightly crooked nose completed his perfect appearance. He was manly. Sexy.

He continued to smile at me without saying a word. At first, I was speechless, hooked by those shimmering eyes. Somehow, they soothed me. The beat of my heart calmed. My body relaxed. I was less fearful of speaking.

“So, you like to sneak through other people’s stuff?” I’d sounded harsher than I’d intended.

I turned my back on him again and tried hard to ignore him. It would have been far easier had he not been sitting across from me. I didn’t feel like company, even his company–especially his company. I was already overwhelmed by my own.

I must have dozed off. When someone gently shook my shoulder, I sprang awake in alarm. Frozen, breath caught in my throat, I hoped whoever it was would just go away.

Thank you . . . now leave.
I gasped for some air and tried to suppress my rising fear, biting my lower lip until I tasted blood.

Finally, I opened my eyes, blinking rapidly until they adjusted to the harsh overhead light. Outside it was dark. I could see the orange lights of a station’s platform illuminating the scenery—people racing to catch trains, people waiting, people laughing and busy with normal lives, full of energy.

“We’ve arrived in Budapest. You need to get off,” Samuel said and gestured toward the exit. He had on his backpack and was holding a guitar.

Unhurriedly, I stood up and stretched, slung on my backpack, then headed toward the door, Samuel a few steps behind me. At the exit, I paused, took a deep breath, and turned around.

“Thank you for waking me up.” My voice was calmer now. He meant well. He had given me my sketchbook and woke me up, and, unlike all the uncaring people who’d simply stared when I’d yelped in pain when my muscles had cramped, he had asked whether everything was all right.

I faked a smile, then hopped off the train, and started to hurry away.

“You’re welcome,” he called.

Abruptly, I stopped and looked back at him. “I’m sorry for being so rude. I . . .” I dropped my gaze. “I guess I just don’t like anyone seeing my drawings.”

“No worries.” He moved up alongside me. “I deserved it. I wouldn’t want anyone to sneak through my private stuff. I just couldn’t resist.” I could see the honesty in his eyes. I had never met anyone whose eyes revealed so much. They had a magic appeal.

A smile toyed on his lips. I was shamelessly checking him out, but I wasn’t embarrassed. I felt no hint of an oncoming panic attack. As long as I looked into those soothing eyes, I felt strangely sheltered.

“Let’s just start from the beginning,” he said with a wink. “I’m Samuel Winter. You can call me Sam.” He extended his hand and waited for mine.

Winter . . . Did I want to know a Winter?

Before he could touch my hand, I hid it behind my back. He frowned and looked puzzled. I didn’t—couldn’t—manage handshakes anymore. I tried to feign another smile, hoping it would dispel the sudden awkwardness, but I’ve always been bad at faking things. Awkwardness, though, was far better than having to touch or be touched. Anything was.

“I’m Mia Lang,” I blurted, sure I came across as a total nutcase.

Sam lowered his hand to his side. “Pleased to meet you, Mia Lang. Where are you headed?”

Out of here as fast as possible.
Since saying my thought out loud seemed a poor option, I answered, “Bed. And then . . . we’ll see.” He grinned. I continued, “Hope you have a great trip. Good night.”

I left before he could say anything else.