The Sound of Salvation (Deliverance Book 1) Read online

  “Watch your step.” She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s wet.”

  I stopped in the doorway, taking in the enormous canvas that laid on the balcony floor. It was at least six feet long and three feet wide. Four bottles of water stood on the corners to stop it from flying away.

  There was something hauntingly beautiful about the painting. Nadia kept the colour palette dark with harsh strokes in the background, but the first thing that caught my attention was a girl with long hair, dressed in white. She arched back at the bottom of the canvas as if she were falling. Thin, white strings were attached to her body, and two large hands painted at the top held them in a tight grip.

  “I had no idea you were so talented,” I admitted. “It’s amazing.”

  “I’m pleased with it too. Although It would be better if I had a stretched canvas. I’ll get it stretched tomorrow.”

  I glanced at the painting again and shook my head. “Don’t. It looks perfect like this. Where will you hang it?”

  “Nowhere. It will go in Nick’s attic like the rest of them.”

  I frowned. “Are you kidding? This should be displayed. How about the wall behind the sofa?”

  She studied the masterpiece, and a shadow crossed her face. “I don’t want to see it every day.”

  I wasn’t good at interpreting art. The pieces around my house were either gifted to me, or I bought them because they fitted the décor. Looking at Nadia’s painting, I saw what was on the canvas—a human puppet; a girl controlled by someone’s hands; harsh lines, dark colours; a sad, creepy vibe.

  Now, thinking about what she told me, and what I figured out based on her behaviour, I couldn’t shake the feeling, that the painting was a manifest of what she felt.

  “Is that you?” I asked, pointing to the girl in white.

  Nadia nodded once, then inhaled the smoke and raised her eyes to meet mine. “A puppet,” she whispered. “That’s what Adrian used to call me. See, I thought long and hard about our conversation last night, and the truth is that telling you I don’t want you was a lie. I do, but,” she motioned to the canvas, “he still has a hold on me, and I doubt I’ll ever break free.”

  “So, you want me, but you’re still saying no?”

  She put the cigarette in the ashtray, then walked around me to get inside. We took a seat in the living room, and Nadia tucked her feet under her bum.

  “You’re like those pills I take, but stronger,” she muttered, her cheeks pink. “And I want to stop taking them. When have you ever seen an alcoholic recover after switching from beer to vodka?”

  “That’s a lousy comparison. Whatever your problems are, I think you would work past them faster if you would let me help.”

  A sad smile crossed her lips. “What’s in it for you? I mean, I’m not that good in bed. Why do you volunteer to be my rebound case?”

  I rested my elbows on my knees, sipping the hot coffee, and scanning the endless cardboard boxes. Nadia opened up to me to some extent, and she deserved an explanation for my sudden change of character.

  “We’re not so different, you and me. We’re both bruised and wanting to leave the past behind. I would be using you too. I liked the guy you awoke in me last week. He was decent, relaxed, and looked forward to the next day. I want to be that guy.”

  “You are a decent guy.” She touched my arm. “I told you I don’t want you last night, yet you’re here now ready to help… Speaking of which—we should get started.”

  CHAPTER 12

  NADIA

  Sex, what else?

  Week two of wedding preparations proved more demanding than week one. Each day brought us closer to Mel’s start date as the Marketing Assistant at C&G Records and that meant she would no longer have the time to check and re-check every detail.

  Thank God. She obsessed over things no rational person would care about, driving me insane. Every evening I collapsed in bed, hoping to get a good night’s sleep, but the exhaustion didn’t keep Adrian away. I stayed awake for hours, and when sleep decided to take me, I woke up soon after, drenched in sweat.

  Every rational part of me knew that casual sex with Thomas wouldn’t help me move on, but the what ifs remained.

  The night we had sex was the first night I slept well in months. My good mood had lingered on for the rest of the weekend and that was enough for the what ifs to keep my mind occupied all week. Wednesday was the least demanding day in Mel’s schedule, and I used the free afternoon to visit someone I wanted to see since I landed in London two weeks ago.

  Two take-away coffees in hand, I walked through the tall, wooden door into a modern foyer with reception desk situated in the centre. Not much had changed here during the two years of my absence. The same receptionist, Daphne, sat in the chair, staring at the computer screen from above her glasses. The same ficus benjamina stood in the corner, but it had grown a foot taller. The same pleasant smell of lavender scented candles filled the air.

  What had changed was the décor. A red carpet was replaced with dark wooden floor, and an obscure magenta wallpaper gave way to grey paint.

  “Nadia!” Daphne said, a small but sad smile on her lips. “How have you been? I hoped to never see you here again.”

  “Thanks,” I chuckled, but smiled too, knowing she meant it in a good way. “I hoped to never come back, but here I am. Is he available? I know I haven’t made an appointment, but…”

  Daphne held out her hand to shush me. “Don’t worry about it. He’s got most of the afternoon free today. I’m sure he won’t mind seeing you. Go on, we’ll catch up when you’re done.”

  Clutching my handbag filled with prescription medication, I knocked at the door to my left, and entered after hearing “Come in.”

  Not much had changed here either. James sat by his desk, a banana in one hand, and a pen in the other. Light hair surrounded his overworked face marked with first wrinkles. He glanced at me and stopped chewing.

  “Hey,” I muttered raising the tray with take-away cups. “I brought your favourite—half-caff, half-sweet, non-fat caramel macchiato,” I recited, proud I remembered.

  James swallowed, put the half-eaten banana away and watched me as if he saw a ghost.

  “Nadia, it’s good to see you. How are you? Come on, take a seat.”

  I handed him the coffee and got comfortable on the sofa where I had spent two hours a day, six days a week for six months. It was odd to be back where I started: back to relying on a psychiatric help.

  “When did you come back?” he asked, taking a sip of the steaming macchiato. “God, I haven’t had one of these since you left.”

  I pointed to my tall, extra shot, extra-hot, extra-whip, sugar-free vanilla latte. “Neither have I.”

  It was something we came up with during one of the many hours we spent locked in here together. To relax the atmosphere, and to get me to talk, James told me a story about a barista who worked in the nearby coffee shop who always misspelled his name on the coffee cup. It drove James mad. I suggested making the barista’s day a touch more difficult. We came up with the most ridiculous orders just to annoy the guy, but it soon turned out that the coffees tasted too good to pass on, and we made the obnoxious drinks our daily routine.

  “You’re not here to catch up, are you?”

  James was never good at hiding emotions, and in a way, it lifted my spirits to see sadness in his eyes because it meant that he cared.

  Our relationship was never truly a professional one. Yes, I was the patient, and yes, he was the doctor, but James proved to be a confidant. He knew more about my issues than anyone.

  I shook my head no, took out the prescription bottles, and laid them on the glass coffee table. Then, with a hint of hesitation, I pulled out a black folder.

  “I came back two weeks ago. I hoped a change of scenery would help, but I’m not making much progress, and the longer I’m without him, the stronger the need to go back.”

  James took the first prescription bottle and read the label. “I assume t
his is no longer about your father.” With each next bottle two wrinkles on his forehead deepened. “Please don’t tell me you take all of this. It’s too much.”

  “Sometimes, it’s not enough.”

  He pushed three bottles my way. “Anxiety meds, anti-depressants, sleeping pills. One of each is too much to take together. Why do you have so many pills?”

  “I kept asking for something stronger.”

  He rubbed his face. “And you held on to the old meds just in case? Nadia, you can’t take all of this together. I don’t even want to think about what it did to your health. Do you want to tell me what happened? Why did you need the meds? What changed?”

  James had my full and undivided trust. He earned it during the months of our sessions. It took three weeks before I spoke the first word, and three more before I told him the story of my father’s death.

  He was my only chance to move on this time.

  “I can’t stomach going through it. It’s too much too soon.” I pushed the folder across the table. “Some not-so-light bed-time reading. Those are the notes from my psychiatrist in New York. His business card is in there too. He said you can call him if you want to talk.”

  James skimmed over the pages, probably looking for key words or phrases to get an idea of my new problems. More sadness clouded his eyes, filling me with more hope. It was nice to know I wasn’t just another day at the office; another patient to bullshit with book clichés.

  “I…” he stuttered. “I need time to read through this, but it looks like I might not be the best person for the job. This requires a very specific approach, Nadia.”

  “What does that mean?” Anxiety made a re-appearance. There I was, ready to take a step in the right direction, only to find the road was closed. “You won’t take me back?”

  He put the folder aside and rested his elbows on the desk. “Of course, I will if that’s what you want, but I want you to get the best help, and frankly, I’m not it in this case. There’s a woman, Samantha Johnson; she specialises in cases like yours, and she’s brilliant. I could call her and explain the situation, fax her the documents…”

  I shook my head, picking on my nails. “I don’t want anyone else. I trust you; you know my history; you…”

  “Hey,” he cut in, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You want me, and you’re getting me. But please, think about letting her in. I could arrange for her to join one of our sessions. She’s the best one out there, and I hate to see you struggling again.”

  What stopped me from telling the story to someone other than James was shame. After all, despite what he did, I stood by Adrian knowing it was the wrong thing to do. I protected him, covered for him, and weaved a security blanket around him, fuelling his addiction instead of holding him accountable for his actions.

  The worst part? I didn’t regret it half as much as I regretted leaving. He deserved more than what he got from me.

  “You can talk to her about me if you need guidance, but I don’t want anyone here other than you.”

  I reached to grab the pills, but James stopped my hand, a pained look on his face.

  “I can’t let you have those back, Nadia. Not all of them.” He handed me a bottle of antidepressants. “That’s all you’re getting until I see your lab results.”

  “But… I need the sleeping pills too.” The capacity of my lungs decreased, and my hands trembled. “Please, I need them to sleep.”

  “I wish I could, but without reading the notes and seeing the lab results, I don’t know which of those you actually need.”

  He pressed a few buttons on the keyboard, then waited for the printer to spit out two sheets of paper.

  “Get this done asap.” He handed me a blood work request slip.

  “I’ll get it done today,” I assured him, my voice small.

  “Come back on Monday at nine a.m. I’ll have the results back, and we’ll get to work.”

  Nine a.m. on Monday was eighty-nine hours away. Eighty-nine hours without diazepam or fluoxetine. Eighty-nine hours of flashbacks and sleepless nights.

  James motioned to place his hand on my shoulder, then changed his mind about touching me. He must have recalled what he read in my file.

  “Stay occupied. It’ll take your mind off things while you’re off the meds.”

  Dark thoughts loomed close by as I waited for the last of fluoxetine to leave my system. Good thing my apartment required a lot of TLC before the party on Saturday. I had something to keep me occupied.

  Two hours later and seven vials of blood lighter, I returned to my apartment, feeling lost and out of place. The puppeteer painting, which hung behind the sofa summoned Adrian who hijacked my thoughts.

  “This is nice,” Adrian motioned to my outfit when I opened the door to my dorm room, “but not appropriate for the occasion.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “I thought we were going to the cinema. You keep quoting old Pacino movies.”

  “I’m impressed. Well done, but we’re not going to the cinema. We’ve got half an hour, so be good and change the sweater and jeans for a pretty but modest dress.”

  “If you want to take me to one of your fights…”

  He grabbed my hand and spun me around, so I would face the room. “Get changed and stop guessing.”

  Fine. I was intrigued. I closed the door in his face and changed into a tight, green dress with puffy sleeves. There was nothing bold about it except that it was backless with a bow in between my shoulder blades.

  When I opened the door again, Adrian rested against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. He sized me up, then twirled his finger, urging me to do a one-eighty.

  A small smile curved my lips. Adrian was refreshing—confident but adorable. If it weren’t for his determination, we wouldn’t be going out. I came to New York to study, not to date. Adrian was downright stubborn. He pestered me for a date for a month. Dimples in his cheeks and almost black eyes, which looked at me with delight regardless of what I was doing helped him get a yes when he asked me out for the hundredth time.

  He was talkative, loved to joke and always lifted my spirit, which needed lifting every day.

  I spun around listening to him exhale.

  “Better?” I asked.

  “Better, and sexier, and… I love your back, Nadia. Really. If you can love a body part, then I love the spot just below the nape of your neck.

  “You’re mad.”

  He bowed and offered me his arm. We walked outside, where a black limousine took three parking spaces. I looked at Adrian in consternation when the chauffeur opened the back door.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re rich.”

  He pressed his finger to his lips and touched the spot on my back he already fell in love with.

  “Patience isn’t my strength,” I muttered, looking through the tinted windows. We drove through campus, heading toward the exit.

  “I thought so.” He took my hand. “That’s why you won’t have to wait long. We’re here.”

  The limousine stopped, and I looked at Adrian with a frown. We were parked outside the Performance Arts building. We drove no more than three hundred yards.

  The chauffeur opened the door, and Adrian helped me out.

  “Thanks, man. We’re square,” he told the driver, and we watched as the limousine drove away.

  I had the impression that the two vertical lines on my forehead were permanently etched into my expression.

  “Curious?” Adrian murmured into my ear. “Come, it’s almost time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “For the show,” he replied, proud of himself.

  He pulled me toward the door, then down a long corridor, deeper into the building. We passed small groups of people. There were more children than adults.

  We came to a set of tall, double doors and Adrian handed two tickets to the boy who stood there, then laced our fingers and led me inside the theatre. Eighty percent of the seats were occupied by children, and I frowned again. We walked d
own the narrow passage to the back of the room.

  I expected many things. Colourful houses, castles, maybe the hut of seven dwarfs, or the scenery worthy of the ball where Cinderella lost her shoe. I was all wrong. On the stage, there was a huge … stage. We were about to watch a puppet show. I burst out laughing. I hadn’t laughed for months. Adrian looked at me mesmerised. His dark eyes gleamed with joy, and I knew that making me smile was his priority.

  I glanced at our laced hands, then into his dark eyes and the gleam of satisfaction in them. Following my heart, I leaned toward him. Pressing my lips to his. Adrian didn’t hesitate. He took my face in his hands, and gently pulled me closer, his lips eager, but calm.

  “This is the best date I have ever been on,” I admitted, inching away.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied, then stole one more kiss before pecking my nose. “I love your smile.”

  The lights dimmed, and a cheerful melody filled the air. I never saw a puppet show before, but I was delighted. Adrian was more focused on me, watching as I laughed until my cheeks hurt.

  An hour later the lights came on again and the actors and organizers came on stage. The kids got up, but Adrian didn’t let me join in on the ovations. We slipped out of the room through the back exit, and right outside the door, Adrian leaned against the wall and pulled me to him, planting his lips on mine.

  “It’s been a month, I kissed you three times, and we’ve been on one date. How much too soon would it be if I said I’m in love with you?”

  I was speechless for just a few seconds, during which I analysed the last month filled with smiles. I didn’t think I would ever be able to smile again, but thanks to him I was smiling daily.

  “This guy crossed the line and he didn’t even blink,” I quoted Pacino from Insomnia. “You don’t come back from that.”

  Adrian chuckled, looking at the ceiling.

  “You are impossible.” He kissed my forehead. “You’re mine. And I’m in love like a teenager, puppet.”

  “Puppet?”

  A smug smile crossed his face. “You were so immersed in the performance, yet you didn’t notice that one of the characters looked just like you?”