“I need to paint…I saw something in my dream, and I just…I know I need to paint it. I can’t explain why.”
“Okay.”
It was one in the morning, where in the hell were we going to find an art store open? Nevertheless, Logan couldn’t be persuaded to wait until morning, so we dressed and took the train out of downtown to a super store that I knew was open twenty-four hours. They had a minuscule arts and crafts section, but at least we could get some paint, brushes and paper.
When we got to the checkout, I offered him my credit card. I’d gotten it only for emergencies, but I supposed needing paint at one in the morning constituted as an emergency. We wouldn’t be here otherwise. He scrunched his brow, but eventually took the card and swiped it to pay for his purchases.
Logan gripped the plastic bag of paint supplies as if it was a rare treasure during the train ride back to my apartment. I lay my head on his shoulder and let the gentle motions of the train lull me to sleep.
When we got back to the apartment, Logan dumped the bag unceremoniously onto the dining room table. Oh. I hadn’t realized he planned to paint tonight. He opened the package of brushes while I went into the kitchen and got him a small teacup full of water, and covered the table in paper towels.
Once he was all set up with the paints, he hugged me and told me to get some sleep. I nodded, and told him to come and get me if he needed anything. I slept with my bedroom door cracked open and listened to the sounds of him humming while he painted until I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, Logan was gone but the remnants of his night spent painting were hard to miss. Everywhere I looked large sheets of paper covered in paint decorated much of my apartment. His paintings were dark, somber, but well done.
I wandered through my apartment like it was a museum. He’d painted several versions of a darkened warehouse, with splashes of red and moonlight leaking in through the crevices. It gave me chills just looking at it. Another was of a hand, clenched into a fist, stained with blood under the fingernails. It was surprisingly realistic. Another clue about who he was had emerged. He was an artist.
Chapter Eight
In the days that followed Logan and I fell into an easy routine together. He continued to work at the construction site each day except for the one day it rained. That day he’d returned home early with a stray cat he’d found huddled outside and a bag of dry cat food, saying that the cat was a cast-off, just like him. It broke my heart the way he compared himself to the stray, like he truly believed that no one wanted him. I couldn’t say no to him after that, and that’s how the damned cat, named Tom after Thomas Aquinas came to share the apartment with us.
Having Logan living with me in such close quarters had quickly become comfortable. He was thoughtful and attentive, often doing things for me to make my day a little bit better, like having my coffee ready and small saucepan of milk simmering when I got out of bed. I liked his nurturing side, even if it was part of working through his amnesia and a way for him to feel like he was in some way contributing. After losing my mom at such a young age and growing up with a single father, I hadn’t been pampered or taken care of that way…ever. He seemed to genuinely care, often asking about my day, or how my research was coming and he would listen thoughtfully while I answered. It was nice having him around. Being together so much meant we were now pretty much inseparable.
I found myself missing him when he was gone. I began to change my routine so that I was gone during the same hours he was, opting to study at the coffee shop or library so I didn’t have to be alone in the apartment. I’d always cherished my solitude and preferred living alone, but having Logan around had altered that.
After dinner each night he’d spend a few hours online trying to piece together what little information we had about his past. He completed the IQ test and college placement exam as I suggested and did extremely well on both. He also spent time online searching through social networking sites for anyone named Logan in the Chicago area, but there were several hundred, and he couldn’t find anything of interest. He also continued to help with the chores, and spent time painting after I went to bed.
That Friday night marked his first full week staying with me and, so far, his nightmares had not let up. At first, I’d slept with my bedroom door open so I could go to him and comfort him in the night when he needed it. The last few nights though, he’d made his way into my bed and I couldn’t refuse him. I wanted him close to me too. We had quickly gotten close – we just seemed to click together.
After takeout and watching a movie on TV, we were both exhausted from the hectic week. We went to bed together, no longer hiding under the pretense of making up the couch for him.
We crawled into my bed, covering up with the cool sheets. I sighed and closed my eyes, allowing myself to snuggle into his arms, knowing snuggling was as far as he’d take it.
I would have never thought I would feel so close to someone I’d known for such a short time. I was normally such a private person, and so careful about letting anyone in that my openness with him surprised me. I rested my hand over his heart and just enjoyed the sensation of it thumping steadily under my palm. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep in his arms.
Logan cried out in his sleep and sat up in bed.
I snapped my eyes opened, waking abruptly. “It’s okay.” I placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him with gentle caresses.
His heart was pounding and his skin was damp with sweat.
“Another nightmare?”