Visitors

Two days later, Chase stood back, examining his most recent work. It looked very unlike what he usually painted, but that was fitting. After all, it was intended in a way that was very different from what he usually painted. He'd painted a long figure, dark and lone walking along a road against a strong gale and the pouring rain. He'd used several mixtures and shades of blue, and used a slightly different brush technique, having been inspired by the famous Starry Night painting by Vincent Van Gogh.

However, in the foreground of this painting, he's painstakingly re-created her poem in white paint, making the image into an art and a dedication. When he was finally satisfied with the painting–or at least as satisfied as he could be–Chase put it into a large protective envelope and mailed it to her house. He'd argued with just dropping it off himself but didn't really know how Justine might react. Plus, he felt that things were still a bit… raw as it was. His heart told him to leave some space for now, regardless of how much he wanted to fix things right away.

So for a while, Chase shifted gears and began tackling some commissions. Surprisingly, he found that he was in a great mood, even when clients began to be difficult, he continued drawing and painting with a broad smile on his face and would often whistle or sing along with the music he had blasting the studio. He was washing several of the paint stains from his hands and face–although he had no idea how that had happened–when his doorbell rang. Chase glanced up at the clock and smiled, realizing it was time for him to have a drink with Mrs. Hoffman.

"Door's open, Misses Hoffman," he called, wiping the soap and water off his hands despite them not being completely clear yet.

Mrs. Hoffman opened the door as Chase paused the music and started to clear his dining room table, which was covered in paint supplies and reference pictures, while Mrs. Hoffman began to prepare the tea and retrieve the new china cups–a gift from her last month–from the cupboard. She had a cheery smile on her face and Chase mentally thanked God that his early outburst that year had not permanently closed the door on their relationship.

"So how have you been, dear?" she asked as Chase set the kettle on the stove to heat the water.

"Been busy," he said, honestly. "But recently things have started to get a lot better. Just wish everything wasn't so confusing."

"Well dear," said Mrs. Hoffman smiling at him. "That feeling never goes away. I'm eighty-six years old now and I still don't understand half of what people are talking about these days I still remember thinking that the mobile phone thing would just be a fad. Nowadays it seems like I'm the only one who still owns a landline."

Chase chuckled as he sat down looking over at the little old lady who had become a small cornerstone of his little world. For just a moment, he thought over all the people in his life that he interacted with. Honestly, it was at once far too small, and far larger a list than he would've imagined. However, what was immediately clear to him was that everyone who was in his life was exactly where he needed them to be, and he was exactly where they needed him to be. Mrs. Hoffman had once confided in him that she had often felt lonely before Chase had moved in, being that her children and even her grandchildren were now grown, only visiting three or four times a year.

However, once Chase had moved in, she'd found companion and someone to talk to, while he'd found something akin to a surrogate grandmother who would listen to his life and problems and comfort if not advise him on what to do. She also was a more understanding woman than he'd every given her credit for. Even after his snap at her, she'd not stayed mad with him for long. Instead, she'd accepted his apology and within a couple weeks, they were back to normal.

She also took a very sincere interest in his artwork. This was something he always appreciated because it was commonplace for most people to ask to see what he made, and never actually follow through on that initial idea. It made him a little bitter and cynical when it came to the request to view his work, and he much preferred when people didn't bother to feign the interest.

So Chase pulled up a couple pictures he'd taken of Justine's painting, and shared them with Mrs. Hoffman. She adjusted her glasses slightly, peering eagerly at the painting.

"Oh," she said softly, beginning to read the poem he'd transcribed. "Oh, that's really pretty. I like that."

Truth be told, Mrs. Hoffman understood very little about art or structure of poems and the like, but it still felt good that someone appreciated that things he made. In a way, someone who normally took little interest in art was harder to win over than an art critic might be, at least up to a certain point.

"Well hopefully the woman I sent it likes it too," said Chase, moving the photos off the table and retrieving the kettle, which had begun to whistle at a high pitch. "Things have been a little difficult between us."

He hadn't explained his dreams fully to Mrs. Hoffman. Rather he'd made it sound as if he'd just happened to run into Justine on the street one day. To be honest, he was afraid of how she might respond to Justine's past. Sure, Mrs. Hoffman was a kind woman, but she was also very old-school and the idea that Justine was a prostitute and used drugs wouldn't have sat well with the older woman. Truth be told he still wasn't to happy about it either, but he also was trying to use his heart and not his head to be understanding.

After all, Peter and Miranda hadn't been judgmental or angry towards Justine at all, only understood her as Chase did: a lost soul that was trying to stop the pain.

Chase and Mrs. Hoffman continued talking, joking and sharing bits from their lives. As the afternoon began to give way to the early evening, Mrs. Hoffman stood and started to leave, and Chase walked her to the door. As he was promising to spend another afternoon with her next week, Chase looked out into the streets. He try to figure out how long it would take for his gift to Justine to arrive, and what would she think of it when she did get it.

Would she be angry, betrayed even, that he'd transcribed the poem she'd clearly intended to be lost? Would she think he was going too far in sending her the painting the first place? Was there a chance that she might actually like it?

Chase took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He couldn't predict her reaction. After all, he doubted he could've predicted his own when it came down to it. So he promised that he wouldn't think of it. He wouldn't think of Justine as much as he could help it. Still, as the weeks slowly turned August into September, he couldn't help but wonder despite himself. When he retrieved the mail, he would often hope to find a yellow piece of paper in the box, or perhaps taped to his door. No such piece of paper appeared, and he tried telling himself that it was alright. He knew it was illogical to expect Justine to be outgoing or outspoken when she'd been so protective up until now. Still he couldn't help hoping that she'd reach out again.

As Chase got home from church on the 13th, he was surprised to find that his front door was not locked. This immediately put him on edge, as Chase habitually locked his front door if he planned on being gone for more than half-an-hour. Not that there was any big crime spree in the area or anything, only that he saw no reason to invite people to steal from him.

Pressing his ear to the door, Chase listened in, trying to determine if anyone was in the apartment. He couldn't hear anything, though that didn't mean much, given the heavy wooden door. He quickly jogged to the side of the building and saw that none of his windows were cracked and he couldn't see any signs of a break-in. However, he could see that the living room lights were on. Chase pulled out his car key and placed it between his middle finger and his ring finger, preparing to use it as a weapon if need be.

Slowly, he opened the door, willing his eyes to see into the apartment and identify any threats. He couldn't see anyone at first, and carefully walked in, keeping low to the floor and as quiet as he could. His office and bedroom doors were still closed, but as he rounded the corner he could see that someone was huddled up in the living room chair. He could hear them shaking and shivering violently. This gave him pause, because it was hardly freezing outside and his apartment felt perfectly comfortable to him.

Holding his hand with the key back, ready to strike he quickly swung around the chair to see the person sitting in it, and froze. Sitting in the chair, huddled up in a blanket he didn't recognize, was Justine.

His first feeling was one of relief at the realization that the intruder wasn't someone who intended to hurt him. His second was nervous excitement at the thought of seeing her again, which melted into dread as he got a closer look at her. She'd never exactly been a perfect picture of health any time that they'd met, but she'd been perfectly wholesome then compared to the way she looked now.

Her skin was incredibly pale, and covered in a pale sweat. Chase glanced at her arms and saw the faded track marks typical of a long-term heroin user. However, he see any marks that were fresh, meaning that she hadn't used in a day or so at the least. She was huddled over, and he saw his kitchen trashcan had been moved and that she'd thrown up into it. Then he understood more appropriately. Justine was going through some pretty intense withdrawal symptoms. Never having been an addict to any substance before, Chase had nothing to compare it, but had read that heroin was one of the most difficult substances to detoxify from.

He took a quick look around and saw that she hadn't brought much, only a jacket and–his heart gave a funny lurch–the painting that he'd sent her. Chase sighed and ran a hand over her forehead. She was cold and clammy, and still shivering badly. He carefully went to his bedroom and retrieved a spare blanket from his closet and draped it over her. As he grabbed a couple glasses of water from the kitchen, he set one down in front of her and collapsed onto the couch, taking a long drink from his own glass while his mind slowly started to take in what was going on.

It was then that he heard Justine's voice, very soft and weak compared to the way he was used to it sounding.

"Hey there mister artist."

He tried to smile at her, though had no idea what effect it actually was giving his face.

"Hey Justine."