by Gae Polisner
I move my eyes away when he glares at me, glance down at my own name tag, staring at the stupid way I wrote the phonetic CLAY above the typed KLEE when I walked in. I wonder if it makes me seem like a tool.
Dr. Howe clears her throat, and I think for a second maybe she asked me something when I wasn’t paying attention. But she’s looking at Martin, not me.
“So, did you want to share anything today?”
Dr. Howe has a soft voice and casual appearance. Short brown hair, no makeup. She looks thirty, at most, maybe younger, wears jeans and a white Henley, and Nike running shoes. If it weren’t for the “PhD” after her name, I’d think she was one of us.
“Not really,” Martin says, and Dr. Howe shifts. “How come it’s always about me in here? How come I’m always the only one who has to talk?”
Sabrina casts me a look. “Maybe because you like to talk?” she says.
“Not true! Not always,” Martin protests. “Not when I’m in a crap mood.”
“Are you? In a crap mood today, Martin? Do you want to talk about why?”
He does seem different today, sullen. Not like the kid in the dining hall who can’t stop chatting about everything. It’s weird to see him deflect. Up till now, he always seems like he likes it to be about him.
“You don’t have to,” Dr. Howe, says, “but Sabrina spoke last during yesterday’s session, and Gene led us in the mindfulness portion, and Klee is new here, so I thought we’d give him time to warm up. And, we haven’t heard from you yet.” My eyes shift to Gene again. I’m stuck on the mindfulness thing. Hard to picture the dude leading that. “It can be something simple. Like, how was your weekend? Did you have any visitors? Whatever you might be willing to share.”
Martin stares down at his feet.
“I did,” I pipe up. I feel bad for the kid. If he isn’t talking, he must really not want to.
“My mother came to see me Saturday morning. I wasn’t really that nice. I said she could come back this morning, and that didn’t go much better.”
Dr. Howe nods, making me feel okay about chiming in. Not that I want to continue now that I’ve started. She shifts her chair to face me better and says, “I’m glad you spoke up, Klee. Do you want to talk a little more about that?”
“Not really,” I say. “I was just trying to help Martin.” Martin laughs, and I see the corners of Sabrina’s mouth curl up, too. I avoid looking at Gene, finding one of Dr. Alvarez’s stress balls in my sweatshirt pocket. I squeeze it hard, the Adler quote coming partly back to me. Something about being too cautious, taking too many precautions in life.
“I know I need to deal with it, talk to her. It’s just … I’m not ready. Some things have happened and I’ve been kind of emotional.” As soon as I say it, I realize how dumb it sounds. Of course I’m emotional. Why else would I be in here? Still, Dr. Howe nods. I squeeze the stress ball harder. “My mother … is not. Not emotional, I mean. She’s the opposite. After my father died…” I stop. Take a deep breath. “Let’s just say she’s one of those people who is always glued together. Perfect. Fine. No matter what happens. It’s so fucking irritating…”
My voice trails off. My mother’s coldness isn’t the problem, not even the tip of iceberg. But it’s all I’m willing to share. Especially with some doctor I don’t know and some twelve-year-old. Not to mention a psycho with a Nazi tattoo on his arm.
Besides, my mother is who she is. And from the looks of it, she’s way better off how she is, than I am.
“I know it’s all for show. I’m not an idiot. I’m sure she’s the farthest thing from always perfect and calm. It’s the show that I hate. It makes her superior. But it also makes her a liar and a fraud.”
All four of them are looking at me now.
Fuck. What made me think I wanted to go there?
I shut up, shove both hands deeper into my pockets, and squeeze the ball. I need to breathe. I need to not get choked up. Not in front of Swastika Gene.
I’m so freaking sick of crying.
Sabrina reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder. She gives it this sweet little pat and then stops. When I look up again, Dr. Howe is waiting for me.
“Do you want to share more, Klee? It sounds like it might be helpful.”
I shake my head. “She’s an Ice Queen. Period. End of story.”
Martin sits forward. “Like from the fairy tale, right?” It takes me a second, and then I nod. I guess that is where I got it from. “The Ice Queen.” I vaguely remember some story like that my mother used to read me when I was little.
“I read that, too!” Martin shudders. “Did any of you? With the witch with her white hooded cape. I hated that story so much.”
“You mean ‘The Snow Queen,’” Sabrina says softly. “My mom read it to me, too. I loved it.” Her voice turns brighter. “It was convoluted and creepy, but I liked it.”
Martin laughs now, and I do, too, because loving a creepy story seems so out of character for Sabrina.
“How about you, Gene?” Dr. Howe asks.
“Not on your life,” Gene says.
Martin leans forward, more animated now than he was before.
“Remember how the devil makes that mirror that distorts everything and magnifies everyone’s bad qualities so none of the good ones shine through?”
“And remember the girl’s red shoes?” Sabrina says.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” I say. “That was ‘The Snow Queen’ not ‘The Ice Queen’?” So, all this time, I’ve remembered the name wrong. My mother is a Snow Queen, not an Ice Queen. That seems so much less fitting somehow.
“Funny you bring up that particular story, Klee,” Dr. Howe says. “It’s an interesting tale. I’m glad you did. I actually use it sometimes when I work with my younger kids because the story shows a lot about perception and misperception. For example, the Queen, if you remember, who kidnaps little Kai? She isn’t the one who originally holds up the mirror that reflects back the ugly things. In fact, we don’t know for sure how that mirror got into her heart. Tragedy? Misfortune? We make assumptions, but we don’t ever really know for sure.
“So, the Queen appears to be perfect and beautiful, in her white furs and crown, but we don’t know why, or how, she got so cruel. The fact is, somehow, early on, the devil—or whatever your version of evil or sorrow might be—got inside her. But she didn’t necessarily start out that way. In essence, she’s a victim. And she needs to be set free, too.”
Sabrina looks up. “I always felt sorry for her,” she says.
“You have a big heart, that’s why. One of the things the story illustrates is how those shards of glass can get in everywhere, even if we start out happy and pure. And, looking in from the outside, we don’t always know how or when, exactly, they got there. There may be things out of our control.”
“And even if they are there,” Sabrina whispers, “even when those shards get in? We can still be saved by love.”
“Save ourselves,” Martin says.
Gene shakes his head, drops his chair in a thud. “Only in fairy tales,” he says.
Day 9—Morning
“Well, that went well yesterday,” I say when Dr. Alvarez finally walks in the room. “Thanks for getting her to leave. I guess I wasn’t ready.”
Dr. Alvarez’s hands are full: a Starbucks cup of coffee, a large book gripped under her arm, her keys dangling from a finger, and assorted papers clutched in her other hand. I get up to help, but she says, “No worries, I’m good,” and drops all but the coffee and the book on her desk before moving to her chair across from me. She sets the book on the table, and I take in its familiar cover.
“Exactly right. You weren’t ready. I’m sure your mother understood.” I snort and she says, “Baby steps. At any rate, I hear group went well yesterday, and that you made some good connections in there. I like group for that. Just some light chitchat until you realize it’s where the real magic happens.”
“Was there magic?”
She laughs. �
��Well, maybe ‘magic’ is too strong a word. Funny, though,” she says, “how we only recognize huge, seismic breakthroughs when, really, all progress is good progress no matter how small. Sometimes we need to be willing to measure it in millimeters, not feet.”
“Is there a stress ball for that?” I ask, and she smiles and pulls her clipboard to her lap.
“Anyway, sorry I’m late. I got all the way here, but forgot this down in my car.” She taps on the book. “I just happened to find it last night at my favorite bookstore. On the sale rack, no less.”
My eyes go to the book, and I shiver. Van Gogh’s Van Goghs. My father kept a copy in his studio. A photo of Wheatfield with Crows graces the cover. The book contains most of his masterpieces from the Amsterdam Museum’s permanent collection.
I page through it, then rest it on the couch next to me. Just holding it overwhelms me, and I want to feel better, not worse. Of course, if that’s all it takes to derail me, maybe Dr. Alvarez is being optimistic thinking I’m progressing. I mean, it’s more than a week in, and I don’t feel much better than I did. Then again, maybe I have no clue how bad I was feeling back then. Maybe I didn’t even realize.
Sure, things with Sarah were stressful, but I was plodding along, getting my portfolio done. I was finally making some good pieces in Tarantoli’s class, feeling freer now that most of my pieces were submitted.
I was fine.
I was okay.
Until everything imploded Saturday night.
Or, maybe that’s my problem: that signs were there, and I didn’t recognize them. Maybe I can’t tell when I’m already in the midst of crashing and burning.
Truth is, I still don’t know how I got here.
“I think I hate her,” I say to Dr. Alvarez out of nowhere.
Dr. Alvarez looks up. Her eyes meet mine. “Your mother, I presume?”
“Yes.”
She nods. Puts her pen down. Presses her clipboard to her chest. “Always, or lately?”
I think for a second. “More lately than always. More since. No, not always.” That last part catches in my throat, comes out in a choked whisper. Until I say it, I don’t realize how true it is. I don’t want to hate my mother. I didn’t used to.
“When you say since, you mean since your father died?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why?”
“Yes.”
I see the brief look of surprise cross her face, but she’s patient and waits, fingers clasped, for me to explain. But I don’t want to right now. The acknowledgment is enough. The rest is a big, gross can of worms. I’ve worked hard to keep the lid on it, to keep them from slithering loose around my brain.
“We proceed in millimeters, then,” she says. She puts her clipboard back down on her lap and jots some notes on it.
I pick up the Van Gogh book again and thumb through until I find Starry Night, and lay it open on the coffee table facing Dr. Alvarez.
“He painted this while he was in the asylum at Saint-Rémy.”
“There is truly something remarkable about it, isn’t there?” she asks. “A good reason it’s his most famous painting?” She pulls the book closer and runs her fingers over Van Gogh’s gold and indigo swirls.
“A lot of experts believe he painted this way not because of natural artistry, but because he’d poisoned himself, accidentally. From the lead in the yellow paint he used.”
“I’ve heard that,” Dr. Alvarez says.
“Yeah. Common knowledge, I guess. As a kid I always thought it was scary. My dad told me how the lead made Van Gogh’s retinas swell, so he literally saw those circles, like halos, around everything he viewed.”
“It’s fascinating. But it seems like a lot for a young kid to know.”
I shrug the comment off, but another memory of my mother flashes by. She’s yelling at my father about upsetting me, about sharing his warped views. She’s stuffing armfuls of sunflowers in the trash.
“Van Gogh was my dad’s favorite,” I say, defending him now. “So, he would talk about him, no big deal. He wanted me to know everything about art, about him. How he was great, but tragic in the end. Above all else, that’s what he was.”
“Your father or Van Gogh?”
I swallow hard but don’t answer.
“How about you, Klee? Are you worried that you’ll be tragic, too?”
Aren’t I already?
“I don’t want to be,” I say, because it’s the truth. But the truth might undo you before it sets you free.
I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, and Dr. Alvarez passes a box of tissues to me.
“Some perspective—and, granted, I don’t know nearly as much about him as you do, but I have been reading up on him—and I would say that, above all else, Van Gogh was a great artist, given what a lasting impression his art has had on the world.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But he never even knew. He didn’t live to see it. He died penniless, without having sold a single painting…” I stop, on the verge of tears again, which is really starting to piss me off. I’m tired of being a pussy. I’m tired of being needy. And for fuck’s sake I’m tired of crying. I should be more like my mother. Made of ice. Snow. Whatever.
If I weren’t so weak and pathetic, none of the shit that went down Saturday would have happened. Maybe Sarah wouldn’t have done what she did. I was too needy. I drove her there.
My face burns red as I try to push the memories of Saturday night from my brain. Maybe this is who I am. A weak, pathetic coward like my father.
“Klee?”
“Yeah?”
“It was a serious question. Van Gogh or your dad, who are we talking about here? I think it’s important that we talk about this.”
Jesus.
I put my head between my knees again. Despite my best efforts, I can’t choke it back anymore. The floodgates open and I’m weeping.
“It’s okay,” Dr. Alvarez says, and for the first time since I got here, she walks over and sits on the couch next to me. She puts an arm around my shoulders and says, “Don’t feel like you have to keep fighting it, Klee. This is a safe place to let it all go.” She nudges the box of tissues toward me. “Maybe what you need at this point is just to give yourself a break. Let yourself feel. I think you’ve been holding back—trying to hold back—for a long time now. And that’s no small feat. You’ve had a lot on your plate. The kinds of things that might break anyone. Even the toughest person on earth.”
She moves back to her chair and waits another few minutes before she speaks again.
“From what I know, your father was a talented, frustrated man. He loved you. You loved him. But, he suffered from … what? Clinical depression, likely. Or something like it. For a long time. And if he was undiagnosed … well, that means he was also untreated.
“So, he suffered without help, and when he couldn’t bear the suffering anymore, he took his own life. In a gruesome, violent, terrible way. Seemingly without regard for the people around him. The people who loved him. Who cared about him. Who needed him most of all.”
I hiccup back another sob.
“But, it’s not because he didn’t care, Klee. You and I both know that. But because the pain of being here got to be too much for him to bear. I don’t know why, and neither, it sounds like, do you. But at that moment, the pain of it outweighed anything else for him. And only at that moment.
“But that doesn’t help you, does it? For you, the consequences are the same. You, his son, who loved him deeply, are left grieving. Your grief is all we can try to heal now.”
I nod, her words helping me, somehow.
“So, as long as we’re already here at rock bottom,” Dr. Alvarez says softly, “digging at the painful stuff, let’s just do it, shall we? Let’s deal with the big purple elephant in the room. Let’s go the rest of the way. That’s what I’m paid for, right? I might as well earn my keep.”
I can hear the smile in her voice when she says that, and so, even though I don’t want to, I no
d again anyway.
“Okay, good. So, Van Gogh breaks your heart, partly because he’s his own tragic figure, and partly because he reminds you of your father, and, now, maybe yourself. Because your father was talented, but also depressed, and ultimately couldn’t bear his own life. He gave up painting—what he really loved—for you and your mother, perhaps, and eventually, that made him suffer so deeply that it all became too much for him. And ultimately, that’s on you, or so you think. Because if you had done better, or tried harder, or some other story we all tell ourselves, you could have stopped him, right? Helped him. Is that the story you’ve been telling yourself?”
I swallow hard and nod some more, and she says, “So, of course that’s hard for you because how could it not be? You were a part of that life, maybe the most important part. You were the part that should have made him want to live, and should have been enough to save him. You think you should have saved him, and, in turn, you blame yourself.”
I press my fingers to my eyes to block it all out. Everything she’s saying is the truth.
When I finally can, I sit back up and face her.
She tilts her head and smiles sadly, and says, “I understand how painful that must be, Klee, how you might choose to blame yourself. Except that you already know that’s not the truth. Because you’re a smart kid. A smart almost-adult. We can only make ourselves happy. We can’t save others. We can love others. But we can only save ourselves.”
“You’re right about that,” I say, finally “but wrong about something else.”
“What’s that?”
“We haven’t hit rock bottom. There are still more elephants. And I blame my mother more than myself.”
Day 9—Afternoon
When I walk into the GT room, Gene is the only one there. I’m tempted to turn and bolt, wait till the others have joined us, but he’s already seen me, and that would only make things awkward, so I walk over and sit across from him.
“Hey,” he says, dropping his tipped-back chair down to all four legs. “Early bird—worm, all that.”
