In Sight of Stars

by Gae Polisner

  She takes a moment to collect herself before she’s able to speak again. “Really, this isn’t stuff you needed to know, shouldn’t have had to handle. I tried to spare you the whole nightmare. But you’re not a kid anymore, are you? And I don’t want you thinking your father did what he did just because he loved someone else, because he was gay. That was hard, that was devastating for us, but it wasn’t … it would never be…”

  She shakes her head, unable to talk anymore. But I need to know. I need to understand.

  “That wasn’t what?” I ask. “What are you talking about, Mom?”

  “He was depressed,” she says. “And he had loaned out lots of money. He created all sorts of problems I didn’t know about. And then he borrowed—well, they say stole—escrow money. From his firm. He must have felt desperate … From some big client’s account. When they found out about it, well, there’s a zero-tolerance policy when a lawyer does that…” I raise my eyebrows, and she quickly adds, “He was going to pay it all back.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “Are you kidding?”

  She shakes her head again. “I wish. He was a good man. He got caught up trying to hold it all together. Trying to help everyone. And they found out. He lost his job. They were bringing him up on charges in front of the grievance committee.”

  I look at her in disbelief, not wanting to believe it’s true. “They would have disbarred him,” I say.

  She nods. “They were going to. That was clear. I didn’t know all of this, Klee. Not soon enough. Only right before he died. If I had, I would have done something. Made different choices. I would have stopped him. I would have found a way to help. He was so ashamed…”

  “Jesus,” I say again, because I don’t know how else to respond. “Wait,” I add, something else occurring to me. “Are we in money trouble, then?”

  “Yes and no,” she says, staring down. “Not completely. The apartment sold for twice what the house up here cost, and your father left a sizable insurance policy. Of all the things we have to worry about, at least here, now, money probably isn’t one of them. We’ll be okay.”

  So that’s why we came up here.

  “I don’t need to go to Fine Arts Boston,” I say. “I can stay here or something.”

  “Don’t be silly. There are accounts already set up for that. And, he’d want you to go. Getting you better and there is our only concern now.” She smiles weakly. “I should have told you all of this sooner, but after your father died, I figured there was no reason for you to know. I didn’t know you’d seen the letters. I should never have kept them. I didn’t realize just how much you were suffering.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay now. I’m going to be okay.”

  I stare out the window. The day is bright and warm, Dr. Alvarez’s office awash in sunshine. I think of all the times Sister Agnes Teresa came in to open my shades. To let the outside in. “It’s a good reminder,” she had said.

  “Are we ready?” Dr. Alvarez asks, breezing into the room with a handful of papers.

  “Almost,” I say. “Yeah. There are a few things I’d still like to do. Can I have another hour?”

  My mother nods, says she has some errands to run, kisses my forehead, and says she’ll be back to get me then.

  * * *

  Sister Agnes Teresa sits on the chair by the window. A small white box rests in the center of my bed, next to a pack of Hostess Sno Balls in all their coconut-coated, pink glory. Somehow, I knew she’d be here.

  I hold up the Sno Balls. “Nobody eats these,” I say. “Nobody.”

  She smiles. “Nonsense, Mr. Alden. Though they may be an acquired taste.”

  “Right,” I say. “I haven’t acquired it. But I’ll keep them to remember you by.”

  “That’d be nice,” she says.

  “And this?” I hold up the small white box.

  “Open it. I hear your mother is here. That she’s ready to take you home.”

  “Yeah, she is,” I say. “I might have misjudged her. I mean, I did. I misjudged her.”

  “Well, it happens,” Sister Agnes Teresa says, after I tell her the rest of the story. “We sometimes judge. And when we do, we often judge incorrectly. On the other hand, you don’t seem like a truly judgmental person. So if you did, maybe there was a pretty good reason why.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “My mother, she tried … she was only trying to protect me … And, I was hard on her. I blamed her.” I stop there, wondering how I’m ever going to do this: go home and just go about business as usual.

  Maybe I need more time.

  Maybe I’m not ready.

  “Sometimes,” Sister Agnes Teresa says, “we get angry at those who are the safest to be angry with.”

  “I guess,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it fair.”

  “Who says life is fair, Mr. Alden? Life is rarely fair.”

  “That’s it?” I say. “Life isn’t fair? I was hoping for something more profound. Something I might hang on to, that might let me know I’m ready to go home.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then looks at me thoughtfully. “I’m a nun, Mr. Alden, not a magician.”

  “I know,” I say. “But still. I was counting on you. How am I supposed to just pick up my life and go on? Especially here, in Northhollow? I mean, how do I do that? How do I go back and face everyone?”

  Sister Agnes Teresa walks over and holds out her hand to me. I take it, and she squeezes, then she pulls me in for a seriously awkward hug. When she loosens her embrace, she holds fast to my hand and gives it a firm shake.

  “With wisdom and bravery, Mr. Alden. The same way the rest of us do.”

  * * *

  “Your mother’s not back yet. Let me get a sweater and we’ll take a quick walk.”

  Dr. Alvarez leaves me at the nurses’ station with my pile of bags. On top of the bags is the small white box from Sister Agnes Teresa. I’ve left the easel in the game room next to the art supplies. They’ll find use for it there.

  While I wait for her, I lift the lid off the box and pull the note from it again. A yellow Post-it, and under that a key chain with a small metal ladder, maybe two inches tall. Probably for a dollhouse or something.

  For when you hit those chutes.

  With bravery and love,

  Sister Agnes Teresa

  I slip the keychain and note in my pocket and wait for Dr. Alvarez by the main door.

  * * *

  The air is chilly, still raw from the recent rain. I pull my sweatshirt tightly around me.

  We walk silently until we reach the white stone benches in the clearing, the Buddhas with their bowls of water overflowing. Dr. Alvarez sits and pats the bench for me to sit, too.

  “The mural is beautiful,” she says. “What a gift. I’m sure we’ll all cherish it, but me, most of all.”

  “I’m glad it was okay.” I toe at some sort of seedpod that has half buried itself under the mud.

  “You know, Klee, people have been grappling with the same basic problems for thousands and thousands of years. Whether they’ve turned to God or spiritual leaders or psychologists or mentors, you’re not alone in finding it overwhelming to make peace with it all.”

  “I see that now. I thought I was okay. I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone to help. I didn’t realize how much of the burden I put on Sarah.” My throat catches when I say her name. I need to get over it, cope with whatever happens when I see her at school. I don’t know if she’ll even talk to me. “I don’t know what I’m going to say, how I’m going to go back and face her now, after what I did.” I raise my hand to my ear, and run my finger along the small notched scab. “I’m embarrassed,” I say. “I humiliated myself.”

  Dr. Alvarez’s eyes follow my finger, and she says, “You got lucky it wasn’t worse. The thought was more destructive than the damage you did. In a few weeks, it will barely be noticeable.”

  “In a few weeks…”

  “To be clear,” Dr. Alvarez says, “I’m not ma
king light of your actions in any regard, and for the time being, you should remain on antidepressants and continue therapy, so we can make sure you never feel that desperate again. But I guess what I want you to know is that you’ll get through it. This is the stamp on the envelope, remember? You won’t be defined forever by these actions. And, honestly, Klee, people, kids your age, do all sorts of stupid and impulsive things. Sane people. Normal people. If only that weren’t the norm. So, I’m guessing they’ll be hard-pressed to judge you.”

  “But they will.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “I guess you’ll have to breathe through it. I’m confident you will.” She nods up at something, and I peer up through the trees. A hint of sunlight seems to be breaking through again. “Remember, Klee, any of us, under enough pressure, without enough support, are in danger that the next bad thing can send us spiraling. It’s why we must pay attention, and be mindful. Act from what we know and not from what we fear. And seek out help when we need it. From family. From friends. But also learn to trust yourself.”

  I shrug and glance past her. I know there are some things I’m going to have to solve on my own.

  “Here. You think I’m lying, but I’ll show you,” she says. She gets up from the bench and turns to face me, rolling up her sleeves. “I have a PhD and a double master’s. I have a loving husband and a good career. I’ve had friends and partners, successes and failures, and so far I’ve made it through. But there was a time—a brief moment in my early twenties—when I didn’t think I could.”

  She holds her wrists out to me, undersides up, to show me where, on each, a faint pink scar runs vertically along the tender skin.

  “You?” I ask. “But why?”

  “For the same reasons many of us do. We feel hopeless or helpless or alone. The thing we learn if we make it through is that we’re not.”

  My eyes fill with tears. They’re not sad tears, just grateful. Dr. Alvarez reaches into her pocket and hands a tissue to me, but I shake my head. I’m okay.

  “Anyway, what you need to know,” she says, rolling her sleeves back down and buttoning them, “is that my life is happy, my days are good. Very good. Unbelievably lucky and good. But not all of them. Bad things happen, now and again, and some days are impossibly hard. And others still, mildly hard. But even on the worst days, I’m not in danger anymore.” She smiles gently, sitting beside me again on the white stone bench. “But all in all, if I had to average it out, most of them are happy, fulfilling, and good. Those far outweigh the bad days, and they do make it all worthwhile.”

  I don’t know how to respond. It both surprises and comforts me to know that even Dr. Alvarez wasn’t always as sure and clear as she is now.

  She gets up again and walks to the stump with the Buddhas resting on it, puts her hand on Green Tara, and says some mantra.

  “It’s Green Tara’s,” she says. “I like the sound of it, even if I don’t fully know what it means or believe in it. I like the feel of it on my tongue, the lilt of it, you know? And sometimes it’s just good to have a mantra. Something to say when you’re anxious. Yours can be anything. A quote that you like, or a song lyric. Something you say to remind yourself. We can work on that.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Oh, and one more thing, Klee. This?” She holds her wrists out but doesn’t uncover the scars again. “It was a long time ago. I’ve lived a whole lifetime since then. Honestly, I barely remember what set me off back then. What made me feel so broken. But it seemed so very important at the time.”

  “Like a postage stamp,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  I look at my own hands, studying my fingers which held a paintbrush again this morning, feeling good and right when they did. It made me feel normal again, like me. Klee. Just that alone makes me feel all sorts of things I can’t fully express to Dr. Alvarez. I feel sad, and quiet, and grateful all at the same time.

  “‘For my part, I know nothing with any certainty,’” she says, walking again. “‘Except that the sight of the stars makes me dream.’ It’s Van Gogh, right? The quote you left for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve really given me a whole new appreciation for him,” she continues. “What a gift it is to always be learning. There truly was no other artist like him. How sad that it wasn’t a life fully appreciated while he lived it.” I nod and she says, “But your father’s life, Klee, your father’s life wasn’t his. Nor is yours. And the sight of stars,” she says, reaching up to point through the trees, “is always right there. Right in your line of vision. Even on the cloudiest day. They don’t disappear, you know, just because the clouds are obscuring them. They’re always still there. Waiting.”

  HOME

  It’s weird to walk into the house after so many days gone.

  It feels unfamiliar. But this place always has.

  I wonder if it will ever feel like home.

  Still, my mother is trying. I can even smell home-baked cookies.

  In the hallway, I turn and give her a suspicious look.

  “Don’t get excited. They’re slice and bake,” she says.

  * * *

  My room is just how I left it, except for a stack of clean laundry folded on my bed.

  I drop my bags by my closet, pick up my cell phone, and stare at it. I have twenty-two missed messages.

  I pile my books on my desk and put the rest of my clothing and supplies away. Finally, I sit at my desk and pull the folded sheet of paper from my pocket and add Martin’s and Sabrina’s numbers to my contacts. Only then do I press the message icon to read through all of the texts.

  The most recent is from Cleto, saying he means it, that he’s there for me if I need him, and to let him know when I’m home again and can get to the city to see him. “Or we can come to you, Revenant. No problem. Who doesn’t want to waste a day trekking up to the boonies?”

  I smile a little and decide to call. At least Cleto won’t treat me any different.

  It rings through to voice mail.

  “Hey, Cleto, it’s me. I’m home again, and wondering. Remember that place—I forget what it’s called—but the Ping-Pong place in midtown? We went there once, and you kicked my ass, remember? But, I’m thinking it’s time to up my game. Next weekend, maybe, if you’re not busy? Let me know.”

  I hang up and stare at his name on my phone. It’ll be good to see him. Really good.

  I move through the rest of the messages. The next one is from Dan: “Cleto told me the news. Sorry, Leo. Hope you’re feeling better soon.”

  The rest after that are from Sarah, dating way back to Saturday night: “I’m so sorry, Klee. I love you. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me. Call me when you get home.”

  The words make my chest hurt. They’re from more than two weeks ago. Bet she didn’t realize how long I’d be gone.

  I scroll through the rest. They’re basically the same. She’s sorry. She loves me. She didn’t mean to hurt me. She’s worried about how I am. They’re hard to read, but here’s the weird thing: I believe her, too. I don’t think she was trying to hurt me. Of course that doesn’t change the fact that she did.

  I don’t respond or call back. I’m not ready. My heart still feels crushed. I’m going to need some more time.

  I take out a fresh set of paints and decide to work on my remaining portfolio piece. I may just submit something close to the painting I left for Dr. Alvarez.

  By dinnertime, it’s coming along nicely, but I’m stir crazy. I badly want to go out for a drive. I find Mom reading in the screened-in porch off the living room. She’s got the double doors open and her view of the water. A nice warm breeze is blowing in.

  “The apartment sold for twice what the house up here cost…”

  I can’t believe I thought she was being selfish.

  “… a man or a mackerel, Klee?”

  A snow queen, or just my mother?

  I clear my throat, and she startles. But she smiles quickly, though it’s more forced than natur
al. Not just now, but for the last two weeks, I’ve scared the shit out of my mother. I get that. I’m going to have to give her time to adjust, to trust that I’m all right. That I don’t want to hurt myself. That it was never my intention in the first place. Better that I hurt myself than someone else, though, right?

  My breath catches. What if my father had thought the same thing? What if I was that someone else?

  But I am not my father. I see that now. And, for better or worse, neither of us is Van Gogh.

  “Are you hungry?” my mother asks. “I’ve been trying to give you some space. But if you are, we could order up some Green Jade Chinese.”

  “Sure. Not yet, but soon. Maybe in a while?” I say.

  I walk over and sit in the chair across from her. I think of all the hours I sat across from Sister Agnes Teresa playing games and talking about everything and nothing, and I fiddle with the ladder in my pocket. “For when you hit those chutes…” The folded Post-it note is in there, too, with her email and her cell phone number.

  “Did you know,” I say, though it isn’t what I was expecting to say, “that they recently discovered Van Gogh may not have cut off his own ear?”

  My mother’s eyes shift to mine, alarmed, unsure what my point is. I’m not sure I know what it is either. Maybe I don’t have a point. Maybe it’s just something I want her to know.

  “Dr. Alvarez told me. Some new book is out. A biography. And they think it wasn’t Van Gogh at all, but rather Gauguin who did it. Accidentally. He was a fencer, Gauguin, and apparently, they got in a fight. And in a fit of rage, they think, Gauguin may have sliced off Van Gogh’s ear.”

  “Really?” my mother asks. “So, Gauguin, not Van Gogh?”

  “Right. And Van Gogh covered for him. To protect him. I guess that’s what friends are for.” I wink at her, then feel stupid for it. Still, she laughs a little, which is good to hear.

  “Well, that’s quite a twist, then,” she says. “I wonder what your father would have said about that.”