In Sight of Stars(18)

I don’t mean to stare, but it’s hard not to. Honestly, there must be a dozen things wrong with her. Not just her stature, but her proportions. Her hands are thick—too thick for her size—and her fingers are bratwurst sausages. Her torso is too long for her legs. And her voice, too, has an odd froggish quality to it, as if she’s swallowed both sandpaper and helium. On the other hand, her face is normal. Nice, even. Pleasant and round, and beneath the white hat, her eyes sparkle friendly and warm.

While I eat the second Twinkie, Sister Agnes Teresa moves awkwardly around my bed, smoothing my blankets. Finally, she waddles back to the window, where the shades are pulled down. She lifts them halfway and peers out over the courtyard, now lit by sodium lamps that bathe it in a yellow, melancholy glow. The brachiosaurus looms stark and lonely in the stillness.

After another minute, she lowers them again. “All right, it’s been a long night and I don’t want to impose on you more. You be well, Mr. Alden,” she says, making her way to the door and pulling it closed all but those last few inches behind her.

Day 4—Morning

“Daubigny’s Garden.”

I say this aloud to Dr. Alvarez—Daubigny’s Garden—for no other reason than it’s there. Or maybe I say it because it’s art, and sometimes that’s all there is.

Dr. Alvarez turns to where its blue-roofed house rises into yellow and blue clouds. “So that’s what it’s called?”

“Yes. But that’s not the real version. Or, at least not the original version.”

“No?”

“No. In the original there’s a black cat, there, in the foreground.” I point near the bottom of the print. “Just below the lavender area.”

“How interesting!” She twists back to take it in again, before turning back to me. “You know your stuff, don’t you?” I shrug. “I’ve always liked it,” she says, “but to be honest, I didn’t put it there. I’d like to take credit, but it was already here when I inherited this office, so, perhaps a bit of kismet at work. Speaking of which, I’m told your mother visited. How was that?”

I shift, uncomfortably. “Not really visited,” I say. “Just dropped some things off. I was asleep. I didn’t even know she was here.” I don’t elaborate. And I haven’t opened the portfolio since she left it, just shoved it in the corner near the closet. I did open the duffel bag, where she packed me some extra clothes and other necessities.

“Art can be great therapy…” Dr. Alvarez says, so I’m guessing she knows about the portfolio. “We can arrange for you to get some work done in here if you’d like, and I’d love to see some of your pieces if you’re willing.” I must flinch because she quickly adds, “Only if you want to at some point. I know art can be quite personal. So, how are you feeling? Are you adjusting to the meds any better?”

“A little, I guess.” If only you wouldn’t keep bringing up my mother.

“Tell me.”

“I went down to the dining hall. And I slept better last night, so there’s that.” Sister Agnes Teresa waddles across my brain, staring out my window into the night. I don’t mention her. I’m still partly afraid I hallucinated her.

“Glad to hear it. Your body needs rest. Not just emotionally, but physically. You’re healing physical wounds, which takes energy, did you know that?”

I don’t know what I know.

I turn and look out her window. It’s April. I’m done with school in the middle of June. Less than three months. But the thought of going back to Northhollow, of facing Abbott and the others, makes my stomach roil.

Of facing Sarah.

But if I miss too much time, I may have an issue graduating, and I don’t want that either. I’m already on extension to complete my portfolio for Boston. “Extenuating circumstances,” they noted. But they’re not going to give me much more time. The best thing I can do now is get out of here. Get accepted. Go there. Get away from the Ice Queen and Northhollow.

Jesus, how I’ve screwed things up.

No. They were screwed up already. They were screwed up long before Saturday.

Dr. Alvarez glances up from her clipboard, where she’s been flipping pages. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Klee.” But, that’s the problem. I don’t want to talk about any of it. My father. What happened with my mother. Or with Sarah. “How about we go back to where we left off yesterday?” Dr. Alvarez smiles gently. “You were telling me about that first day in the city with Sarah.”

The portfolio slips through my head again. Not because of what’s in it, but what’s on it. I saw it yesterday. The little piece of masking tape on the handle.

K EE HA WOO .

Her words. Still scrawled there like a faded promise.

*

Sarah and I take the train into the city.

Mom lets me use Dad’s car locally, but she won’t let me drive it into Manhattan. “Klee, the taxis … they’re dangerous, and you just got your license when we got up here. Besides, do you know what that car is worth? What repairs cost? And I can’t have anything happen to you…”

Me, or the car? Always so hard to tell what her real concerns are. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m happy to take the train if I’m with Sarah.