In Sight of Stars(32)

I move toward her and quickly grab the bag and the easel so I don’t have to hug her. I know I should, but I can’t. My body feels off and shaky, like I’m about to be light-headed again.

“My dearest M…”

“Come in,” I say, pushing the suitcase into the room with my foot. I eye it, hoping my laptop is in there, but know better. No social media allowed. No contact with the outside world, except immediate family.

“… a lot of girl to handle…”

“Klee?”

I stop, sudden fury hitting me fast and hard. “Yeah?” I ask, voice sharp. I exhale slowly.

“It has wheels. Please don’t do that.” She bends and lifts the retractable handle and drags it the rest of the way into the room. The door closes behind her, resting open the last few inches thanks to the rubber stop. “Some of your schoolbooks are in there in case you want to keep up with your work. That’s why it’s so heavy.”

“Got it. Good. Thanks.” I haven’t thought much about my remaining schoolwork. My grades have already been sent to Boston, so I basically just need to pass my classes. My portfolio is the main thing I need to get done. Hence the easel, I guess.

“I wasn’t sure what you might need. It would be wonderful if you could keep up while you’re here, for when you go back—”

I nod and walk to the bed, and unzip the duffel bag. There’s a plastic box of my brushes, all sizes, and not one but two new sets of Amsterdam Expert Series acrylics, the large tubes, enough to cover a small house with, seriously. Now I can really be like Van Gogh, painting away in the asylum.

I give her a look, and she says, “I know, overkill. But I wanted to make sure you had everything you might need. And the staff says the brushes are okay.” She shifts uncomfortably. “Anyway, you look good, Klee. You really do. I’m so glad for that.” She walks over and moves her hand up as if she’s going to stroke my hair, but I pivot away and walk to the window instead. She sits awkwardly on the edge of my bed. “It’s a relief to see you … You look better than I thought you would.”

“My dearest A…”

I laugh now—I don’t know why I laugh, but I do. Not a funny laugh, but a harsh one, coughed out, and her eyes flash up at me, then land, concerned, on the small bandage that still covers my ear. “You have lost weight, though,” she says.

“The food here isn’t exactly gourmet.”

“Well, for the cost, you’d think it might—” Too late, she checks herself, realizing how she sounds. She looks away, apologetic.

I know I should be nicer. More appreciative or something. It can’t be easy for her to be here, to see me in here, like this. Not to mention to have dragged all this shit here in her nice clothes in the rain. But the letters, her typed words, keep infiltrating my brain.

“… My dear, beautiful man…”

“You know,” I say, anger now cracking my voice, “you could really use some regular weekend-type clothes. Jeans. Sneakers. Something that says, ‘Casual Saturday-morning visit with my son at the mental hospital.’”

“Klee, please! Please don’t call it that.” She winces and I almost feel bad. “I’m sorry if I brought the wrong things. Wore the wrong things. I’ve been worried sick … I was trying to be helpful. I just thought you might like something to do while you’re here. They said no electronics. I figured you must be going crazy—”

She hears it, same as I do, and I can’t help myself and say, “Sorry, went already. Apparently.” It’s just too easy to let it slide.

It gets the desired effect, too. She stands and moves toward the door.

“Forgive me for trying, Klee. For the life of me, I don’t know what I’ve done.” She sounds so deeply wounded, I’m surprised she stops again at the door. “One more thing, Sarah keeps texting you. I know it’s none of my business … I’m not snooping. I plugged your phone in to charge. I thought you’d want me to … It keeps buzzing, and her name pops up. I can’t read the texts, it’s locked. I just see her name, so don’t worry. But I thought maybe someone should let her know how you are, and that you don’t have your phone in here, so she won’t keep trying. Maybe she thinks you do.”

My throat closes and I look away.

“Would you like me to text her or something?”

“No! I’ll deal with it. Do you know when I’m allowed to have it back?” I manage.

“Your phone?”

“Yes, all that stuff. My phone, my laptop.”

“How would I…? Hasn’t Dr. Gomez told you?”

“It’s Alvarez. Jesus, Mom.”

I can’t stop it any longer. The seawall breaks and Saturday night rushes through like a fucking deluge. The letters. My mother’s stupid emails … and the knife.

Dunn’s house in the rain.

The ambulance, and Sarah crying …

My phone must have been in my sweatshirt, my sweatshirt covered in blood. My mother must have taken it all home. Thrown one out. Plugged the other in.

“That’s what I meant, Klee. Sue me. Alvarez,” she says. “Shall I go home? It sounds like you’d like me to go home?”

“Yes,” I say. “Please. I’m not feeling too well. I’m sorry.”