In Sight of Stars(39)

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.