In Sight of Stars(40)

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.”