In Sight of Stars(41)

She moves back to her chair and waits another few minutes before she speaks again.

“From what I know, your father was a talented, frustrated man. He loved you. You loved him. But, he suffered from … what? Clinical depression, likely. Or something like it. For a long time. And if he was undiagnosed … well, that means he was also untreated.

“So, he suffered without help, and when he couldn’t bear the suffering anymore, he took his own life. In a gruesome, violent, terrible way. Seemingly without regard for the people around him. The people who loved him. Who cared about him. Who needed him most of all.”

I hiccup back another sob.

“But, it’s not because he didn’t care, Klee. You and I both know that. But because the pain of being here got to be too much for him to bear. I don’t know why, and neither, it sounds like, do you. But at that moment, the pain of it outweighed anything else for him. And only at that moment.

“But that doesn’t help you, does it? For you, the consequences are the same. You, his son, who loved him deeply, are left grieving. Your grief is all we can try to heal now.”

I nod, her words helping me, somehow.

“So, as long as we’re already here at rock bottom,” Dr. Alvarez says softly, “digging at the painful stuff, let’s just do it, shall we? Let’s deal with the big purple elephant in the room. Let’s go the rest of the way. That’s what I’m paid for, right? I might as well earn my keep.”

I can hear the smile in her voice when she says that, and so, even though I don’t want to, I nod again anyway.

“Okay, good. So, Van Gogh breaks your heart, partly because he’s his own tragic figure, and partly because he reminds you of your father, and, now, maybe yourself. Because your father was talented, but also depressed, and ultimately couldn’t bear his own life. He gave up painting—what he really loved—for you and your mother, perhaps, and eventually, that made him suffer so deeply that it all became too much for him. And ultimately, that’s on you, or so you think. Because if you had done better, or tried harder, or some other story we all tell ourselves, you could have stopped him, right? Helped him. Is that the story you’ve been telling yourself?”

I swallow hard and nod some more, and she says, “So, of course that’s hard for you because how could it not be? You were a part of that life, maybe the most important part. You were the part that should have made him want to live, and should have been enough to save him. You think you should have saved him, and, in turn, you blame yourself.”

I press my fingers to my eyes to block it all out. Everything she’s saying is the truth.

When I finally can, I sit back up and face her.

She tilts her head and smiles sadly, and says, “I understand how painful that must be, Klee, how you might choose to blame yourself. Except that you already know that’s not the truth. Because you’re a smart kid. A smart almost-adult. We can only make ourselves happy. We can’t save others. We can love others. But we can only save ourselves.”

“You’re right about that,” I say, finally “but wrong about something else.”

“What’s that?”

“We haven’t hit rock bottom. There are still more elephants. And I blame my mother more than myself.”

Day 9—Afternoon

When I walk into the GT room, Gene is the only one there. I’m tempted to turn and bolt, wait till the others have joined us, but he’s already seen me, and that would only make things awkward, so I walk over and sit across from him.

“Hey,” he says, dropping his tipped-back chair down to all four legs. “Early bird—worm, all that.”

“Yeah.” I miss my cell phone. Without it, I’ve lost all track of time in this place.

Gene watches me, rocks back onto the rear legs of his chair again. I try not to stare at him, or to look for the swastika tattoo.

“You ever fall?” I ask stupidly instead, indicating his chair. “I did that once in fourth grade. Fell flat on my back. Embarrassed the crap out of myself. Never did it again.”

He laughs, but rocks his chair forward again. I glance around for a wall clock, willing Sabrina or Martin or even Dr. Howe to get here, but there is none. I have no idea what else to say to this guy.

“So what do you think?” he says finally. He motions around the room, then leans forward, hands clasped under his chin, like he’s suddenly, intensely, interested in me. I shift nervously.

“About what?” Being in here? He can’t possibly mean that, because how many ways can one feel about being in here?

He shrugs and rocks back farther, precariously this time, arms folded behind his head. And then I realize. From this angle, I can see the tattoo on his biceps isn’t a swastika. It’s the number 55, that’s all.

“You looking at this?” He indicates his arm and I redden. I can’t believe I thought what I thought.

“Your tattoo,” I say. “What does it stand for?”

“It was my grandfather’s number. He played in the NFL in the sixties. ’66 to ’68, with the Browns. He’s the one who raised me. I got it last year when he died.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But, that’s cool. About him playing for the Browns, I mean. The part about him dying obviously sucks.” I want to say more, ask more, like where his mother is. And his father. Like, who’s raising him now? “The tat is cool, too,” is all I manage.