In Sight of Stars(49)

“It does.”

“Okay, a mackerel. Let’s say a mackerel, then.”

“Are they silver?” He nods. “Okay. A mackerel, then.”

I cup my fingers like a hand fish and move it through the water, arcing up into the air, then diving down beneath the surface.

“Good work,” Dad says. “You act out the words best you can. So, in the dream, Chuang Tzo had no awareness of himself as a person. Only as a fish.”

“The silver mackerel,” I say, making my hand swish along the edge of the steps.

“But when he awoke, Chuang Tzo found himself lying there, dry—on land, of course—a human again.”

“And?” I ask, my hand flopping over to land belly up on the edge of the pool.

“And, as he looked around, he thought to himself, ‘Was I before a man who dreamt about being a fish, or am I now a fish who dreams about being a man?’”

I stare up past the coconuts to the sky. An airplane is going by, a silver fish gliding through clouds. When my father doesn’t say more, I ask, “And, which was he, the man or the mackerel?”

My father looks at me and nods, then starts out of the pool again, taking my hand.

“I don’t know. Good question, son. Which was he?”

Day 10—Morning

Dr. Alvarez’s door is open when I get there. She sits at her desk doing paperwork. “If you do this type of work,” she says, “it’s not the patients that will kill you, but the forms.”

She nods at the couch and I sit. There’s a green stress ball on the table, and I take it, thinking of Sister Agnes Teresa, of our late-night swim, wondering if my hair still smells of chlorine.

“Give me a moment. I’m just finishing up,” she says. I turn the stress ball in my hand: “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”—Viktor Frankl.

“I found that this morning, thought it had your name on it,” she says without turning around. After another minute or so, she shoves the stack of papers in a drawer. “So, I was thinking,” she says, standing, “it’s beautiful outside this morning, and as far as I know, you haven’t been out in days.”

It hits me when she says this. I haven’t been outside since I got here.

“Of course, if you were recovering from appendicitis or some sort of surgery or whatever, you might stay indoors for a while. Wait till you felt strong enough to venture outside. Mental illness is no different. Sometimes we need to stay inside, sort of cocooned up where we feel safe. But I’m guessing you’re ready to go out now. You’re doing much better, Klee. I hope you feel that. So, I’m thinking the fresh air will do you a world of good.”

The phrase “mental illness” sticks in my head. It sounds awful and permanent. Or maybe I’m thinking about it wrong since most illnesses get better with time. Maybe it doesn’t matter what you call it, though, only figuring out what you need. And, Dr. Alvarez says I’m doing better, so maybe I am, though suddenly being anywhere but in here—inside the safety of the Ape Can—seems more than a little intimidating. Maybe because it means they’ll be sending me home soon.

“What if I’m not ready?” I blurt. Dr. Alvarez’s eyes meet mine. “What I mean is, how can I be ready, if I still don’t know how I got here? Metaphorically speaking, I mean, ’cause I know how I got here literally.”

Dr. Alvarez smiles and smoothes her slacks. “Baby steps, Klee. You’ll be ready. How about we start with a walk, though? The grounds are quite lovely this time of year, despite all the construction, and I sprung for my comfortable shoes.” She holds up a foot, revealing sockless brown loafers. “Some of the spring bulbs are starting to bloom, and the honeysuckle is divine. That’s the upside of all the recent rain. April showers and all that, right? You could even bring a canvas and some paints?”

I shrug but get up. The thought of going outside is appealing, if not the part about trying to paint. Despite all of Dr. Alvarez’s prodding, and my mother’s fiercely heroic efforts to cart all that stuff up here in her Chanel suit and high heels last week, I’ve not yet cracked open a thing.

“My patient after you has graduated to something less intensive, like you’ll be doing soon,” Dr. Alvarez adds, “and no one new has been put in her time slot yet, so I have some extra time today. I thought we might take a leisurely walk. I won’t know what to do with myself otherwise.” She smiles, then catches something else in my expression. “That’s right, Klee. People do graduate out of therapy, all the time. They go from in here to out there. From every day to weekly, to not at all in some cases. People get better and go home. They resume their real life, though often with some therapy in place, as I would recommend in your case. Not yet, of course. But soon. You don’t need to be in a place like this much longer. This is more than most of you kids really need.”

“If you say so,” I say.

“I do. I say so. Now, about that walk. I’ll wait down here. You go up to your room and get your things.”

*

I head down the sterile hallway, past the god-awful fish mural to the stairs, and pull open the heavy steel door.

The smell of chlorine drifts up.

Maybe the pool door is open. Maybe there’s therapy going on like Sister Agnes Teresa says. How come I never noticed the smell before?