In Sight of Stars(50)

I want to go down and explore, but we’re not supposed to wander the halls. “There are only two places you should be while you’re here: somewhere specific, or on your way there,” a nurse had told me the day Dr. Ram first came in to see me. “It’s important you follow the rules.”

Dr. Ram stopped in again yesterday to check my vitals. He even removed my bandage and said I was looking good. “Not much more than a notch, really,” he had said. My hand moves reflexively to my ear. Only a regular Band-Aid there now.

Progress, then, right? So, maybe Dr. Alvarez is correct. Maybe when I go home it won’t have to be a big ordeal.

I head up the stairs to get my things. A canvas and some paints. I’m reluctant, but Dr. Alvarez is waiting for me.

Soon, she had said about me going home, but the thought—the possibility—makes me dizzy. Of course, I have to leave here at some point. I need to catch up in school. Get on with my life. But soon? I don’t feel ready. Not yet. Not at all. I’m not ready to face Sarah. To face school. Or Keith Abbott or Scott Dunn.

Fuck.

I grip the railing and race up the rest of the stairs, and lie down for a minute on my bed. The whole freaking room is spinning.

I focus on the ceiling, then look out the window, at the edge of the excavator glinting yellow-orange in the sun. Better. I’m still safe here. This place, this room, feel as much like home to me as anywhere lately. Certainly, as much as our new house does.

When I feel steadier, I walk to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. If nothing else, I’ve got the most impressive stubble I’ve ever grown. Not that it’s saying much. I’m not a fan of it so much as taken by surprise. Maybe that’s what I should do: Grow a beard, put on a hat, and return to school incognito. I doubt I can shave anyway. It’s not like they’re handing out razors in here.

“Dude, you are a world-class fuck-up,” I say aloud to myself, then head back into the room to gather my supplies.

*

“Everything okay?” Dr. Alvarez asks, concerned. “I was worried you decided not to come.”

“Yes. I was just looking for some things.” I pat my backpack, which is jammed with two 5 × 8 canvases, a choice of brushes, and a box of acrylics. “I’ll need some water, though. If I’m going to paint.”

She pulls two bottles of Poland Spring from her purse. “Will this do?” I nod. “Good. We’ll make it work somehow, make a bowl out of bark or something.” She laughs and adds, “Now, what say you we blow this popsicle stand?”

*

One blast of sunshine and, at least momentarily, everything feels lighter. I inhale deeply, and Dr. Alvarez smiles. “Keep up,” she says, walking briskly. “Amazing what some fresh air can do for the soul.”

We cross the courtyard where the excavator is in full motion. I shove my hands in my sweatshirt pockets and follow, wondering all sorts of personal things about her I don’t know. Like her age, and why she works in the Ape Can. I mean, who wants to deal with a whole bunch of kids who have gone psycho? When we clear the noise, I ask. “It’s probably none of my business, but I was wondering how old you are?”

“Funny you should ask. I’m about to turn forty. In two weeks. It’s a big one, I suppose. Why?”

“No reason,” I say. “Just, you know pretty much everything about me.”

She laughs. “Fair enough. Did you think I was older or younger?”

“Both,” I say, and she laughs more heartily now.

At the far end of the courtyard there’s a gazebo surrounded by mostly barren gardens. When we reach it, she says, “Let’s sit for a moment,” and we move toward a circular bench and sit facing out toward the Ape Can.

“They keep talking about expanding the property to include more amenities, put some tennis courts in, maybe an outdoor dining patio. But so far all I see is pointless digging. It would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?”

I nod. “How long have you been here? Working, I mean.”

“Thirteen years.”

“Wow. Long.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She stretches her legs and clasps her hands behind her head. “I got a residency here right after grad school and have stayed ever since.”

“Do you hate it?”

She laughs again and shakes her head. “God no, does it seem like I do?”

“No, not at all. I just wondered. It seems hard.”

“Hard, yes. I guess it is. But, I love it, too, actually. It’s just difficult to believe I’ve been here so long—anywhere that long. I was just your age a blink of an eye ago, on the verge of everything, and now, well, I’m here, on the verge of old.” She smiles, but she seems a little sad when she says it.

“You’re not that old,” I offer.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

I laugh realizing how it came out.

“This birthday … forty … It’s a little tough to swallow, I suppose. But I try not to think of it that way. I’ve accomplished a lot, or enough to be at peace with myself. And, I’m always getting better at what I do. Or trying to get better, at least,” she adds. “I’ll probably never be quite as good as I want to be.”

“But, doesn’t it get depressing?”