In Sight of Stars(61)

“He made a good point. It’s incredible. You must miss sharing art with him.”

“I do,” I say. “I miss lots of things.”

“Yes.” She closes the book and says, “Yes. I do love how the commentary, the extra information, makes me like the painting better. Or at least helps me to appreciate it more. I also love how we can learn so much about a person by the art that moves them. Not just paintings, but the books they read, the movies they watch over and over again. And, the inverse, too: how we presume to know so much about something—someone—by those external factors, when so often we know very little. But it seems notable that your father was drawn to this painting and you are not. Perhaps that speaks to some differences in your nature. Either way, I’m grateful you’ve shown me how to look at Van Gogh’s work more closely, in a different way, and that comes from you, through him. So, in some small way, I feel like I knew him, too. You’ve taught me something here, something that seems very much worth knowing.”

I open my mouth to respond when a knock sounds at the door. I swallow hard. Dr. Alvarez’s eyes flash to mine, and I say, “Speaking of learning things that may—or may not—be worth knowing.”

*

My mother perches on the edge of the couch in a green sweater set, jeans, and dress loafers with a fat heel, trying to appear more casual. She looks especially uncomfortable in the jeans. I didn’t even know she still owned a pair.

Her eyes dart nervously from Dr. Alvarez to me, back to Dr. Alvarez. Finally she turns back to me and says, “How are you doing, Klee? Any better?”

“Actually, a little. Yes. Hanging in pretty well, I guess.”

“That’s good!” She turns to Dr. Alvarez. “Right? That’s very promising?”

Dr. Alvarez smiles. “Yes, Mrs. Alden, very.”

My mother nods and wrings her hands as if she can sense the shitstorm coming, then twists to look out the window. “Finally nice out again. Enough already with all the rain!”

Maybe it’s because I’m feeling better, stronger, but my mother seems kind of fragile right now. Weak and frail, like some of her usual Ice Queen exterior has melted. Or maybe it’s just that I know I need to confront her, and the guilt has settled in my bones.

But she’s the one who should feel guilty here, not me.

“So, Klee has been working hard in here,” Dr. Alvarez says, shifting her feet under the table. My mother seems to make Dr. Alvarez uncomfortable, too, and her words feel careful and measured. “Really good work. And, I think he has been making solid progress. But there are some things we agree might help to get off his chest, and out in the open, so we might try to work through them all together.” She studies my mother to assess her participation, but my mother’s face is placid and unreadable. She has located and put up her ice shield.

“Yes, fine, of course,” she says, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her jeans.

“Klee, would you like to start?”

Already? I’m not prepared yet. My heart bangs so hard I think it might break through my ribs. I shift my weight away from my mother and stare out Dr. Alvarez’s office door into the waiting area. I could leave now and not do this. Get up and walk out the door. I only have to spend a few more months with her and I’m gone. Off to Boston, or if I’ve fucked that up already, then wherever. I don’t need to do this. I don’t need to have a relationship with my mother.

Dr. Alvarez says, “Klee, would you like my help broaching what we spoke about?”

“No,” I say, turning back. “I’ll do it.” My heart drums over my words, the rhythm of my pulse rushing into my ears. I turn to face my mother squarely.

“Who is A?” I ask, my voice breaking.

“Who?”

“‘A.’ Your ‘dearest man.’” I spit the words, making air quotes to help jog her memory. Her face stays a mask of confusion.

She can do this, my mother: make you believe she’s innocent, that you’re the one who doesn’t know what’s going on.

“In your emails,” I clarify. “In the box in the guest room. ‘My Darling M … How I miss you…’” My voice rises singsong and sarcastic. “I heard you talking about him, at the funeral. ‘He shouldn’t ever find out. He can never know.’ That he would be me, I assume? Of course, I was standing right there!”

Her face goes white with recognition. Her lower lip starts to tremble. “Jesus, Klee. That’s what this is about? Dear God, now I understand. Now I—Oh, God…” She turns to Dr. Alvarez. “I tried to save him from all this.”

“I’m sure you did. But you didn’t save Dad, now, did you?” My rage propels me off the couch. I need to move away from her or I might lash out. Break something.

Dr. Alvarez moves toward me, catches my arm, and tries to calm me. But I don’t want to be calmed. I want to say my piece. I don’t give a shit anymore who hears it.

“You acted like you were broken up when Dad died, but you didn’t care at all, did you? You were happy to move on! You were cheating on him. You did this to him! You were probably happy he was gone!”

“Klee, my God, please don’t say that!”

My mother stands now, too, but Dr. Alvarez nods for her to sit again, so she does, not able to stop the tears from streaming down her face.