In Sight of Stars(68)

I continue down the hall to the fish mural. Across from it, there’s a bathroom. I duck in and fill a paper cup with water. I’m going to need more, but this will get me started. On my way out, I nudge the small wooden wedge with my toe, to hold the door open. It spills light out onto the wall.

I unzip my bag and pull out the paints, using the empty box as a palette. I don’t touch any of the finished work, but rather start at the far end, blending the blues from the earlier section of ocean so that there’s a seamless flow between the existing mural and my new work. As I move down the wall, I deepen the blues to near black, light to dark, from sky down to the deepest abyssal zone.

I paint slowly, methodically making my way across the wall, blending the blues with reds into violets and purples, choosing larger brushes as the mural expands. By the time it’s 5:30, I have a decently large section covered. A magnificent swirling sky melting into a cobalt sea of erupting waves. And beneath that, the ocean bottom, deep as black space.

I return to the bathroom for clean water, biting the ends of tubes to squeeze out the last bits of paint, opening new tubes, adding layer upon layer upon layer.

By 6 A.M., the early staff is arriving. They stand and watch, silent, but no one stops me. The sea is now filling with vibrant color, silvery fish and neon anemones awash in pinks and oranges and greens. And, at the bottom, one sleek magenta squid, his inky, watchful eye focused up to the sunburst sky.

By 6:30, I’m almost done. Almost out of paint, anyway.

I stand back and study it; the staff watching breaks into an admiring, if embarrassing, round of applause. Considering my lack of supplies, it’s not bad. You can definitely see Van Gogh’s influence.

You can definitely see my father’s.

I return to my bag and retrieve one last tube each of cobalt, black, silver, and titanium white. I’ll have just enough to do what I am hoping to do.

I run my brush through the paints and begin to blend the light of the top of the sky with the darks, so the sky near the ceiling doubles back on itself, returning to midnight again. Deep ocean into daylight into night sky into deep ocean or night sky again.

When that is finished, I take a finer-tipped brush and dip it into the white alternating with silver, and work my way across, dotting the sky, where the squid’s gaze falls, with a hundred shimmering pinprick stars.

Finally, I kneel at the base, and I write, For Dr. Alvarez, A sky full of stars. In honor of my father, who lost sight of them.





MONDAY MORNING





My mother wears jeans with heels, less makeup than usual, and her hair pulled back in a natural sweep that seems as if she put just a bit too much effort into not putting effort into it. Still, she manages to look younger this morning, softer, yet somehow also more solid. She stands at Dr. Alvarez’s door afraid to fully come in.

“Hey, Mom.” I walk to the door, and awkwardly hug her. She pats my back, then drops her arms to the side, making me realize how long it’s been since we hugged. We’re out of practice, but it’s a start. Something to work on, I guess.

“Dr. Alvarez says the checkout is relatively quick,” she says, studying my face. “They require me to sign you out, and if you’re willing, they want you—us—to agree that you’ll continue to do outpatient therapy.”

“Here,” I say, “right? I’d like that.” I turn to Dr. Alvarez. “I’d like to continue with Dr. Alvarez if I can.”

Dr. Alvarez smiles. “That works for me,” she says.

My mother moves into the room, the gold bracelets jangling on her wrists. “Whatever you both feel is best. So long as you’re coming home.”

Even though I’ve tried to prepare myself, my stomach lurches at the word “home,” at the thought of going back there, back to school.

At the thought of facing Sarah.

What if I’m not ready? It was never easy being there in the first place.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Dr. Alvarez says, getting up, “I just need to get some paperwork from the administrative office,” and she slips quietly out the door.

My mother and I sit. She turns her body toward me on the couch. “I want you to know that I loved him, Klee,” she says, picking at a thread on her jeans. “Even after he told me, I still loved him.”

“I know. I get that now,” I say.

“We were so young when we met, when we married. Maybe I should have known. I felt so stupid when I found out. Looking back, I should have seen … I had my suspicions, of course, but I don’t think even he knew. Not at first. Not fully. Not for a long time. He was raised a certain way—his parents, well, you didn’t know them very well. They were of a time, wanted certain things for him. He wanted those things, too. Or thought he did. Everything else he put out of his mind. He was good at that, your father. From the time I met him, he had a vision about what his life would be. About what it should be. And he worked hard to get it there. And anything that got in the way … that’s how he was. Single-minded. He got what he wanted and avoided what he didn’t want to see. He wanted to be successful. And he wanted a family. And, for sure, he wanted you.”

I shift uncomfortably, swallow back tears.

“And he loved us always, Klee,” she says. “He did. No matter what happened, I always knew that. The rest, he couldn’t help … You were the best thing that ever happened to him. I know this. And you need to know it, too. He was very proud of you. He always told me you were braver than he ever was.”