Perfect, I think. If anything is surreal, it is childhood.
“My usual customer is a little younger.” Dr. Giles says it with good humor. She has misinterpreted my roving eyes, still on the hunt for my own grim artwork. I tell my nerves to shut up, but they don’t. My sweaty hands are probably stickier than the five-year-old who skipped out of the room with a dripping green Popsicle right before I stepped in.
“I’m not sure we can accomplish exactly what William wants, are you?” She has placed herself on the other side of the couch, crossing one knee over the other, her skirt inching up slightly.
Relaxed. Informal.
Or purposeful. Rehearsed.
“William has always set near-impossible goals, even when he was a boy,” she continues. “The older I get, and the more horrors I’ve seen, my goals have become… less specific. More flexible. More patient. I like to think that is because I am wiser, not tired.”
“And yet… he brought me to you,” I say. “With a deadline. For very specific reasons.”
“And yet he brought you to me.” Her lips curve up again. I realize how easily that smile could melt a child, but I am no longer a child.
“So your plan is not for us to look at my drawings together.”
“Do we need them? This is going to disappoint William, but I don’t think you wrote the killer’s name in the waves in the ocean. Do you?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “I do not.” I wasn’t sure whether this was true. One of the first things I did the night after my sight returned was to examine every swirl of the brush. Just in case. Who knows what the unconscious mind will paint? Lydia had asked rather dramatically.
“I find that drawings after a trauma like yours are often widely misinterpreted.” Dr. Giles reaches for the stuffed elephant tucked behind her, which is preventing her from leaning back. “There is a lot attached to the use of color, and the vigor of the pen. But a child may use blood red in his drawing simply because it’s his favorite color. The drawing only represents the feeling on that day, at that very moment in time. We all hate our parents on some days, right? A scratchy, angry version of a father doesn’t mean he is an abuser, and I’ll never testify to things like that. So I use the drawing technique, but mostly as a way to allow young patients to get out their emotions so they don’t eat away at them. It is much, much harder to say the words. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Dr. Giles…”
“Please. Nancy.”
“Nancy, then. Not to be rude… but why exactly did you take Bill up on this request? If you don’t believe there is really anything there to talk about.” Does she know that more than half of my drawings are faked? Do I need to tell her?
Jo’s chilling, detached lesson on bones, that damn heart in a box, the pink elephant perched beside us who knows way too much about the terrible, terrible things people do-it’s about all the reality I can take today.
In an hour and a half, I will be planted in the stands at Charlie’s volleyball game, surrounded by weary moms who will scream their throats raw, where the most important thing isn’t worrying about the Middle East’s urgent signs of Armageddon, or the 150 million orphans in the world, or glaciers melting, or the fate of all the innocent men on Death Row.
It will be whether a ball touches the ground.
Afterward, I will pull a bag of carrot sticks out of the refrigerator, throw four Ham & Cheese Hot Pockets in the microwave, one for me and three for Charlie, toss in a load of clothes, and attach white gauze to lavender silk. These are the pricks of light that have kept me mostly sane, mostly happy, day after day.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Nancy is saying. “I’m not at all sure your drawings are meaningless. Your case is… complicated. I very much appreciate your permission to view the doctors’ notes on your sessions. It was helpful, although the notes from your last doctor were a little sparse. You were blind when you created many of those pictures, correct? Your doctor at the time clearly thought you were faking most of them.” So she knows. Good. “He also believed that the two of you explored every avenue when it came to figuring out the drawings of the curtain. The drawings that were, essentially, the ones that you declared spontaneous and genuine.”
She glances down at the beeper vibrating at her waist, checks the number, silences it. “So there are many reasons to discount the drawings. At least that was your doctor’s assessment. Would you agree?”
“Yes.” My throat is dry. Where was this going? And a random thought, Should I have ever asked to see the doctor’s notes?
A Susan quickly chimes: You don’t want to know what he said.
“Of course, it’s always a little hard to know exactly what we are faking,” Dr. Giles continues. “The subconscious is busy. The truth tends to creep through. I am, of course, drawn to the curtain. It reminded me of a famous case history that I thought would be worthwhile to share. It’s ironic, or a sign if you believe in those, but the girl’s name in this other case history is also Tessa. Her name has probably been changed and her story is far different, of course. She was a young girl who had been sexually abused in her home but was far too traumatized to name her abuser. The young girl drew a cutaway picture of her two-story house, so her therapist could see inside. She drew a number of beds on the top floor. The child said the beds were for all the many people living in the house. She drew a living room downstairs, and a kitchen with an oversized teakettle. But instead of asking the girl about the beds, the therapist asked the girl about the teakettle and why it was important. The girl told her that every morning, each member of the house would pour hot water out of that kettle for instant coffee as they left for school or work. So, using the teakettle, the therapist took the little girl through that awful day of the abuse. Tessa remembered, one at a time, who had used the teakettle that morning before leaving the house. The one person remaining, who didn’t use it, is the one who stayed alone in the house with her. The abuser. The girl was then able to tell the story of what happened to her.”
Against my will, this woman has mesmerized me.
“I can’t know for sure,” she says gently. “But I believe your ordinary object could be a similarly powerful tool. It belongs somewhere. We need to look around that place. If you like, we can try some exercises.”
My head pounds. I want to say yes, but I’m not sure I can. Nothing, nothing, is ever what I expect.
She accurately interprets my silence. “Not today. But maybe soon?”
“Yes, yes. Soon.”
“May I give you a homework assignment? I would like you to draw the curtain again from memory. Then call me. I’ll make time.” She pats my knee. “Excuse me for a minute.”
She walks toward the closed door at the back of the room. I notice a slight arthritic limp. As the door cracks open, I glimpse her personal refuge-warm light and a large antique desk.
She is back quickly, proffering a business card. Nothing else in her hands. She is not returning my drawings-at least, not today. No cheating.
“I scribbled my cell number on the bottom,” she says. “I did have one more question before you go, if that’s OK.”
“Sure.”
“The drawing of the field. The giant flowers leering like monsters over the two girls.”
Girls. Plural. Two.
“It means nothing,” I say. “I didn’t draw it. A friend of mine did. We drew together. She was in on my… deception. My partner in crime.” I laugh awkwardly.
Nancy shoots me a strange look. “Is your friend OK?”