Dr. Gray stands at the door that opens from the waiting room into her office. When I stand, my leg bangs into the coffee table, jostling the cheerful cornucopia in the center, the go-to fall decoration of waiting rooms everywhere. It’s artfully spilling fake gourds and grapes, plastic apples, and fall leaves made out of paper. A tastefully lettered card is tented next to the plastic bounty. Practice Gratitude. I wonder what, exactly, crazy people are supposed to be grateful for.
My father, Sophie, and I stand and file past Dr. Gray silently, like we’re walking into a church. Or a funeral home. She’s a tall woman, taller than my dad, with smooth dark skin and hundreds of tiny braids pulled into a loose coil at the back of her neck. Her brown almond-shaped eyes regard me solemnly. She’s wearing deep red lipstick and gold hoops in her ears. I don’t know what I was expecting, an old white guy, maybe, with little round glasses and a pointy beard. Definitely not someone like Seraphina Gray.
“Where do you want us to sit?” Sophie asks.
“Please, make yourselves comfortable wherever you like.”
The cornucopia in the waiting room is lame, but Dr. Gray’s office is not. It’s beautiful, actually, though it pains me to admit it. I want to hate it. I want to hate her.
The walls are painted a warm, buttery ivory, and lamps with red and blue shades glow on the desk and side tables. I head for the far end of a long powder-blue sofa, moving aside a tasseled throw pillow so I can squeeze myself all the way into the corner, as far away from my father as possible. He sits at the other end, nervous and jittery. It’s been two days since I trashed the painting, but he’s still wigged-out.
Sophie picks up the pillow I’ve tossed aside and hugs it to her chest, perching on a wing chair next to my dad. Dr. Gray picks up a leather notebook and a fountain pen from her desk and takes the chair across from me. It’s upholstered in shades of yellow and blue and red, and there are little jewel-colored birds with their wings spread gliding through the yellow parts.
My father clears his throat and puts his reading glasses on, which is stupid, since he won’t be reading anything. Sophie starts braiding all the tassels on the pillow she’s kept on her lap, her hands working while her eyes dart around the room. I try to wedge myself deeper into the corner of the sofa, tucking my legs under me, folding my hands and pressing them between my knees. Pretty sure all three of us look completely insane right about now.
Dr. Gray looks at each of us, her mouth turned up in what I’m sure she hopes is a reassuring smile. It isn’t, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’m not planning to say a word.
“What I’d like to do for these first couple of sessions is talk with Sparrow alone, so that we can get to know each other a little. As she and I progress, I’ll want to speak with each of you individually and then all three of you as a family. We may do several of those sessions, depending on how Sparrow is feeling and what comes up during our one-on-one time.”
Nothing’s going to come up. Absolutely nothing.
“So why don’t the two of you go get some coffee and come back in about forty-five minutes?”
Sophie places the pillow gently on the chair, all the tassels neatly braided. My father can’t hide his relief and stands up so quickly I’m afraid he’ll get a nosebleed from the sudden change in altitude. I refuse to look at either one of them. I hate them for dragging me here.
When they’re gone, Dr. Gray trains her eyes on me. We sit in silence for a while, but it doesn’t seem to make her uncomfortable. After a few minutes she stands and puts her notebook and pen down on the table beside her chair. She walks to where Sophie was sitting, picks up the white throw folded neatly over the back of the chair, and sets it gently beside me.
“If you’re cold, Sparrow, feel free to wrap yourself up in that. It’s soft, and it’s warm.” I rest my hand on the blanket. And though I don’t want to give this woman anything, I am cold. And tired. And scared. I pull it over my knees, then tuck my hands underneath.
She takes her seat again, but doesn’t pick up her notebook and pen.
“I know you don’t feel much like talking, Sparrow, and that’s fine. So I’ll talk for now, and maybe later, if you feel more comfortable, speaking will be a little easier.”
Nope, lady. Not going to happen. I’m not the kind of girl who tells. You won’t get anything from me, but this blanket is super-toasty. I don’t trust you, and I’m still going to hate you, but thanks.
“I think the most important thing I’d like you to know right now is that you’re safe. You are safe with me, and you are safe in this room. I can’t know for sure, not until you tell me, but right now I suspect you might be feeling a little scared, and maybe a lot angry. It’s not my intention to put words into your mouth, or feelings into your heart, so please forgive me if I’ve gotten it wrong.”
I look out the casement windows at the perfectly circular silver lake, the fountain in the middle with the icicles hanging from its base. I wonder if she chose this office so all her crazy people could have something pretty to look at, something to soothe them into believing that she’ll be the one to get the darkness and the screaming out of their heads. I wonder if any of them ever get better.
Dr. Gray crosses her long legs and folds her hands in her lap. I can feel her eyes on me, trying to see past my freaky hair, through my skull, into my brain.
“Your aunt Sophie told me that you’re reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”
I look up, surprised. This, I was not expecting.
She smiles. “It was my favorite book when I was in middle school. I grew up in Odessa, Texas. My father worked as a roughneck, in the oil fields. It’s hard, dangerous work, and my mother, my brother, and I were always worried that my dad would get hurt. So I’d go to the library every Saturday afternoon and bring home a huge stack of books. Reading helped me feel less anxious, less afraid. I read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn three times in a row the summer I was thirteen. At first, I loved it for the descriptions of life in New York. City life was so far from what I knew that it was like reading about another planet. West Texas is brown and flat and hot and even on a good day, Odessa smelled like rotten eggs.”
Outside, two women are walking around the lake. The wind is making ripples on its surface, and the water looks like it’s dancing. The women have their heads close together, and they’re both holding Starbucks cups. Even though they’re wearing coats and hats and scarves, I can see that one of them, the taller one, has long blond hair. It’s woven into a golden braid down her back and reminds me of Delaney.
Dr. Gray keeps talking, like we’re actually having a conversation, like having a silent zombie girl in her office is perfectly fine with her, just another day in the life.
“But later I read it because I fell in love with Francie Nolan, and I realized it wasn’t just a book about one girl’s life in Brooklyn. It was a book about love and family and hope, and what it means to be human, trying to make a life for yourself. I think it’s as true and rich and beautiful today as it was years ago. And now I’ll stop with the literary lecture.”
She chuckles and gives me a warm smile. I keep staring out the window.
The Starbucks ladies head up one of the paths to the office building across the lake. I wonder what they do inside. Maybe they’re scientists who sit at long lab tables trying to find cures for terrible diseases. Maybe they’re engineers or social workers or writers or lawyers. In my head, I wish them a good rest of the day. I hope they’re friends.
“Let’s see,” Dr. Gray says, playing with the clasp on a heavy gold bracelet. “What else can I tell you? I have three cats, and I am unapologetic about how much I spoil them. They’re called Portia, Miranda, and Hamlet, because I adore Shakespeare. I’m picky about food, and can’t stand kale, eggplant, or lima beans. And I don’t care how deep you fry it, okra is disgusting. I love museums and Renaissance music and thunderstorms. Every Christmas I make my entire family watch It’s a Wonderful Life, and I always cry at the end.”
She can smile at
me all day, I’m still not talking to her.
I count the books on the shelves beside the window.
One, two, three, count with me. Four, five, six, almost fixed. Seven, eight, nine, I am fine.
On the wall behind the desk, there’s an enormous painting. It’s a winter scene, in shades of white and gray, black and brown. A snow-covered path leads between two high stone walls, which are capped with drifts of snow. Behind the walls, snow-dusted trees reach their heavy limbs up to a low gray sky. At the very center of the painting, there’s a small figure in a long black coat and a tall black hat. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s a man or a woman. I feel an instant kinship with this person, rendered so simply, with a few brushstrokes. In that wide expanse of snow and sky, in all the cold gray and white, he—or she—seems so alone.
Dr. Gray watches me studying the painting. I can feel her eyes on me.
“Are you afraid, Sparrow? Is that why you’re not speaking?” Dr. Gray asks quietly. “Are you afraid to talk about Tristan King?”
His name lingers in the air between us.
“You flinched just now, when I said his name. You may not be saying anything with your voice, Sparrow,” she says gently, “but you are speaking volumes, whether you mean to or not. You’ve curled yourself into a little ball in the corner of that couch, but I can see the pain in your eyes. I am so sorry for everything you’ve suffered, for everything you continue to suffer. I hope I can earn your trust. Before we finish today, I’d like to ask you to please think about speaking with me. I believe I can help you, whenever you’re ready.”
I hear voices in the waiting room, along with the churning sound of the Keurig. My father and Sophie are back, and I know Sophie’s making a cup of hot chocolate with extra sugar.
“Just one more thing,” says Dr. Gray softly. “Your father and your aunt are not going to stop bringing you here. They are both patient and persistent and determined to help you. You can choose to speak to me or not, Sparrow. That’s entirely up to you. I hope that next Tuesday, when we meet again, you’ll feel a little more comfortable.
“Now, why don’t you go out into the waiting room and send in your father and your aunt. I’ll look forward to seeing you next week. And if you change your mind and want to talk, you have all my contact information. You can call me anytime, either here at the office or on my cell. Be well.”
As I leave, I take another look at the painting I think I’m starting to love.
And I know one thing, deep in my bones. Seraphina Gray is going to be impossible to hate.
November 16
9:30 a.m.
Savannah Darcy Rose (“Sparrow”)
Subjective:
Savannah Rose (Sparrow) is a seventeen-year-old young woman who is recovering from a brutal assault. (See attached medical report.) She is a ballet dancer. Before the attack, she studied with Valentina Levkova at the Appalachian Conservatory and was slated to dance the role of Odette in the Winter Gala in March, a role that her father says was “a dream come true.” It is unclear whether or not she will be able to dance this role—or any other—given the extent of her injuries and the long course of physical therapy that will be necessary to help rebuild her strength and stamina.
Sparrow’s father, Avery Rose (a criminal defense attorney), and her aunt Sophie Rose (an artist), who have cared for Sparrow since her mother’s death, asked me to see her on an emergency basis after she destroyed a much-cherished gift from her father, a painting of her as Odette. Since she regained consciousness at St. Germaine’s Hospital approximately two months ago, she has refused to speak more than a few words at a time, with the exception of an incident where she became agitated and angry at two close friends who visited with her in her home. Despite numerous attempts on the part of her family, friends, and the police officers and detectives investigating the crime, Sparrow steadfastly refuses to talk to anyone about the assault or anything else.
Objective:
Appearance: Sparrow is a petite young woman, and her athleticism is evident despite the fact that she has not danced since the assault. She moves with grace, even though she most certainly is in pain. She has clearly lost weight over the past few months. Her clothes, while stylish and well cared for, are ill fitting. She wore a sweater that seemed several sizes too big, and her jeans were baggy. Her face remains bruised, though her father tells me that has markedly improved over the last three weeks. Casts were removed from her arms yesterday (November 15); her aunt reports that her arms are thinner than they used to be. Sparrow is pale, and her hair is extremely short. According to her aunt, Sparrow’s hair changed color when it grew back after her hospital stay. There is a streak of white at her left temple; the rest of her hair is deep black. Sparrow’s father tells me that she bears a striking resemblance to her late mother. From his tone, it would appear that this is alarming to him.
General Behavior: Sparrow rarely made eye contact with me. When she did, her eyes were alert and attentive. She is engaged, though she tries to maintain an affect of boredom. She sat in the corner of a sofa, with her hands tightly folded and pressed between her knees. No mannerisms, gestures observed. She barely moved. Sparrow refused to speak for the duration of the session. She observed—intently—her surroundings, staring out the window, at the bookshelves, the painting behind my desk, the furniture.
Attitude: Vigilant, alert, hostile at times. Though she did not speak, she appeared frightened and angry. Emotions are difficult to assess in any comprehensive way, as she refused to answer my questions.
Speech: Unable to assess.
Mood: Unable to assess.
Affect: Superficial boredom. Body language indicated fear, anger, discomfort. Difficult to assess.
Thought process: Unable to assess.
November 21
10:30 a.m.
Savannah Darcy Rose
Sparrow refused to speak during this session. Unable to assess.
November 27
1:00 p.m.
Savannah Darcy Rose
Sparrow refused to speak during this session. Unable to assess.
December 4
9:30 a.m.
Savannah Darcy Rose
Sparrow refused to speak during this session. Unable to assess. Avery Rose and his sister are increasingly frustrated and upset.
29
A Painting
DECEMBER 7
I walk around Dr. Gray’s office, running my hand along the soft throw on the back of an oversized red chair, smelling the fragrant candles she’s placed on her desk and along the bookshelves. I pick up the carved ebony figurines she brought back from a trip to Africa, mothers cradling children, women carrying baskets on their heads, warriors. They’re beautiful, and I love the feel of the smooth, dark wood, the way it smells so warm and spicy.
I can’t stand being at home. Inside those walls are all the things that remind me of everything I’ve lost. Here I am wrapped up in warmth, safe and hidden away from the world.
Lamps glow in every corner, and icy sunlight streams through the windows. Photographs crowd the credenza behind the desk, two little girls with beaded braids—Dr. Gray’s granddaughters—building a sandcastle at the beach, her smiling husband in front of the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, her drop-dead gorgeous daughter, laughing into the camera, tight curls framing her heart-shaped face.
Dr. Gray sits quietly behind her desk, watching me.
The dark figure in the snow painting is still alone.
DECEMBER 13
I pick up the jewelry box that has quickly become one of my favorite things, a silver filigreed rectangle with a red velvet interior. When I open the lid, a tiny ballerina in a white net tutu pops up. If I wind the key on the bottom, she twirls to the tinny music-box version of the swan theme. I only did that once.
“My mother gave that to me when I was six,” Dr. Gray says. “She wanted me to be a ballerina, but that was never going to happen. She was in serious denial, my poor mother. I kept growing and growi
ng until I was taller than most of the boys and all of the girls in my class.”
I raise my eyebrows at her, questioning.
“No, it didn’t bother me, not becoming a ballerina. Well, yes, and then no. I got good at other things.”
I smile and put the box back on the shelf. Curling up in the red chair, I wrap the white afghan around me. It makes me think of clouds, how they always look so soft, and I raise my eyes to gaze at the painting. The sky is still gray, and I think it might snow again in that world. The figure in black stands starkly outlined against all the white and the pale stone of the wall. It is still cold. But today she doesn’t look so alone.
DECEMBER 19
Outside, the snow flurries have turned thick and heavy, falling in fat white flakes past the window. I am in my usual place, looking at the painting. Dr. Gray is writing in her notebook. Her fountain pen makes a comforting scratchy sound. She sees me looking and puts her pen down. She turns around and looks up at the painting behind her.
“I love that painting,” she says quietly. “What do you think of it?”
I clear my throat, once. Twice. The third time makes me cough, and Dr. Gray pours me a glass of water and brings it to me, sitting down in the chair across from me.
“I’ve always thought you can feel winter when you look at it,” she says.
I take a sip of water.
“So much snow,” I say. The words feel strange in my mouth. My voice is hoarse and rusty. Dr. Gray doesn’t bat an eye. No joyful shrieking, no crying, no high-fiving. She doesn’t try to hug me. There’s only quiet acceptance.
“I’m glad you like the painting. I see something different every time I look at it.”
“Me too. First I saw the snow, then the person in black. Then I saw the sky. I love it.”
She leans toward me.
“Sparrow, I’m so happy to hear your voice.”
I pull the afghan more tightly around me.
“I’m going to ask you a question. Would that be okay?”
I nod.
“Can you tell me why you won’t let Sophie hug you?”
Sparrow Page 22