Glitter Gets Everywhere

by Yvette Clark

  “Your dad told me a bit about what’s been going on, Kitty, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  I tell him about the comfortable lie: less a lie, I think, and more avoiding a harder truth.

  “I just couldn’t face a whole new city of people looking sad when they see me. I can’t explain everything all over again, and I can’t just say my mum’s dead and expect someone to leave it at that. Nobody answers the statement ‘My mum’s dead’ with ‘Sorry about that, anyway, what did you think of the Spanish teacher?’”

  “No, but you could say something like, ‘My mum died a few months ago. It’s tough for me to talk about, so I’d prefer not to.’ How does that sound, Kitty?”

  It sounds easy enough when he says it. I remember Imogen’s words when I told her what had happened, “How do you get yourself into these situations, Kitty?” The answer is I don’t know.

  Sam says he thinks that it would be a good idea for me to talk to the therapist he recommended, so Dad calls Dr. Natasha Feld to make the appointment and is excited to hear she has a cancellation for Tuesday after school. I can’t believe I have become the kind of girl who needs therapists on two continents. I google Dr. Feld and learn from her website that she is “a licensed clinical psychologist providing compassionate individual psychotherapy services to children and adolescents experiencing symptoms of anxiety, depression, and challenges with life transitions and stressors.” I also learn that she doesn’t accept health insurance. Another Google search tells me that the average cost for an hour of therapy in NYC is a whopping two hundred fifty dollars! I hope she can fix me in one appointment. I google Sam, but he doesn’t have a website. I wonder if we used to pay him at all. I can’t imagine it.

  When I arrive at Dr. Feld’s office on Broadway, I can see why she has to charge so much. It’s on the sixteenth floor of a swanky art deco building. Her office shares a floor with several other doctors and an expensive-looking spa called Zen. The hallway has a citrusy, minty smell, which I assume comes from there. I ride up in an old-fashioned elevator with a group of already beautiful women who don’t look as if they need therapy or facials. None of them pays attention to the pale-faced girl watching them. They’re too busy looking perfect and tapping on their phones. They waft out of the elevator as one.

  I walk down the hallway, past the Zen spa, and open the door to room 1606. Inside is a cozy waiting room. In one corner of the room are six chairs and a large dark-wood coffee table with a pile of magazines and an orchid on it. In the other corner is a miniature version of the adult seating area, but the chairs are small, plastic, and all different colors. There is a low table with a range of children’s books spread out on it and a tidy rack of papers and colored pens and pencils. More books are stacked on a shelf behind the chairs, along with an unusual assortment of stuffed animals. There’s a flamingo with hot-pink plumage, an adorable baby raccoon, a family of skunks with pristine fur, an octopus, a narwhal, and a rainbow-colored herd of llamas. I’m tempted to go and have a closer look at the llamas but instead head to the grown-up area, which is where I suppose someone my age should sit. It’s definitely where Imogen would sit.

  A sign on the wall instructs you to push one of four buzzers. I carefully press the one with Dr. Feld’s name next to it, but there’s no sound, so I press it again. Nobody answers. I’ll wait five minutes before trying one last time. Maybe she’s not here and I can sneak home. On the wall is a framed picture of Dr. Feld from New York magazine’s “Best Doctors in NYC” article. Ugh, I bet she costs way more than two hundred fifty dollars an hour. In the photo, she’s wearing a floaty greenish-blue paisley dress and standing in front of a huge desk.

  “Kitty?” says a low, soft voice from behind me. I turn and see Dr. Feld in the flesh. I think she might be wearing the same dress as in the picture. She has mahogany corkscrew curls twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. At first, I think she has two chopsticks poking out of her bun, but I realize on closer inspection that they are pencils. I’m intrigued to see if she will pull one out to take notes during my appointment. There’s a long streak of white running through one side of her hair, a bit like Cruella de Vil. Dr. Feld looks much kinder than Cruella de Vil, and I’m certain she would never wear fur. She looks like she might be vegan and probably has a rescue dog.

  “Come this way,” she says and leads me through into her office.

  Inside the walls are a soft, pale green. It’s an appropriately peaceful choice for a therapist’s office. Still, I would have suggested a darker, richer green like color number 19, Lichen, “named after the ever-changing, subtle color of creeping algae,” according to Farrow & Ball. There’s a large box of tissues conveniently placed on the table. I suppose there are tissues in every therapist’s office around the world. Sam had them too. Unlike in Sam’s office, where the only greenery is an ailing spider plant, Dr. Feld has an impressive collection of small moss-filled terrariums that smell like damp grass cuttings, in the best way. I must email Sam to tell him about the terrariums and consider asking Dr. Feld if I can take a picture of them on my phone to send to him later.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she says, waving an arm in the direction of the sofa. She sits down gracefully in one of the chairs while I sink clumsily into the couch. It feels as if it’s going to be a struggle to get out of it.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Kitty. Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about yourself and what brings you here today? As I always say—kids need to know how much I care before they care to know how much I know!”

  Wow, did she really just say that? I make a mental note to tell Sam this gem. Dr. Feld opens a large green notepad and, to my great disappointment, produces a pen from between its pages, leaving the pencils in her bun untouched. I’m impressed to see that the notebook cover matches the walls. Maybe Dr. Feld is a color person too. Mindful of the cost, I get straight to the point.

  “My mum died in March, we just moved to New York for three months, nobody here knows my mum’s dead, and I kind of let people think she’s still alive. I’m here to find out what I should do to sort it all out.”

  Dr. Feld scribbles a few notes and nods vigorously, causing the enormous silver hoop earrings she’s wearing to bob up and down. I notice one of the dark corkscrew curls has escaped from her bun and wound its way around the hoop.

  “Tell me more, Kitty,” she says, and I try my best to stop staring at the curl trapped in her left earring. She might think I have a lazy eye, plus I really ought to concentrate, given how much this must be costing Dad.

  “So, I’m here today because my dad says I’m not dealing with things well, and my sister, Imogen, thinks I’m a weirdo.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Sam, the therapist I saw in London, used to say that going through grief was like Snakes and Ladders. This might have been a snake.”

  Dr. Feld looks confused.

  “You know, the board game. Down the snakes and up the ladders?” I add helpfully.

  “Oh, you mean Chutes and Ladders?”

  “Oh, yes.” I remember Sam telling me that. “Well, we call it Snakes and Ladders in England.”

  “And we call it Chutes and Ladders here. I think that’s an excellent description of the grieving process. Sam sounds like a smart guy!”

  He is, and much cheaper. Possibly free. I’m starting to find Dr. Natasha Feld quite annoying.

  “One of my sayings, Kitty, is that grief is a multitasking emotion. Does that resonate with you?” Dr. Feld asks.

  I have no idea what she means, but I try to look as if I understand. Dr. Feld is clearly not buying my look of competence since she goes on.

  “Let me put it a different way—grief can trigger all kinds of emotions, and people cycle through them in different ways and at different speeds. Have you heard of the seven stages of grief?”

  Obviously, I know that—it’s Grief 101. I suddenly picture the 101 Dalmatians looking sad, tiny tears rolling down their sweet little black-
and-white-spotted faces. It must be Dr. Feld’s Cruella de Vil hair that makes me think of the Dalmatian puppies.

  Dr. Feld continues. “Well, like your Sam, I don’t believe grief is a linear process. Grief doesn’t move in one direction, from denial to pain to anger, and so on. People who are grieving bounce back and forth between the stages, sometimes in the same minute. I also believe there is another stage of grief. Can you guess what that is?”

  It strikes me that Dr. Feld talks a lot more than Sam ever did. I shake my head.

  “Joy!” she says triumphantly, hoop earrings swinging wildly, releasing the trapped curl. I almost cheer. “Yes, Kitty. You look surprised. Many people do when I tell them. It’s actually a core theme of the book I’ve written: Heal Your Pain with Joy.”

  I think that’s a terrible title for her book. It sounds as if Dr. Feld’s first name is Joy, but I know from her website it’s Natasha. Dr. Feld’s face takes on a softer, serious expression.

  “I’m sure your mother brought you so much joy, and I’m equally sure you brought her tremendous happiness. Now, I wonder if in letting Ava and her mom think your mom is still alive, you were indulging in escapism. Denial of your reality, if you will. Enabling some joy.”

  “Maybe?” I say doubtfully.

  Dr. Feld beams at me as if I have just cracked a difficult code.

  “Excellent, Kitty, really excellent work. Well, we’re out of time for today, but let’s explore more of this topic next week. Until then, here’s a copy of my book. I signed it for you. There are some exercises at the back. Why don’t you try doing the first one before our next appointment?” Dr. Feld hands me a thick hard-backed copy of Heal Your Pain with Joy, a serene-looking, black-and-white photo of her on the front cover, and the subtitle in curly letters—The Only Cure for Grief is to Grieve.

  “Um, thanks,” I say as she gently herds me to the door.

  Only good manners stop me from dropping the book into the recycling bin on my way out of the office. In the hallway, I see a familiar figure loping toward the elevator—Henry. Could he have been at the Zen spa? Quite possibly. He does have great skin. I scan the hall for a convenient pillar to hide behind, but nothing. There’s no way to avoid him, and he’s not going to think I’ve been to the spa unless it’s for mustache waxing. Not that I have a mustache, but he might think I do.

  “Hi, Henry,” I say, trying to sound casual.

  “Oh, hi, Kitty.” Henry smiles as if it’s quite natural to run into me in this random building on Broadway. I’m not going to ask him what he’s doing here. He might be embarrassed to be seen leaving the spa.

  “I just saw my therapist,” he says as if this were nothing. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, after school, ever since my mom and dad separated.”

  “Me too. It was my first therapy session here. I’m just doing Tuesdays. My mum died in March.”

  Oddly, it seems simple to tell Henry the truth that I couldn’t tell Ava. He’s easier to talk to than the other kids at school. I sometimes feel like Ava and the rest of the girls are waiting for me to say or do something dumb.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Kitty. That sucks.”

  He reaches out a hand as if he’s going to pat me on the shoulder, but then thinks better of it and drops his arm back to his side.

  We get into the elevator together, and I continue. I’m babbling now.

  “And then I sort of let Ava and her mum think that my mum’s still alive. Ava’s mum wanted my mum to be on the Halloween dance committee and kept asking me for her number. Then she asked my dad, and that’s how he found out I’d pretended Mum is still alive and how I ended up here. I’m going to have to tell Ava the truth. She’ll think I’m a complete freak.”

  Henry studies me intently. He doesn’t look at me as if I’m a freak.

  “I doubt it,” he says. “Ava’s surprisingly chill. She was great when my dad and his girlfriend were all over Page Six.”

  I must look confused, and while we walk out of the building, Henry waving goodbye to the doorman, he explains that Page Six is a gossip column in the New York Post.

  “They run these blind items: ‘Which married, green-eyed actor was caught looking very friendly with his delicious young French leading lady in a Williamsburg bar this week?’ That was the end of my mom and dad being married.”

  He sighs and is looking at his shoes when a vintage sports car pulls up to the curb.

  “Hey, Henry,” the driver yells. “Come on, get in.”

  I recognize Henry’s dad from the Google search I’d done after Ava told me about him. I have to admit he is good-looking, even though he’s old. With his dark hair, too long for most dads to pull off, emerald-green eyes, and chiseled cheekbones, James Davenport radiates glamor. He looks like someone in a commercial for an expensive Swiss watch. Now I come to think about it; maybe he has been in one of those ads. I’m sure I have a memory of his brooding face staring at me from the pages of a magazine. People on the sidewalk around us are looking at him and starting to pull out their phones, and an excited buzz begins. James Davenport responds by revving the engine and scowling at them, which only makes him look more film-star-like.

  “I’d better go,” Henry says, wincing at the noise of the car. “Can we give you a ride home, Kitty?”

  “God, no!” I say. “I mean, no thanks.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow then. I’m so sorry about your mom.”

  The idea of me riding through the streets of SoHo with Henry and his film-star dad in an open-top car makes me giggle—it’s so surreal. I watch as Henry and his dad pull out into the busy street. I hear whispers around me: “That was definitely James Davenport,” “OMG, I wish I’d taken a selfie with him,” “Do you think that was his kid with the blue hair? He didn’t look much like him, did he? He looked kind of weird.” I feel like shouting at the gathered crowd, “Yes, that is his kid, and guess what—he’s not at all weird. In fact, he’s a lot nicer and more interesting than his dad will ever be.”

  I continue walking to the subway station and try to imagine what it would be like to have a famous dad—one who picks you up from therapy appointments in a midnight-blue sports car. It’s impossible to imagine my dad driving a sports car, let alone cheating on Mum. The only newspaper article about them would have been a picture of him kissing my mum’s bald head underneath the headline “True Love.”

  “How was your appointment with Dr. Feld?” asks Dad when I walk into the apartment. I think he must have warned Imogen not to comment since she is sitting quietly at the table, pretending to do her homework.

  “It was okay, I guess. She has a streak of white in her hair, like Cruella de Vil.”

  Dad looks confused.

  “You know, Cruella de Vil, the baddie in 101 Dalmatians. By the way, how much does Dr. Feld charge?”

  “Never mind that, Kitty. Did you find it helpful to talk to her?”

  I suppose I did, although I think I found it more useful to talk to Henry afterward. I hesitate before speaking.

  “I saw that boy from school, Henry Davenport, at the therapist’s office. He was seeing a different therapist.”

  “Oooooh, is he the one with the famous dad?” Imogen says. “How cool is that?”

  “He picked Henry up from the appointment.”

  “Nice! Did you get a lift home with them? You can be therapy buddies.” My sister probably thinks she’ll get an invitation to the Oscars if Henry and I become friends.

  “No, Henry offered, but I said I was taking the subway.”

  “Why, Kitty, why? Why would any normal person take the stinky old subway instead of getting a ride home with a movie star and his presumably gorgeous son? No wonder you need to see a therapist.”

  Imogen’s brief dalliance with sympathy and tact has clearly screeched to a grinding halt.

  “That’s enough, Imogen,” says Dad, the warning in his voice unmistakable. “I don’t think you’re old enough to be riding around New York with boys, Kitty.”

  “I’m not rid
ing around anywhere. Didn’t you hear me say I took the subway?”

  “Quite right, too. Even Imogen might be a bit young to have a boyfriend, but I suppose Josh is harmless enough.”

  Imogen looks annoyed to hear her boyfriend described as harmless. I’m not sure if their long-distance relationship is working out well. They don’t seem to have been FaceTiming nearly as much as they used to when we first moved. Trouble in paradise?

  “Does Henry have an older brother?” Imogen asks, tilting her head to one side.

  “No. Lucky him, he’s an only child,” I reply.

  Ava doesn’t seem at all surprised when I tell her about Mum the next day after school, so I suppose her mum already talked to her. Even thinking about that conversation makes my face feel hot.

  “That’s so sad. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for you. I mean, my grandpa died, but that’s not the same, is it? We were really, really close, though. His funeral was so sad. There must have been like two hundred people there. My mom said half the golf club showed up to pay their respects. I cried for days. I did a reading at the funeral. Did you do a reading for your mom? Anyway, when I did the reading, everyone else started crying and said it was the most moving thing ever.”

  As I walk down the subway stairs to my platform, I see Ava’s train is already there. She waves at me through the window and makes a heart with her thumbs and index fingers. I give her a half wave back as her train leaves the station. So now Mum’s dead in New York as well. Even though I know it was wrong, there was something lovely about having people think she might turn up at school or help organize the Halloween dance. I know Imogen would say I’m weird and it probably proves that I do need therapy, but it made me happy, just for a minute, to have her back. Perhaps I did steal a few moments of joy.

  When I get home from school, I pick up the copy of Dr. Feld’s book, Heal Your Pain with Joy, and flip to the exercises at the end. The first one is to write a letter to the person who died. There are different templates for the letter. I pick the one called “Three Things,” grab a pen and paper, and begin to write.