Page 74 of Holiday Star
“I talk to my best friend.”The one I’m barely talking to right now.
“Call my mom.”The one who is barely talking to me.
I sigh, wondering when my life became such a disaster.
“I also watch horror movies, and, recently, I’ve been painting.”
She quirks a brow, looking interested.
“Painting is something I did a lot when I was younger, and now I’ve picked it up again. My mind is…I don’t know, quieter, when I do it?”
Dr. Jill taps her pen on the paper. “Have you heard of art therapy?”
“Only vaguely. I’m not really sure what it is.”
“You work with a trained art therapist. They usually have a master’s degree or higher. Composing artwork stimulates symbolic processing centers in the brain. It’s an alternative way to express and explore your issues. Studies show that, when used with our talk therapy sessions, it can be quite beneficial. I’ll give you a referral.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say politely, while I remain unconvinced. How much could it help, really, to do some doodling?
We speak for a while longer, touching on my resentment over my mother’s new marriage and my lukewarm reception toward Seth.
When Dr. Jill announces that my time is up, I lift my watch to look, surprised it had gone by so quickly. I leave a little shaky, but also a little lighter.
45
Alvina and I are on the upper east side of Manhattan today, checking out a local bakery. She gets a blueberry muffin, and I grab almond cookies, wrapped in a cellophane bag with a twist tie at the top. As a native New Yorker, she’s decided to show me around the city, stopping at all of her favorite places.
We’ve become friends. It all started with her feeding me. When we discovered a mutual love of cheesy horror movies, I took a risk and invited her to a matinee. After that, it was dinner at her place in Chelsea.
We might be a bit of an odd couple, with me in my twenties and her in her fifties, but Alvina has a young spirit. Full of energy, she absolutely refuses to let me wallow in my apartment.
“You had your first art therapy thing, right?” she asks, as a flock of pigeons scatter at her feet, cooing loudly.
“Yeah. It was weird in the beginning, but then I kind of got into it. The therapist was great. Super knowledgeable, both about art in general and also about how to apply it to therapy. She had me cut words out of a magazine that resonated with my emotions and make them into a collage.”
I picture how it looked when I was done. That paper full of terms likedeath, anxiety, fear, abandoned, unworthy.Each word a splinter in my soul. It had been hard to look at that collage, but I’d forced myself to not turn away.
“The therapist gave me homework to try something similar, except this time to paint it with images and symbols at home, instead of using words. I’m going to work on it during my next day off. Of course, that’s like two weeks from now.” I roll my eyes, and she laughs softly, understanding how packed my work schedule is.
As I chew on a soft cookie, we stroll down the street. It’s a warmer day. The winter snow has finally melted away, leaving behind dirty puddles in the gutters. The city sings its constant song of jackhammers. There’s always construction going on, with orange detour signs pointing everywhere.
“This cookie is tasty, but not as good as your chocolate chip ones,” I tell her for the twentieth time. “I swear, you should open your own restaurant or food truck.”
She turns her face to the sun, basking in its warmth. “Now, you’re talking crazy again. I’ve got five more years in the hospital, and then I’m retiring. Will have enough saved up by then to kick my feet up on the coffee table and watch TV for the rest of my life.”
I sigh. “That would be heaven.” I try hard not to think about my future. It yawns like a gaping hole before me. I’ve been piling things into that hole—extra shifts at work, therapy appointments, outings like this one with Alvina—so it won’t swallow me up.
She chuckles. “You’re just at the start of your career. No resting on the couch for you yet.”
“Don’t remind me,” I grumble. “Two more years until I graduate from my residency. I’ll probably do a fellowship after that, so tack on another year or two. I’ll be old as dirt by the time I’m finished. Too bad I can’t hit the fast-forward button. Just be done with it.”
“Now, don’t be saying that.” Her voice turns admonishing. I call this Alvina’s “mother hen voice.” “You should never skip parts of your life. Each one is too important. Life is already too short.” I sense she’s thinking about her husband with that last part.
Tick tock, Gwen. Time’s running out.
I shake my head. “I’m sure you’re correct, but right now my days are so full of drudgery that I want to get through this hard part and move on. Working over a hundred hours a week in the hospital is exhausting.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Is it work that’s bothering you or something else?”
