Chapter 1 Monroe
MONROE
“Unfortunately, that’s the end of our session, Vella.”
Setting my pen and notepad down on the end table, I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I drag my attention from the ticking clock to my client lying across the leather couch in my office.
“Already?” Vella frowns, still tapping her stiletto against the material.
She hasn’t stopped since she sat down forty-five minutes ago.
“Goes by quickly, doesn’t it?” I offer her a smile, stifling the urge to wince with each tap-tap-tap of that pointy heel.
One of these sessions, she’s going to snag it on the leather and put a hole in my couch.
My nails dig into my legs as I stand. “Do you remember what you’ll be working on before our session next week? ”
“Writing a letter to my sister.”
It’s the third week in a row she’s been given this assignment. Each week she’s returned empty-handed.
“That’s right. Get the words down without judgment.” I stride toward the door, hoping she’ll follow me. She doesn’t. “You never have to send it. It’s meant for you.”
“Sounds like a ridiculous waste of time, but if you say it’ll help…” She sighs. “I suppose I’ll give it a try.”
“That’s the spirit.” I gesture toward the open door.
My hope is that by writing the letter she acknowledges how she feels about their relationship and processes it, using it as a jumping point to move forward.
Each time I try approaching the subject, she shifts topics.
She’d rather avoid her own feelings. Most sessions she spends complaining about the everyday nuisances of her DC socialite life, even though none of those bits of minutia are the cause of her insomnia—the reason she came to me in the first place.
It can be frustrating. But those moments of clarity, when it clicks, those are the moments I live for.
I pass Vella off to my assistant in the lobby to confirm next week’s appointment, then return to my office to jot down the last few notes, lock them away in my filing cabinet, and grab my purse.
“I’m heading out for the day, George.” I lock the door behind me and wave to my assistant who’s blasting “Lovefool” by The Cardigans through his headphones, grooving his shoulders to the beat while he answers emails. “Have a great weekend.”
It takes a moment for him to tug off his headphones. “You too! See you Monday.”
He blows me a kiss and goes back to typing.
“See you then.” I’m grateful for his bubbly personality. Breaks up the heaviness of six clients in a row, the finale to a long week at my practice.
Exiting my building, I cross the bustling, rain-slicked DC streets, veering toward the metro entrance.
Each droplet is a welcome reprieve from the late-July heat.
One stop and too many rowdy passengers later, I reach the community center and run up the steps.
My heels click against the wet cement. I should have packed an extra outfit, one I wouldn’t mind getting messy, but I got distracted on my way out the door before work.
Oh well.
As I dry my shoes on the entryway rug, I rifle through my bag and pull out my smock, tossing it over my work clothes. Hopefully, it’s enough to cover the silk blouse and pencil skirt.
Once I get into the gymnasium, I lay out the tarps and set up the easels.
One by one, people trickle in, our regulars chatting, checking in with one another.
For the most part, the newer members take their seats in the ring of chairs that’ve been set out, fidgeting with their clothes or swiping at their cell phones, avoiding the others in the room.
That’s how it always goes. A few months of creating and grieving side by side tends to break people out of their shells.
“Welcome back to Painting Hope. Last week, I had you bring in newspaper clippings and assemble them on your canvas. This week, we get to the fun part.” I gesture behind me at the long table set against the wall.
It’s strewn with paints, brushes, stamps, stencils, and sponges.
This is my happy place. The perfect way to head into the weekend.
“We’ll begin today, and you’ll have time at our next session to continue, so don’t rush.
Take your time. This hour and a half is for no one else but you. ”
I’ve been running this grief group for ten years to honor my best friend Charlotte after she died from colon cancer.
We’d been friends since third grade and were roommates in college, where she studied art and I studied psychology.
I’d been so envious that her parents supported her dreams. Mine, on the other hand, refused to invest in my tuition unless I studied something practical.
Psychology was frivolous in their eyes, at least until I continued on for my masters and eventually my doctorate.
Now they’re so proud of their successful daughter, a doctor with her very own practice.
It’s their favorite thing to brag to their friends about when I see them at the holidays.
Of course, they never mention that my doctorate is in Art Therapy or that I run this group.
Charlotte’s family, on the other hand, has always been as warm and welcoming as could be.
They basically adopted me after she passed, and I’ve continued going to weekly dinners at their house.
It’s a good excuse to keep an eye on them, and I know Charlotte would have wanted me to.
Her father, Richard, has been in and out of the hospital the last four years.
With her daughter gone and her husband ill, I try lending Beth a hand, whether it’s grabbing groceries, keeping her company at the hospital, or taking her shopping.
Teaching these art sessions transports me to those nostalgic college days when Charlotte and I would find anything we could get our hands on—mugs, bowls, rocks, figurines—and paint them all weekend between glasses of boxed wine.
We’d sneakily set the items back where we found them, though we may have collected a few souvenirs over the years…
I stick to canvas now, but art was our shared love, and practicing art therapy was something we’d always talked about doing together.
The group disperses to pick out paints and supplies. I head over to my bag, snatching out my phone and sending my weekly text to Beth.
Me
Do you need anything? I’ll bring it over Sunday.
A few moments later my cell buzzes.
Beth
Could you pick up some butter and sugar?
Me
Of course!
Beth
Thanks, dear. See you then.
Me
Looking forward to it.
As the students streak paint across their canvases, I walk around, refilling water cups, talking through different techniques, and making general conversation.
For many of them, this is the place they’re fully themselves.
Lost to their grief, angered or inspired by it.
There is no judgment. Out in the world, they are bound by expectations.
Here, I exchange those burdens for a few hours of peace.
“Will you tell me a bit about your piece?” I ask Ralph who’s painting a black carousel with majestic beasts on its poles. Smears of runny watercolors sop into the newspaper, dripping down the canvas, raining in inky splotches on the gloomily captured amusement.
“It’s a carousel my family used to go to when I was growing up. I went back a few weeks ago and it had been torn down.” His voice breaks off. “Made me think of my little girl. How much I want to get better. Get her back. I always thought I’d get to take her—”
His chin wobbles and I nod, not pressing further.
I’ve already gleaned his story in the fragments of these sessions.
He’s one year sober, working on reclaiming custody of his daughter.
She lives in Maryland with her grandparents after the death of her mother.
Between the loss of his ex and missing his child, Ralph’s continued commitment to his sobriety and showing up diligently to this group for over six months is no small feat.
I continue circling the room, stopping in front of a canvas papered with clippings of the same small suburban house with lush flower beds wrapping around its porch. Thick blots of pink and white paint create budding blossoms, mimicking the ones in the photos.
“I love those flowers you’re working on, Phoebe. What are those?”
“They’re a type of peony.”
“Beautiful.” I admire the way the pink and white swirl together, almost like a watercolor. “I’ve never seen them in that shade. Or so large.”
One flower looks like it’s the size of my open palm with petals reaching past my fingers.
I’m no flower expert, but Charlotte took pride in filling our windowsill vase each week with different vibrant blooms. Neither of us were especially great at keeping them alive, but we immortalized them in paint.
“They are a rare variant that grows around our family’s property.
I’ve never seen them anywhere else.” A smile peels at the corners of her lips, and she points to a photo of a quaint house with a couple and their little girl standing on the porch, surrounded by the blossoms. “I’ll bring you some next time I come. ”
“That’s so sweet, but you don’t have to.” She has no idea how futile life is for any plant or flower in my tiny apartment.
“I insist. They are really easy to care for. Plus, they bloom in spades for us each year. Thrive even through the winter months.”
“Sounds like a flower made just for me.” I chuckle. “Thanks, Phoebe, I’d love that.”
She beams and goes back to painting. I don’t miss the sheen of tears lining the bottom of her lids. With her parents both passing within the last year, she’s been in the thick of handling their property on top of her own job and being a single mom of two young kids.