55. Maisy
55
MAISY
“This doesn’t count as a date,” I say.
Jensen opens the door to an art studio in an Austin shopping strip. “We’re doing something outside of the home. It’s a date.”
“If you say so.”
He bumps into my back when I come to an abrupt stop inside the spacious studio. I assumed we’d be the only two in attendance for the trial art therapy session, but several people seated at tables forming a square are staring at us.
“You didn’t tell me this was a group thing,” I whisper.
“I didn’t know. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Searching for a clock on the walls, I ask, “Are we late?”
He checks his watch. “No. Just the last ones to arrive, I guess.”
This knowledge doesn’t put me at ease. I don’t know why I’m so worked up. He’s the one who gets flustered about punctuality. If he isn’t worried, why should I be? My stomach’s in knots, and I’m seconds away from declaring this experience a stupid idea. At least it isn’t my idea.
I joined Jensen’s last virtual session with Dr. Sims. We spent most of the appointment discussing my thoughts and feelings about his behaviors, actions, and how I coped during the no-contact period. By the end of the meeting, I knew I needed to seek counseling for myself. Despite all the improvements I’ve made in my life—prioritizing my needs and opening up more to my friends—I still have trouble conveying my emotions, which is what brings us here today.
Dr. Sims recommended art therapy as a potential method for learning to express my feelings. The idea piqued my interest, and Jensen sprang into action and found a trial class. I’m glad he took the initiative because, honestly, I would’ve put it off as long as possible. I’m also relieved he joined me, claiming this could be a good outlet for us both.
A red-headed woman wearing baggy overalls and a ribbon tied in her hair approaches. Feeling his eyes on me, I look sidelong at Jensen. He smirks at my denim overalls and the bandana looped around my curls.
“You dressed for the occasion,” he says.
“Shut up,” I whisper without moving my lips.
The woman extends a hand when she reaches us. “You must be Maisy and Jensen. I’m Irina.” We exchange pleasantries before she leads us to a long table tucked in the corner against one wall. “After you choose your supplies and take your seats, we’ll get started.”
The art supplies spread on the table include everything from coloring books to sketchpads to modeling clay. I crinkle my nose when Jensen chooses a sketchpad and pencils. I’m familiar with his drawing skills or lack thereof. But hey, art is about expression. If he wants to give drawing another go, more power to him.
I choose a tabletop easel and a small canvas. Because my hands are full, he carries the tray holding jars of paints and brushes for me. We claim the two empty chairs and trade wary smiles with the eight people waiting for us to get situated. Instinctively, I arrange my paint and brushes for maximum efficiency, as I would with the makeup I’d use on a client.
Irina draws the group’s attention. “Welcome, everyone.”
She introduces herself and lists her credentials. I’m relieved when she assures us we won’t have to share anything about ourselves today. Telling strangers about myself doesn’t appeal to me. At all.
“The purpose of art therapy is to enhance your self-awareness,” she says. “To explore your feelings and express them through creativity. It doesn’t matter if you have experience or skills. What matters is getting the emotions out of you in order to process them and find healing. Today, you’ll pick one moment, something prominent in your memory. Consider the feelings the memory conjures and then”—she spreads her hands apart—“create.”
For the next forty-five minutes, I zone out. Nothing breaks through my bubble while I paint. No sounds, no smells, no activity in my peripheral. All that exists are me and the memory of Jensen kissing me in the alley months ago. The crude image taking shape isn’t bright and happy, but the shadows formed by each brush stroke evoke warmth, hope, and relief.
In my painting, a man in a black hoodie extends his hand, offering a hummingbird a safe landing place in the cradle of his palm. He asks the bird to trust in him. To believe in him. To come home.
That day, if Jensen hadn’t crashed through the first wall guarding my heart, I never would’ve confronted or accepted the truth about my parents. They molded my fears and made me believe I was unworthy of love. Without his persistence, I’d carry on being the woman who appeared bold and brave on the outside. On the inside, she was a scared, lonely girl who cowered in the dark.
I never would’ve realized I have a family that loves and supports me unconditionally. One I wasn’t born to but chose. Jensen has always been part of that family—the first member, in fact—because I chose him long ago. I choose him still, and he chooses me.
When I lay down my brush, I’m smiling at the canvas. It’s an amateur painting at best, but the image is clear. Well, as clear as can be when looking at it through wet, blurry eyes. With a long exhale, I turn my head to examine Jensen’s work, but I’m drawn to his gaze instead. His glistening eyes hold me captive, the pride in them fierce and gripping.
He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I know.”
His lips spread into a wide grin, then he leans back and gestures toward his sketchpad as if presenting a masterpiece. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a burst of laughter.
He drew Medusa—a stick-figure version of her anyway. The snakes sprouting from her head aren’t bad. And her aviator sunglasses are recognizable. What has me bending at the waist, fighting to hold in my laughs, are her combat boots with flowers on them.
“You didn’t take this seriously,” I say, attempting a stern tone.
His gaze softens, earnest and adoring. “This date wasn’t for me. It was for you.”
I’ll never deserve this man, but I’ll continue showing my appreciation for him. So, like he’s been doing every day since he started therapy, I step outside my comfort zone. In front of a group of strangers, I rest my head on his shoulder and sigh.
“Thank you, J. I really needed this.”