Chapter 2 - 'I mean, you're *that* guy'
Previously: On their morning commute, Esther’s unsure what to make of her boyfriend Neil’s suggestion to buy a house, and a Top 40 hit and traffic diversions bring back difficult memories.
Ash
This art therapy session is absolute gash and I can’t believe there’s no way I can get myself out of it.
I stare at the stripes of colour I’ve thrown at my paper as the therapist moves slowly around the room. I think her name is Toni, or Dani. Something like that. Don’t know though, wasn’t really listening when she introduced herself. She meanders through the room, stopping every so often to look out of the window, or adjust her head wrap or her necklace. Finally she wanders back to me and inspects what I’ve done.
I was not forthcoming at the beginning of the session, when she asked about what brought me to art therapy, or, later on, about my motivation for sludgy green and brown stripes. She was more patient than I expected, and probably deserved, as she reminded me this was a safe space to explore my feelings. To consider how and why I’m here; a rehab inpatient in the New Forest, Hampshire, and not at home, in Darling Point, Sydney.
She looked at the sheet of paper and then at me and something about it was unsettling. Not because there was expectation, but because there wasn’t, and that isn’t something I’ve seen a lot. People almost always want something.
‘Be guided by whatever feels natural,’ she encouraged. ‘There are no wrong answers here.’ Her voice was calm and reassuring, yet authoritative and confident. She half-crouched, with her hands on her knees. Short, neat, gold-painted nails. Skin that’s a little dry. Hands that have worked. Hands that have created. I looked down at my own: geometric foxes tattooed on the backs of them, callused guitarists’ fingertips, slightly grubby nails, ragged and bitten from withdrawal. I picked up the brush and painted a dark grey line across the sheet of paper, scoured it through the green, dulling it, and added a murky stripe next to it. ‘Good,’ she soothed. ‘Striking. Interesting choice of colour, Ashley.’
‘Just Ash,’ I said, still staring at the paper, and she apologised and talked at me a little longer whilst I pretended to listen, but I didn’t add to the stripes on the page, and finally she gave up.
Now we’re forty-eight minutes into this stand off, and I’ve barely taken my eyes off those dark stripes. I allow my eyes to slide out of focus as I wait for the session to end. The clock ticks steadily over the low hum of questions and encouragement and the room’s stuffy. It’d be nicer if the windows were open. Perhaps then we’d smell rain on the freshly cut grass, or the pine trees in the forest.
Eventually, she glances at her watch and presses her hands together.
‘Okay, that’s it for today.’
Fucking finally.
I put my brush on the table and it rolls off, dropping to the floor, bouncing as it lands, flicking paint on to my jeans. I leave it there and make my way towards the door. The whole thing was like being back in detention at school.
‘Ashley? Sorry, Ash,’ she says, correcting herself whilst stopping me.
‘Yeah?’
‘Good job.’ She smiles, and she doesn’t mention the paintbrush on the floor or my shitty attitude.
‘Was it, though?’
She nods, the smile fades.
I shrug. ‘Alright then,’ I say.
‘See you next time.’
‘Right. Yep.’
I wanted to do music therapy, but no one here thought it was a good idea, given everything. They said it might put me back in situations I’d find triggering. That it was something so familiar that it might not be beneficial. Suggested I try art therapy instead, and I was too out of it to argue, but put it this way: there was a reason I opted for music instead of art at school.
I make my way back to my room. Fifteen minutes, give or take, until Mum is due. I wash my hands, freshen up a little, roll a couple of cigarettes and change my t-shirt, and I’m back downstairs, sitting in the corner of the waiting area in the foyer, with time to spare. I pick up a year-old copy of Psychology Today to pass the time. Below it is a dogeared National Geographic with a coffee ring on the cover, and underneath that, Vogue, and I’m not convinced a magazine littered with shots of hyper slim models is really the best choice for a facility which treats eating disorders.
The art therapist walks through, tapping on her phone like she’s about to make a call, her giant art supplies bag slung over her shoulder, and I watch over the pages of the magazine as she shares a joke with the receptionist whilst signing out. Behind her the doors glide open.
‘Roni! Hey!’
So, Roni then. I should try to remember that if I’m to see her on a weekly basis. She turns and hugs her friend and for the briefest flicker of a moment I think, Jesus Christ, she looks an awful lot like Esty Mackie. An awful lot like Esty Mackie. My stomach plummets, and yet, I can’t look away. My mouth instantly dries. There’s a water cooler in the corner which would fix that, but I’m terrified that if I move they might see me, and even though of course it’s not Esty Mackie, I want to remain invisible. And so I sit, statue still, as small and inconspicuous as I can, seemingly engrossed in my magazine, but still peering round the pages, on the couch in reception.
‘Shall we go?’ Roni says, and I close my eyes and concentrate hard on how I remember Esty. What her voice sounded like when she talked. The way I could make her laugh until she cried. How her eyes shone when we ran off to Brighton and dulled after I told her we were over. It can’t have been her. She had plans with her camera. She was never going to stay around here. Esty Mackie will be long gone, and I think about that whilst looking at the magazine again. The words on the page blur into fuzzy black lines. My heart rate slows. Roni and her friend have gone. It cannot have been Esty Mackie.
Less than a minute later the doors glide open again, and this time it’s Mum. This time, I don’t hide.
‘Ash, my darling.’
Her arms are wide open, and she pulls me close, wrapping them around me before drawing back and kissing my cheek. ‘You’re looking much better than when I left you. Your eyes are brighter. The fresh air obviously agrees with you.’
Fresh air and no drugs.
She cups my cheek, appraising me further. ‘I knew my handsome boy was in there somewhere,’ she says, as if I’m a child or a pet, and not her thirty-one year old fuck up of a son. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good. Shall we walk?’ I ask. She’s right though, my eyes are brighter, and my skin’s less grey. Since arriving here I’ve eaten better and I’ve been looked after, and I haven’t woken up after too much of a good time with my head feeling like it’s been in a dehydrator.
The first few days were a full detox; horrible, but definitely best after the events that led to my being here. Parts of it are still quite hazy, but I remember checking in, tired from my flight, looking and feeling like shit, the medical and psych evaluations where plans for my treatment were made for me, and my trembling hand as I signed papers, my signature wobbly, like I’d written it with my left hand. But after that it all goes a little blank. Bitten down nails and scratched skin suggest I’ve been anxious. My sleep patterns are fucked and I puked up every meal I ate for the first couple of days. But at least now my eyes are brighter. At least I’m a vaguely healthier colour. Hair could do with a wash, though; the undercut’s getting a bit long.
Mum and I stroll around the side of the building and down a sloped lawn towards the edge of the grounds, and the forest has that earthy damp smell of things that are rotting. She takes my arm and talks as we pick along the far perimeter. A breeze blows raindrops off the trees and on to us, leaving darkened spots on my hoodie and Mum’s jacket, and the toes of her suede shoes are wet from the springy, mossy grass. There’s nowhere dry to sit, so we continue on instead.
I’ve done this during my free time for the last few days and there’s something different to look at every day, even if it’s just the colour of the leaves or a bird or a squirrel. But I didn’t fancy mooching about in the rain earlier, so I stayed in and tried to avoid engaging with everyone in the lounge, instead.
‘How was therapy today, love?’ Mum asks.
‘Dumb. Art therapy.’
‘Would have thought that’d be right up your street, to be honest.’ She looks questioningly at me, and I shrug.
‘Nah. It’s a load of crap. I painted two stripes on a bit of paper and the therapist told me I’d done a good job, like I was Jackson fucking Pollock or something.’
‘I’m not sure that’s what she was getting at, Ash.’
‘Mum,’ I sigh, and roll my eyes. ‘Come on.’
‘I know it’s hard, but I do think if you let yourself engage a little, you might find it helps.’
‘I’m fine,’ I insist.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ she says, patting my hand. ‘For taking these steps. Properly this time.’
‘I honestly think you’re the only one who is.’
She tuts. ‘Come, now, Ashley. You know that isn’t true. Think about the people you’re doing this for. Luna, Gina… yourself.’
She’s right. It’s Luna I’ve come all this way for. Gina less so, but my lawyer told me making positive steps towards recovery would speak volumes so here I am, trying. Sort of. ‘Have you spoken to her?’ she asks.
‘Luna? No. You’re the first person I’ve seen, or even really spoken to since I arrived. I want to though. Need to figure out the time difference. Could you maybe send her a message? Let her know I’m okay and I’ll call when I can.’
‘Of course.’
We carry on in silence for a little while. Branches crunch and snap underfoot.
‘Were you waiting in reception long?’ Mum asks and there’s a curious edge to her voice. I stop and light my cigarette and pull deeply before answering. She’s looking at me sideways and there’s something tentative about it.
‘A few minutes,’ I say. ‘Getting acquainted with the delights of Psychology Today.’
‘I see, I see.’ More silence as we walk across the lawn, but it feels like the kind where something’s been left unsaid.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, just because I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived. Didn’t know if you were allowed to just sit in the foyer.’
‘I doubt it, but no one stopped me. Actually, I saw the art therapist meet a friend whilst I waited for you. Don’t you think it’s funny to think of people having lives outside work?’
‘Mmm,’ Mum says, but she seems distracted suddenly. A little fractious perhaps.
‘And you know what else is funny?’ I continue, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Her friend didn’t half look like Esty Mackie. Thought I was hallucinating for a moment, until I remembered where I was. Can you imagine how insane that would be, though? I mean, Esty Mackie!’
Mum brushes some hair back from her face. She takes off her glasses and polishes them on her jumper.
‘Esty Mackie! I haven’t thought of her in years.’
She laughs, but it’s sort of gurgly, and I don’t believe her. She was close with Esty, and never made any secret of the fact she thought I really fucked up by ending things between us. So I suspect she’s given her a lot of thought over the years. ‘Oh, Ash,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘I think I just felt some rain again. Let’s go inside until your dinner.’
‘Alright, let me finish this,’ I say, holding my cigarette up.
‘I wish you’d quit those as well,’ she tuts.
‘All things considered, these are the very least of my problems,’ I say, taking a drag. ‘But I will. Promise.’
I go for dinner after Mum’s gone. Mealtimes here are social, and we’re supposed to sit with other people, but I find it uncomfortable. The problem is I’m not anonymous here. It’s stupid, really. I’m recognised everywhere, so I don’t know why I thought it might be any different. The first evening after my detox, I sat opposite a girl who stared at me with huge hazel eyes the entire time.
‘Can I help you?’ I asked, when I couldn’t stand it any longer. I was irritable and everything ached. It was fair to say she hadn’t caught me at my best.
‘You’re that guy, aren’t you?’ she said. She pushed some mashed potatoes around her plate, stared at it for ages before taking a mouthful.
‘Depends what guy,’ I said. ‘I am a guy, but only you know if I’m that guy. Whoever he is.’
‘From the Grandeur Looms.’
‘Bingo,’ I muttered, and suddenly my appetite and my bravado evaporated, and all I wanted was a cigarette. ‘No “the” though. Just Grandeur Looms.’
‘Apols, my bad.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Why are you in here then?’
‘Because I’m a big fan of cocaine and prescription drugs,’ I said, and I could tell she didn’t know if I was joking or not. I wasn’t.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, finally. ‘But, I guess I mean, why are you here and not somewhere a bit… fancier? I mean, you’re… that guy.’
I didn’t tell her why. I’ve been told sharing is very much encouraged, but fuck that. I’m not there yet. Might never be.
‘Just am,’ I said, and pushed my plate away. ‘Funny where we end up, isn’t it?’
She nodded, wide eyed and pale, and went back to her meal.
This evening I sit at the end of a table and ignore everyone. It’s spaghetti bolognese and garlic bread tonight. Quite nice, as it happens. I mean, it’s not the juice bar and macrobiotic diet I had at my stint in the Malibu rehab, but very little here is like my stint in the Malibu rehab. There are no scented massages, no gratitude practice, and certainly no sound baths. The weather was better there, too.
The girl with the massive eyes sits at the table next to mine, and tonight she’s laughing and joking with an older woman. We catch eyes for a second or two, and she waves before going back to her conversation. I never did find out her name.