crayon to the soft yellow paper. The deep color of the wax is rich and full, and I wonder why people think crayons are only for children. I long to draw, to let the crayon bring out the texture of the paper beneath it.
No. I can’t.
I set the crayon firmly down.
Julie’s walking slowly around the room, stopping to comment here, encourage there. When she reaches me, shestands there for a long moment. She leans her hand against the table. “Having trouble?” she asks softly.
“I’m just considering my options,” I say, picking my crayon back up, and tapping it against my lips like I’m thinking.
“I’d prefer you not plan it out,” Julie says. “For art therapy, it’s better to come right from your gut. I know you have some training in art, so it must be hard for you to let go of that, but I’d like you to try.”
My ears heat up. I don’t have any trouble creating art with feeling! I’m
not
my mom. I grip the crayon, wanting to show her. If I’m careful, if I keep
him
out of it, what can it hurt?
I make a light mark against the paper, then another, giving in to the longing. A girl’s face appears, her mouth sewn shut with zigzags of black thread. In one hand is the needle, and in the other is a stitch ripper, its point jagged and sharp.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that Julie’s moved away, but I hardly care. I keep drawing, pulling out the story from the paper. Blood speckles the tip of the stitch ripper, and one thread hangs loose from the girl’s mouth.
I sketch in stormy skies behind the girl, and trees bending in the wind—though if I was following technique, I should have drawn those in first. I press the crayon so hard against the paper, it snaps. I can hear my mom, chiding me to be more careful. I draw even faster; and at the corner of the page, almost entirely out of the drawing, a man’s hand appears, reaching for the girl.
“God, if you can do that with crayons, you must be dynamite with paint,” Meghan says, leaning over my arm to look.
I come back to the room with a start. “It’s just a sketch,” I say, but she leans in closer. The gum-chewing girl gets up and comes over, too. I sink down in my chair.
So much for holding myself back.
“Meghan, Stacey, please focus on your own work,” Julie says. She walks over and looks at Meghan’s page, then sits next to her. “This girl looks like she’s been through something pretty awful,” she says, smoothing out the paper. “Want to tell me about her?”
“Nope. It’s just a fucking picture.”
“I think it’s more than that. I think it’s trying to tell me something.”
I sneak a glance. Meghan has crudely painted a girl with a smile stamped on her face, a brownish-yellow tattoo on her shoulder, and a beer bottle in her hand.
Brownish-yellow—like a bruise.
I glance at Meghan, sitting there so rigidly, and I know Julie’s right. I want to say, “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” but I know that would only make it worse.
My stomach cramps. A shadow rises up inside me, smothering my breath.
His hand clutching my thigh. Yellow-brown marks beneath, like fingerprints, on my skin. A warm, sticky trail of blood and semen on my legs. His voice hissing, “I will kill you if you tell.”
I grip the edge of the table—and my drawing comes back into focus, the man’s hand jumping out at me.
His
hand. There’s something familiar about the blunt finger-nails, the hair on his fingers, the way he holds his hand.
I can’t draw air into my lungs. I look away, ignoring the spinning in my head, the sickness in my stomach. I don’t know whose hand it is. I
don’t!
I hitch in a breath, then another.
“I tell you, it’s just a picture,” Meghan is saying. “Lay off with your analytical shit.”
“Nothing is
just
a picture. Each one tells us something.”
I hunch over my page, trying to block their view.
“The girl’s fine,” Meghan insists. “She’s smiling.”
“Sure, she’s smiling,” Julie
No. I can’t.
I set the crayon firmly down.
Julie’s walking slowly around the room, stopping to comment here, encourage there. When she reaches me, shestands there for a long moment. She leans her hand against the table. “Having trouble?” she asks softly.
“I’m just considering my options,” I say, picking my crayon back up, and tapping it against my lips like I’m thinking.
“I’d prefer you not plan it out,” Julie says. “For art therapy, it’s better to come right from your gut. I know you have some training in art, so it must be hard for you to let go of that, but I’d like you to try.”
My ears heat up. I don’t have any trouble creating art with feeling! I’m
not
my mom. I grip the crayon, wanting to show her. If I’m careful, if I keep
him
out of it, what can it hurt?
I make a light mark against the paper, then another, giving in to the longing. A girl’s face appears, her mouth sewn shut with zigzags of black thread. In one hand is the needle, and in the other is a stitch ripper, its point jagged and sharp.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that Julie’s moved away, but I hardly care. I keep drawing, pulling out the story from the paper. Blood speckles the tip of the stitch ripper, and one thread hangs loose from the girl’s mouth.
I sketch in stormy skies behind the girl, and trees bending in the wind—though if I was following technique, I should have drawn those in first. I press the crayon so hard against the paper, it snaps. I can hear my mom, chiding me to be more careful. I draw even faster; and at the corner of the page, almost entirely out of the drawing, a man’s hand appears, reaching for the girl.
“God, if you can do that with crayons, you must be dynamite with paint,” Meghan says, leaning over my arm to look.
I come back to the room with a start. “It’s just a sketch,” I say, but she leans in closer. The gum-chewing girl gets up and comes over, too. I sink down in my chair.
So much for holding myself back.
“Meghan, Stacey, please focus on your own work,” Julie says. She walks over and looks at Meghan’s page, then sits next to her. “This girl looks like she’s been through something pretty awful,” she says, smoothing out the paper. “Want to tell me about her?”
“Nope. It’s just a fucking picture.”
“I think it’s more than that. I think it’s trying to tell me something.”
I sneak a glance. Meghan has crudely painted a girl with a smile stamped on her face, a brownish-yellow tattoo on her shoulder, and a beer bottle in her hand.
Brownish-yellow—like a bruise.
I glance at Meghan, sitting there so rigidly, and I know Julie’s right. I want to say, “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” but I know that would only make it worse.
My stomach cramps. A shadow rises up inside me, smothering my breath.
His hand clutching my thigh. Yellow-brown marks beneath, like fingerprints, on my skin. A warm, sticky trail of blood and semen on my legs. His voice hissing, “I will kill you if you tell.”
I grip the edge of the table—and my drawing comes back into focus, the man’s hand jumping out at me.
His
hand. There’s something familiar about the blunt finger-nails, the hair on his fingers, the way he holds his hand.
I can’t draw air into my lungs. I look away, ignoring the spinning in my head, the sickness in my stomach. I don’t know whose hand it is. I
don’t!
I hitch in a breath, then another.
“I tell you, it’s just a picture,” Meghan is saying. “Lay off with your analytical shit.”
“Nothing is
just
a picture. Each one tells us something.”
I hunch over my page, trying to block their view.
“The girl’s fine,” Meghan insists. “She’s smiling.”
“Sure, she’s smiling,” Julie
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