I shook my head.
"It's very nice," I said. "It's very good."
My mother rose and walked over to stand beside me. We both looked at the picture.
It was a picture of her standing by the window in the attic looking out, a picture very much like the last one I had done up there.
Aunt Zipporah joined us.
"That's interesting, Karen," she said.
My mother nodded. "I don't know why, but it just came to me. We've spent so much time up there, haven't we, Zipporah?"
"Yes."
I took a deep breath and said, "The girl in the picture looks like she wants to be outside."
"Yes," my mother said. "She does."
"She doesn't want to be a turtle anymore," I added. For a moment neither of them spoke, and then my mother laughed and Aunt Zipporah laughed. We all laughed.
Aunt Zipporah put her arm around my mother's shoulders and squeezed her and kissed her cheek.
"It's so good to see you, Karen."
"It's good to see you. And you, Alice," she said, suddenly reaching to take my hand. "You come over here and you tell me all about yourself."
She tugged for me to follow her back to the place on the lawn.
"Go on," she urged after we sat. "Tell me all the things you like and tell me all the things you hate," she said, scrunching up her nose. "Especially the zeros. We have lots of zeros in our school, right, Zipporah?"
"Right," Aunt Zipporah said, then she added, "why don't you two talk and get to know each other? I want to take a walk and look over the grounds. Is that all right, Karen?"
My mother looked at me and then back at her and nodded.
"Well?" she asked me. "Don't you want to talk about yourself?"
"Yes," I said. "If you want me to, if you'll listen." She laughed. "I have nowhere else to go," she said. "Neither do I," I told her.
And the journey back began.
Epilogue
. Before we left the clinic that day, we did have lunch with my mother. She showed us her room and her other paintings, which were mainly scenes in nature and animals, much like the work I had done. She was even more buoyant, talking constantly and eager to show us everything she coul
d, doing just what my father had described--making it seem as if the entire institution was devoted to her every wish and need. Interspersed with all that were her references to things she and my aunt Zipporah had done at school, the comments made as if they were still in high school. As Dr. Simons had told us, she didn't make any reference to any of the tragic events. When she made any mention of her mother, she made it casually, offhanded, almost an afterthought. Neither I nor Aunt Zipporah asked her if her mother had visited her.
Lila Mills, the head nurse who had come to tell us it was time for lunch, came to get my mother and take her to some therapy session. Her reluctance to leave us surprised Lila, but she was gently insistent, and after we promised to return very soon, my mother said good-bye.
"I hope you'll come back, too," she told me. "I will," I said. This was a promise I wasn't
afraid to make. Her face brightened even more. She started away, stopped and then returned to hug me.
Aunt Zipporah's eyes were ready to explode with tears, but she held back, and we both went to see Dr. Simons, who gave me the greatest gift of all.
First, we described our visit, especially my exchanges with my mother. When I told her about the painting and why I thought it was interesting, her face reflected great interest. She asked me questions about my life with my grandparents, deep, prodding questions that. I was reluctant to answer, but I could see from the expression on Aunt Zipporah's face that I should. After a while, however, I felt as if I was being treated as a patient. Dr. Simons could either see that or hear it in my voice.
"Forgive me for being so personal," she said, "but it's all part of the puzzle I' rn here to put together."