"MAKE ANY new art?"

Mirela shrugged. "Haven't been feeling up to it."

"Oh? Why?"

"Not sure."

"Understandable." Doctor Strinholm scribbled something in her notebook, and suggested, "maybe we can figure out why?"

Maybe... maybe not, thought Mirela, staring at the residual dry petals floating in her tea. She liked this about her private sessions with Strinholm. This and how she was being asked more than being told; she was given her space and time to talk. She still didn't expect her to listen though.  

"I think it's because you're tired. You haven't been sleeping."

"I do sleep."

"No. Or... not enough and not well. You don't have to lie to me."

Keeping her teacup on its coaster, Mirela straightened, now a little bit more attentive. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

There was a knowing twinkle in Strinholm's bright blue eyes. "These sleeping pills Dr Svensson's prescribed for you, they're really strong. They ought to knock you out for at least seven hours, but every day that you show me new artwork are days you drew through the night."

"Oh..." was all Mirela could get out.

"So it's clear that you don't take them. You don't sleep long enough or well enough. In fact," she exemplified, "you choose to stay awake and only sleep when you quite literally cannot keep your eyes open anymore."

That was rather smart and incredibly observant; Mirela could tell how Strinholm qualified for her post at a state establishment. It was impressive.

"How does talking about why you don't want to sleep sound?" asked Strinholm as she poised her pen, ready to take notes. Upon getting no answer from Mirela, she changed her question, "is it nightmares?"

Still not answering, Mirela reached for her teacup again. She finished her brew and took to studying the roses, berries, leaves, and flecks of gold bedecking the ceramic.

"My mum made that." Strinholm picked up her own cup. "It's decoupage," she said, fondly running her fingertips over the designs, "she did the illustrations herself, they're not readymade decoupage sheets."

"They're beautiful," Mirela confessed with newfound fascination. "Your mother is amazing."

"She'll be happy to know she has a new fan." The Doctor flashed her a grin, then quickly sobered up. "But hey, listen, Mirela. You don't have to tell me anything in detail. Not today anyway. Just tell me if it's nightmares you're trying to avoid... just a yes or no."

Bobbing her head, Mirela replied, "yes."

"Thank you for letting me know. Now we can work on dealing with that without all these antihistamines. I'm scrapping Dr Svensson's prescription and putting you on only one anti-stressant. And the nightmares, are they fairly frequent?"

"Yes."

"The same dream every time?"

"Yes. Almost."

"You do sleep dreamlessly sometimes, no? Once a while?"

"Yeah."

 "What can you tell me about those instances?"

"It's when I'm really tired. I don't know... I fall asleep and don't dream. Just sleep."

"Thought so..." Strinholm jotted down a couple points, declaring, "and that's what we need to do."

That made no sense. Confused, Mirela asked, "what?"

"Tire you out, of course," she divulged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "See, I've noticed that your schedule is empty except for two individual therapy sessions a day. So I wrote you down for horticultural therapy--or gardening. I know you like art and are familiar with our art room, so a couple hours of focused art therapy. I also penned trekking... I want you to try it. If you don't like it, we'll find something else. And community service is mandatory for able young adults--I don't know why Dr Svensson didn't let you participate."

"Probably 'cause, in his eyes, I'm disabled." Mirela scoffed, crossing her arms.

Strinholm barked a short laugh. "You have a queer sense of humor," she said, shaking her head. "I will have to discuss this with him... Nonetheless, here's your new schedule. How does it look?"

Taking the paper that she was holding out, Mirela perused the table for each day. It felt nice to know that she would have something to do. Something different, something physical and interesting to do in between therapy hours, instead of wandering the lackluster halls of St. Frances or sitting in the art room waiting for inspiration, only to end up filching charcoal sticks and bringing them back to her room. It felt nice to have that, and she admitted, "I like it. Thank you."

"Well, I'm glad." Strinholm beamed. "You can start today. What's next for you?"

"Horticultural therapy."

"Ah, you're gonna love it. I assume you know where the greenhouses are?"

"I do." Mirela got up and pocketed her schedule.

"Great! Off you go then. I'll see you at our evening session." 

Outside for the first time in a long while, Mirela sunk into the sunlight, breathed in the breeze like a sweet sigh from heaven. Lost in the moment's ghostly embrace, she took a while for herself, eyes closed and lips canting upwards. It felt strange - she'd gone so long without a smile. 

And only when a passing orderly accidentally jostled into her did she realize that she was late. As she hurried down the cobbled lane that cut through the lawns, she was struck with how she, for some reason, didn't want to disappoint Doctor Strinholm. Missing gardening therapy may very well disappoint the Doctor.

A caregiver dressed in overalls and gumboots met her on the way. "Hi," she said, "may I help you?"

"I'm... I'm here for the, uh... hort--gardening therapy?" Mirela stuttered, uncertain and wondering if she'd actually not known where the greenhouses were.

"Oh, right! I was told we would receive new participants. Mirela, isn't it?" The caregiver raised her brows. "Your hair is hard to miss... I'm Enola and I'm the coordinator. Follow me."

She led Mirela further along the path, past a row of greenhouses, to another row with a sign that denoted 'Glassrooms'. The glassrooms were as named - exoskeletons of glass and wood encasing verdant viscera. The small independent structures, all windows with panes fogged in places, reminded her of terrariums. Human sized terrariums.

The two entered glassroom five. Inside, a metal framework ran along the walls carrying long tubs with beds of mud where the plants thrived. Two orderlies wove around the plants and the people, supervising. Enola plucked an apron from a line of hooks on the bastion and instructed Mirela to put it on.

"Tomas," she called, motioning to an inmate. 

When the person approached, Mirela recognized him as the boy from her group therapy circle. In all the sessions they'd shared, he had never spoken once, but she finally knew his name. 

"Would you show her what we're doing here, please?" asked Enola, "until I return?"

"Happy to," he said.

"Thank you. I'll be back in a few," the caregiver said over her shoulder as she headed out. 

Tomas then turned to Mirela. "Hi."

"Hi," she mumbled, suddenly shy. 

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Tomas started deeper into glassroom five. "Amalie got you into gardening therapy too, huh?"

"Guess so," Mirela said, quickly going after him.

He suddenly stopped and she would have walked right into him had she not been staring so intently at him, perceiving his every move. He faced her, she stepped back, and they silently stood, looking at each other. They stood like that until the silence became deafening and Mirela wished she could think of something to talk about. They stood like that until, at long last, Tomas coughed.

"I hope you like mud," he said askingly. 

"Um..." Did she? She didn't really know. What she did know was that Tomas's eyes were brown. She'd always thought they were black, but no - they were simply dark, so very dark. Brown in the light, black in the shade. But they were warm, too, somehow. Perhaps the warmest she'd seen. And ultimately, taking a minute too long and hoping he hadn't noticed, she ended up with, "I don't hate it..."

"We can work with that," he voiced, turning to the flowerbed they were standing beside. "These are periwinkles. All you need to do is use your fingers and turn over the humus. We can't use those mini shovel things--I don't know what they're called--because they might damage the roots."

"Got it," Mirela said, rolling up her sleeves. 

Digging her fingers carefully past the convoluted netting of green stems and into the soil, she loosened it like Tomas was doing. The mud was cool to the touch, a little damp, but not sticky. Petrichor permeated the glassroom, wafting up her nose. She inhaled deeply, feeling a sense of calm come awash in the softest waves. 

"They have very delicate roots," she heard Tomas murmur, his voice steeped in tenderness, "I'm so happy I got them to grow this much..."

Pausing her kneading, Mirela gently touched a periwinkle. "They're lovely. I think this is the loveliest shade of blue nature's ever made," she spoke softly, slowly, convinced that talking any louder would distress the pale, tiny flowers. Talking any louder would break the air of profundity and those fragile little petals would fall right off. 

"It reminds me of the sky--in pink cloud summers, the few minutes right past dusk--when the sunset flames have ebbed away," she said, thinking about the evenings she spent sitting by the window with her mother, revering the transient moment between dusk and twilight. "It's so fleeting, so easy to miss. But once you've seen it, it's so hard to forget."

"Mirela..."

She glanced at Tomas, and he held her gaze. He was regarding her with such great wonderment that the blood rushed to her face. His eyes were like the soil that the periwinkles grew in, but warmer. As warm as the sunbeams that shone on them through the glass walls. 

"You don't talk much, but you can be so beautifully articulate," he imparted, still brimming with undisguised awe.

"I mean--" Mirela choked, scrambling for words "--I can see why they make you happy... and you've done an amazing job here."

"Thank you." Tomas dimpled.

And her responding grin was inexorable. It felt strange - she'd gone so long without a smile.

❖