Deep breaths.

She should have taken an Ativan. Maybe if she had, Richelle thought, she wouldn't feel as if her
heart was about to burst through her chest and splatter like a Pollock painting on the door in front of
which she stood. Maybe every muscle in her body wouldn't be prepared for impact with some unknown
surface. Maybe little crescents of red wouldn't mark where her nails had been digging into her palms all
morning. Maybe she cut herself off. Remember what Dr. Lamb said. Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
She counted them in her head in, out; one; in, out; two; in, out; three; in, out; four until she
reached twelve, then shut her eyes and kept them closed for another count of twelve. She willed herself to
open them, but then the thirteenth count passed, and she kept them closed until she counted up to twentyfour. When she finally opened them, she looked up the sign on the door read Richelle's Art Studio
keep out!, and she would have laughed, but the panic lumped in her throat prevented any sound but a
choked sort of whine from escaping her lips. There had been no one to keep out in two years. The only
people she had talked to, really, were her mother, who chastised her (It's not like you're crippled. You
know it's only all in your head; I think you're just making excuses), and Dr. Lamb. She thought back to
three weeks prior she had been avoiding her appointments, but she wasn't going to do it again. She was
actually going to make good on her promise. She closed her eyes and counted to twelve, willing herself to
remember what she had sworn herself to.
***
She lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling and counting the rubber tiles. Dr. Lamb was tapping
his pen against his desk: tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. By her sides,
Richelle's hands were balled into fists.
Can you stop? she asked Dr. Lamb, her voice tight.
Stop what?
That tapping. It's the word was on the tip of her tongue, as always, but she couldn't find it.
She shut her eyes, counted to twelve, opened them, and settled on wrong..

It's exposure therapy, Dr. Lamb told her. The geniality in his voice didn't fool her. Also, she
hadn't signed up for exposure therapy. He took up the tapping again. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap a perfect twelve count. Richelle held her breath tap.
Stop. Her voice came out high and needy, like a petulant child's. Tears stung the corners of her
eyes. Please. Stop. I can't it's not I'm not ready.
He acquiesced. Some of the tension left Richelle's shoulders. She focused on her breathing
twelve counts eyes open, twelve counts eyes closed. Her heartbeat slowed a little. She could feel Dr.
Lamb's gaze on her; a question hovered in the air between them.
When are you going to start painting again?
She waited a full minute before she responded. Five seconds twelve times. Twelve seconds five
times. I don't know. You ask me every time; I don't know. I can't yet, I'm not ready, I
Bullshit.
She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. Her head spun a little from the light. Dr. Lamb sat,
legs crossed, in his spinny office chair with his back facing the floor to ceiling window. If you looked up,
the sky was an infinite expanse of bright, clear blue if you looked down, all you could think about was
falling and landing splat! on the asphalt parking lot twelve stories below. She'd considered it a couple of
times, but the inconvenience it would cause to her insurance company outweighed the (sometimes
overwhelming) desire. Besides, you couldn't even be one hundred percent certain of ending it from twelve
stories.
Today, though, l'appelle du vide was only the fifth or sixth thing on her mind. She stared at Dr.
Lamb, trying to decipher his expression. He met her eyes. He had one eyebrow raised, and the left side of
his mouth was turned slightly up in what could have been called a smirk, except that there wasn't any
cruelty to it.
What do you mean, bullshit? she asked.
What I said. He tapped the pen against his clipboard. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
In her mind, she filled in the set of twelve. Tap, tap, tap.

You've come a long way, Dr. Lamb elaborated. He studied her. When I first met you, Richelle,
you were, well pardon my French a disaster. There's no other way of putting it. I mean, you were in
the hospital.
Bellevue psych ward, Richelle quipped,. home, sweet, home.
You're doing so much better now, Dr. Lamb said. He spread his arms, hands extended towards
her in a gesture of compromise. I'm not saying you have to bring me a completed masterpiece by next
week. I just dip your toes in again. Test the water.
I don't have any paints.
Buy some.
I don't have any ideas.
You'll think of something.
I don't have any time.
Just set aside half an hour each night. You know what they say: a journey of a thousand miles,
begins with a single step.
Richelle set her feet on the floor and crossed her arms over her chest. Dr. Lamb didn't look away.
There was a pit in her stomach; she knew he wasn't going to concede this point. After two years spent
lying on this couch in this office asking for higher doses of Sertraline (what was the point of therapy if
your therapist couldn't also serve as a psychiatrist?) and complaining about numbers, the way they hung
about in the shadowy recesses of her mind when she was trying to get things done, the way they loomed
over her like fate one misstep and they would consume her, she was sure of it she knew him nearly as
well as he knew her. She forced herself to meet his eyes; the words were hard to get out through her set
jaw. Fine. I'll try. She looked down at her lap, tugging at a loose thread on her jeans.
Wonderful, Dr. Lamb said. Then, in a softer voice, professionalism all but shed, good luck. I
know you can do it, Richelle..

***

Eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four.

Richelle opened her eyes. In her reminiscence, she had reached out for the doorknob, and she
gripped it now. The metal was cold against her clammy palm; she felt as though her hand were about to
slide off, but slowly, s l o w l y, she turned the knob. The door swung open, revealing the studio she had
entered only twice in the three years since she'd last painted. She had cleaned it thoroughly shortly after
her last session with Dr. Lamb, but the scent of dust and viscous insanity still lingered in the air like a
melancholy ghost. Richelle set her jaw and dug her nails into her palms, taking first one step and then
another into the room. A canvas sat ready and waiting on her easel from the last time she'd tried to make
good on her promise to Dr. Lamb. Well, she thought, that's one step taken care of. It was the easiest step,
of course, the one that inspired the least obsession, but it was a start.
She went to the kitchen and filled a Tupperware container with water from the sink, then brought
it back to her studio and set it down on the stool beside her easel. The water in the container sloshed back
and forth for several moments, and Richelle watched it, counting each time it nearly spilled over the edge.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. She willed it to slosh a sixth time six was half of twelve, and better than
most numbers because of it but the water stilled. Shaking herself out of her near-trance, she went to the
shelf which held the tin can with the paintbrushes and selected a thick-bristled brush. She tapped the end
of it against the can one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve times and turned
to go and place it on the stool with the water, but a nagging thought at the back of her mind stopped her.
Had she really tapped it twelve times, she wondered. She pivoted and did the tapping ritual again one,
two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve but as soon as she turned, the doubt
began to nag her again. She repeated the ritual three more times before she was satisfied that she truly had
tapped twelve times, and then again with a medium-bristled brush, and again with a fine-bristled one. Her
heart rate climbed each time she convinced herself she had made a mistake, but she pushed through it.
You promised, she told herself, although the sound of her own voice in her head was nearly drowned out
by the rush of her blood, like a stormy sea, in her ears. You can do this.
She should have taken an Ativan.

***
An hour and a half later, Richelle stood in front of her easel, brush poised over the canvas. Her
heart hammered with such ferocity that her ears seemed to thrum, and her grip on the handle of the brush
was so tight that even the slightest increase in pressure could have caused it to break. One thought ran
through her mind: can't do it can't do it can't do it can't do it. She stared straight at the canvas without
really seeing it. Can't do it can't do it can't do it can't do it in strings of four statements, twelve syllables.
Can't do it can't do it can't do it can't do it. Almost out of muscle memory although her muscles felt, to
her conscious mind, as rigid as the rest of her she left the studio and walked down the hallway into her
bedroom, and then her bathroom, where she opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a half-empty
bottle of Ativan. She took a paper cup from the dispenser and filled it, took an Ativan from the bottle,
placed it on her tongue, and swallowed it in a gulp of water. Then she lay, shaking and shivering, on her
bed, until her heartbeat slowed and her thoughts became somewhat coherent. She breathed deeply in,
out; one; in, out; two; in, out; three; in, out; four; in, out; five; in, out; six all the way through to
twelve. Slowly, she rose. She retrieved her paintbrush from where she'd left it at the edge of the bathroom
sink, now stained a deep, bruising blue, and walked back down the hall to her studio. The paint had
dripped on the floor as well, and there was now barely any left on the brush. She dipped it again in the
paint on her palette, and then brought the brush up to the canvas. Her hand shook a little, but she bit down
on her lip to steady it, and reached out further. She made a swift, small stroke, barely touching the canvas
at all. When she brought hand and brush back to look at her work, a swirl of dark paint colored the thick
fabric. She tapped the end of the brush handle on the stool one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten, eleven, twelve, but then she reached out again, and made another, more deliberate stroke. And
another twelve taps. And another stroke. And another twelve taps. And another stroke. It was slow work,
but Richelle felt a peacefulness come over her as she labored, something beyond the effects of the Ativan.
Slowly but surely, the canvas began to transform.
***

Richelle lay on the sofa in Dr. Lamb's office, staring up at the ceiling and connecting the dots on
the rubber tiles so they formed different pictures a cat, a girl, a duck, the number twelve. Dr. Lamb was
tapping his pen against his desk: tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. She balled
her hands into fists and gritted her teeth and tried to think about something else.
So, Dr. Lamb said, how have you been? You missed your last few appointments; I was
worried.
Richelle ran her tongue around the edges of her mouth in an attempt to loosen her jaw. I know,
she told Dr. Lamb. I'm sorry. I'm I'm good, though. I started painting, a little. She glanced at him out
of the corner of her eye, looking for a reaction. His face had split into a smile that reached his eyes, which
shone as if they were about to brim over with tears.
That's amazing, he said. Really, Richelle, I'm so proud of you. Was it just once or-?
Twice, Richelle answered. I had to take an Ativan both times, before I started, but I've gotten
a significant bit of work done on a new painting.
What of? Dr. Lamb asked.
She shrugged. Nothing exciting; just the view from my window at night, which is mostly the
building across from mine, to be honest.
Still, Dr. Lamb said, you're painting. How do you feel?
Stressed, she said, as always. She fell quiet and took a series of breaths in, out; one; in,
out; two; in, out; three up through twelve. Proud, though. Definitely proud.
As well you should be, Dr. Lamb said. You've come a long way, Richelle.
Richelle twisted and untwisted the hem of the paint-stained sleeve of her sweater twelve times as
she thought. Yeah, she said finally, sitting up and looking out the window at the Bronx sky and the
skyline of her own borough beyond. Yeah, I guess I have.