The doctor just goes on and on and on.
All these mystics, throughout history, all over the world, they all found their way to enlightenment by physical suffering.
And Misty just keeps on painting.
“Here's where it gets interesting,” the doctor's voice says. “According to split-brain physiology, your brain is divided like a walnut into two halves.”
The left half of your brain deals with logic, language, calculation, and reason, he says. This is the half people perceive as their personal identity. This is the conscious, rational, everyday basis of our reality.
The right side of your brain, the doctor tells her, is the center of your intuition, emotion, insight, and pattern recognition skills. Your subconscious.
“Your left brain is a scientist,” the doctor says. “Your right brain is an artist.”
He says people live their lives out of the left half of their brains. It's only when someone is in extreme pain, or upset or sick, that their subconscious can slip into their conscious. When someone's injured or sick or mourning or depressed, the right brain can take over for a flash, just an instant, and give them access to divine inspiration.
A flash of inspiration. A moment of insight.
The French psychologist Pierre Janet called this condition “the lowering of the mental threshold.”
Dr. Touchet says, “Abaissement du niveau mental.”
When we're tired or depressed or hungry or hurting.
According to the German philosopher Carl Jung, this lets us connect to a universal body of knowledge. The wisdom of all people over all time.
Carl Jung, what Peter told Misty about herself. Gold. Pigeons. The St. Lawrence Seaway.
Frida Kahlo and her bleeding sores. All great artists are invalids.
According to Plato, we don't learn anything. Our soul has lived so many lives that we know everything. Teachers and education can only remind us of what we already know.
Our misery. This suppression of our rational mind is the source of inspiration. The muse. Our guardian angel. Suffering takes us out of our rational self-control and lets the divine channel through us.
“Enough of any stress,” the doctor says, “good or bad, love or pain, can cripple our reason and bring us ideas and talents we can achieve in no other way.”
All this could be Angel Delaporte talking. Stanislavski's method of physical actions. A reliable formula for creating on-demand miracles.
As he hovers close to her, the doctor's breath is warm against the side of Misty's face. The smell of ham and garlic.
Her paintbrush stops, and Misty says, “This is done.”
Someone knocks at the door. The lock clicks. Then Grace, her voice says, “How is she, Doctor?”
“She's working,” he says. “Here, number this one—eighty-four. Then, put it with the others.”
And Grace says, “Misty dear, we thought you might like to know, but we've been trying to reach your family. About Tabbi.”
You can hear someone lift the canvas off the easel. Footsteps carry it across the room. How it looks, Misty doesn't know.
They can't bring Tabbi back. Maybe Jesus could or the Jain Buddhists, but nobody else could. Misty's leg crippled, her daughter dead, her husband in a coma, Misty herself trapped and wasting away, poisoned with headaches, if the doctor is right she could be walking on water. She could raise the dead.
A soft hand closes over her shoulder and Grace's voice comes in close to her ear. “We'll be dispersing Tabbi's ashes this afternoon,” she says. “At four o'clock, out on the point.”
The whole island, everybody will be there. The way they were for Harrow Wilmot's funeral. Dr. Touchet embalming the body in his green-tiled examining room, with his steel accountant's desk and the flyspecked diplomas on the wall.
Ashes to ashes. Her baby in an urn.
Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer. We're all of us a million bits put together the right way.
The tape tight over each eye, keeping her face relaxed, a mask, Misty says, “Has anyone gone to tell Peter?”
Someone sighs, one long breath in, then out. And Grace says, “What would that accomplish?”
He's her father.
You're her father.
The gray cloud of Tabbi will drift off on the wind. Drifting back down the coastline toward the town, the hotel, the houses and church. The neon signs and billboards and corporate logos and trademarked names.
Dear sweet Peter, consider yourself told.
August 15
JUST FOR THE RECORD, one problem with art school is it makes you so much less of a romantic. All that garbage about painters and garrets, it disappears under the load you have to learn about chemistry, about geometry and anatomy. What they teach you explains the world. Your education leaves everything so neat and tidy.
So resolved and sensible.
Her whole time dating Peter Wilmot, Misty knew it wasn't him she loved. Women just look for the best physical specimen to father their children. A healthy woman is wired to seek out the triangle of smooth muscle inside Peter's open collar because humans evolved hairless in order to sweat and stay cool while outrunning some hot and exhausted form of furry animal protein.
Men with less body hair are also less likely to harbor lice, fleas, and mites.
Before their dates, Peter would take a painting of hers. It would be framed and matted. And Peter would press two long strips of extrastrong double-sided mounting tape onto the back of
