Life Is but a Dream by Brian James Page A

and asking us a couple of questions apiece.
    The tapping of her heeled shoes stops inches away and I know she’s examining mine. — That’s very pretty, Sabrina — she says, and I glance up at her with a smile on my face.
    — Thanks .—
    In the center of my collage is a black-and-white photograph of a mother and young daughter hugging in the snow at night. They are wearing heavy winter coats and ribbons in their hair because the picture is supposed to be of a scene in the 1800s and that was the way most girls and women wore their hair, I suppose. Around the photograph, I glued pictures of flowers I’d cut from the stacks of magazines Mrs. Weaver set out for us to use. The flowers are bright and colorful against the black-and-white snow. I painted the sky with watercolors. I used dark purples and blues and painted them really wet so that the colors ran together in interesting shapes. I used a little bit of pink paint on the girl’s cheeks.
    — Can you tell me something about the images you chose? — Mrs. Weaver asks.
    — Sure — I say. I love talking about my pictures and I’m smiling like crazy. Even Alec can’t help but grin when he sees me so happy. — Well, obviously this is me and that’s my mom. —
    — I can see that — Mrs. Weaver says. She allows a quick smile to flash across her mouth before it turns into a grimace and fades completely. Her features scrunch together then. With a quizzical look, she taps on the image of the girl who symbolizes me. — But why are your cheeks pink in the picture? Are you cold? Is your mother hugging you to keep you warm? —
    I shake my head. — No. I’m not cold at all. —
    — Oh. Okay, then why? Did you have a reason, or did you just like the way it looked? — she asks.
    — Not exactly. My cheeks are painted because I belong with the flowers and the sky. They are colorful and that’s where I’m going. — I tell her. Right away I wonder if I shouldn’t have said that about going someplace else. It’s probably the wrong answer but then again, I’m not sure I care. Alec says I shouldn’t hide what I see and I trust him.
    — What about your mother? — Mrs. Weaver asks.
    — She’s trying to keep me with her. In this place …— I say, drawing an imaginary circle around the black-and-white scenery with my finger. —… this place with all the snow. Because that’s where she belongs. —
    — Why don’t you feel you belong in the same place as her? — she asks me, and I shrug.
    — I don’t know — I say. — I just … don’t. —
    — Hmmmm — Mrs. Weaver says, twisting up the corner of her mouth. There’s a look of concern on her face that makes my stomach drop. — What about your father? Where is he in this picture? —
    — Somewhere nearby — I say, thinking of him running toward us. — He’s coming to help her. They both want me to stay. —
    There’s a brief moment that passes where neither of us makes a sound. She stares at my collage and I keep my eyes fixed on her. There’s something about the way her eyes focus on the image that makes me wish I’d never told her. I could have just said I liked the way it looked and she would have moved on the way she always does.
    — I’m wondering if you wouldn’t mind me showing this to your doctor once you’re done? — she asks.
    — I guess not — I whisper nervously. She’s never asked that before—not of me or any other patient as far as I know.
    Alec hears my voice crack. He notices my hand dive into my pocket where he knows I keep at least one stone at all times. Once he sees my fingers moving like insects inside the fabric, working over the rough edges, he looks in Mrs. Weaver’s direction and sighs. — Something wrong, Alec? — she asks, turning toward him.
    — Yeah — he says. — Why do you have to interrogate her? —
    — I’m sorry if you feel I’m interrogating anyone — she says, straining to remain calm. — My job is to try and help you all explore