he came into my office at social services and had the gall to ask for a quickie.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point.”
Cristina laughed. She poured coffee, then walked to the other end of the island table. “Here are the letters Paul was talking about. Don’t bother with it—I’ll mail them myself.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m going to go walk around town a little while, then do some more work in the studio.”
Britt’s high heels clipped across the floor as she browsed the kitchen and adjoining rooms. “Paul really did a terrific job with the place.”
“I know,” Cristina said, feeling a pang of negligence. He did everything . “He spent a fortune, but I’m going to pay for the refurbishments upstairs.”
“That’s right. You’re Ms. Money Bags now.”
“Not for long if the new line flops,” Cristina guardedly remarked.
Britt giggled, sipping her coffee. “What is it? Evil Church Crazies? ”
“ Creepies ,” Cristina corrected. “But I’m pretty happy and so is Bruno. The first four dolls will be out in a few days, or so they tell me.”
Britt fingered at an imaginary crease in her dress. “The nun—I forgot. From your dream. Have you had it again?”
A split-second’s pause showed Cristina the furious, churning black, green, and red lines behind the vampiric nun. “Actually, yes. Last night. But the more I think about what my old therapist said, as well as what you’ve said, the better I feel.”
“Catharsis and all that, you mean?”
“Well, yeah, and other things, too. My life in the present separates me from my life in the past.”
They both meandered back upstairs. Cristina had the sudden desire to view the 3-D models again, the same way a painter might look repeatedly at a satisfactory canvas.
“I’m glad you’re finally getting the gist. It can take time,” Britt said, peering over Cristina’s shoulder to the computer screen. “You’re changing from what we call the therapeutic evolvement to a causal evolvement, and you’re using your art to do it. Everybody has their own way, and this is your way. The resurgence of your occupational functionality.”
Cristina nodded, even though Britt’s use of clinical terms amid their private conversations sometimes rubbed her the wrong way. “And what’s the other term you use? My therapist in Connecticut always said the same thing.”
“Oh, I know. The ‘impetus of positive conditioning.’”
“Yes, I think that’s it. It really is true.” Cristina smiled at the revolving images on-screen. “It all happened so fast, but I’ve never felt this good and secure in my life. I owe a lot of it to you.”
“No, you don’t. My job is just to put the function of therapy into relatable terms. The only person you owe anything to for getting you out of your shell is yourself.”
“Sure, but that’s pretty idealistic. I owe a lot to Paul, too.”
Now Britt was looking up at the shelves containing the Botchies and the Cadaverettes. “Honestly, it can’t all be from your dreams.” She chuckled at the cute but morbid dolls. “I don’t know how you come up with these ideas.”
“It doesn’t matter much, though, does it? I think that’s why I’ve become successful. It’s funny how after the Cadaverette line was finished, I couldn’t come up with any ideas for the next line. Then it all fell into place over the course of a day or two.”
“That fast?”
“Creative inspiration, I suppose. But then it all goes back to that impetus thing. That’s why I owe so much to Paul.”
“To Paul,” Britt commented. “I know he’s always been supportive of your work, but he was never really into it, was he?”
“No, it’s not his taste at all—it’s too ‘gothy,’ he says. Paul’s just like Jess; he’s into pop culture—Jessica Simpson, Hollywood thrillers, Jaguars, and Rolexes. My tastes are very underground.”
“But still…You’re a success.”
“Yeah. There’s
“What did you say?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point.”
Cristina laughed. She poured coffee, then walked to the other end of the island table. “Here are the letters Paul was talking about. Don’t bother with it—I’ll mail them myself.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m going to go walk around town a little while, then do some more work in the studio.”
Britt’s high heels clipped across the floor as she browsed the kitchen and adjoining rooms. “Paul really did a terrific job with the place.”
“I know,” Cristina said, feeling a pang of negligence. He did everything . “He spent a fortune, but I’m going to pay for the refurbishments upstairs.”
“That’s right. You’re Ms. Money Bags now.”
“Not for long if the new line flops,” Cristina guardedly remarked.
Britt giggled, sipping her coffee. “What is it? Evil Church Crazies? ”
“ Creepies ,” Cristina corrected. “But I’m pretty happy and so is Bruno. The first four dolls will be out in a few days, or so they tell me.”
Britt fingered at an imaginary crease in her dress. “The nun—I forgot. From your dream. Have you had it again?”
A split-second’s pause showed Cristina the furious, churning black, green, and red lines behind the vampiric nun. “Actually, yes. Last night. But the more I think about what my old therapist said, as well as what you’ve said, the better I feel.”
“Catharsis and all that, you mean?”
“Well, yeah, and other things, too. My life in the present separates me from my life in the past.”
They both meandered back upstairs. Cristina had the sudden desire to view the 3-D models again, the same way a painter might look repeatedly at a satisfactory canvas.
“I’m glad you’re finally getting the gist. It can take time,” Britt said, peering over Cristina’s shoulder to the computer screen. “You’re changing from what we call the therapeutic evolvement to a causal evolvement, and you’re using your art to do it. Everybody has their own way, and this is your way. The resurgence of your occupational functionality.”
Cristina nodded, even though Britt’s use of clinical terms amid their private conversations sometimes rubbed her the wrong way. “And what’s the other term you use? My therapist in Connecticut always said the same thing.”
“Oh, I know. The ‘impetus of positive conditioning.’”
“Yes, I think that’s it. It really is true.” Cristina smiled at the revolving images on-screen. “It all happened so fast, but I’ve never felt this good and secure in my life. I owe a lot of it to you.”
“No, you don’t. My job is just to put the function of therapy into relatable terms. The only person you owe anything to for getting you out of your shell is yourself.”
“Sure, but that’s pretty idealistic. I owe a lot to Paul, too.”
Now Britt was looking up at the shelves containing the Botchies and the Cadaverettes. “Honestly, it can’t all be from your dreams.” She chuckled at the cute but morbid dolls. “I don’t know how you come up with these ideas.”
“It doesn’t matter much, though, does it? I think that’s why I’ve become successful. It’s funny how after the Cadaverette line was finished, I couldn’t come up with any ideas for the next line. Then it all fell into place over the course of a day or two.”
“That fast?”
“Creative inspiration, I suppose. But then it all goes back to that impetus thing. That’s why I owe so much to Paul.”
“To Paul,” Britt commented. “I know he’s always been supportive of your work, but he was never really into it, was he?”
“No, it’s not his taste at all—it’s too ‘gothy,’ he says. Paul’s just like Jess; he’s into pop culture—Jessica Simpson, Hollywood thrillers, Jaguars, and Rolexes. My tastes are very underground.”
“But still…You’re a success.”
“Yeah. There’s
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