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By Root 576 0

fluorescent lighting, cold tile floors, bathrooms equipped for the handicapped. It was just awful. One long hallway of hospital rooms, at the end of which was a “community room” with utilitarian sofas and chairs, tables piled high with year-old magazines. There were two classrooms, both of which were filled with beige padded banquet chairs arranged in a circle. There was no art on the walls, only white marker boards and red fire extinguishers. Three times a day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all the patients were led into a large elevator that was operated by a key. It stopped at only one floor: the cafeteria. A grim, linoleum-tiled room that smelled of Pine-Sol and grease.

Just like common cattle, Peggy Jean had thought on her first day as she stood in the rear of the elevator, a skinny black man and a girl with bruised arms pressed up against her.

At first Peggy Jean had been repulsed by the meals: dry pancakes for breakfast, a grilled Velveeta cheese sandwich for lunch, and Swedish meatballs for dinner. But by the third day, she’d begun to look forward to the meals. There was usually a deep-fried fish option for dinner (if you asked) and always plenty of tarter sauce.

Most of the patients had roommates, but Peggy Jean was fortunate enough to have an entire room all to herself, although she wasn’t allowed to close the door. This small bit of privacy had made the first three days bearable. And she began to think of it as a luxury.

But the core of the program was not the menu options or the luxury of a private room, no matter how unluxurious that room was. As Peggy Jean learned by the third day, her stay at the Anne Sexton would involve intense therapy. Therapy unlike anything Peggy Jean had ever seen on The Bob Newhart Show.

“Please, I really don’t want to get glue all over my fingernails. I’ll ruin my manicure,” Peggy Jean protested when instructed to create a “pain portrait” out of elbow-macaroni noodles, construction paper, Elmer’s glue, and glitter.

“I think healing is more important,” Stacey, the art therapist, had said. “You can always get another manicure, but how many recoveries do you have in you?”

She didn’t know how many recoveries she had in her, but she did know that her manicure had cost $32, including a generous tip. Not to mention the fact that she had to book her manicurist, Nina, two weeks in advance.

Peggy Jean dutifully drew a picture of a sunflower with the glue and then placed the noodles, one at a time, on top of her glue outline. She placed each noodle carefully. At the end, she sprinkled glitter randomly.

“Very interesting,” Stacey commented, leaning over Peggy Jean’s shoulder to peer at the artwork. “Most interesting to me is that one noodle there.” She pointed to a noodle with a crack in it, a noodle that helped to form a sunflower petal.

“Oh, thank you for pointing that out, I didn’t notice,” Peggy Jean said and reached for a fresh, uncracked macaroni noodle to replace it.

Stacey paused Peggy Jean’s hand, placing her own hand on Peggy Jean’s wrist, and then knelt down beside her chair, speaking almost in a whisper. “I think you did notice. I think you’re making a statement with that noodle. I think that noodle is the very crux of the piece.”

Peggy Jean looked at the heavy-set woman with the short haircut. “You do?”

Stacey nodded very slowly, pointed at the artwork. “What do you see?” she asked.

Peggy Jean cleared her throat and smiled. “Well, I see a pretty sunflower.”

The art therapist raised her eyebrows. “And . . . ?”

Peggy Jean looked at the therapist, then at her picture. “Well, it’s just a pretty flower, except I accidentally put a cracked noodle on one of the petals.”

Stacey smiled and Peggy Jean looked at her. “And what does that make this a portrait of?” she asked.

Peggy Jean again looked at her picture. “A sunflower . . . with a cracked petal?” she asked tentatively.

Stacey gave Peggy Jean a knowing smile. “Congratulations. I think you’re on the road to recovery.”

That evening, Peggy Jean went to the single payphone to call her husband. Telephone privileges were