She flicked her badge to her office without looking back, opened a nondescript door, and stepped into the darkness.
Moments later, her face was illuminated by a wall-mounted screen, bathed in an inviting glow. In the corner, a thick tube glowed purple, a floor-to-ceiling lava lamp pulsing with floating beads. My palm grazed over the smooth tube, mesmerized as the lights shifted through the color spectrum, shoulders relaxing as the spheres rose. Gentle orchestral music played from hidden speakers. Fuzzy pillows were strewn around the floor, and a small tent was strung with fairy lights on top of a plush carpet.
My eyes wandered to the corner, where Grace hung inside a pod swing dangling weightlessly from the ceiling. Her legs curled up into the fabric as the chair twisted , her face serene. “Welcome to the Clarke Family Sensory Room.”
I looked around the room again with fresh eyes as she explained, “The hospital can be overstimulating: bright lights, loud monitors, doctors poking and prodding. This helps kids calm those inputs.”
I didn’t want to tell her that I’d read up on what a sensory room was when Dad told me they were donating because I couldn't understand why somebody would give a hospital money for blinking lights.
When I met Grace, I understood: Dad's donation wasn't because he gave a shit about sensory processing, only because it mattered to Grace … but I didn't understand why she cared.
After Grace left Carol’s house two days ago, I’d gone down a rabbit hole of what the hell ‘somatic therapy’ was, reading theory about how external stimulation changes our mood and stress levels … but I still couldn't explain it.
Now I understood. My body was relaxing in a way I couldn't express.
“This is the room Dad was dedicating?”
“Since you technically cut the ribbon, you get the inaugural tour.”
I winced at my overtired outburst. “Dad hasn’t seen it?”
“Not yet. I told the occupational therapists that your family gets to visit first.”
A protective surge rose for the space she was defending: The Clarke Family Sensory Room. My family’s room.
“So nobody has been in here since Dad …”
Guilt crossed her face. “I came here. After you and I spoke the first time.”
She’d snapped at me on the first phone call, but when she called back … “It must have helped because you seemed calmer.”
“Thanks to Connor.” Her fingers covered her lips, beating herself up for slipping.
Connor was a vault. How had she convinced him to cave? "What did he do?"
“He coached me on how to talk to you.” When my scowl deepened, she jumped to his defense. “It’s not his fault. I told him about the ribbon cutting, how stressed I was with the mayor's speech, and your dad — I’d seen him shaking, but he said it was nerves. When he collapsed, the doctors rushed the stage and your sister pressed her phone into my hands before …” She blinked back tears.
My stomach lurched. I’d been so absorbed in the disruption that I hadn’t considered what Grace had been going through. She’d been struggling to hold it together, but she sounded professional. I’d been caught off guard and took it out on her when she’d been trying to do her job.
No, not her job. A favor to Mallory. Amidst the chaos, my sister thought to update me. If the roles were reversed, would I have considered her?
Grace was caught in the crossfire. I’d shot the messenger.
And she retreated into this room to recover after I bit her head off.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, you didn’t deserve that,” I murmured, placing my hand on top of hers, gripping the smooth fabric of her swing. I felt my heartbeat in my fingertips, her pulse beneath my palm. Both racing.
She pulled her hand away and stood, the swing swiveling at her sudden absence as she she crossed the room to press the controls. She’d shown me the room and was ready to move on.
But I didn’t want to leave yet.
The room wasn’t the only reason … but the excuse was good enough.
“There’s something I don’t understand,” I said, grasping at straws. I felt like that little girl, Ruby, when I was Santa and she wanted attention, blurting out that I had pretty eyes. But I couldn’t tell Grace that … even though it was true. “I read about that pressure thing, but it didn’t make sense.”
Her cautious expression gauged my sincerity. “Proprioceptive input?”
I nodded, glad she pronounced it because I couldn't. “How does it work?”
Her feet shifted, gaze locked on the lava lamp tube.
“Close your eyes,” she said, and after a moment’s hesitation, I did. “Now touch your elbow, then your nose.” I did. “Your muscles, joints, and tendons have receptors that tell you where you are in space.”
Her fingertips grazed the fabric over my bicep. “It’s different than touch inputs on your skin. Proprioceptive issues can cause you to lose your balance or not understand your strength. Your sister, for example,” I peaked open an eyelid to glimpse the soft smile on her face, “is always seeking more sensation. Teaching yoga is perfect for her: always touching, moving her body, listening to music, and wearing tight clothes … although she’d say that's because they make her butt look great.” I held back a chuckle at my ridiculous sister. “Some people seek sensory inputs, some avoid them. For some people, it depends on the sensory type.”
The rainbow light cast a soft glow on her cheeks. “When we met, you winced when I touched your hand.”
“You surprised me.” I reached for her hand, interlacing our fingers to reassure her it was okay.
“I realized when you didn’t let go. You needed the pressure since the lights and noises in your dad’s room bother you.”
I thought she was trying to comfort me, but was she evaluating me?
“The itchy polyester of the Santa suit triggered you, but your mints and wool sweater are calming.” She ran her free hand along my arm and lingered at my elbow. She was so close that my palm rose to trail the fabric of her soft dress along her waist. Her head tipped back and her lips parted.
My mind fixated on one sense: taste, remembering her peppermint lips tingling under the mistletoe. My head dipped closer.
Her eyes widened, her shoulders froze before her firm hand pressed my chest away. “Stop it, Alex. I’m not Mrs. Claus, there are no kids here to entertain. You don’t have to pretend you want to …”
