His Bright Light

by Danielle Steel

  He first heard about it the next morning when I took him to play baseball. And at first I discounted it, and thought it was just one of those exaggerated rumors that kids pass on and blow up out of proportion with each telling, like a chain letter of disaster. I couldn’t believe it, things that terrible just didn’t happen. But they did. And they had. We left the game, and Nick insisted on going to the hospital, despite my reservations. She was in a coma, as she had been since the night before, her long blond mane had been shorn, and I didn’t want him to see her that way. I somehow sensed that he was too fragile for it, and I wanted to protect him. But for the next week he was beside himself, and I couldn’t keep him away from her. And like him, the other kids gathered at the hospital, waiting for a miracle that never came. A week after she was hit, Sarah died, and it was probably the single most devastating event in Nicky’s life. Time seemed to stand still for him, and the others. I don’t think any of them recovered for a long time. Losing Sarah sent Nick into a spiral of depression, and in his journals, he talked constantly of wanting to die and be with Sarah.

  And as little able as the kids were to tolerate the unfairness of it, so was I. It seemed so unfair, such a cruel, terrible blow to her parents. It was one of those mysteries you do not solve, and cannot find the answers to, you simply have to accept it finally and go on. But it was no easy task for Nicky. There are still photographs of her in his room. And perhaps there is some small consolation now in thinking that he has found her. I think of them running free again, together, their incredibly good looks dazzling everyone in heaven. She was a golden child, and as Nick did for the rest of his life, I still miss her.

  7

  Eighth Grade:

  The beginning of disaster

  Summers were always difficult for Nick. We had a house in the Napa Valley where we spent the entire summer with the children. But Nick needed more than that. It was tedious for him. In fact, we used to laugh about it together sometimes, because I disliked it, too. As Nick said much later on, we had a lot in common, we both hated bugs, dirt, and nature. Like Nick, I found Napa incredibly boring. But even if I could not escape it, because John loved it so much, I tried to find other options for Nicky.

  We tried three camps, in different years, and as one of the camp directors said, he made it more my experience than his. As usual, he kept me busy. And he turned his fictional abilities to the letters he wrote home, writing me horrifying stories of injuries, abuse, torment, and torture. I was on the phone to the camp every five minutes, to ascertain their veracity and determine his well-being. He terrified me. He also hated camp, and figured it was the best way of talking me out of sending him again, and eventually he convinced me.

  But as much as he hated camp, he loved Hawaii. It was paradise for him. We stayed at a luxurious beach resort, which was not only fun for us, but a haven for children of all ages. Even our older kids loved it, and still do. We still go there, and we all love it, as did Nicky. But it presented challenges and dangers for him that it did not for the others. One of the early signs of Nick’s illness, which worsened considerably over the years and was only barely kept in check by medication later on, was his lack of impulse control. It is typical, I now know, of his Attention Deficit Disorder. If he got an idea into his head, he acted on it immediately, much to his friends’ delight, and our horror. If the flag on the beach was red (indicating dangerous tides) and he wanted to swim, he did, with no concern whatsoever for potential danger. If he wanted to try to do a “tightrope act” on the edge of the balcony, it seemed like a good idea to him, and he did it. And Hawaii offered him a myriad of opportunities to try daring feats and meet new people. In spite of our constant vigilance, he smoked marijuana there, got drunk with his friends, and cruised the beach endlessly looking for women.

  Despite my complaints, and constant monitoring, at twelve and thirteen he wanted to hang out with seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, and mentally he had more in common with them than he did with his peers. At eleven his friends there were sixteen. And in his teens he openly picked up girls in their twenties, or sometimes even his friends’ mothers. And much to my chagrin, they always found him both seductive and amusing. He was so enchanting, so witty, so full of fun, so willing to live on the edge, and at the same time so warm and cuddly, what woman could resist him? Few, from my observations. If any.

  I tried to keep my eye on him, particularly in Hawaii, but it was no easy task, and it took the entire family to check on him, round him up, and occasionally make excuses for him. It was typical of Nick when I went to a cocktail party there one night, and the mother of a nineteen-year-old girl told me that it was “such a shame about Nicky.” She said it with such a tender air that I was immediately suspicious. He was twelve then, and I knew he had been cruising her nineteen-year-old daughter, who looked sensational in a bikini.

  “Shame?” I asked innocently, waiting for what would come next. But knowing Nick, I knew it would be a good one. And as usual, he didn’t disappoint me.

  “About his illness.” I nodded dumbly, innocently munching the hors d’oeuvres, wondering if he had told them he had leukemia and had to get laid before he died the next morning… it was the only thing that would save him. He was extremely creative, particularly when on a hunt for sexual favors. “His glandular problem …” the woman went on, as I continued to nod. I have to admit, sometimes he even amused me with his outrageous antics. He was so damned funny.

  “Oh, his glandular problem,” I agreed, wondering what he had come up with this time. “Yes, it is. We worry a lot about him.” Not entirely untrue, but his glands were the least of my worries.

  “He explained to us how his illness stunted his growth when he was twelve. But he’s such a wonderful boy, and so good-looking. He doesn’t look twenty-one of course, but the minute you talk to him, you realize how old he is. What a remarkable son you have, you must be so proud of him.” Ahhh … yessss … indeed. Twenty-one. Nice going, Nick. I discussed it with him when I went back to the room, and told him this time he was really pushing it. Twenty-one? Give me a break, Nick.

  “Awww come on, Mom,” he said, looking five and not twelve, and certainly not twenty-one, no matter how horny he was for the nineteen-year-old in the bikini. “Be nice, don’t tell them.” I made a deal with him not to blow his cover as long as he didn’t do anything outrageous. I kept my end of the bargain, but I’m not quite as sure that he kept his. He had even told them where he went to college. I forgot where he said he was at school, but knowing Nick, he would have been capable of telling them he was at Harvard. Oh, Nicky.

  Nick slid into the eighth grade quietly. He was sad that year. They all were. Over Sarah. In September, four months after her death, none of them seemed to have recovered. And the year did not go well for him. He seemed depressed to me. Nick talked about Sarah constantly. And even the others seemed sadder than usual. They didn’t seem to know how to handle the pain they were feeling or the loss they felt so deeply. Nick was still seeing the same therapist but nothing dramatic had surfaced. The obvious signs of his manic depression were still waiting in the wings then. Although I have learned since that adolescent hormones can begin to bring out the early signs of mental illness.

  But what worried me was that nothing was really helping Nicky, and I didn’t know how to help him. Things weren’t going well in school for him, the calls complaining about his attitude and his behavior and his lack of seriousness about his work were ever more frequent. He was constantly on probation, and the headmaster had begun to threaten him with expulsion if he didn’t shape up soon. I was worried sick about it, and felt helpless. I talked to Nicky endlessly, ad nauseam, for both of us, but I didn’t have the tools or the skills I needed to help him.

  The eighth-grade parties were wilder that year. More of the boys seemed to be out of control, and the girls who had gone to school with Sarah were still grieving for her too.

  Nick was in love with one of Sarah’s best friends at the time, and they talked constantl
y about her. Like Nick, Sarah was one of those kids who affected people deeply, and people were still talking about her. Her loss was a wound that had not healed yet, and it was easy to see that her old friends were having trouble coping with it.

  According to Nick’s journals, he was continuing to use marijuana and drink, at thirteen, and when I discovered it occasionally, I was none too happy about it. Extremely upset, in fact. He was smart enough not to let me ever catch him, but when I heard about things, I went straight to Nick and raised hell about it. He was even honest about it, which in some ways made it worse, in others better.

  But the entries in his journals are disturbing all that winter. Had I seen them then, I’m sure I would have panicked, but I didn’t realize the extent of his depression then, although I knew how sad he was about Sarah.

  He began isolating himself, staying in his room all the time, avoiding the family, which is never a good sign. But it became harder and harder to pull him out of it, and he was in full thirteen-year-old rebellion. I had become his enemy by then, at least some of the time, although he was grateful every time I went to school to speak up for him. He was always sweet about thanking me for that, but he was constantly in trouble, his grades were slipping badly, and he was in the midst of applying to high school.

  Nick kept journals diligently, but in my efforts to respect his privacy, I never read them. As I read them now, he talks about being lonely, sad, scared, and ashamed of it sometimes. In his own words, he says, “I am always depressed… I am always lonely.” “I don’t feel like I belong anywhere. I am a loner now, in groups of people, I don’t feel like I fit in. I feel very sad.” He talks about being miserable, isolated, having low self-esteem. He reproaches himself, at thirteen, for being self-centered, and is very hard on himself. And then says, “It is hard for me to love other people.” And again and again and again, he says, “I miss Sarah… She was my best friend… I love her so much I don’t want to live without her.”

  In January 1992, at thirteen, he wrote:

  “I don’t see what the future holds for me but more pain. I miss Sarah so much. Life’s purpose is gone for me. I’m thinking of suicide.” This is the first mention of suicide in his journals. My heart trembles now as I read it.

  In February, he wrote again, “I just want to end it.” He talks about missing Sarah, and being “sick with worry.” He began writing letters to Sarah then, in his journals, telling her how lonely and unhappy he was. At the end of them, “Save a seat for me. I’ll see you soon enough.” He says he has tried suicide already once by then, with sleeping pills, which may have just been talk. In fact, probably was, because if he had attempted suicide, I would have known it.

  But two weeks later, he writes that he tried to kill himself with a garbage bag tied over his head, and then changed his mind and took it off. And the entries to and about missing Sarah continue.

  At the end of February 1992 (still thirteen), he writes: “I wish I’d die, and it would all be over. I love life and everyone but me.”

  In March, he writes that he is contemplating suicide again, and again in April, he says, “I’m gonna commit suicide soon,” and then gets seriously introspective. “I am so depressed. Maybe I’m manic-depressive. I’m bummed about life. Everyone hates me, and I hate everyone.”

  It was obviously a nightmarish time for him, and although I was aware that he was deeply unhappy and slipping away from us, I didn’t know the depths of his despair, and I didn’t know how to stop it. When I talked to the therapist about how desperately unhappy I thought Nick was, he seemed not to be as concerned as I was, or perhaps he just didn’t show it. It seemed as if he wanted to talk about my work, my fame, and my other children. I felt Nick was in crisis, and no one else seemed to see it.

  Parenthetically, we had moved into a big new house that fall, and Nick’s room was just above my office and bedroom. I would hear him wandering around at night at all hours, and go up to him. He never seemed to sleep, and he looked so desperately unhappy. And I felt helpless. I suggested medication to the doctor for Nick, and he didn’t agree with me. Nick was still young to take the kind of drugs I was suggesting. I thought about changing therapists, but worried that changing shrinks again might not be the best thing for him. And the therapist he was seeing was extremely respected.

  And things weren’t going well in my life either. My success had finally reached such vast proportions, with the success of some TV movies I had done added to that of my books, that I had finally come to the attention of the tabloids. And they were having a field day with me, they had unearthed everything I’d ever done, and a number of things I hadn’t.

  They had a hard time making anything sensational out of my first marriage. It was quiet and wholesome. We were married for nearly nine years, he was a French banker, and from an extremely illustrious and respectable French banking family. Our life had been circumspect and our divorce clean. But the two youthful “mistakes” I’d made afterwards were being blazoned around the world in banner headlines. The first “mistake” was my brief second marriage to a man I lived with only for months in my twenties. He was convicted of rape, and sent to prison. It had been a heartbreak for me. I was young and innocent, and although I had told John of it, it was not something I was happy about or proud of. The experience had been extremely traumatic for me. And having it published for all to read in the tabloids brought back memories of an agonizing time for me, and reports of it had been embellished and distorted, which made it even more humiliating. The second story they reported was my pregnancy and subsequent brief marriage to Nick’s father, again sensationally reported. And Nick was as upset as I was when he read about it.

  The stories made me look terrible, I thought, humiliated me and my family, and embarrassed my husband although he knew about both marriages and I had no secrets from him. But it was a time I found agonizing, as did my children. Despite the quiet family life I led, and had for years, the price of celebrity had finally come home to haunt us. And although some of the stories were inaccurate, I chose discretion as the wisest course, and said nothing, but was heartbroken over the scandal I had become, in the eyes of my friends, my husband, and children. To say that I was devastated by the stories in the tabloids would be modest. I was nearly destroyed by the way I was portrayed, and the public humiliation of tabloid stories and tabloid TV shows.

  In the midst of it all, Bill (Nick’s father) had been interviewed in the tabloids, and appeared on TV, talking about me (as had my second husband, still in prison). And Nick had powerful feelings of loyalty for those he loved, and was desperate to do something to defend me. He asked me how to get hold of Bill so he could “tell him off” for talking about me, and I said I honestly didn’t know, but he knew the name of Bill’s parents and called them to leave a message for him, I believe, telling them what he thought of him. Nick’s lack of impulse control was in full evidence, but so was his good heart and his compassion. I know he must have hated seeing me as devastated as I was then.

  And as soon as Bill got the message from Nick, he must have called him, although I didn’t know it. I see in Nick’s journals that he met with him once briefly, although I don’t know how he pulled it off without my knowing.

  It was a tough time for all of us, particularly Nick, and he was worried about the tabloid articles, because they referred to him and the trial that had terminated Bill’s parental rights, and John’s adoption of him. Nick was still adamant then, at only thirteen, about not wanting the younger children to know that John wasn’t his natural father. In fact, we adjusted our wedding date when we spoke of it, to accommodate Nick’s wishes, and make him “legal.” When John had adopted him, the state had issued him a new birth certificate, not at our request, but as they apparently always do, which listed John’s name as his father, and made it look as though we had been together at the time of his birth. But it created a funny awkwardness for him too, as our actual marriage date was three years after his birth, which once again made him seem “illegi
timate.” The other thing the court also did automatically, not at our request, was seal the entire record of his adoption, for his protection. It was a procedure they told us they followed without exception in the state of California.

  But there was nothing I could do to silence the tabloids, and despite the many distortions and cruelties they ran, again and again, for months and months, I refused to sue them. I thought suing them would only make matters worse for all of us, and preferred to suffer in dignity and silence. It seemed the wisest course to me, but meant that no one ever heard the truth, or my side of the stories.

  National magazines and other newspapers added fuel to the fire then, picking up the stories that had been run elsewhere and reprinting them, and the tabloids continued to torment us. It was a hard time for me, and Nick was very angry over it. His sense of helplessness, like ours, just added to his depression.

  Everything came to a head in May when Nick went to a dance a few weeks before his grammar school graduation, and observed a drug incident of one boy passing drugs to another. The school was very clear that Nick had not been a participant, but only an observer, and the dance was not in any way sponsored by the school, but they had strong codes about behavior on and off campus, “conduct unbecoming a gentleman,” etc. And for seeing what had passed, allowing it to happen and not reporting it, and also possibly because he had been such a thorn in their side for two years, they expelled him, weeks before graduation. I was heartbroken over it. He had been in the school for nine years, and expelled such a very short time before graduation. But it was certainly their right to do so.

  Nick was in shock, and we were devastated. This couldn’t happen. We begged, we pleaded, we promised, we crawled, and of course, we groveled. To no avail. They would not allow Nick to finish the year, or graduate. They had to respect their rules, and maintain their standards, and Nick understood that. And the only deal we were able to make with them was that we could have him tutored, and they would in fact give him his diploma, but as a sign of their strong feelings on the subject, he would not be allowed to attend graduation. And funnily enough, I think I felt the blow of it more than Nicky. He was more philosophical about it than I was, and just for the record, I asked for an official letter from them, stating that he had been an observer of, and not participant in, the incident. Several other boys were expelled along with him. It was an enormous statement of warning and principle to any evildoers in the future.