His Bright Light

by Danielle Steel

  I love you, Nick. Thank you, and God Bless you. I’ll see you again one day.

  “Don’t Give Up”

  Just when I don’t think I can take no more

  Been disappointed too many times

  One of my crew puts their arm around me

  and says if I

  don’t give up, then I’ll be fine.

  At times in life, I’ve done so well,

  I’ve spent time on the top.

  I’ve also been in ruins

  demoralized and dropped.

  That’s just the way things are,

  You can never expect more,

  Half the time you’re winning,

  And the rest you’re on the floor.

  This world’s as full of beauty

  as it is of hate,

  That’s just the way it is,

  Some things won’t ever change.

  Focus on the positive, and use your mind.

  Don’t ever give up, and you’ll be just fine.

  Some of dem like drugs,

  and some of dem like to fight.

  Negativity inspired somewhere

  every single night.

  Got to set examples for

  the weak of mind.

  Don’t stop spreading knowledge

  till the end of time.

  So many hateful people,

  so many are deranged.

  It can take its toll on you,

  when life gets rearranged.

  It’s a proven fact that you

  get what you give,

  and you can make an impact

  in the way your life is lived.

  Nick Traina

  (photo credit 1.39)

  Afterword

  Time has passed since I first wrote this book about Nicky. It has been nineteen months since he left us. Long months, hard months. Like a dog on a leash being dragged across the sidewalk, I resist the passage of time. It happens anyway. In some ways, it seems an eternity, in others, a very short time. I dread what it will feel like when I say he has been gone for ten years or twenty, or twenty-five. Such a long, long time. Now, it isn’t very long, in relation to a lifetime, yet time marches on. His brothers and sisters are getting older. Things happen and change. Right now there are still many things in our lives that he was a part of; we still do the same things and go to the same places we did with Nick. One day that won’t be so. His brothers and sisters will grow up and move on, marry, have children of their own. But not yet. He still seems almost within our grasp.

  Both Nick’s room and cottage are still intact, neat, clean, orderly. His clothes still hang in the closet. His toothbrush still sits on the bathroom shelf with the rest of his things. The room still smells vaguely, though less, of him. I go into it less often, but stop in from time to time, look around. Nothing has changed, and yet something is different. A few months ago, I looked into the room and thought it had the look and feel of a fallen leaf, still green, but drying around the edges, fading slowly. One senses rather than sees that he is gone. I could not bring myself to pack up his things, and doubt that I ever will. I imagine myself sitting in that room when I am old, thinking of him. He will eternally be a teenager, even long after his siblings are grown. They will grow old, have jobs, get wrinkles, have children. Nick never will. He will forever bounce into my mind, wearing funny cut-off pants, suspenders, a T-shirt, and sneakers, with that eternally contagious grin.

  I feel him close to me. We all do. He remains part of conversation, the center of funny stories and cherished memories. “Remember when Nick …” or “Nick used to like that too.” His brother Maxx has begun to look like him, yet is even more handsome, and very much his own person. But there is an air of family. Once in a while, there is a move, a gesture, a way of leaping over something or running that makes me stop and look. But it is Maxx, not Nick. Nick was who he was, the others are who they are and will be. The echo of things Nick said stays with me. I remember his being horrified at the prospect of turning twenty. “I want to be a teenager forever,” he said, and so he will be.

  Our first Christmas without him was agonizing. The second one was better. I suspect holidays will always be hard for all of us. Nick left a hole that will not fill. We have a large old house, which was built with a ballroom. We use it for storage, for celebrations, for the kids to play in, for parties. We open our Christmas presents there, and as there are so many of us, we each have our designated “spots” where our presents are, and we open them while talking and laughing with each other around the room. I wrestled with Nick’s spot both years. What to do? Put someone else’s gifts there? Who could bear that awful feeling of trying to stand where Nick once stood? I mulled over moving everyone over a little, to kind of blend Nick’s old spot into others’ until it disappeared. But that didn’t feel right either. So the spot stands empty now during our celebrations. It reminds us of Nick. No one mentions it, but our eyes drift there as we open our gifts, remembering when he was laughing and shouting and cavorting, throwing torn gift wrap over his shoulder, and bouncing around the room like a kangaroo. You don’t forget someone like Nick, or replace them, or move them out of your life or your head. He has stayed an enormous presence to all who knew him, and even in memory, he remains very much Nick.

  I received thousands of letters about him, and still get new ones from time to time, from friends, from strangers, telling me funny stories about Nick. Each of those letters comes to me as a gift.

  And we have been busy in his absence, particularly in that first year. We gathered photographs, tapes, films, mementoes. I have dozens of hours of tape of him in concert. We made a video for the family, of Nick in concert, and Nick amid the family, with the background music of his last CD, some still photographs. For a long time, I could not bear seeing him on film, he was so alive, so vibrant. But now I take comfort from those videos of him. I do not watch them often, but when I do, I miss him, but can smile. The house is filled with photographs of him. We put together a leather-bound album of his funeral service, and sent it to the people who had been there.

  I read his journals, pored over his notebooks, poetry, and lyrics, and wrote the book, and I am so very glad I did. It was a way of honoring Nick, of bundling the many memories of his life, linking them together, and keeping them in one place for all to see. I think he would have loved it, and the response to the book has been enormous. It has been read by laymen, psychiatrists, parents, friends, strangers, people who knew him, and others who wish that they did. It has been a wonderful thing, and has gained Nick a huge amount of love, appreciation, and respect. He fought a hard fight, and so did we, and whatever the outcome, we all did the best we could, even and most especially Nick. I wanted people to know that about him, and now they do.

  We gave a memorial rock concert for him, a “tribute show,” eight months after he died, which was amazing, and fun actually. Eight bands performed, his old band Link 80, with his close friend Stony standing in for him as lead singer. The band has been doing well, and still speaks lovingly of him. The other bands were either bands he had performed with, toured with, or loved and respected. They came from all over the country to be in it, and the performances were terrific. It was an extraordinary evening, filled with admiration, love, and respect for us and for Nick, especially for Nick. He truly would have loved it. Kids lined up for hours outside the theater to get in, tickets were sold out weeks before. Eight hundred people saw it, and the room was filled with love and music. We showed the tribute video, and there was total silence as tears slid silently down everyone’s cheeks. And at the end of the evening, there was endless hugging, loving, no one wanted to leave. It ended finally at three A.M., and just about everyone who had ever mattered to Nick, in or out of his music world, was there. It was a night none of us will ever forget, and in my heart, I knew that Nick was there.

  Nick’s last CD was released, which did very well, and is what Nick would have wanted. His last band, Knowledge, was forced to disband, but the CD will keep the
memory of them alive, along with Nick’s. Two final music videos were made and shown on TV.

  I did a television interview with Barbara Walters on 20/20, to talk about Nick, manic-depression, and the book. And the TV show he had been on at fourteen, First Cut, a news show for and by teenagers, did a special on him. Nick was certainly not forgotten, and did not go out in silence. He has become the focal point for attention on manic-depression and young people. I hope that lives will be saved and people will be helped because of him.

  There have been numerous articles in psychiatric journals, and some impressive changes have come about, not necessarily because of him specifically, but because of so many others like him, and the voices that have been raised along with mine. It is becoming more and more common to diagnose teenagers with manic-depression, and to prescribe the appropriate medications, often lithium, sometimes Depakote, sometimes others. I would like to think that the spotlight on Nick, and others like him, has encouraged psychiatrists and physicians to diagnose manic-depression and offer medication earlier than they have in recent years. Even more exciting is the more recent news that psychiatrists have begun diagnosing what they now call “baby bipolar,” diagnosing children as young as five or six, and medicating them then. There is some belief now that medicating too late, or beginning with inappropriate or inadequate medications, can diminish the effectiveness of drugs like lithium once they’re administered later on, whereas starting with the right medications early on can increase their positive impact on bipolar disease. So there is hope. The light begins to dawn. And more lives will be saved. I feel now that Nicky was fully manic by the time he was four, and only wish they had been talking about, and medicating, “baby bipolar” then. It might have made a life-saving difference to Nick.

  To mark the anniversary of Nick’s death, a grim day for us, we held a memorial celebration, and unveiled the monument we had built for Nick. It is a large parklike plot in a local cemetery, with four big trees on it, surrounded by cypress trees, standing close together, to block out the view of the cemetery. It is a sunny spot, there are white marble benches, and Nick’s monument itself is a large black granite disk, and engraved on it are messages from each member of the family and the Campbells, poems, letters, whatever they wanted to say. It is surrounded by white marble benches, and the black granite disk itself is at “coffee table height” so people can sit on it if they want to. Nick rests under it. There is a low rounded black granite wall in the background, with four white marble columns. And a “hokey” touch Nick would have loved is a long glass case on a marble stand. In it are teddy bears, letters, a menorah, a Buddha, rosary beads, Star Wars figures, toys, candy, cigarettes, every kind of imaginable memorabilia that people leave for him. And each time I go there, people have left more for him. At Christmas, I put up and decorated a big Christmas tree for him. I couldn’t imagine Nicky not having a tree. It makes me sad to go there, but it is peaceful and pretty, another of the many tributes we made to him.

  We brought him to that final resting place on a sunny September day, driven in the van he toured in with his band. The van, covered in mischievous graffiti, where he had spent so many hours with his friends, seemed like a suitable last ride for him.

  After much thought and consultation, we have decided to celebrate his birthdays. His doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, bands, friends, family, and people who loved him gather forty or fifty strong to talk and laugh and cry and eat and tell stories about him. It is a happy opportunity for all of us to gather and celebrate, rather than staying home and being sad on our own. We just celebrated his twenty-first birthday. It was a hard day, but it was better spent among those who loved him, than separately, alone.

  We also set up the Nick Traina Foundation, with the proceeds from the book, and donations people have made. We have made a lot of donations to nonprofit organizations involved with manic-depression, mental illness, child abuse, and some to organizations helping musicians with mental health needs. The foundation is growing, and is something I believe Nick would have loved, as he was of a very charitable bent.

  Paul and Cody, Nick’s nurses, are still with us. Cody works for the foundation and in my office. Paul works in security. It is comforting to see their familiar faces every day. They have become part of our family. The Campbells are doing well. They had a baby, Sofia, who was born almost exactly a year after Nick left, and she is a joy to all of us.

  His friends still call often and come to visit. His friend Sam Ewing comes to dinner at least once a week, and is also part of our family. Nick’s biological father, Bill, is well, has remained a much-valued friend, and visits us regularly. Through us, he has come to know Nick.

  As for us, the immediate family, there are good days and bad days, hard times and sad ones, and happy ones. We draw on the millions of memories we have of Nick, and derive strength from each other. We all still miss him terribly. Our lives are forever changed, but we have grown too. Sammie is flourishing, and growing into a wonderful young woman, as are her sisters, Victoria, Vanessa, and Zara. Maxx is a teenager now and a terrific kid. Beatie has struggled long and hard with losing the boy who was “her baby” too. We all think about what life would be like if Nick were still with us. But in so many ways he still is.

  I feel Nick with me constantly, daily. I see him in my head, always with his big smile, and sense him close to me. I cannot lose him, leave him, he is and always will be a part of me. He was one of life’s greatest gifts. No book, no words, no description, no song, no illness, can confine him or describe him adequately. He was larger than life, bigger than my heart and soul, and his own. He lived, he loved, he laughed, he gave us all gifts beyond measure. And now, precious child of my heart, he is free.

  With my love to all of you

  who read about him.

  D.S.

  18 May 1999

  Photo Credits

  1.1 RogerRessmeyer

  1.2 Danielle Steel

  1.3 Danielle Steel

  1.4 Danielle Steel

  1.5 Danielle Steel

  1.6 Danielle Steel

  1.7 Roger Ressmeyer

  1.8 Danielle Steel

  1.9 Roger Ressmeyer

  1.10 John J. Capistrant—Lifetouch, Hayward, Ca.

  1.11 Roger Ressmeyer

  1.12 Tilly Abbe

  1.13 Lucy Brown

  1.14 Tilly Abbe

  1.15 Danielle Steel

  1.16 Danielle Steel

  1.17 Roger Ressmeyer

  1.18 Danielle Steel

  1.19 Danielle Steel

  1.20 Harry Langdon

  1.21 Tilly Abbe

  1.22 Debbi Paine

  1.23 Sam Ewing

  1.24 Debbi Paine

  1.25 Danielle Steel/Family

  1.26 Harry Langdon

  1.27 Bert D. Bautista

  1.28 Danielle Steel

  1.29 © Eliot Holtzman

  1.30 Mara Passetti

  1.31 Mara Passetti

  1.32 Tiare Orth

  1.33 Olivia Sargeant

  1.34 Vikki Anderson

  1.35 Samantha Traina

  1.36 Olivia Sargeant

  1.37 Samantha Traina

  1.38 Tim Kao/San Francisco Chronicle

  1.39 Harry Langdon

  All the events set forth in this account are factual. However, the names of certain individuals and institutions have not been disclosed and certain of their characteristics have been changed.

  A Delta Book

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Random House, Inc.

  Copyright © 1998 The Nick Traina Foundation

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Delacorte Press, New York, New York.

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ay be purchased for business or promotional use or for special sales. For information please write to: Special Markets Department, Random House, Inc., 1745 Broadway, New York, N.Y. 10019

  Delta® is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-56650-8

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