by Dona Sarkar
“I was going to say that it’s fine to be an observer. Sometimes you learn the most through the pain and sorrow and actions of others.”
“Oh.” Okay, this conversation was not going as I’d anticipated. I had no idea where she was heading. Or why it mattered to her. My grades weren’t as fantastic as they could be, but they were hardly suffering. It wasn’t like I’d been a math genius in the past.
Ms. Nguyen, Bree, watched me with her bright-blue eyes, suddenly more intense than I’d ever seen them. “I’ve been in this kind of situation before. I thought I was doing the right thing by being there for the people around me. Always ready to listen.”
I was curious about what had happened, but didn’t want to encourage any further discussion.
“It’s very common for teens to start risky behaviors such as drug and alcohol abuse, getting into fights and sexual experimentation.”
I almost had to laugh at that one. I was apparently dealing with some different kind of thing because in the last month I’d stopped seeing my boyfriend, stopped going to college parties, and had avoided all confrontation.
“Another common way to deny pain is to act overly strong or mature.”
Again, no one was accusing me of that. In Lana’s words, I was acting like an immature brat.
“I think I should have a conversation with Lana about how she’s doing. Is she attending a support group?” Bree seemed to hear the sigh that I had thought was silent.
I didn’t answer. Lana was not attending any support group. She was handling this whole incident in her special way of pretending it didn’t exist.
“When I lost my husband, I watched. And listened. Maybe Lana would—”
Now I knew where she was going.
“I have not ‘lost’ anyone. And neither has Lana. I’m sorry, Ms. Nguyen, but you guys really”—I felt my defenses flare up—“need to leave me alone. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
I left the classroom, knowing I was in trouble with her and would be in even more trouble with Lana, but not caring. I had enough going on without having to explain to everyone around me that I was dealing with everything just fine. That, really, the best thing everyone could do was just go back to normal and stop worrying about me.
* * *
Erica eyed my legs, clad in red knee-high boots, as I flopped into the workstation next to her in the Media Center. “Nice.”
I smiled in response. I loved these boots; I should wear them more often.
“Where were you last night? Jason said you were trapped in some blackout at the U and you didn’t call him. Or me. He’s worried about you. Me too.”
“I was in the College Prep Institute building for a while during the blackout.” I logged into the workstation I was sitting at, observing that my nails were chipped and in dire need of a manicure. I had half a mind to skip therapy that evening and spend the time with a pampering session at the Luxe Salon on the Kirkland waterfront.
“Alone?”
“With my instructor. He’s new, and he was scared and I didn’t want to leave him.”
Innocent enough, I thought.
Erica twirled a strand of pink hair, her signature move for not buying it. “Tell me more.”
I glanced over her shoulder toward a very curious-looking Candace, who wasn’t even pretending not to eavesdrop, and lowered my voice. “You’re going to think I’m crazy. He needed me to stay. He has these eyes that are amazing. Tormented almost. Heathcliff eyes.”
Recalling the night out loud, I realized how intoxicated I’d been. How drunk on being anonymous, sharing thoughts with another person that I certainly would never imagined sharing in the light of day.
Erica touched a hand to her heart and pretended to swoon.
“Like he has so much he’s keeping inside. We wound up talking up on the roof, and I just wanted to, I don’t know, protect him. Be there for him.”
I recalled his catlike eyes watching me closely and reacting with edgy movements. Perhaps he was a runaway, escaping an abusive home situation. Or maybe he’d committed a crime, robbed a bank or a store. Of course, it could be that he was an illegal alien who had snuck across the Canadian border.
All of those possibilities suggested that he would be hiding from the law. None of them explained how he had such exquisite vocabulary and how he was able to secure a teaching position at the Institute.
“There’s something about him that’s . . . different. I feel so weird with him. Like good-weird.”
“You’re blushing! Did something else happen?” Erica smiled, looking wicked.
“Well, I had this dream . . .”
“Was I in it?” A voice too close to my ear for comfort startled me.
“Jason.” I whirled around, wondering how much he’d heard. His brilliant smile suggested not enough to raise suspicion. I chided myself for wanting to hide such an innocuous thing from him.
“I am going to leave you two alone now.” Erica took her headphones off her workstation. “Call me later, Mars. I mean it.”
“What’s going on with you?” Jason didn’t mince words as he perched on the edge of my table.
“Nothing.” I searched his face. Could I trust him with what I was thinking? Would he get the wrong idea about my protectiveness toward Zayed? Men were jealous for silly reasons, and I didn’t want to give him anything to obsess over.
Jason had no reason to be threatened. I was pretty sure Zayed thought I was an absolute moron. Maybe he would be civil toward me for a few days, but I could bet that he’d go back to his professional, cold demeanor fairly quickly. All of the dreaming and intimate thoughts about us were surely just on my part.
“You and Erica looked like there’s something more than nothing,” he prompted again. “And you weren’t in the cafeteria at lunch. Were you in the library again? What’s going on? You can talk to me, Mars.”
I had already decided not to. No, there was nothing worth sharing about the previous night. It was a fluke. Something that would be forgotten by the end of that week. Whatever it was didn’t affect Jason at all.
“I’m sorry I’ve been flaky about this. The blackout was pretty scary. I just needed some downtime. And sleep. I’ll talk about it in therapy today.” The words came bubbling out before I could stop them. I started to feel ambushed with all of these questions.
“I understand. But we’re good?”
“Sure.” I smiled.
“Perfect.” He flicked my bangs off my forehead in a way that always made me feel like a five-year-old. “I need to head to gym. You remember we have Friday off, right? Can I claim you for the whole day? Maybe we can look at homecoming dresses and tuxes?”
I sighed, smoothing my bangs back onto my forehead. The invitation was in “boyfriend” territory. Just what I wanted.
“Okay, maybe,” I found myself wanting to stay noncommittal. “And I will need to be done by four or so.”
Jason raised an eyebrow.
“Lana needs me to do something that evening.” I cut off the question before he asked.
“I’ll take that as a yes for Friday then.” Jason laughed and squeezed my hand before leaving.
It was not a yes.
Candace smiled in my direction once Jason was out of sight. “We heard you’re going to homecoming with him. We should go jewelry shopping or do manicures,” she said, gesturing toward my hands. I assumed this was her way of advancing a friendship.
I nodded politely and said, “Yeah, definitely.” I knew she’d overheard every piece of that conversation and would quickly send out a message to her whole crew. The rumor mill surrounding my resurgence was going to drive that group crazy.
My smile quickly became disbelief as I clicked on the only new email message from the College Prep Institute.
Mars:
The light you shone for me led me not just out of darkness, but also to the promise of community in the city.
I was forced to lean on another person last night. Though you were
a stranger to me, I felt as if you were able to see me beyond what anyone else has in the light. Like your father, you too are capable of heroism.
Thank you,
Zayed
But then maybe the blackout wouldn’t be forgotten by the end of that week. I was suddenly very anxious for the next twenty-four hours to pass so I could see Zayed again.
* * *
“Mars, you should share something today.” The flag was thrust into my hands by Ken, the thirteen-year-old kid next to me whose mother had died in the service years ago. He didn’t talk much about her, focusing rather on his new stepmother and how much he loved her, as well as how he felt like he was betraying his mother’s memory.
I had a hollow feeling in my throat every time he shared, a vague understanding resonating inside me that it was possible I was experiencing the same thing. Appreciating the good things in my life didn’t mean I didn’t miss my father or love him any less. This was one of those rare moments when I felt like I was actually connected with the five other people in the group. I liked the innocence and honestly Ken displayed and wished I could share such personal thoughts as well, but I didn’t know how to start.
“What’s something different that’s happened to you lately?” Stephanie asked in her usual overbearing way. “Anything. You need to share something today.” She was a skinny hipster type with voluminous brown hair and giant, fake eyelashes. I found her to be very “academic” about the meetings. She was collecting course credit for her psychology degree and acted like it. She certainly didn’t act interested in making a real difference to any of us.
“Different? Good or bad different?” I asked, buying time.
Krish, the older, dark-haired girl across from me, the one with a face so beautiful it broke my heart, smiled sorrowfully at me as if saying she understood. She had lost her sister and father in the service, and the aftereffects had shattered her family. She cried often in these sessions.
Octavio, the quiet boy on her right who was the sole caretaker for his veteran father, glanced at me as well for a second, before shifting his glance back to his usual spot—Krish’s face. He was clearly into her, but she was still too shrouded in grief to notice.
Erica gave me a little encouraging nudge.
Today I felt like I had something to say. I’d spent the entire afternoon even more restless than before.
I’d responded to Zayed’s email with a casual:
You’re most welcome. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.
—M
And then I hit REFRESH on my email six times in case he responded. He didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from rushing to the Media Center between all of my classes for the remainder of the day to recheck my email. No response had arrived.
By the end of the day, I was cursing myself for responding in such a stupid way. Why hadn’t I thought of something profound? No wonder I was failing the SAT.
“Someone called me a hero,” I finally said, glancing to my left and right. It felt strange to say it out loud. It felt a little conceited yet unbelievable all at once. “That’s never happened before. It made me think of my father and how people call him that all the time. It made me start to realize why he serves.”
I felt Erica predictably nudge me—hard. “More details please,” she whispered. I was going to get it later for not telling her this in private.
I twirled the flag between my fingers. “I helped someone during a blackout. And he thought I was heroic,” I said. I felt the rush of pride again, the same one I’d felt after I’d reread Zayed’s email for the third time. For once, I wasn’t the one who’d needed saving.
“That’s awesome.” Ken smiled in my direction, flicking the lighter he always seemed to carry with him. I was afraid he would set his spiky hair on fire. “Cool.”
“It feels good to take care of someone else for once if you’re not used to it.” Octavio, the quiet Caretaker Guy acknowledged in his hushed way.
Angel, the guy who usually wept, and Krish both gave me encouraging smiles as if asking me to continue.
“I felt good.” The words didn’t do my current set of feelings justice, but I wasn’t ready to share any more. I didn’t understand why I glanced at the clock on the wall every thirty seconds, watching the hands move slower each time I looked.
I wanted to talk to Zayed again. Discover if I might actually have the opportunity to help him further to maintain my hero status a bit longer.
I passed the flag to Erica. Her older brother, Ricardo, had lost his legs in Iraq while trying to save local kids from a field of land mines. He was trying to adjust to life in a wheelchair. She always talked about how painful it was, watching him struggle when he’d always been the brave one in their house, the one she had always looked up to, and she was having a hard time letting go of that idea.
I waited for her usual gushing story of how well Ricardo was doing.
“Sometimes I’m so angry with him—” Erica practically spat out, surprising me with her vehemence today. “Why did he have to let himself get hurt like this? He just sits in his room all day. He has nightmares. Our family needed him; he was the first one of us to actually be smart and capable. And now.” She paused, her voice wobbling. I grabbed her hand, shocked to see Erica like this.
“And now, it’s all up to me. To figure out what I’ll be doing in college. It won’t be art anymore. That’s too impractical. I need to figure out what I should be so my little sister has someone else to look up to. That’s all.” She practically threw the flag to Octavio.
No more art for Erica? I frowned. That was an extreme measure. Chad and I had no idea what we wanted to do in college, but Erica had always known. She’d known since third grade that she was going to be the next Mondrian.
I resisted the urge to tell her I would do anything to have my dad home, wheelchair or otherwise. At least she could see Ricardo. Talk to him. Hear his voice. When events and decisions in her life became overwhelming, he would be able to come through for her. Eventually, he would be able to get a job, support their aging parents, and be her brother again.
That was not what she wanted to hear right then, though. She wanted someone to say, “Poor Erica, you don’t have to be strong for your family now. You have the right to be angry. Be angry, we’re here to listen.”
I would say all of those things to her. I would try to be a good friend to her, like she had been to me. I kept coming to therapy week after week because I would be accountable to her and her questions if I missed a single session.
“Erica, I understand your anger,” Stephanie rested her chin in her right hand and tilted her head. The overly practiced move annoyed me. It was clear this woman had absolutely no idea what anyone else in the room was going through. “But you have to understand, Ricardo didn’t want this injury for himself. He wanted to do the right thing. He never wanted to be a burden on your family.”
I wanted to roll my eyes but didn’t. Who wanted to be a burden on someone else, especially someone they loved?
In my case, it was almost the reverse. Because of the amount of time Dad had been gone, it felt like he didn’t even want to come home anymore, like he felt we didn’t need him. I knew it was because of his relationship with my mother, and maybe even because of the last conversation we’d had. I hoped he checked his voicemails sometime soon to see everything he’d missed out on and realized there was a lot going on at home that he really needed to be a part of.
I hadn’t called Dad’s cell phone for my daily check-in. I’d had so much else on my mind I hadn’t even thought about it. The realization startled me. It was already happening. I was starting to forget not just his voice, but also to include him in my life. I couldn’t let myself become one of them. Everyone else—my mother, people who pretended just because he wasn’t here in town, in front of their eyes, he didn’t exist anymore.
“The key to dealing with grief is closure,” Stephanie said once the circle was complete. “You must get it before you can move on with
your lives. You need to identify your MER.”
MER. Damn her and her MER. The Minimal Effectiveness Response was the least a person needed to do to get closure. Like confronting someone who had caused them pain. Or burning a box of the ex-boyfriend’s pictures. As if doing some sort of arbitrary, clichéd gesture would suddenly make everything okay again. As if that was going to be enough for the kids in the room to be able to let go of the experiences they had gone through.
This was why I hated therapy.
Ignoring my contemptuous look in her direction, Stephanie stood up. “Whatever your MER is, you need to do it. You need to keep doing it every day until your emotional situation is dealt with and you are the person you are meant to be.”
Closure was supposed to be a finalization, to tie up all the loose ends in a nice lovely package, make some kind of sense out of what had happened. It seemed that whenever something bad happened, a clock started ticking. When will so-and-so have closure? When will they be done grieving?
The kids in therapy needed to take the time to journey through the five stages of grief to acceptance, no matter how long that time was. I wished the group leader would respect and encourage that, rather than trying to prove what an effective “teen grief therapist” she was by pushing six teenagers to a quick resolution and a check mark on her performance evaluation under “Has your therapy leader helped you deal with your grief?”
I knew I could do something about it, report her to the committee and ask for another therapist, someone who actually understood what we were going through. I also knew that would be hypocritical since I hardly ever paid attention. It was something I was doing to appease people, and I didn’t need to get overly involved.
I was the first to leave the teen center, as usual. I knew Erica would be fine, I’d seen the “MINIPAX” license plate of Chad Winters’s Mini Cooper under the glimmer of my headlights as I veered out of the parking lot. She wouldn’t be alone tonight, but I would, just like every other night lately.
I went home and sat at the kitchen island without turning on the overhead lights, wanting to talk to someone. Despite her flaws, I missed having Lana at home waiting for me. We would giggle over funny things that had happened while we analyzed every word.