The Memory of Light

by Francisco X. Stork

  And then something in my head opens, a small window.

  Dr. Desai requires that we use two to three hours of each day for some kind of service to the hospital. Mona helps in the hospital’s beauty salon, doing manicures and dye jobs. E.M. works with the construction workers who are building a new Alzheimer’s wing. Gabriel mows and weed-whacks the grassy areas surrounding the hospital grounds.

  Of all the choices for work that Dr. Desai offered me, the laundry room seemed like the one that would require the least interaction with people, the least talking. And I was right. Stuffing soiled linens into giant washing machines and dryers and then folding them into perfect squares is not as bad as it sounds. In fact, those three hours make up my favorite part of the day. The Mexican girls who work in the laundry room never hurry but never stop moving. Every once in a while I can hear them hum some unknown song. They are friendly, but they keep their distance. I have the impression that they know I tried to kill myself and they’re afraid to pry, as if their questions might tip a fragile scale the wrong way.

  The hardest part of the work is memorizing the precise moves needed to fold a sheet with a partner, a process that reminds me of a minutely choreographed dance. Once the girls patiently teach me the art of folding, I can do the laundry work almost as carefully and efficiently as they can. There are times, as I fold the sheets and pillowcases, when my mental playlist is nearly inaudible, the self-accusing songs drowned out by sensations: the salty smell of starch, the warm softness of cotton cloth.

  Today, as I’m folding sheets, I’m thinking about what happened after that family dinner in South Padre Island, when Becca and I were back in our room with the lights out.

  “Do you ever think about Mamá?” I asked her.

  It took so long for her to respond that I thought she hadn’t heard me or was ignoring me. “Now and then,” she finally said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Remember when you wanted to be a veterinarian? You and Mamá used to talk about it constantly, and Mamá would get you books about dogs and horses and all kinds of animals. You used to tell Mamá about them, and she would quiz you about the different animals, and you’d know the answers right off.”

  Becca, who had been facing away from me, turned and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. “How old was I? Six? Every kid wants to be a veterinarian at that age.”

  “No, you were eleven. You wanted to be a veterinarian up to when Mamá got sick. I know because that’s when she took you to the shelter to get Galileo,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And then after we had him for about a month, you started to get mad at me because Galileo would come sleep in my bed every night. That was in our old house when we shared a room. You thought I waited until you fell asleep and then moved him, remember? Then you found out he was doing it on his own and you gave up on him.”

  “That cat never liked me.”

  “That’s not true. He liked you. You stopped liking him.”

  There was a little silence. I kept talking, I didn’t know why. “About a month after we got Galileo, Mamá started her chemotherapy. That’s when you stopped wanting to be a veterinarian.”

  “What exactly is your point?” She sounded annoyed.

  “No point,” I said. “This whole talk about careers and all got me thinking about how you and Mamá used to dream together about having a veterinary clinic, where Mamá would be the receptionist. I was just wondering if you remembered that.”

  “I’ve moved on. That was childish stuff. I don’t dwell on the past. Why are you bringing all this up?”

  I took a deep breath. “It makes me sad that you gave up on your dream. You gave up on Galileo.” I paused. “You gave up on Mamá.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “She needed you so much that year.”

  “Shut up! You have no right to talk to me about giving up. Look at you. You gave up on yourself, just like Mamá did when she decided to stop the chemo and let herself die. At least I didn’t do that. Damn it, Vicky! Don’t you ever talk to me about Mother! Just because I’m not obsessed with her death like you doesn’t mean I didn’t love her. I moved on. Life goes on. I didn’t abandon her when she was sick. She didn’t want me to see her suffer. She was glad I didn’t have to witness that. She wanted me to have good memories of her. Look at what being with her every day and watching her turn into a cadaver did to you. You’re a mess. You’re stuck back there by her bedside watching her die.” She jumped out of bed and stood over me. “Leave me the heck alone, okay?” Then she went out of the room.

  That night and every other night we were there, Becca slept on the pullout sofa in the office. A few days later, she left for Harvard without saying good-bye. I called her every week the first month after she left, but she never answered my calls or called me back. I’m not sure exactly why I kept calling. The last time I tried was the night I did the deed.

  Maybe it is time to try again.

  * * *

  Patients are not allowed cell phones in the psychiatric ward, but Mona got one from her connection in the cafeteria, this guy named Rudy. I borrow it that night. The phone rings and rings. Finally, just before it goes to voice mail, Becca picks up.

  “Hello?” She sounds suspicious.

  “It’s me. Vicky.”

  “Vicky! I almost didn’t answer. I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “It’s my friend’s phone.” I look at Mona. “Well, not her phone exactly. A phone she borrowed.”

  On her bed, Mona lowers her People magazine and smiles at me. She seems glad I called her “friend.” She’s fiddling with an iPod — another piece of contraband from Rudy, no doubt. She sticks the earbuds in her ears, slides down the bed, and closes her eyes. Her right foot begins to twitch in rhythm to something fast.

  “So.” There is a dramatic pause on Becca’s end of the line. “How are you, really?”

  “I’m okay. I wanted to call you so you wouldn’t worry.”

  “I was going to fly down as soon as I heard, but Miguel said the hospital had a rule about no visitors allowed.”

  She cuts off suddenly, and I hear muffled voices. Becca’s talking to someone with her hand over the speaker.

  “I just called to tell you I was okay. I should probably go,” I say when the line clears.

  “No, I’m just in the middle of a study group in someone’s apartment. Hold on. Let me go to the kitchen.” There’s another little pause, then she says, “Okay, now I can talk. So, Vicky, what happened? Did something make you do that?”

  I close my eyes. Every conversation I have with everyone who knows about my suicide attempt will be like this. People will want to know why, and they will ask, whether out loud or in their minds. “No. Nothing specific happened. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “There’s all kinds of theories out there. Leslie said some boy broke up with you and that’s why you did it.”

  “Leslie?” She’s a friend of Becca’s from high school.

  “Cecy told Joan. Joan told Martha. Martha told Leslie. Leslie called me.”

  “Oh, God.” It shouldn’t bother me that people know. What do I care, after all? But it does.

  “So the whole world knows. Big deal. Can you tell me what happened? What boy is Cecy talking about?”

  “His name is Jaime. He’s a senior at Reynard. But it wasn’t about him.”

  “But there was something with him?”

  “No. He liked me. I mean, he said he liked me, but he wasn’t for me. I told him I didn’t like him.”

  “Was he nice?”

  “Yes, he was nice.”

  “Oh.” The way Becca says this, I know she’s wondering how I could reject any nice guy who showed an interest in me. It’s not as if I’ve had many boyfriends. In fact, it’s not as if I ever had any boyfriends.

  “It’s complicated,” I say. “Or maybe it isn’t that complicated. But it wasn’t because of Jaime. It wasn’t anything. It was everything. I don’t know.”<
br />
  “Listen, Vicky,” Becca says, “I know it’s stressful to live with Miguel and Barbara. They like to push, but they mean well. There were lots of times when I felt like slacking off and they pushed me, and I’m glad they did. That’s just the way they are. Miguel wants you to do your best and be your best — that’s how he was brought up. That’s how he shows that he cares. He doesn’t understand what you did at all.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry we lost touch.” There’s silence on the line. I hear Becca breathe. Maybe she’s thinking about all my calls she didn’t answer. Then, “No one told me anything. I didn’t even know you had quit debate, for God’s sake.”

  “I couldn’t do debate anymore. I couldn’t.”

  Another silence. It feels like Becca is trying to keep herself from telling me how irresponsible I was. It’s not as if I don’t know that.

  “I wish someone had told me you were having problems,” she says again. “We’re sisters, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you mad at me?”

  The question surprises me. “No, why would I be mad at you?”

  “You know, last Christmas at Padre Island.”

  “No, I was never mad at you,” I say.

  “I thought you were mad because I haven’t talked to you since then. It’s been almost two months. I was really upset for a long time about what you said. Then I got busy. This place is wicked hectic.”

  “I know. Becca, you’re not responsible. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I meant to call you on your birthday but … I’m sorry. Did you get the T-shirt I sent you?”

  “Yes. I like it. I wear it all the time.”

  “Are you mad at me because Barbara and I are close?” The small stutter in her voice tells me that it was a hard question for her to ask.

  “No. I’m glad you two get along. I’m happy for you.” But my words come out sounding bitter. I don’t want to sound that way. Am I bitter? About what? That she and Barbara are good friends? Becca likes Barbara and Barbara likes her. Barbara’s approval is not something I’ve lost sleep about. If I’m not bitter, why do I sound like it?

  “She’s not that bad, Vicky. You should give her half a chance. She tries.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “This has really affected her. It’s thrown her for a loop.”

  I don’t want to talk about how the deed affected other people. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I better go. I want to make sure the phone still has some power left so Mona can make a call she needs to make. I don’t think she has the charger.”

  “Who’s Mona?”

  “My roommate.”

  “Is it horrible there? Barbara said the place reminded her of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. She said the psychiatrist did not fill her with a lot of confidence.”

  “Barbara’s already so full of it, it’s hard to fill her up with anything else.” It feels good to say that.

  Becca laughs, and then she says, a serious tone in her voice, “Vicky, I’m sorry about what I said to you at Padre Island. Some of the things you said about me abandoning Mamá must have hit home. I was hurt.”

  “I know. I said hurtful things too.” Did I mean all the things I said to Becca? Do I still believe they’re true? I see my mother’s face, so thin the skin barely covered her bones, and you could see what she would look like after she was dead and buried. Can I blame Becca for being scared, for staying away?

  Yes. I’m surprised to find that quiet, simple yes inside of me.

  Becca is saying, “I’m sorry about not returning your calls and for not calling you on your birthday and just sending you that stupid T-shirt. I’m sorry for not being there for you as a sister. Can we try again?”

  “Becca, it really wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay. You’re going to be okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. You buck up, cowboy. Like Miguel says, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Okay?”

  Becca is so like my father. They think alike, they say the same things. I’ve always understood why they are so close. But it makes me sad to think that I will never have that closeness with my father … or maybe with Becca. “Okay,” I say, without conviction.

  “Call me anytime, day or night. I’m your big sister, right?”

  “Yes, you’re my big sister.”

  “Bye, Vicky.”

  “Bye.”

  When the phone is silent, I think about the night of the deed. What if Becca had picked up the phone when I called her? Would it have made a difference?

  No, I think. I felt alone then as I feel alone now. A sister needs to be a friend before you feel that you’re not alone.

  I close the cell phone and hand it to Mona. She has taken her earbuds out and her eyes are open. I don’t know how long she was listening to my conversation, but I don’t mind.

  “Thanks,” I say. “That was my sister. I hadn’t talked to her since December. I needed to tell her that she wasn’t responsible for my … the deed.”

  Mona sat up. “So what she say?”

  “She was worried that I might have done it because I was mad at her.” I go over to my bed and try to sit, but the bed is so high, I can’t do it without jumping up backward.

  “And were you?” Mona asks.

  “Mad at her? No,” I say as I stretch out. I think that’s true. I wasn’t mad at Becca when I took the pills. Was I?

  “Mmm.” Mona wrinkles her nose as if she smells something bad.

  “What does that mean, ‘mmm’?” I imitate the movement she made with her nose.

  “Remember how you described your sister in one of the GTHs?”

  I shake my head.

  “You said that she was super pretty and super smart and super popular. Then you went on to tell us about how she was at Harvard and wanted to be a lawyer and then she was going to come home and work with your dad, who promised he would pay her as much as she would earn in a big law firm.”

  “I said all that?”

  “I remember. And E.M. said it was too bad she wasn’t the one who tried to kill herself?”

  “Oh, yeah, now I remember.” And after E.M. said that, I remember thinking Becca was not sensitive enough to ever try to kill herself. I also remember feeling guilty for thinking that.

  “Well, I did detect a little envy in the way you spoke about her.”

  “That’s normal, though, isn’t it? When you have a sister who’s so good at everything and you’re so bad? She’s smart. I’m dumb. She’s pretty — look at me. She has this incredible willpower. She used to get up at four a.m. to study. Not even for a test, but just for a regular school day!”

  “How do you know? Did you share a room with her? And by the way, don’t put yourself down. You may be school dumb but you’re life smart, like the rest of us here. Even E.M., much as I hate to admit it, he comes up with some things that make you say, ‘Wow, this kid’s not as stupid as he looks.’ And what about Gabriel? Can you imagine the people he’s mowing lawns for? They look out the window and all they see is another dumb Mexican pushing a lawn mower. Little do they know what’s inside that boy’s head. Did I ever tell you my theory about mental illness?”

  “Which one? You’ve told me a few.”

  “The one about how mental illness makes people smart. It lets us see a part of life that others don’t see.”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “Really? Sorry, I repeat myself. Where was I? Oh, yeah, your sister. You were comparing yourself to her and putting yourself down. I’ve never seen her, so I can’t speak to her being prettier than you, but you’re pretty. You have those classic Mexican features: clear skin, almond eyes, broad forehead. Your eyebrows are awesome. You don’t even need to pluck them.”

  “A boy said to me once that I was pretty in a quirky sort of way.”

  “Quirky? What the hell does that mean? It’s like this guy I went out with once. He said to me: ‘You’re not beautiful, bu
t you’re attractive.’ I looked at him and then waved good-bye with one finger.” She waves at me the same way, an insane grin on her face. Then she said, “But getting back to your sister — what does she have that you wished you had?”

  “Her energy, for one. She was into a hundred things at school: debate, yearbook, school musical, varsity soccer, school president, Young Republicans. I get tired just thinking about it.”

  “And naturally she’s your father’s favorite.”

  “Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she be? What father wouldn’t prefer a daughter like her?”

  “I think I hear some anger there,” Mona teases me.

  So I don’t care about Barbara’s approval, but what about my father’s? When he talks about Becca, his eyes light up with pride. When he looks at me, they dim with disappointment. But that’s not his fault. It’s mine. Isn’t it?

  “What you thinking?” Mona turns on her side. One of the magazines on the bed falls to the floor.

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about your theory, about how mental illness makes people smart. You ever thought about psychiatry as a career?”

  She doesn’t hear me. She picks up the phone and punches in a number. “Busy. Well, at least he’s around.”

  “Who were you calling?”

  “Rudy.”

  “The guy at the cafeteria who likes you? He gave you that phone, didn’t he?”

  Mona chuckles. “Yeah, I guess you can say he likes me.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Like? I don’t know if I would go that far. He’s helping me with something, that’s all.”

  “With what?”

  She doesn’t answer. She dials again, and this time I hear it ring. “Rudy?” Mona says. “What gives?” She knits her eyebrows and then opens her eyes wide. “No way!”

  I jump down from the bed, grab clean underwear from the dresser Mona and I share, and then go into the bathroom to take a long shower. When I come out, Mona has stopped talking. She’s standing by my bed, uncharacteristically looking out the window.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she answers absently.