The Memory of Light

by Francisco X. Stork

We drive in silence, as expected. Once, we stop at a red light and the motor stalls. “Damn,” my father says as he turns the key and pumps the accelerator. “I had this car tuned up last month and I’ve driven it once.”

  I feel sorry for the mechanic, who will get an earful sometime soon. There is nothing worse in my father’s moral universe than people who do not do what they are paid to do.

  At school, he pulls into a parking spot right in front of the building. The spot is probably reserved for teachers, but Father always acts like he owns the place whenever he shows up at Reynard. He is, after all, one of its biggest financial supporters.

  It’s about fifteen minutes before the first-period bell rings, and students are standing in small groups and sitting on the concrete backless benches on the sidewalk leading to the front entrance. Reynard is a small school, so everyone knows one another, if not by name, then certainly by face. As soon as I get out of the car, I can feel heads turn toward me. There’s no doubt in my mind that everyone is either thinking or saying, “That’s the girl who tried to kill herself.” I keep my eyes straight ahead and try to walk as erect as possible.

  Father must have noticed the stares as well, because he says, “Don’t worry about it. Tell yourself that you’re better than they are.”

  I smile. I have just received from Father as much encouragement as I am going to get.

  Mr. Robinson, the principal, has someone in his office, so Mrs. Rogers, his secretary, asks us to sit in the two chairs outside the door. “Can you tell him we’re here?” my father says in a way that would make anybody else nervous.

  But Mrs. Rogers ignores him. “Are you okay, honey child?” she says to me, her eyes moistening for a moment. Mrs. Rogers is older than the state of Texas and used to seeing all kinds of pushy parents.

  “I’m okay now,” I say, grateful.

  My father takes my arm and leads me to the chairs. We sit at the same time and he waits for Mrs. Rogers to occupy herself with some folders. Then, “What’s the plan here?” he says to me, leaning close as if to share a secret.

  “Plan?”

  “What do you want to do the rest of the year? Do you want to try to salvage what’s left of the school year?”

  “Sure,” I say. Then it occurs to me that I’m always saying yes to my father even when I don’t know what he’s asking. If “yes” is the response I sense he is expecting, then “yes” is the response I give. “Wait. What do you mean by ‘salvage’ the rest of the school year?”

  My father looks at me, perplexed. I don’t know whether he thinks I’m dumb for not understanding the question or whether he’s shocked that I asked for a clarification. He speaks slowly and carefully. “Are you going to do what it takes to not flunk out? That’s what I mean.”

  This time I do not automatically say yes. I think about it. Answering yes means that I will need to put in the necessary effort, and that means determining whether I have enough energy and motivation to carry it off. I will need to get A’s from this moment on in order to end the year with passing averages. I will even need to get an A in geometry. Two days ago, when I was at the ranch, if someone asked me if I was capable of going all-out in school, I might have said yes. But at this moment, I’m not sure I have what it takes. I don’t want to promise my father something I can’t deliver.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. I feel his shoulders sag a little. “I’m not sure I have the drive or the energy to do that. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  He raises his hand and smooths his distinguished gray hair. I can see his mind clicking through the various responses that are available to him. The more he thinks, the more I know that anger is not going to be one of those responses. What remains is disappointment, resignation, maybe understanding. “Well,” he finally says, looking at Mr. Robinson’s door, “let’s see what the next-best offer looks like.”

  About two minutes later, the door opens and Mr. Reyes, my geometry teacher, steps out. He stops when he sees me and glances quickly away as if embarrassed. Then he says, “Good to have you back,” nods, and hurries away.

  Mr. Robinson is the only man I’ve ever met who uses old-fashioned suspenders to hold up his baggy pants. Reynard students call him Santa because of his white hair and beard, his paunch, and his constant jolliness. Father and I sit on a very worn, tan leather sofa and he sits on a straight-back chair. The sofa is soft and low and places my father in a very unimposing position. The frown on his face says that he does not relish looking so powerless.

  “How are you doing, Vicky?” Mr. Robinson asks. I imagine the real Santa would have asked the question the same way.

  “I’m better, thank you.”

  “Good,” he says. “Are you sure you’re ready to come back to school? Do you need more time?”

  “It’s better if she comes back,” my father answers for me. “Too much time to think at home is not good.”

  Mr. Robinson completely ignores my father’s remark. He waits for me to answer.

  “I’ll be all right,” I say. Let the day come. I want to see what my days will be like here and know if I gathered enough strength these past four weeks.

  “Well, go easy on yourself until you feel up to speed,” Mr. Robinson says. “I suppose we should talk about how we should proceed, what would be best for you as far as the remainder of the school year.”

  My father tries to push himself forward on the sofa. He’s getting ready to negotiate. “What are the options?” he asks.

  Mr. Robinson turns, grabs a folder from the edge of his desk, and flips it open. I can see him looking at my transcript with every single bad grade I have ever obtained at Reynard. “It’s not impossible to catch up,” he says, closing the folder. “But I wonder if that’s the wisest thing.”

  “What are the options?” my father says again, an edge of irritation in his voice.

  “Catching up will be very demanding.” Mr. Robinson looks at me as if my father isn’t there. “What do you think, Vicky?”

  “I’m not sure I can pull it off,” I answer truthfully. I’d have to take in an enormous amount of material and digest it in just a short time. My brain doesn’t work that way, even when it’s working well.

  “So here’s what I’m thinking.” Mr. Robinson acknowledges my father’s presence for the first time since we came in. “Vicky continues the rest of the year with a reduced load. She stays in Mrs. Longoria’s English class, where she’s doing well, and in her world history and economics classes. She will need to work hard in those classes to bring her D’s up to, say, a B-minus, but I think she can do it.”

  “What about next year and the year after that? What does that do to the requirements she needs to graduate?” My father sounds anxious.

  “So, Vicky.” Now Mr. Robinson is talking to me again. “This would mean that you take geometry during the summer. I talked to Mr. Reyes. He can meet with you once a week this summer, and if you pass, that grade will count for this year’s requirements. As far as the other two classes are concerned, you’ll have to retake them over the next two years, which means that your junior and senior course loads will be heavier than usual. But I have the feeling you’ll be able to handle it.”

  I look at my father. He seems to be processing the fact that this is as good a deal as he is going to get, given what he is trying to sell. He turns to me and asks, “Is that right? You’ll be able to handle the increased workload next year?”

  “I think so,” I say, with as much conviction as I can muster.

  “There is one other option,” Mr. Robinson says. He waits for my eyes to meet his. “I want you to understand why I am saying this, because I don’t want either of you to misinterpret me.” He pauses. “This school is not for everyone. I’ve seen lots of good, smart kids who would do well elsewhere flounder at Reynard. We’re high-pressure, competitive, fast-paced, extremely structured. We have more required courses than other schools. Science and math are mandatory every single year. Not everybody likes or does well in that kind of learning
environment. That’s perfectly fine.”

  “What are you getting at?” Father interrupts, impatient.

  Mr. Robinson speaks directly to him. “That maybe a public school would be better for Vicky. Westgate High is an excellent school. There would be more electives for Vicky to take, courses that she might like. Westgate offers courses in Russian and Latin American literature, for example, which is impossible for us. It’s a large school, so there would be more of an opportunity for Vicky to —”

  “Are you kicking her out?” Father asks incredulously.

  “Not at all,” responds Mr. Robinson. “I’m thinking about what is best for Vicky.”

  “Let’s go,” Father says to me, standing.

  I dig myself out of the sofa with some effort.

  “So.” Mr. Robinson stands as well. “Something to think about. Oh, Vicky. I would like you to go see Mrs. Reisman. Just to talk.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Reisman?” my father asks.

  “She’s one of our counselors — also a psychologist. I just think it would be a good idea, to make sure you’re okay.”

  I immediately glance at my father, expecting him to object. He makes a slight movement with his shoulders as if to say he doesn’t care.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Mr. Robinson puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me to the door. My father follows. Just as we are leaving, the principal says, “You know, on second thought, I think it would be better if you started tomorrow. I’ll get your teachers to email you what has been covered in class in your absence and where they are. That way you won’t completely lose your first day. Do you need to get your books?”

  “No, I have them.” I show him my backpack.

  My father says, “I think it’s better if you start today. You’re here. Tomorrow’s not going to be any easier.”

  I look at Mr. Robinson and he tells me with his eyes that it’s my decision. But my father’s right for once. Tomorrow is not going to be any easier.

  “I’ll start today,” I say.

  As I walk down the stairs, I remember the first time Mona took me to Dr. Desai’s office and how she warned me that if I turned right instead of left, I would end up in the morgue. When I turn right toward my locker, I get this feeling that I just took the wrong turn.

  I have seen TV shows and movies where the high school halls are chaotic places, with kids shouting and jostling each other. That’s not the way it is here. Reynard kids don’t shout or jostle. They stand in front of their lockers, quietly trying to figure out what books they need for the next three hours, and when they get them, they close their lockers, snap shut the combination locks, and move on. It’s not as if you don’t hear laughter or people talking to each other. You do. But the laughter and the talk are subdued, like the laughter and talk you might hear at a wake.

  I stare at my locker, feeling the little elves in my brain slowing down. How can I forget a combination that consists of my and Becca’s and Mamá’s birth dates? 15-16-24. The message finally arrives. Now the hard part. It’s fifteen to the right and sixteen to the left. Right? The first warning bell for class rings. That means I have five minutes to get to class. But it is not fifteen to the right and sixteen to the left. Fifteen to the left and sixteen to the right and twenty-four to the left. No, that’s not it either.

  I manage to open my locker just as the second bell rings. I study the schedule taped to the door. Today is what day again? Thursday. That means my first-period class, the one that is starting right now, the one for which I am going to walk in late is … economics with Mr. Lindsay. Wonderful. One of my favorite subjects. Did I sound like Mona just then? Mona. How is she? And Gabriel. What am I doing here?

  Just dig around the rocks gently, Vicky. Be a mule. Do what you need to do.

  Everyone is seated and Mr. Lindsay is writing something on the blackboard when I enter. “Sorry,” I say when he looks at me.

  He nods and smiles and I make my way to an empty desk in the back. At Reynard, the good desks are up front — ambitious students try to get them by coming early. Needless to say, I always preferred the back. Kids try not to look at me, but they do. One or two smile a sugary smile full of pity. I do not smile back. I sit and dig for a book and notebook, and then I look at Mr. Lindsay and pretend that I understand what he is saying. I see his mouth open and close and words come out and reach my ears, but that’s as far as they go. The words themselves I can understand. What I can’t figure out is what the words mean when they are put together. I know what the word balance means, and trade and payments, but what does balance of trade and balance of payments mean?

  It takes me a good fifteen minutes to finally realize that we are now in the part of the textbook that deals with international economics. I find that chapter in the book and read the first paragraph. Then I read it again. I can more or less understand what the author is saying, so I decide to read the chapter rather than listen to Mr. Lindsay’s lecture. Now and then, I hear him ask a question, but the nice thing about Reynard is that there is always someone else who knows the answer and is eager to give it.

  The same thing happens in my world history class. It’s like the lessons are being taught in a foreign language and I am completely lost. At one point, it all seems so incomprehensible that I almost burst into tears. Somehow I hold it together. When class is over, I walk to Mr. Roark’s desk.

  “Nice having you back,” he says. Mr. Roark is probably the youngest teacher at Reynard. He’s twenty-eight or so but looks like he’s about fourteen. He always wears a tie and a blue blazer, and I don’t think I have ever seen him smile.

  “I have some catching up to do,” I say. “I’m lost.”

  “I know,” he says. Our eyes meet briefly, and I wonder if he noticed that I was about to cry in class. He opens up a large appointment book. “I have an hour free on Tuesday at three. We can go over what you’ve missed then.” He looks up at me expectantly.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He writes down the time on a yellow sticky note and hands it to me. “So you don’t forget.” I put the sticky in the front pocket of my backpack and am about to walk away when he says, “What kind of grade are you hoping to get?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I think we should be realistic. I don’t believe an A or a B is attainable at this point.”

  Boy, would I like to introduce this guy to E.M. What would I give to see Mr. Roark in the north pasture telling E.M. in his squeaky voice, I don’t believe a three-foot hole is attainable in this kind of soil?

  “Is it still possible to get a passing grade?” I say, holding back a rising wave of anger.

  “With a lot of effort, perhaps.”

  There’s something in the tone of his voice, an arrogance, a self-importance, that I haven’t heard in the past four weeks. God, this is my world. This is the world I have to live in, and I don’t know if I can make it.

  “Thank you,” I say. I don’t say those two words gratefully. Those two words are really a substitute for two other words, and I say thank you the way I would have said those two other words.

  I walk slowly out of his classroom and plod my way to the library. Mrs. Longoria’s class is not until ten, so I have some time. My favorite desk is empty, on the second floor next to the poetry section. I’m tired. I put my arms on the desk and use them as a pillow for my head. Time is going so slowly. It has a different feel than it did at Lakeview or the ranch. I wish I were folding sheets or digging holes or planting rosebushes. Here you can feel the seconds tick by and they don’t seem to go anywhere. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. How many seconds left in this class? In this day? In this semester? In this life?

  I close my eyes and am counting tick, tick, ticks when someone touches my shoulder. I raise my head and see Cecy.

  “Hi, Vicky,” she says, as if afraid to disturb me.

  “Cecy!” I stand and hug her. She seems surprised at first, but then she hugs me back, and I can tell she is relieved.

  “May I?” She points to an
empty chair at the next desk.

  “Sure.” I pull out my chair so that it faces hers, and we both sit.

  “So,” she says, “it’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too,” I say.

  We look at each other, wondering what more there is to say.

  “How’s it going so far?” she asks.

  Something is different about Cecy, but I don’t know what it is. Then I realize she changed the color of her hair. It used to be a light brown and now it’s totally black.

  “I know,” she says, when she sees me looking at her hair. “I needed a fiercer, more menacing look for debate. Studies show that women with dark hair are more intimidating and are taken more seriously than women with lighter hair.”

  I stare at her for a few seconds, wondering if she’s serious, and then I see her laugh and I laugh too. “I thought you were serious for a moment,” I say.

  “I was being serious,” Cecy says, still laughing. Then she stops and reaches out for my hand. “I’m sorry, Vicky.” Her eyes fill with tears.

  “You’re sorry? Cecy, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I’m the one who caused you pain. I read your email this morning. That was so nice of you. Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t much of a friend to you.” She’s found a package of tissues in her backpack and is wiping her eyes with one of them. “I knew you were quiet and sad sometimes, but I never imagined it was that serious.”

  “I did a pretty good job at pretending I was all right. It’s not like I shared with you anything that I was feeling.”

  “And now?” she asks.

  “How am I feeling now?”

  She nods. “Are you better?”

  “Yes,” I say. That’s the truth, isn’t it? I am better. But that’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is that even though I’m better, I can tell just by how this morning is going that I’m not well, not fully. So I say to Cecy, “I’m not out of the woods yet. I have to continue seeing the doctor I saw at the hospital. I’ll probably need to take medication. But I’m in a better place than where I was before.”