The Memory of Light

by Francisco X. Stork

  “Was staying at Lakeview horrible? With all those people?”

  I look at Cecy and I know for sure at that moment that she will be a regular friend, not a special one with whom I will share deep secrets. But that’s okay. “It was good, actually. Lakeview was good. I made some good friends there.”

  “Oh,” says Cecy, a little taken aback. “That’s awesome.”

  “You found a new debate partner?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes. Regina Thompson. You know Regina.”

  “I know her,” I say. Regina is in Mrs. Longoria’s English class with me.

  “She’s incredibly fast on her feet and has a very nice streak of nasty in her.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad you found her,” I say, and I mean it.

  “We’ve only been to one tournament so far but we kicked butt. Listen, I’m meeting her during lunch to go over our case for the next tournament. But, Vicky …” She pauses. “Can I see you? Can we still be friends?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Have you talked to Jaime?”

  “No.”

  “He’s been real worried about you. He called me … a few days after … to see if I had heard from you. I told him I hadn’t.” Cecy takes a deep breath, and I have a feeling she’s about to get something off her chest. “We … I mean, we’ve been calling each other and emailing now and then. He showed me a poem he had written after he found out about you.”

  “Cecy,” I say, reaching over and touching her arm. “That’s good. I’m glad you and Jaime have been in touch.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think he still likes you, Vicky. He’s a nice guy, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Jaime said you told him you didn’t like him,” Cecy says.

  “It’s true. I did.” I wait a few moments, and there’s a tiny part of me that enjoys keeping Cecy in suspense. She likes Jaime a lot. I can read it all over her anxious face. “Jaime is a very nice boy, but … I don’t think he’s for me, Cecy.”

  The muscles in her face relax. “You may feel differently now, Vicky. Talk to him at least,” she says to me, not too convincingly.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling suddenly exhausted. “But I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not worried,” she says quickly, defensively. Then I see her stop to consider whether her tone of voice might have hurt me. I have a feeling that people will walk around me on eggshells for a while, afraid to say something that will push me over the edge. I have to find a way to let them know how much I prefer honesty. “I better get going. I’ll call you tonight?” Her voice is kind, friendly again.

  “Okay,” I say. “Bye, Cecy. Talk to you tonight.”

  Tonight seems an eternity away.

  * * *

  I stay hidden in the library until it is time to go to Mrs. Longoria’s class. I get there ten minutes before the final bell rings so I don’t have to make a grand entrance like I did in Mr. Lindsay’s class. Mrs. Longoria’s eyes light up when she sees me come in. She is a large woman and she struggles to lift herself out of her chair, but when she finally does, she embraces me. I’m lost for a few seconds in warmth and oranges, the smell of Mrs. Longoria’s perfume.

  “I’ve been so worried about you,” she says, still holding me. “I’m so happy to have you back. I ran into Mr. Robinson and he told me.” A couple of students enter the room and she lets go of me. “Can you stay for a few minutes after class? We can talk then.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers to me.

  The way she says “here,” I have a feeling she means more than this classroom.

  Jaime rushes in a few seconds after the final bell stops ringing. He’s wearing white shorts and a pink polo shirt, carrying his backpack in one hand and the bag for his tennis racket in the other. He stops when he sees me, a shocked look on his face. I wave at him. He sits behind me. Mrs. Longoria asks us to open our books to the page she has written on the blackboard.

  The class is studying the poems of Emily Dickinson. I look for her poem about the thing with feathers, but that’s not one of the selections in our anthology. Instead, I am struck by a poem I have never seen before. While Mrs. Longoria talks about the poet’s solitary, reclusive life in Amherst, Massachusetts, I read words and images that I understand intimately because I have lived them:

  I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

  And Mourners to and fro

  Kept treading — treading — till it seemed

  That Sense was breaking through —

  And when they all were seated,

  A Service, like a Drum —

  Kept beating — beating — till I thought

  My mind was going numb —

  And then I heard them lift a Box

  And creak across my Soul

  With those same Boots of Lead, again,

  Then Space — began to toll,

  As all the Heavens were a Bell,

  And Being, but an Ear,

  And I, and Silence, some strange Race,

  Wrecked, solitary, here —

  And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

  And I dropped down, and down —

  And hit a World, at every plunge,

  And Finished knowing — then —

  It strikes me when I finish reading the poem that you need images to properly convey what depression feels like. I call it a sticky, thick, smelly kind of fog. Emily felt boots of lead creaking across her soul. Gabriel’s was a deflated basketball.

  I have depression, I say to myself. Saying “I am depressed” makes it sound like that’s all that I am. But that’s not all that I am. I have depression, but I am not just depressed. Maybe the night I tried to kill myself, that’s all I was. Depression took over and became my all. But I’m a good worker at the right job. I like to write. I like American Beauties and the soft-hard feel of a horse’s forehead. I’m a friend. I have memories and … hopes? Why not be like Emily? Can I hope to write like her someday? Can I make that my hope? My bamboo stick. What if I set out to learn to work with words and images and rhythms so others can see and feel what they could not see or feel or understand before?

  When class is over, I talk to Mrs. Longoria. There are two five-page essays and a twenty-page research paper that I have to write in addition to a couple of tests I need to make up. “You can take all the time you need to catch up,” she tells me. “And if you want to get an Incomplete this semester and finish the course during the summer, we can work something out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Vicky,” she says, “is everything okay now?”

  That’s a question that I’m going to be asked a lot. I’m not going to be able to tell everyone how I really feel. But I wonder if I can tell some people. Some of them, like Mrs. Longoria, might understand.

  So I say, “I have depression … but I’m getting help.” It feels strange to say the words out loud, and I don’t know why I feel slightly ashamed when I say them. But there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Gabriel and Mona and E.M. and Dr. Desai — all of them, for different reasons, would be proud of me just now.

  “I know what that’s like,” Mrs. Longoria says. “Reynard can be a hard place for people with depression … like us.” She stops to make sure I fully understand what she’s telling me. I nod to let her know that I do. “We can help each other. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say gratefully.

  I walk out of the classroom, wondering how Mrs. Longoria, who is always full of energy and optimism and kindness, can have depression. Mrs. Longoria loves teaching, I’m sure of it. Yet there must be days when it must be so painful to do her job. I can’t imagine standing in front of people, talking, listening to them, smiling at them, and all the while feeling depressed.

  “Vicky!” Jaime is waiting for me outside the classroom. I brace myself. I wish these reentry conversations would occur slowly, maybe one a day, not al
l at once.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Cecy texted me that you were back. She said she talked to you.” Jaime looks at me as if he’s afraid I will be mad at him.

  “Yes,” I say. “I talked to Cecy.” I smile at him and he seems relieved.

  “We were very worried about you.” We start walking toward one of the exits. I need to get some air.

  “Thank you. I got your email. I didn’t get a chance to read your poem.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I just wanted to give you that. To let you know that … it really affected me when … I found out. I thought that maybe what happened between us had something to do with —”

  “No,” I say quickly. “It didn’t.”

  “Oh, good. I mean. I wouldn’t think it would. You’re the one that gave me the brush-off.” He laughs a nervous kind of laugh.

  “I’m so honored, really, that you … showed me your poems and told me that you liked me. Thank you. I probably wasn’t able to say back then how grateful I was that you thought of me that way. But I can tell you now.” The words as I say them feel right, truthful.

  “Well, I’m sorry things didn’t work out. My loss.” He opens a door for me to step outside. “I’ve been calling your house every couple of days. I think your dad and I have become good friends. Somehow I mentioned to him that I loved sports cars and he invited me over to take a look at his Spider.”

  “He did?” I can see how my father and Jaime would get along great. How happy my father would be if I brought Jaime home as my boyfriend.

  “He and my dad know each other. Some Latino businessmen’s association.”

  “That makes sense,” I say. I’m running out of words. Lead boots. I feel them creaking across my soul.

  “So,” he says, “I guess I’ll see you around.” He pauses, and then, “Would you like me to lend you my notes from Mrs. Longoria’s class? I have them in my laptop. I can email them to you, or come over to your house and go over them with you.”

  Jaime looks at me expectantly, and I know that underneath his offer, he’s asking if there’s any chance that he and I can be more than friends.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I worked out a schedule with Mrs. Longoria for catching up. I’m good.”

  I see a flicker of something hard and piercing in his eyes. “Okay,” he says. He points with his chin in the direction of the Athletic Department. “They’re waiting for me. Big tournament against Westgate this afternoon. Time to go kick some butt. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  There’s a concrete bench a few steps away. I sit and watch Jaime run toward a white van. He runs with a kind of aristocratic elegance, I notice. Even though kids in the van are yelling at him to hurry up, he refuses to go full speed. When he gets to the van, he turns around and looks back in my direction, and I get the impression he wanted to make sure I was watching him. He waves, and I wave back.

  I’m tired. The conversations that I’ve had today with my teachers, Cecy, and Jaime have depleted me. There’s an intensity required here that wasn’t needed at Lakeview. It’s the difference between talking to people who accept you and talking to people who are evaluating you, judging you. I’m not being very fair to Cecy or Jaime, who I know mean well. But that’s how I feel.

  This strange feeling of not belonging, this sense that every task, even the smallest one, is unpleasant and requires effort — this is how my days will be here. And how many days like this will there be? Will I make it? Do I have it in me to wiggle through the crushing rocks? Right now it doesn’t feel like I do. I feel as if a week, a month from now, sooner or later, I will say no to life again. I will say no to these days.

  These thoughts are clouds. They come. They go. I am not the clouds or even the sky. I’m the sun that shines on clouds and sky.

  I stand up quickly and walk in the direction of the Arts Center, where all the extracurricular activities at Reynard have their offices. I’m trying not to think. I’m trying not to sink. I need to hold on to something, a bamboo stick that will keep my mind steady and give me a purpose.

  The door to the offices of The Quill is open. From the entrance, I can see a front room with two desks and computers and another room in the back with the door slightly ajar. There’s no one in the front room, so I walk to the back door and knock.

  “Come in,” I hear from the other side. When I open the door, I see Liz Rojas sitting in an easy chair by a window, holding a large red book on her lap. She puts the book down and smiles the kind of smile you give someone you weren’t sure would show up and does. I’m searching for words, but I can’t find any, and my eyes fill with tears. She stands up and takes the backpack from my hand.

  “Do you still need an assistant?” I ask.

  During dinner that night, my father tells me that he would like me to work in his office on Saturdays. “You need to keep your mind occupied,” he says. My job will be to describe the properties for sale on the company website in a way that makes them irresistible to buyers. Ed, the young man who picked me up at Lakeview, will handle the technical part.

  “It’s the perfect job for you,” my father tells me. “You like to write, don’t you?”

  I have no idea how my father knows I like to write. I wonder if he went through my notebooks when I was at Lakeview.

  “What about schoolwork?” I say.

  “This will only be for a few hours on Saturdays. You can take your books and work on school stuff afterward,” my father says. He looks at Barbara. This is something the two of them have discussed.

  Barbara says, “It will be good for you to be around fun, motivated people.”

  “I have so much to do just to catch up,” I say weakly. I don’t have the strength to argue.

  “The more things you have to do, the more efficiently you will do them, and the happier you will be for having accomplished what you set out to do.” My father pours red wine into his empty glass. “And you will be getting paid for your work.” He waits for me to ask him how much. When I don’t ask, he says, “The job pays one hundred dollars an hour.”

  He expects me to be impressed and grateful. I smile, because I recognize what he is trying to do. He wants money, the fun of earning it, the pleasure of having it, the thrill of wanting more of it, to light a spark in me. It’s my father’s answer to depression.

  When I came home from school this afternoon, Barbara was in the kitchen cooking. She left work earlier than usual to make a “welcome home” dinner for me, and now we’re having chicken cordon bleu, garlic mashed potatoes, green beans with almonds, and a salad with grapes, croutons, and tiny pieces of orange. Father brought a bouquet of yellow roses for me. They are trying. So I listen to their plans and their hopes for me. They are not my plans and they are not my hopes, but maybe they will do. I’m too tired and too deflated to tell them that going to the office on Saturday mornings to work on a website will just about do me in. I eat as much as I can of Barbara’s dinner, which is not much, and then I ask if I can be excused.

  “I don’t feel all that good,” I say, which is true.

  When I get to my room, I call the hospital to ask about Gabriel. The receptionist tells me that he has been moved to the fifth floor and transfers me to a nurse who tells me the usual, that Gabriel is stable. I know by the way she says this that there is more to Gabriel’s condition than simply stable. But if he’s on the fifth floor, out of the ICU and back on the mental ward, it means that his fever is better. I try Mona again and still no answer. Then I call Dr. Desai. I leave a message for her to call me so we can set up an appointment. I haven’t told my father that I want to continue seeing Dr. Desai and I don’t know how that will go. I will have to cross that bridge soon. I couldn’t do it today. There’s only so much that a day can hold.

  I have one more thing I need to do before the day is over. I search the Internet for the telephone number of Romero Landscape.

  “Hello?” It is Gabriel’s grandfather. I recognize his voice.

&n
bsp; “Mr. Romero, this is Vicky Cruz. I’m Gabriel’s friend from the hospital. I went to your house for Gabriel’s birthday.”

  “Yes! Vicky, I remember. How are you?” He sounds happy.

  “I’m all right, Mr. Romero. How is Gabriel? I called the hospital, but all they will tell me is that he’s stable.”

  “Ah, yes. I don’t know. I think Dr. Desai wants more tests. To see, you know, if it’s something like a tumor.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes. I went to see him. He seems okay one moment and the next like he goes someplace else.”

  “Mr. Romero …”

  “Please, call me Antonio.”

  “Antonio. I called about something else too.”

  “Yes.”

  “My nana. She’s sixty-eight years old and has bad arthritis. I need to find a place for her to live. Gabriel mentioned that you were looking for a boarder. Someone to rent the room in your house. And I was wondering if I could maybe bring my nana over to meet you and your wife someday to see if maybe she could live with you. She has a little trouble walking, especially going up the stairs. But she can help take care of your wife. She’s a very good person. Her name is Juanita.” It feels good to get that out. It feels like the right thing, but I am still nervous.

  “Yes! Yes!” I hear Antonio say and his enthusiasm almost makes me cry. “Come with Juanita to see the room and we all meet. When can you come?”

  “Soon,” I say, “soon. I still have to work some things out.” I have to work a way around my father. “But thank you. That means a lot to me.”

  “Where’s Juanita now?” he asks.

  “She’s staying with a friend.”

  “Does your friend have a phone? I will call her.”

  After I give him Yolanda’s phone number, Antonio says, “You don’t worry. I will take care of this. I will get the room ready. Gabriel will be happy.”

  “Bye, Antonio.” I hang up. Juanita will be good for Chona, and a help to Antonio and Gabriel. And Juanita will like living there. I know the Gabriel who is healthy will be okay with this too.

  I am amazed. I just acted on the hope that things will turn out well.