Thank you, I say silently to Gabriel’s God. I turn to my father. “Is it okay if I go in and talk to Mona? E.M. can drive me home.”
My father takes a long look at E.M. “We’ll wait with you and drive home together. I’ll call Barbara and let her know.”
“You coming?” I say to E.M.
“You go,” he says. “If she sees me, she’ll want to take more of that morphine.”
“No, she won’t,” I say. “Come with me.”
We follow the nurse through the swinging doors, my heart racing. The nurse opens the curtain, and there is Mona, pale, tubes connected to her arm, monitors with fragile neon lines inching across dark screens. “One minute,” the nurse says. She closes the curtain behind her.
Mona’s eyes are closed, so E.M. and I stand in front of her, watching. I think of Mamá in those final days, with the oxygen mask. Mona’s right hand is only partially covered by the light, white blanket. Glorified sheets, she called them. I place my hand on top of hers. She opens her eyes and makes a move to take the oxygen mask off, but the tubes on her arm restrict her.
“Shh,” I say.
“Hey,” E.M. says when her eyes fix on him.
She moves her free hand from under mine and lifts the oxygen mask. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Didn’t I tell you the guy was bad news?” E.M. reminds her.
“It’s okay,” I say, elbowing E.M.
“What am I going to do now?” she asks, looking at me first and then at E.M. “Without Lucy?”
“First thing you gotta do is stay away from the garbage,” E.M. says. “I don’t mean just the drugs, I mean the people, like that Rudy.”
“He turned out to be bad,” Mona admits.
“But at least he found Lucy for you,” I say. “And now you can be at peace knowing that she’s well and happy. You can let go, move on.”
“Move on? Where?”
“You’ll find a way to keep going,” I say, amazed that I am saying this and I believe it with all my heart. “There’s lots of Lucys in the world that need you.”
“Clean yourself up,” E.M. adds. “Get a job. You can get permission to see her. Write the people where she’s at or the State. I know a good lawyer. Or two.”
“No,” Mona says. “I start wanting to see her and then it’s like a hunger. No more Lucy. Maybe someday, but right now, no more.” She looks at me and then at E.M. “But how do you get rid of want?”
“You hold on tight as hell and do nothing,” E.M. says. “Or you work, dig holes, anything until it goes away.” The way he says this, both Mona and I know that he’s been there and done that.
“Where will you go after this?” I ask Mona.
“Dr. Desai says I can go back to the ranch for a while until I find a job. Maybe in Fredericksburg. Home’s probably not a good idea right now.”
“You’ll be lonely without the GTH,” I say.
“Dr. Desai said that maybe Gabriel will need to spend some time at the ranch too. He’s worse, isn’t he?”
“He’s worse than the last time you saw him, yes.”
“Hey,” E.M. says. “Pepe, you know the guy at the ranch. He said they were looking for an extra hand to work on an irrigation ditch that’s all stopped up. It’s only for two or three weeks. He said I could have the job. I don’t have anything going on workwise at home right now.”
“You threatening me with your presence?” Mona says, forcing a smile.
“Don’t get any ideas. I’m doing it for the money.”
“How about you, Vicky?” Mona whispers. “We can have the GTH back.”
“Maybe I can come visit,” I say.
“You’re okay at home?”
I nod, and I’m surprised to realize it’s maybe true.
She smiles a delicate, sad smile, squeezes my hand, and then places the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose.
“See you soon, Princess Psycho,” E.M. says. Then he draws the curtains open and we walk out.
E.M. shakes his head when we are outside. “My people. You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.” The way he says this makes me laugh.
“I’m going to see if Gabriel is awake. You want to come?” I ask.
“No, I’ve had it with you crazies,” he says, grinning. “I gotta go get me some normal.”
I hug him and he hugs me back.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For teaching me to be brave.”
“Pshh.” He waves his hand. “You were always brave.”
On his way out, E.M. stops to say something to my father and Becca. I smile when I see him attempt some secret Chicano handshake on my father.
A new nurse I’ve never seen before leads me to Gabriel’s room. “Two minutes,” she says to me and means it.
Gabriel is in bed, with Antonio sitting in the chair next to him. Antonio stands when he sees me and leaves the room. He shakes his head sadly as I walk by.
I walk up and stand by Gabriel’s bedside. He looks different somehow, calmer, as if a great storm has just gone through him.
“Gabriel?”
He speaks without looking at me. “A zero is nothing, but if the zero follows the one? Then it is something.”
“Yes,” I say, “that’s true.”
He licks his cracked lips. “Whenever the angel comes down, the first thing he says is ‘Be not afraid.’ Must be his beauty that makes people scared.”
I nod. “Remember those little children your grandmother saw? When I went to your house for your birthday? They were angels, weren’t they? She wasn’t afraid of them.”
“Little angels. Ask them for privacy when you need to do your business.”
“Yeah, that’s what you need to do now. Ask them for privacy.” I wait until he finishes moving his lips and looks at me. “Mona’s okay. She’s safe.”
“Mona’s safe. I’m alive. I didn’t die.”
“Yes.”
“Is God angry?”
“No.”
“He told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, but He never meant for Abraham to do it. It was to make Abraham strong.”
The serious-looking nurse opens the door and waits for me.
“I have to go now,” I tell him.
“Vicky.”
“Yes?”
“Green is the color of life all around us.”
Our eyes meet. There in the deepest part of his pupils, I see my Gabriel.
We stop at one of those twenty-four-hour pancake places. Becca and Father sit on one side of the booth and I sit on the other.
I know we’re all thinking this, but I’m the one who says it. “Remember when we used to come here with Mamá?”
“Yeah,” Becca says. “She liked the different syrups. Strawberry syrup was her favorite.”
“Butter pecan,” Father says. “That was her favorite.”
“No,” Becca says. “Strawberry.”
“Boysenberry,” I say.
They look at me and laugh. I am right. We are quiet, remembering. Then my father says, “What will happen to your friend?”
“Dr. Desai wants to do some tests to see if there are any physical causes for … the voice he hears. If there’s nothing physically wrong with him, we’ll wait and see. If the voice persists, he will need to be treated for schizophrenia.”
“Is there a cure for that?”
“Maybe not a cure, but it can be managed. People can function and live their lives, with proper care.”
Father stares at me, his jaws tight. It is killing him not to say something, I can tell, but he doesn’t.
“Tell us about this new place you found for Juanita,” Becca says.
“What’s this?” my father asks, choking on his coffee. I give Becca a Did you really have to bring that up? look, and she gives me back a Trust me on this one.
I inhale. “Juanita is going to live with Gabriel’s grandparents. They need someone to take care of Chona, Gabriel’s grandmother. She doesn’t want to go bac
k to Mexico, Dad.”
My father shakes his head. I expect anger, but when he speaks, he sounds exasperated. The day is taking a toll on him. “You don’t know what you’re taking on. Her arthritis is going to get worse. She doesn’t have any health insurance. She’ll need taking care of for the rest of her life. She’s better off in Mexico with her family.”
“Except she doesn’t really want to go,” I say. “We shouldn’t abandon her just because it will be expensive to take care of her. Maybe you should have been paying for health insurance and Social Security while she worked for us.”
His face turns red. Here comes the anger.
Becca says quickly, “It’s a good solution, Dad. I don’t think you can do anything about it. If you don’t want to pay for future medical bills, you don’t have to.” She pauses and looks at me briefly. “Think about what Mamá would have done.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not winning too many battles today, am I?”
The waitress comes with our plates. “Do you have any boysenberry syrup?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” says the waitress. “No more boysenberry since about a year ago. We discontinued it. Don’t ask me why. There’s people that stopped coming here because no boysenberry. I’ll tell you what I tell them: Life goes on. Blueberry? Strawberry?”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll have the plain old maple.” I begin to cut my pancakes into bite-size pieces. I wonder if in the silence that follows, we are all thinking of her. “You know what I’d like to do tomorrow?”
“Barbara wants to take us shopping,” Becca says. “She texted me when we were coming out of the airport.”
“I’d like for the three of us to go visit Mamá.”
Becca looks at me and then at Father. He looks out the window.
“We haven’t gone since …” Becca says. There’s a strand of shame in her voice.
“We can take her some of her favorite roses, from the backyard,” I say.
Becca and I both look at Father, waiting, waiting, and then he nods.
“So,” he says abruptly, as if to move on to happier thoughts, “what are your plans, Vicky?”
I’m expecting the question. But the way he asks it is different than I expected. He really wants to know what my plans are. I study my plate. The three pancakes are now each in a dozen bite-size pieces. “I think I’d like to check out Westgate. Maybe transfer, like Mr. Robinson suggested.”
“Public school?” Becca asks, her mouth full.
“I don’t think so,” Father says.
He and I stare at each other.
“I’ll stay at Reynard,” I say. “But I’m not going to the office on Saturdays. I need Saturday mornings to catch up on schoolwork and to work on stuff for The Quill and my own writing. I want to continue seeing Dr. Desai, and I’ll need a new car to visit Juanita and Gabriel and see Mona and E.M., wherever they are.” I look at my plate again and wait. I know Becca is smiling, so I don’t dare to look at her.
“You can use Becca’s car,” my father finally says. “After you take driving lessons.”
I look up just in time to see Becca wink.
Two weeks later, while I’m working on a poem, Galileo jumps through the open window.
One December morning thirty-seven years ago, I found myself at Stillman Infirmary, the ten-bed facility of Harvard University Health Services. I was lying on a very tall bed, looking out the window at the first snowflakes of the season. The doctor who treated me when the Harvard police brought me in the night before had just finished telling me that I was “out of the woods.” I was fortunate. My roommate’s sister had unexpectedly returned home before the sixty or so assorted pills I swallowed could complete their intended task. I don’t remember what I was thinking about as I watched the snowflakes float slowly down. It’s possible that I was going over the implication of the doctor’s words. I was physically out of the woods. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, I was in the thick of them.
One key to the long, painful process of getting out of those other woods was the eventual realization that I was ill. The illness that sought to diminish (and extinguish) my life is called depression. Observing it, knowing when to fight it and when to surrender to it, functioning despite it, befriending it whenever possible, is part of my everyday existence.
Living with depression has taught me many valuable truths about myself, about others, about life and its purpose. One of the things I learned is that the act that brought me to Stillman when I was twenty-four was not caused by whatever circumstances I was finding unbearable at the time. Taking the pills was simply the ultimate symptom of a disease that I have been able to trace to my teenage years. I did not know I was depressed when I was fourteen. I’m not sure I even knew that something was wrong. I only knew that I hurt inside, and talking to someone about that hurt was not an option. I was too ashamed to admit to anyone (even to myself) that I felt constantly sad and lonely and unworthy. I know now that had I been able to share my feelings with someone who did not judge me weak or ungrateful (for I had many good things going for me), I might not have tried to end my life ten years later.
It is my hope that Vicky’s story will make it easier for young people to recognize depression in themselves and others and to feel more comfortable talking about it. Listed here are some places where you can read more about depression, or talk to compassionate, nonjudgmental persons who will listen and understand.
NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION LIFELINE
1-800-273-TALK (8255)
www.youmatter.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
THE TREVOR PROJECT
(especially for LGBTQ young people)
1-866-488-7386
www.thetrevorproject.org
AMERICAN FOUNDATION FOR SUICIDE PREVENTION
www.afsp.org/preventing-suicide/find-help
A TEENAGER’S GUIDE TO DEPRESSION
www.helpguide.org/articles/depression/teenagers-guide-to-depression.htm
METANOIA
www.metanoia.org/suicide
MY BROKEN PALACE
mybrokenpalace.com
FRANCISCO X. STORK is the author of five novels, including Marcelo in the Real World, which received five starred reviews and the Schneider Family Book Award; The Last Summer of the Death Warriors, winner of the Amelia Elizabeth Walden Award from ALAN; and Irises. He lives near Boston with his family. You can find him on the web at www.franciscostork.com and @StorkFrancisco.
Copyright © 2016 by Francisco X. Stork
All rights reserved. Published by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and the LANTERN LOGO are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stork, Francisco X., author.
The memory of light / Francisco X. Stork. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: When Victoria Cruz wakes up in the psychiatric ward of a Texas hospital after her failed suicide attempt, she still has no desire to live, but as the weeks pass, and she meets Dr. Desai and three of the other patients, she begins to reflect on the reasons why she feels like a loser compared with the rest of her family, and to see a path ahead where she can make a life of her own.
ISBN 978-0-545-47432-0 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Mexican Americans — Texas — Juvenile fiction. 2. Suicide — Juvenile fiction. 3. Depression, Mental — Juvenile fiction. 4. Psychotherapy patients — Juvenile fiction. 5. Friendship — Juvenile fiction. 6. Families — Texas — Juvenile fiction. [1. Mexican Americans — Fiction. 2. Suicide — Fiction. 3. Dep
ression, Mental — Fiction. 4. Psychotherapy — Fiction. 5. Friendship — Fiction. 6. Family life — Texas — Fiction. 7. Texas — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S88442Me 2015
[Fic] — dc23
2014044136
First edition, February 2016
Cover art © 2016 by Ken Choi
Cover design by Christopher Stengel
e-ISBN 978-0-545-63402-1
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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