Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  “See,” I said, leaning closer to Dell. “It’s cool.”

  “I guess.”

  “But you are studying the material, right?” I pressed. “It’s not going to study itself, and you need to pass your nine-week test in history.”

  “Oh, she’s studying.” Barry to the rescue, again. “Keiler and I helped her make an outline at lunch yesterday, and then today we went over it, and …”

  The phone in my office rang, and I tuned out momentarily as Barry ran through a litany of Dell’s study plan, while she stood patiently watching him. Only a person as quiet as Dell could tolerate someone who talked as much as Barry did when he was excited.

  “That sounds good,” I replied. The phone was on its third ring. “You two head on to class. I’d better answer that.” Stepping back through the door, I caught Dell’s eye and gave her English paper a thumbs-up.

  Smiling, she waved it at me, then turned and headed off with Barry, who had started talking again. There was a lightness in her step that, in the past, I had seen only at Jumpkids. She moved down the hall with her shoulders back and her hair swinging in a ponytail, whisking back and forth. By his locker, Cameron stopped to take notice. My phone rang a fourth time, but I hung in the doorway, watching as Barry and Dell had passed Cameron’s locker. If he said anything to spoil their moment, I was going to forget the phone, launch myself down the hall, and release some stress in his direction. All week long, he’d been showing up for school in Sebastian’s car, tardy half of the time, overly mellow and smelling heavily of cologne, which was probably a cover for the smoky-sweet scent of marijuana. By noon, he looked like a sidewalk bum with a hangover, and he couldn’t stay awake in class. He didn’t want to talk about it, and the way the week was going, I didn’t have time to pursue him. As soon as he switched back to his dad’s house, which would hopefully mean that he would arrive at school sober, I was going to call him in and at least try to get through to him, perhaps with Keiler’s help. Cameron was one of his algebra students, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Two days in a row, I’d passed by Keiler’s classroom on my way to after-school door duty, and seen Keiler demonstrating guitar licks to several kids, including Cameron.

  Dell and Barry passed Cameron’s locker without incident, and I dashed into my office, grabbing the phone from the wrong side of the desk, hoping it was Sergeant Reuper from the drug prevention task force. I’d put in calls twice this week, and so far he hadn’t been in touch. I’d begun constructing a conspiracy theory in which Sergeant Reuper was dodging me because he knew that Harrington students were going to be caught in the stakeout of the taco stands, and he was afraid I would question him about it.

  The voice on the other end of the line was a woman’s. “Hello, Ms. Costell? This is Twana Stevens, with social services down in Hindsville. I’m Dell Jordan’s caseworker. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  A myriad of reasons for the call ran through my mind, none of them good. “Yes … uhhh … yes, of course. What can I do for you?” Sidestepping around my desk, I slid into my chair.

  Her words seemed carefully phrased. “Brother Baker at the Baptist church here mentioned that Dell might have shared with you some information about her father?” She paused, perhaps waiting to see if I would jump into the conversation, then went on. “I don’t know to what extent you’re aware of Dell’s background or home situation… .”

  The sentence trailed off, and I felt obliged to interject, “She has told me some things about it, and there are various reports in her file.” I stopped there, unsure of where the conversation was going, or how much I should reveal. Perhaps this woman, this voice on the other end of the phone, could unlock the secrets to Dell’s history. “She is preoccupied with the question of her father’s identity, as anyone in her situation would be.” The irony of that statement struck me. “I think it’s hard for her to move on with those issues unanswered.”

  She replied with another question. “But she hasn’t given you any information about her father—maybe his last known whereabouts, a middle name—anything like that?”

  The inquiry made me wonder if Dell really talked to her social worker, or if they just sat in a room looking at each other. “As far as I can cipher, she knows almost nothing about her father’s identity, but there may be things she isn’t telling me. Her file says that her father is part or all Choctaw Indian, and she seems to be aware of that segment of her heritage. She’s resistant to discussing most things face-to-face, but she has been journaling some things about her life. All she’s mentioned so far are some vague suppositions about a man her mother dated—someone with long dark hair. I guess that doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “None. I’ve only been on the job here for three years. Our dealings with the family during that time have been the usual game of hide-and-seek. As kids grow older, they become adept at playing the game. They see us as the enemy, so it’s not surprising that she has been unwilling to reveal any information to me. I thought she might have told you more.”

  “Not about that. I wish I could be of more help, but to be honest, Dell’s school file is somewhat hodgepodge. There’s no father’s name on any of her paperwork. Come to think of it, there’s no copy of the birth certificate in the file at all. That’s odd.”

  “Our files aren’t what they should be either,” Twana admitted. “Things slip by, especially in instances that don’t involve imminent danger to the child. I’m trying to clear up Dell’s papwerwork right now, the reason being that her foster parents intend to petition for adoption, and I’m doing everything I can to make that happen. But on her original birth certificate there’s a father’s name listed. Thomas Clay.”

  My heart skipped a beat, and I grabbed my notepad, carefully writing down the name, Thomas Clay. Dell’s father. Did she know there was a name on her birth certificate?

  “Does that sound familiar at all?” Twana asked. “Has Dell mentioned anyone by that name, or any relatives on that side of her family?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Is there a reason she believes that this man who was dating her mother might have been her father?”

  I thought about the things Dell had revealed to me, wondering how much I should share. On the one hand, there was her privacy. On the other hand, there was the issue of Dell’s future with her new family, and her unanswered questions about her past. On the third hand, there was Brother Baker at the church in Hindsville, telling me that none of the men Dell’s mother dated were very savory characters. “She only mentioned a feeling she had, and the fact that he took her to the doctor once when she was sick. That could be simple coincidence, or something more.”

  “All right.” Twana paused, as if she were making notes. “Thank you for talking with me.”

  “Is there a specific reason you’re trying to find the identity of her father—other than just clearing up her paperwork, I mean?” I interjected before she could close the conversation.

  There was a contemplative pause, and then she lowered her voice in a way that told me we were talking counselor to counselor now. “Confidentially, this person, this Thomas Clay on her birth certificate, may be her father or may not be. Brother Baker says her mother had quite a reputation. But whoever this man is, legally he is her father. Before Dell can be cleared for adoption, he either has to relinquish parental rights, or we have to file to terminate them. We are obligated to attempt to notify him of this process. Considering that he has never had any contact with Dell, the easiest and quickest scenario would be for him to relinquish rights, or for us to determine that he is deceased. The other alternative is more complicated, but it looks like we may have to go that route.”

  “Do Dell’s foster parents know all of this?” The word custody sat on my chest like lead. In my internship with social services, I’d learned more about the complicated world of child custody than I ever wanted to know.

  “They’re aware that we are trying to clear up Dell’s file,” Twana replied. “They’re willing to do w
hatever it takes. Dell’s lucky to have found people who love her so much. So many kids aren’t so fortunate, especially kids her age.”

  “I see.” I felt a need to end the conversation. My mind was a sea of what-ifs. What if Dell’s father was found, and he decided to petition for custody? My time with social services had taught me that parents can have no interest in their children—right up to the moment someone else asks for permanent custody. Then suddenly, they’re interested.

  On the other hand, what if social services discovered that Dell’s father was deceased? How would she feel about that? The last person who could give her the answers she yearned for would be gone.

  The greatest likelihood was that he would never be found at all. Thomas Clay wasn’t much to go on. Maybe the best thing I could do for Dell was encourage her to forget the past and move on with her future… .

  Outside in the hall, someone was slamming lockers. Everyone should have been in class, so I probably needed to check on it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Mrs. Stevens. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need to in the future.”

  “Certainly, we will. Thank you Ms. Costell.” She said good-bye, and I slapped the phone into the cradle. In the hall there was yelling, or wailing. Long, mournful sounds echoed through the corridor, and by the time I made it to my door, the hall was filling with chaotic noise as kids spilled out classroom doorways, trying to see what was going on, while teachers hollered for them to get back in their seats. Somewhere, Mrs. Morris was screeching, “Return to your rooms, all of you! Class is still in session! Anyone I see in this hallway will be going to detention!”

  Near my office, an art class with a substitute teacher had bolted into the corridor, so that I couldn’t see what was happening farther down. “Back in class,” I hollered, herding them toward the door. “Back in your seats.” They retreated to the doorway as the sub tried in vain to restart the lesson.

  Shooing more kids toward their rooms, I cleared the hallway until I could see the source of the commotion. Halfway down, Cameron was standing with his back against his locker, slowly banging his head on the door, moaning something about a history grade, and his father, and how he couldn’t take this anymore. “You’re such a screwup. You’re such a screwup!” he wailed, the words loose and slurred. “You should just kill yourself and get it over with. You’re such a screwup… .”

  Mrs. Morris was standing in front of him, one hand on her hip and the other pointing toward a classroom, saying, “You will stop this right now, young man. Back to your class this instant, or I am calling your parents.” Beside her, the eighth-grade history instructor, a quiet, mousy second-year teacher who had constant discipline difficulties, stood dumbfounded, while other staff members delivered questioning glances from their doorways, uncertain whether to interfere, or let the history teacher and Mrs. Morris handle the situation.

  “What’s going on?” the geography teacher asked as I passed.

  “No idea,” I admitted. “I’m sure we can handle it, though.”

  “OK,” she replied doubtfully, glancing toward Mr. Stafford’s office, probably wishing he were there. “I’m here if you need me.”

  At the opposite end of the hall, Keiler rounded the corner, hobbling toward Cameron and Mrs. Morris as fast as he could.

  “Call ’em. Call my parents. They won’t care,” Cameron wailed, emitting a string of expletives that set Mrs. Morris on fire. “They don’t care.” His head fell back with a metallic crash, and he slowly slid down his locker until he landed on the floor with his head in his hands, sobbing.

  Mrs. Morris stood over him, her fists braced on her hat-rack hips. “Now, you listen to me, young man. That is enough of this foolishness… .”

  Keiler reached Cameron just before I did. Sidestepping Mrs. Morris, he squatted down in front of the lockers. “Come on, Cam. You don’t want to do this—not here. Let’s go to the counselor’s office and talk about it, all right?” He laid a hand on Cameron’s shoulder, and Cam looked up, his eyes unfocused and dilated, filled with an inner desperation.

  “I flunked my test,” he cried, his head crashing against the lockers and rolling miserably back and forth. “I forgot it was today. I just … forgot. My dad’s gonna kill me. He’s gonna say it was because I was at my mom’s.”

  Keiler gave Cameron’s shoulder a squeeze and a little shake. “It’s one history test in the eighth grade, Cam. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

  Sitting back on his heels, Keiler rested his hands on his knees, determined to stay there, squatted on the floor, as long as it took. “That doesn’t seem real likely, Cam. Your dad’s got … what … fourteen years invested in you? I doubt if he’s gonna off you now.”

  Cameron blinked, his head bobbing as he tried to focus. “You don’t … know my da-ad.” The words were slushy, his eyes falling partway closed.

  “You probably don’t either, at this point,” Keiler said gently. “Messed up like this, you don’t have a clue what’s real and what’s coming out of the purple haze. What are you using today, Cam? You coming down off something?”

  “No.” Cameron sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’m just havin’ a bad day.”

  “Cameron,” I said, squatting down also, aware that kids and teachers were still watching, seeing and hearing everything that was going on. “Why don’t we go talk about this in my office? There’s no sense sitting out here.”

  “Darned straight,” Keiler agreed, sliding a hand under Cameron’s arm. “Why have a bad day in front of everybody? That’ll only make it harder to get dates.”

  Cameron laughed drowsily. “Yeah. Thanks, Mr. Bradford.”

  Standing up, Keiler dragged Cameron with him. “OK, big guy, let’s try to shape up and look good for the girls, now,” he joked, and Cameron laughed again, then hung his head, probably aware, somewhere in the fog, that everyone had seen him crash and burn.

  Keiler glanced back over his shoulder. “Can someone check on my class? They’re supposed to be doing a study sheet.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Mrs. Morris barked. “I’m on planning period, anyway.”

  “Thanks, Ada,” Keiler replied, and I could have fallen over from shock. Mrs. Morris had a first name? And Keiler knew it?

  Even Cameron, as out of it as he was, didn’t miss Keiler’s unheard-of slip. “Bore-us Morris’s got a name?” he asked, way too loudly. Then he proceeded to sing, “Aaaa-da, Aaaa-da,” in a way that made the word echo down the hall.

  Glancing sideways at me, Keiler frowned sympathetically. “Doubt if he’s going to have a very good day in Accelerated English class tomorrow.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. After this, Cameron would be on Mrs. Morris’s hit list, whether his dad was on the school board or not. Catching my breath as we moved down the hall, I mopped the nervous perspiration from my forehead. Good God, what a day …

  When we reached the administration office, Mrs. Jorgenson was waiting outside the door, repeatedly tapping the tips of her fingers together, then pressing them against her lips, as if she didn’t know what to do next.

  “You’d better call Mr. Stafford,” I said as we passed. “He should decide how to handle this.”

  Mrs. Jorgenson winced. “I tried, but no one was home. Could be he’s gone to the doctor or something.”

  I vacillated as Keiler led Cameron into my office. I had no idea what the school’s policy was on an issue like this, and if I did the wrong thing, it would be my head when Stafford found out. A situation of this type required careful handling, especially with a high-profile kid like Cameron. “Ask Mr. Verhaden—”

  “Gone to that contest with the jazz ensemble,” she cut me off.

  Isn’t anybody in charge here? I wanted to scream. Think, Julia, think. What would Stafford do? I knew the answer to that question, of course. Stafford would try to minimize the situation. I didn’t want to be responsible for letting Cameron off the hook; nor did I want to ope
n a can of worms while Stafford was gone. “Call the principal’s office at the high school. See if Dr. Lee or Mr. Fortier can come over.”

  “I can try, but last I heard they were both gone to the district office—budget meetings, again. They’re trying to convince the central administration that we need to go back to having a full-time assistant principal. Mr. Stafford’s been calling in every few hours to see how it’s going. I’m sure he’ll call again soon”—her brows lifted hopefully—“if you can just wait.”

  Wait. And do … what? Let the kid pass out in my office? Wrapping my fingers around my neck, I had the strangest urge to squeeze off the blood flow to my brain and sink into a peaceful darkness. Only because Mrs. Jorgenson was looking at me expectantly did I feel forced to come up with a plan. “Let me know as soon as you find someone. In the meantime, call the nurse and tell her we’re bringing him down there. She’ll need to monitor him to make sure he’s all right. Call his parents to come get him.”

  Mrs. Jorgenson swallowed visibly, tipping her head to peer at me over the top of her reading glasses. “You want me to call the parents?”

  “Yes.” Why was she was gaping at me like I’d just blasted off for Jupiter? “This is definitely a situation in which the parents should be notified. Their kid just went off his rocker in the school hallway.”

  “But he didn’t … hurt anyone, or anything,” she stammered. “He didn’t really even” raising both hands in a gesture that said, Whatcha gonna do? Kids will be kids, she finished with—“break any school rules or anything. Well, maybe not being in the classroom when he was supposed to, and causing a little disruption in the hall, but that’s usually something we would just … handle.” She checked the clock on the wall. “Especially this late in the day. School’s out in an hour and a half.”

  I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. Let me get this straight—you want me to leave a kid in my office, having a drug-induced meltdown for an hour and a half, so you won’t have to make a phone call? “Mrs. Jorgenson, that kid is coming down off something and he’s crashing hard. His emotions are out of control, and he doesn’t even realize what’s going on.”