Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  She clicked her tongue against her teeth sympathetically. “Well, you know, he takes medication for ADD and depression, and once in a while, what with all the confusion with his folks, his mom says he gets his pills confused. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

  What, are you nuts? I thought. Has the whole world gone crazy but me? If I let this go, and something happened to Cameron, I would never forgive myself. “Call his parents. Both of them.”

  “Mr. Stafford should be checking in anytime… .”

  “Call his parents,” I repeated. “Tell them he’s had an emotional outburst at school, and we need to talk to them. If Staff … Mr. Stafford checks in, make sure he knows what’s going on.”

  “All ri-hight.” She sighed, as if I’d just burdened her to the max; then she turned around and headed for her desk.

  In my office, Keiler was leaning against the file cabinet, while Cameron sagged in a chair, his eyes glazed over. The storm of high emotion seemed to have dissipated, and now he was sinking into sleep.

  “How are you feeling, Cameron?” I asked.

  “Not so good.” Clamping a hand to his head, he moaned softly. “I’m so … I’m so …” His eyes fell partway closed; then he pulled them open again. “I’m so stooo-pid.”

  “You’re not stupid, Cameron, but I think you’ve probably done something stupid. I think there are some things going on in your life you need to deal with, but drugs aren’t the way.”

  His eyes opened, blinking in half-time. “I don’t got”—sighing, he looked away—“issues. I just … just … did some … mixed up my med-uhhh-cations. Tha’s all.”

  Bracing his hands on his knees, Keiler leaned closer. “You’re on a whole lot more than ADD medications, Cam.” The usual easygoing tone was gone. This voice left no room for argument. “You’re talking to the guy who’s seen it all, dude. Why don’t you tell me what your poison is today? Got a pretty good case of the sniffles going on there. You crashing off a little ice, or you been huffing something?”

  Cam blinked again, his mood ricocheting from defensive to contrite as his eyes fell closed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford. I didn’t … did-did-didn’t mean to—”

  The nurse stepped in the door, and Cameron dragged his eyes open, giving her a lopsided smile. “Hey, Mrs. Harper.”

  Mrs. Harper, looking no different in her white skirt and bouffant hairdo than she had when I was in school, breezed into the office in her usual no-nonsense manner. “Did ya mess up your medications again, Cameron?” she barked. The question was obviously rhetorical. She’d already made up her mind.

  “Yeah,” Cameron mumbled. “ ’M, sorry.”

  “ ’Sall right.” Snaking a meaty hand under his armpit, she hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes. “C’mon. You can lie down in my office. Your mom’s on her way to getcha.”

  “Why don’t you just leave him here?” I suggested, touching her arm. “Cameron has some things he needs to talk about, and then when his mom comes, the three of us can have a chat.”

  Glaring at my hand as if she were considering biting it off, Mrs. Harper jerked Cameron toward the door. “Nope. This happened a time or two last semester—didn’t it, Cameron? Mom’s instructions are to take him to the nurse’s office and let him lie down, and not to call Dad. It’s just a mix-up with his meds. No point starting a family wrangle over it. Dad doesn’t like him on the ADD meds and antidepressants in the first place.”

  “We’ve already called both of his parents.” And if we haven’t, I’m going to. “Both of them should be aware of what happened today.”

  “Nope.” Mrs. Harper moved her patient efficiently toward the door. “We only call the custodial parent, unless the custodial parent’s not available. Mrs. Jorgenson checked with me to be sure, and that’s what I told her. This week his mom is custodial. Cameron doesn’t change until Thursday night after supper, so technically he’s with Mom until tonight.”

  “In this case, I think—”

  Holding up a hand, she flashed the stop sign. Talk to the hand. “We don’t get in the middle of disagreements between parents, divorced or whatever, Ms. Costell. Not our job.” In a sweep of white fabric and antiseptic odor, they were gone.

  I groaned in frustration, falling into my chair so hard it spun completely around. “I hate this place! Oh, God, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. This place is driving me crazy.”

  “Only takes one barnyard cat to stir up an entire flock of chickens,” Keiler observed wryly.

  “I don’t want to stir things up.” I let my arms fall limp on the desk. “I just want to come to work, do a good job, go home. I don’t want to think about Harrington night and day, but I also don’t want to shuffle kids along, ignoring everything, as long as they keep it together on the surface.” I was on a roll, and the words were tumbling out like high tide crashing over the seawall. “I won’t be the one who teaches these kids that there’s no room for anything less than perfect—that the way to succeed is to stuff everything down and let it eat you up on the inside. I did that for years here, and I know there were staff members who realized there was something wrong with me, who probably even suspected that I was cultivating an eating disorder. I can’t tell you how many times Mrs. Harper found me throwing up in the bathroom, and she ignored it. Geez, not so many years ago, I was the kid passed out in her office, and all she did was pat me on the head and give me Kool-Aid. How can they watch these kids sinking and not throw out a lifeline?” I realized I’d just spilled my whole story to Keiler, and I didn’t even care. I was so frustrated, I felt like exploding.

  Keiler took it all in, his gaze the warm brown of solid ground. “Because they’re treading water themselves,” he said softly. “Sooner or later, to be any good to anybody else, you’ve got to swim for the boat.”

  His eyes held mine, and I saw an amazing strength, an abiding faith that was obvious, even to me. I understood now how he could drift around the country, living moment by moment with no particular plan. He was solidly in the boat.

  Sitting up, I filled my lungs with a long breath, then turned to my computer and opened the student information database. “I’m going to contact Cam’s father.”

  “I would,” he replied, then left my office without another word.

  Chapter 20

  Cameron’s father was out of town, not expected to return until late that evening, according to his secretary. She suggested that I leave him a message, either by voice mail or e-mail, so I did both. After that, I called Sergeant Reuper at the drug prevention task force and left a message telling him I was hoping to arrange a town hall-style forum,a and wondered if he might be willing to participate. I didn’t mention that I would have to convince Mr. Stafford to go along I with this plan. I was hoping that hearing about the police stakeout around the corner and Cameron’s meltdown in the hall, would finally spur him into action.

  I spent the afternoon compiling my drug prevention and intervention research into several pages for the Counselor’s Corner of the school Web site. Keiler came by on his way to after-school parking lot duty, and tried to lure me to the afternoon Jumpkids session.

  I realized that the final bell had just rung, and I hadn’t even noticed. That meant Cameron’s mother must have picked him up and left without even bothering to stop at my office.”

  Keiler didn’t seem surprised. “I had a feeling that was going to happen,” he said.

  Rubbing my forehead, I imagined Cameron going home to his mom’s place, sleeping it off, then waking up in his usual clear-eyed-but-somber mode, and heading off for his dad’s week, during which his father’s intense before-and after-school supervision would keep him from hanging out with Sebastian. Probably.

  I was glad I’d left the messages for his father. At least now Cameron’s situation would be out in the open. “I can’t imagine his mother not stopping by here. I really can’t. What kind of a parent would do that?”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Keiler gave a knowing look that said, Come on, Julia, don
’t be so naive. “A parent who’s busy with her own life. Or a parent who loves her kid and doesn’t want to believe the worst. A parent who can’t imagine that a bright, talented kid from a good home would be using. A parent who trusts her kid, who thinks he’s too young for this issue, who’s got blinders on, who doesn’t think her baby would lie to her, who doesn’t want the scandal …” Wheeling a hand in the air, he stretched the options on and on. Take your pick. “It’s not hard to understand the science of denial. We defend the people we love, even when it’s hurting them.”

  I nodded, thinking back to all the times my parents had accepted my lies, and how good I’d become at telling them. I was desperate to keep from discovered. “You’re right. You’re right.”

  He nodded. “It’s not hard for a kid to hide a habit, and it’s not easy for a parent to stop a kid from using. From the time I went into foster care when I was ten, I was around kids who were using. We weren’t into any hard stuff—just the usual recreational drugs kids consider harmless. As a kid, you think you’re just taking the edge off, making life a little easier, and you’re not hurting anybody. You think it’s your own business and everybody ought to stay out of it. You defend it in all kinds of ways. I didn’t feel the need to quit, even after I was adopted at fifteen, and I knew I was going to be staying in one place, and I knew my parents loved me, and how disappointed they’d be if they found out I was using. I didn’t quit until the day I got sick of myself, and I realized God didn’t put me here to be a loser. Ultimately, life has to be a self-commitment, because everyone else you can fool.”

  I rubbed my eyes, still seeing the glowing white square of the computer screen. When I looked up, Keiler was watching me, perhaps knowing that I was painting an entirely new picture of him in my head. He was more than the hapless Harley-riding guitar player with the baggy hiking pants and bad haircut. There was a depth of spirit in him that I had only just begun to see. He was light-years ahead of me on the emotional learning curve. “How is it that you know so much?”

  “It’s the hair,” he quipped, pausing to turn an ear toward the door. “Wow, listen to that.”

  Moving away from the hum of the computer, I heard the faint sound of music. Somewhere down the hall, a chorus was singing what sounded like a medieval hymn. The notes drifted through the empty space, soft and angelic, giving the hallway the aura of an ancient chapel.

  “That’s Dell,” Keiler said as a single soprano rose above the chorus. He started toward the sound, and I followed.

  “They must be practicing the music for the Spring Fling,” I whispered as we walked down the hall. Ladybugs were clustered around the auditorium doorway, as if they had stopped to listen.

  Stepping inside, Keiler and I leaned against the wall, bathed in music as the girls’ chorus rose to a crescendo; then the music softened, and Dell moved to the solo microphone again. There was no hint of timidity in her as she sang. Her voice filling the room, she tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and sang with her arms outstretched, like the gilr in the river.

  When the song finished, Barry, alone in the empty seats, stood up, whistled, and clapped. Dell laughed as the choir director shushed him.

  Keiler applauded and shouted, “Bravo,” from the back, and the director threw up her hands. Apparently Keiler had obviously made inroads with her, also, because she didn’t shush him, just shifted her hips impatiently to one side and stood there tapping her wand against her arms until he finished his ovation.

  Dell slinked back into the chorus, blushing and grinning.

  “She’s amazing,” I whispered to Keiler as the director started into a diatribe about hitting the notes and keeping the tempo.

  Leaving the auditorium, Keiler and I walked back down the corridor.

  “She’s something,” he said as he left me at my office door.

  “Yes, she is,” I agreed. “I knew she was fantastic at the piano, but I’ve never heard her sing a solo before.”

  “She has a musical soul.” The look in his eyes made it seem as if he were talking about me, as much as about Dell.

  “Yes, she does,” I agreed, realizing that, no matter what else I did in my life, I couldn’t let go my love of music and dance. It was a God-given passion I had to use. Somehow.

  In the meantime, a plan was forming in my head. As I said good-bye to Keiler, I was thinking of Bett’s wedding. So far, she hadn’t been able to find a soloist on such short notice. It looked as if Bett’s musical selections might have to be played on tape, which wasn’t what she wanted… .

  I was on the phone before Keiler was halfway down the hall. “I think I might have found a soloist for you,” I said, then told her about Dell and how talented she was.

  “Really?” Bett sounded interested. “How old did you say she is?”

  “Thirteen,” I answered, “but trust me, she’s really good. Actually, I could probably get a whole chorus for you, if you’d like. I just heard them practicing for the Spring Fling, and they’re wonderful. There are some benefits to working at an arts school.”

  Bett laughed. “As nice as that sounds, I think Mom would have a heart attack if we told her we needed to squeeze choir risers into to the solarium.”

  “When did we decide to go with the solarium?” Suddenly I felt like I’d been deleted from the wedding planning loop. “I thought we were having the wedding in the country club’s main hall.”

  Bett grumbled in her throat. “Mom wanted to use the hall, but you know what? I’ve always wanted a wedding in the garden, and, being as it’s only March, the solarium is as close as we can come. It’s available on our date, and last weekend I put my foot down, that’s all.”

  “Last weekend?” I repeated. “Geez, where have I been?”

  Bett paused to do something, and I heard the click-click of computer keys. “Sorry,” she said when she came back on. “I’m trying to get all the fall showroom orders done ahead for the store. Saturday’s my last day. As of this weekend, I’m unemployed until after the wedding and the move, and then I’ll start putting out résumés in Seattle. Anyway, Mom said you’d been really busy with work this week, and she’s hardly seen you.”

  “The principal has been out sick.” I explained. I felt like I was making excuses for not being there to discuss matrimonial details. “But, listen, I don’t want you to think I’m bailing on the wedding plans. Anything you need, I’m here, OK?”

  Bett laughed into the phone—her sweet, little-sister laugh, which I was going to miss. “You’re already taking care of the dress, and the rehearsal flowers, and now you’ve located a potential soloist. I’d say that’s enough. You do have your own life, you know.”

  I do? The idea came as a surprise. Julia has her own life. An important life, filled with important things to do. Thanks, I wanted to say. Somehow, Bett’s recognizing it made it real. “By the way, the dress is looking wonderful. You are not going to believe how gorgeous it is. I’m supposed to pick it up tomorrow after school, and then I’ll take it straight to Mom’s. Don’t want Jason to see it, after all. Oh, and did you see the sample rose I left with Mom on Monday?” I was suddenly aware of how little I had talked to Bett in the last few days.

  There was an audible intake of breath on the other rend of the phone. “Oh, my gosh, Julia, that thing is beautiful. I have it in a vase on our table, and it’s become more incredible as now it has opened up. I told Mom we should use these in all the bouquets, just cancel the wedding florist and have your lady do it, but Mom pretty well had a heart attack about the idea.”

  I hated to admit it, but I had to. “Mom’s probably right.” “This lady is really sweet, but I think doing all the wedding flowers may be more than she can handle. I don’t even know where her shop is or where she grows her flowers, really. I just see her at the cleaner’s with her flower cart.”

  “It’s a gorgeous rose, anyway,” Bett replied wistfully. “You are really the world’s best big sister.”

  If I could have hugged her through the phone, I wou
ld have. Instead, I sighed, like it was all in a day’s work, and said, “I know, I know. What can I say?”

  “I can’t believe rehearsal’s a week from tomorrow.” There was a flutter of anticipation in Bett’s voice.

  “I know.” I tried to sound equally excited. “One week and two days, and you won’t be a Costell anymore.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I repeated, shoring up the sad sister inside me. “It’s going to be a wonderful wedding, Bett.”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed; then her call waiting beckoned, and we said a hasty good-bye.

  I went back to the dismal subject of kids, drugs, and all the bizarre hiding places that could be used to conceal a stash from parents or teachers—lipstick tubes hollowed out, tiny flashlights modified to serve as pipes, breath-freshener strips laced with LSD, AA batteries hollowed out and filled with crack, mechanical pencils refitted to hold illicit contents. The list went on and on. By the time I’d uploaded it all to the Counselor’s Corner section of the school Web site, I was more determined than ever that changes had to be made at Harrington. We needed to implement random testing, unannounced searches by the drug dog while the kids and their possessions were in school, swabbing of lockers for drug residue, among other things. There was no way to spot the paraphernalia or the drugs just by looking. Which was why, on the surface, Harrington looked fine.

  Outside, the hallway was quiet and growing shadowy by the time I closed my office and left. The Spring Fling rehearsal had finished an hour ago, and most of the teachers had gone home. In the instrumental music room, a single saxophone was playing, and I walked down to tell Verhaden I was leaving. He was sitting in the center of the cavernous room, curled lovingly over the sax with his eyes closed, playing a sad, slow melody. In that position, in the dim light, lost in his music, he looked like the idealistic young teacher who’d come to Harrington when I was Dell’s age.