When Reason Breaks

by Cindy L. Rodriguez

  Mr. Bowles laughed, while Mrs. Bowles winked at Elizabeth. Tommy was a cool blend of his parents. He got his height from Dad and his eyes from Mom. His brown, shaggy hair was the result of his dad’s straight, light-brown hair mixed with his mom’s almost black ringlets.

  “Anyway, I was talking to Elizabeth, not you, Connor,” said Mrs. Bowles.

  “Lo siento, querida,” he said and pecked her again. “Hey, Elizabeth, did I ever tell you the two Spanish phrases I learned before asking Elena to marry me? ‘Sí, querida’ and ‘Lo siento, querida.’ ”

  “You’re a smart man, Mr. Bowles,” Elizabeth said and grinned at Mrs. Bowles. Elizabeth created a red heart on her skull’s forehead. Swirls of blue and dots of orange covered its cheeks and the top of its head, while its teeth were outlined in black, tiny lines separating each tooth.

  Mr. Bowles sat across from Elizabeth, chose two skulls, and did his best to decorate one in green and orange and another in red and blue to honor his dead Irish and British ancestors.

  “Anyway, souls are immortal,” continued Mrs. Bowles. “Like the living, they don’t want to be ignored. Like us, too, they enjoy a good party, which is why we drink and eat and make candies and tell funny stories.”

  “Do you remember when Great-Granddad saw the smoke from the grill and thought the porch was on fire, so he busted through the screen door?” said Mr. Bowles. “He yelled, ‘Bloody hell, Connor, who puts a grill so close to the house?’ like it was my fault and it was perfectly reasonable for him to think the porch was in flames.”

  Everyone laughed hard.

  “Or the time Abuela was cleaning out the big square garbage can and she bent over to scrub down low and she fell inside,” said Tommy.

  “She’s lucky she didn’t break anything and, Dios mío, did she swear like a sailor that day,” Mrs. Bowles said and wiped her eyes. She nodded. “It’s good to laugh and cry. Too much crying without laughing is bad for the soul.”

  Mrs. Bowles wiped her eyes once more and said, “What a sight, with her legs sticking out of the can.” She chuckled and added, “¿Quiere café?”

  “Sí, querida,” said Mr. Bowles.

  “I was talking to Elizabeth,” she said and smiled.

  “Sí, gracias,” said Elizabeth as she reached for a new skull to beautify.

  The next day, Tommy and Elizabeth sat beneath the weeping willow in the cemetery after embellishing the tombstones with marigolds and bedazzled candy skulls. Elizabeth rested the first skull she selected the day before next to Sophia Holland’s headstone.

  Mrs. Bowles offered Tommy and Elizabeth a blanket and bagged lunches before she left.

  “Your mom’s the best,” said Elizabeth as she removed a sandwich from the bag. She held up a napkin and plastic utensils. “She thinks of everything.”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “She’s a keeper.”

  Elizabeth retrieved her marble design–covered journal from her bag. While she ate, she alternately glanced over the cemetery and jotted down notes.

  Tommy inched toward her and extended his neck to view the page.

  “If you get any closer, I’ll stab you in the eye with my pencil,” she said.

  “The point of the holiday is to honor death, not encourage it,” said Tommy.

  Elizabeth giggled and continued her work in her notebook.

  “So, whatcha got in there?” Tommy asked and craned his neck again.

  “Random thoughts, poems, sketches, et cetera.”

  “Can I …?”

  “No,” she said, cutting him off.

  Tommy sighed. “You know, I read somewhere that to remain alive in the physical world after death, a person should procreate or publish.”

  “What are you suggesting, Tomás?” Elizabeth asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Well, we’re too young to have babies. I mean, we’re not technically, but I’d rather wait, so the only real option right now is to publish.”

  “Well, then, mission accomplished,” said Elizabeth. “You’ve had lots of articles published in the school newspaper. I’ll call you the Immortal Mr. Bowles from now on.”

  “I like the way that sounds,” he said and rubbed his clean-shaven chin.

  “According to your mom, the soul is immortal, so we don’t have to do anything to live forever. No books or babies required.”

  “Right, but if you want to be remembered in the physical world, you should leave something physical behind,” said Tommy. “Think about it, a child is likely to have children, and so on and so on, and a published work lives forever. We wouldn’t still be talking about Shakespeare or Dickinson if they didn’t create something that was eventually shared with the world.”

  “True, so, I ask again, what are you suggesting, Tomás?”

  “You should publish something in the newspaper.”

  “My photos are published all the time. That’s art, so consider me immortalized.”

  “Yeah, but you could do more, like write articles or publish something from your secret journal there.”

  Elizabeth remained quiet for a minute. She closed her notebook and clutched it to her chest. “Taking pictures for the newspaper is different. Those aren’t personal. What I write in here is. And I can’t go around stabbing everyone who hates it,” she said, jabbing her pencil up and down.

  “True, but will you think about it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll consider it, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I get to eat your Dead Bread,” she said with a smile.

  “I don’t have any Pan de Muerto.”

  “Liar! Your mom put a piece in my bag, so you must have one, too.”

  “Clearly, she likes you more,” said Tommy as he opened his paper sack wide to show her the absence of sweets.

  “Like I said, your mom’s the best.” Elizabeth ripped her piece of bread in half and offered it to Tommy.

  “Thanks,” he said and took a bite.

  After eating, Elizabeth lay on her side, her bag beneath her head like a pillow. She patted the space beside her.

  “Nap time?” Tommy asked with a smile.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “Shocker,” he said and lay down next to her.

  “I know, right?” She forced a smile and closed her eyes. “Poke me in the side if I snore, okay?”

  “If you’re sleeping so soundly that you’re snoring, I definitely will not poke you.” He gently removed a small leaf from her hair. “You deserve to rest in peace.”

  Elizabeth glared at him.

  “I mean it, not in a creepy way,” he said with a smile and closed his eyes. “Besides, I’m going to join you, so I won’t know if you’re snoring. We’ll both R.I.P., me and double-E.D.”

  “Please don’t ever publish your own poetry,” she said with a laugh.

  After a while, Tommy fell asleep. Elizabeth gazed at him through partially opened lids and inhaled and exhaled when he did, in the same slow, steady rhythm. Eventually, she dozed off, but her slumber didn’t last long. She was startled awake when a newly felled leaf landed on her cheek.

  Chapter 18

  My Letter to the World

  Do you know the side effects of sleep deprivation, Ms. Diaz?

  Fatigue (duh, right?), memory problems, feeling weak, irritable, depressed.

  I didn’t need to look this up anywhere, although I did google it to see if my pessimism was a real medical condition or simply my personality. Seriously, though, I couldn’t sleep. Not for a long time. And when I did doze off, I had nightmares.

  I had one over and over, of a plane crashing into the ocean. Sometimes I’d wake up as soon as the plane hit the water and broke into pieces. Other times, I’d find myself underwater, able to see and breathe. I was calm, looking up at the light above the water’s surface. A few times, I tried to swim to the top. I kicked and pushed with my arms, but about halfway up, I couldn’t breathe underwater anymore. Salt water filled my nose and mouth. I fou
ght to get to the top, but never made it. The illuminated surface was just out of reach.

  I knew then something deep down inside me was broken. It was the tiniest of cracks, like a pebble hitting a windshield on the highway—plink. No big deal, right? Wait a while. The crack will deepen and spread and permanently damage the once-strong glass.

  So, WWEDW? What Would Emily Dickinson Write?

  Maybe this: “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain … And then a Plank in Reason, broke, / And I dropped down, and down –”

  Yeah, that. Exactly that.

  Did Emily Dickinson pull away from the world because it was easier and safer to hide than face it all? Or did something inside of her crack? Was something really wrong with her, the way something was really wrong with me? No one seems to know for sure about her. No one really knew about me.

  I mean, something was obviously off, but I didn’t want to get into it. It was none of their business.

  I had to do something, though, because I needed to sleep. So I did what Emily Dickinson wouldn’t do. I went to Mom. Yeah, I know, bad move. I should’ve stuck with her idea that “I never had a mother” because she’s not the person I turn to with problems. I guess that shows how desperate I was. Or hopeful, maybe, that she would be like other moms for once. That she’d listen and care.

  I told her about the dreams and was ready to tell her more, but she stopped me. She walked into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of pills, and popped off the cap. I opened my hand and she tapped one into my palm. “Take half,” she said. “They’re strong.”

  Thanks, Mom, for making it crystal clear that we can never have a conversation about anything that matters because you’re too wrapped up in your own problems to unravel mine. Got it.

  The next morning, I wanted to thank her for real, though. I didn’t remember anything from the night before. No dreams. No nightmares. Nothing. At first, this freaked me out, but then I was relieved. I mean, think about it. My plank in reason broke and I was dropping down and down. Eventually, I’d hit the ground and shatter. Hanging out in Limbo Land for a while seemed like a good alternative. I knew it was a temporary fix, but it was better than falling from planes or planks or anything else.

  Chapter 19

  “I was the slightest in the House –”

  “Good morning, everyone,” Ms. Diaz said as she closed her classroom door. “Today, you’re going to work in pairs, so the first thing I want to do is …”

  “Can we pick our partner?” asked Kevin.

  “No. The first thing I want to do is move the desks into pairs facing each other.”

  Ms. Diaz directed the students as they moved the desks into place. She then pointed—“You and you, here; you and you, there”—and handed each pair a folder. Emily raised her eyebrows when she was paired with Elizabeth, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Are you serious?” asked Elizabeth. “I sit next to her every day. Can’t I work with someone else?”

  “I put a lot of thought into this, Elizabeth. Emily is a good writer …”

  “And I’m not?”

  Some students giggled. Others watched intently.

  “I didn’t say that. Let me finish, please. Emily is an exceptional writer. You are a talented artist. Considering today’s assignment, I think you’ll be great partners.”

  Emily, who was dressed in gray cargo pants and a simple white, long-sleeved shirt, immediately sat down, circled a piece of hair over her ear, and opened the folder to read every word of the directions.

  Elizabeth sauntered to her seat from across the room, where she had been talking with Tommy and Kevin. She sat opposite Emily but didn’t say anything. Instead, she retrieved a copy of Jane Eyre from her bag, opened it to a folded-over page, and read.

  Once everyone was seated, Ms. Diaz said, “Inside the folder, you’ll find a poem and some background information. Each pair has a different poem. You’ll also find a handout with directions. Take that out and let’s go over it.”

  Since Emily had already studied the directions, she handed them to Elizabeth. She put her book down, picked the paper up, and scanned it.

  Once everyone had the handout in front of them, Ms. Diaz continued. “Working with your partner, you’ll read the poem and analyze it in writing and visually. You’ll hand in a paper, no more than three pages, that analyzes the overall meaning of the poem, highlighting the literary devices.”

  “What’s a literary device?” asked Kevin.

  “In your folder, I have included a list of literary devices and their definitions.”

  “You’re my favorite teacher, Ms. D. Have I told you that?” asked Kevin.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, smiling and waving a dismissive hand at him. “Along with the paper, you’ll also hand in a visual representation of the poem.”

  “What if you can’t draw?” asked Tommy. “Because I am a stick-figure kind of guy.”

  “If you read the directions with me,” she said pointedly, “then you’ll see that you don’t have to draw. You may draw, but you may also use clip art or other images from the computer. You may even do an old-fashioned collage with words and images from newspapers and magazines.”

  “Can we act it out?” asked Kevin. “Or do an interpretive dance?” He waved his arms, which made him look like he was flying rather than dancing. Sarah giggled loudly from her nearby seat, and Abby, who sat close to her, playfully slapped her arm and shushed her. Emily noticed the exchange between the girls, but didn’t respond or try to get their attention.

  Kevin winked at Emily. She smiled and quickly looked down at the top of her desk.

  “No,” Ms. Diaz said while smiling.

  “Aw, man. I don’t know if you’re my favorite teacher anymore.”

  “I’m heartbroken,” she joked.

  She waited a few moments to let her students consider the assignment.

  “I’ll walk around and answer any questions. Since today’s Friday, let’s have it due Wednesday. If you want extra credit, you can present your work to the class before handing it in. I’ll give you the rest of the class time to get started.”

  Elizabeth watched Emily as she took out her notebook and a pencil, and opened the folder she received from Ms. Diaz. Neither said anything. Emily read silently. Elizabeth continued to watch her. She scanned the room and realized they were the only pair not talking to each other.

  “What are you reading? Is that the poem?” asked Elizabeth.

  Emily glanced up at Elizabeth and looked back down at the paper.

  “No. This is some background information.”

  Elizabeth waited for more, but Emily didn’t say anything.

  “And …” Elizabeth led her. “What does it say?”

  “You want me to read it out loud?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Emily circled her hair around her ear again, cleared her throat, and read:

  “ ‘As a woman in Puritanical New England, Dickinson had few options socially or professionally. She was expected to marry and have children. She was not expected to work outside the home. Even her work as a writer was limited. Women at the time published under men’s names. Most wrote prose, not poetry, and those who did write avoided expressing what would be considered controversial ideas.’ ”

  She paused for a moment and looked at Elizabeth. Her elbow was on the desk and her head was tilted, resting in her hand. Elizabeth made a circular motion with her other hand and said, “Go on.”

  “ ‘Society’s restricted expectations for women were reinforced at home. While Emily’s father wanted and allowed his daughters to be educated, they weren’t expected to accomplish much after their schooling. Emily Dickinson was well aware of the different standards for men and women. Her frustrations and criticisms were expressed in her poetry.’ ”

  Emily looked up at Elizabeth when she finished but said nothing.

  “Now what?” asked Elizabeth. “Where’s the poem?”

  “Here it is.
Do you want me to read that, too?”

  “I’ll read it. I don’t want you to do all the work and then accuse me of being a slacker.”

  Emily didn’t respond. She wasn’t sure if Elizabeth was joking. Elizabeth didn’t clarify it for her. She leaned over, grabbed the folder with the poem, and read it aloud:

  Poem #486

  I was the slightest in the House –

  I took the smallest Room –

  At night, my little Lamp, and Book –

  And one Geranium –

  So stationed I could catch the Mint

  That never ceased to fall –

  And just my Basket –

  Let me think – I’m sure

  That this was all –

  I never spoke – unless addressed –

  And then, ’twas brief and low –

  I could not bear to live – aloud –

  The Racket shamed me so –

  And if it had not been so far –

  And any one I knew

  Were going – I had often thought

  How noteless – I could die –

  “So, how do you want to do this?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I don’t know,” said Emily.

  Elizabeth squinted her eyes at Emily. What was her deal? Was she trying to be difficult? Or was she not sure what to say because this was the first time they had talked since the party a few weeks ago? That was the most they had ever talked. Elizabeth even offered her a seat at their lunch table. Okay, maybe comparing herself to a rattlesnake wasn’t enticing, but still. She extended herself. She held out her hand, and Emily left her hanging. The next few weeks, they went back to their usual routines. Sitting side by side in class, not speaking unless they had to. Eating lunch at different tables. Acting like they hadn’t shared something important.

  “Why don’t we talk it over, then you do the writing and I’ll do the artwork. Does that sound fair?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Sure.”

  Elizabeth waited a few seconds. Nothing.

  “Well …” she led her. “What do you think about it?”

  “Well,” Emily began hesitantly, “she says she’s the ‘slightest in the house.’ Based on the background information, maybe this means that she knows she’s the smallest … not in actual size, although maybe she is, but more like she’s the smallest in terms of worth. She matters the least.”