I answered most of his questions honestly. He knew I had lost weight, since the first thing they always do is throw you on a scale. I told him my mental state would improve if the world weren’t so concerned about body image. He didn’t laugh. Not even a grin. Oh well. I hadn’t lost the weight intentionally.
When the doctor asked if I had felt this way for more than two weeks, I laughed out loud. He didn’t think it was funny. He prescribed an antidepressant and gave my mom a list of therapists to call. There was no way I’d talk to a shrink; she couldn’t force me. My parents agreed I should start with the pills, and then they argued for hours on the phone about whose fault it was. For the rest of the day, my mom stared at me and talked in short, baby-like sentences, as if anything more would break me.
The prescription wasn’t a solution, but a first step to … what? Normalcy? No. That would be asking too much. Feeling better? Maybe. Who knows? I read the fine print about the possible side effects—everything from a mild headache to increased suicidal thoughts, especially in young people. So, taking the pills could magically cure me or make matters entirely worse? Brilliant.
I didn’t take one the first morning I was supposed to, but I brought it to school, rubbed it with my thumb and forefinger like a worry stone. Could it really work? Or would it be like taking aspirin and when the medicine wears off, the pain returns? In that case, wouldn’t I have to take these forever? And wouldn’t that be like wearing a mask for the rest of my life? On the outside, I’d be smiling, laughing, but what was going on underneath?
I wanted to talk to someone—not a shrink, but maybe you—about all of this, but I couldn’t. I knew you’d have to report it to someone else. It’s not your job to fix me. And then, there’d be meetings with counselors and social workers and psychologists and psychiatrists. And all of them would want to know the same thing, “What’s wrong?” and they’d stare at me, waiting for an explanation.
So, I pretended to take the pills and never talked about it to anyone after that day at the doctor’s, not even you, Ms. Diaz, although you probably would have understood.
Chapter 24
“ ’Tis so appalling—it exhilarates”
Emily walked beside Sarah and Abby as they made their way to first period. Sarah and Abby exchanged glances. Sarah had a questioning look on her face; Abby rolled her eyes.
Sarah hooked her arm around Emily’s elbow and leaned into her a little as they walked.
“So, we’re ready to do some Christmas shopping. Want to join us?” asked Sarah.
“Sure. When, though, because I promised to help Kevin with his shopping, too.”
“Kevin can survive without you for an afternoon,” said Abby. “We need some girl time.”
“Yeah, Em, we miss you,” said Sarah.
Emily offered a weak smile. “I know. I’ve been busy …”
“You don’t have more to do than anyone else,” said Abby. “If you’re going to stay with Kevin, you have to learn how to fit us in. We were here first and we’ll be here if you guys break up.”
“Jeez, Abby,” said Sarah.
“What? It’s true. If you cut off your friends when you’re dating someone, you’ll be all alone if the relationship ends.”
“And I wonder why she’s cutting us off, Abby? Maybe it’s because you have no filter between your brain and your mouth,” said Sarah.
“What? We’ve talked about this kind of stuff a million times during sleepovers. I thought we all agreed that we’d stick together when we dated people. I’m not trying to be mean. You get that, right, Em?”
“Good morning, ladies,” Ms. Diaz said as the girls reached her classroom.
“Good morning,” Sarah and Abby said cheerily.
“Emily, are you okay?” Ms. Diaz asked. “You look a little pale.”
“I think I have a cold or something. I don’t know.” Emily shrugged and circled a piece of hair around her ear.
“Well, I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks.” Emily walked into the room behind Abby and Sarah, but stopped and added quietly, “I haven’t finished the essay yet. May I have an extension?”
“Sure. Give me the paper on Monday. If you’re still not feeling well, hand it in whenever you can. You’ve never asked for an extension before, so I’m fine with that,” said Ms. Diaz.
“Okay, thanks.”
When Elizabeth approached, Ms. Diaz said, “Welcome back.” It was her first day in class since her internal suspension.
“Thanks,” Elizabeth said with a grin. She carried an art portfolio along with her usual book bag. “May I present something for extra credit? You said we could, right?”
“Yes. Students presented yesterday, but since you weren’t in class, you can share today.”
“Thanks.”
The rest of the students shuffled in and sat down.
“All right, class, before we get to what I have planned, Elizabeth is going to present her work since she wasn’t here yesterday. Emily, are you joining her?”
Emily’s eyes widened and her mouth opened and shut, like a fish trying to breathe out of water.
“No,” Elizabeth answered. Emily looked relieved. “We’re working on the parts separately, and this is sort of about what we did but sort of not.”
“Okay, your vague description makes me a little nervous,” said Ms. Diaz.
Elizabeth grinned as she carried her portfolio to the front of the room. She unzipped the case and gently pulled out a large final draft of the sketch she worked on in class the previous week. She carefully attached the drawing to the easel Ms. Diaz used for her flip chart. She also retrieved note cards with writing on them.
For the first time, the whole class saw what sparked the argument between Ms. Diaz and Elizabeth: The screaming girl, her wrists bound, her ankles tied to the chair legs. The pink blindfold, the lone color in the dark scene created with black charcoal. The two other images of giant men surrounding a small girl who dies unnoticed.
Students stared wide-eyed. Tommy nodded in approval.
“Whoa, Davis,” said Kevin, breaking the silence. “Creepy, but I like it. It’s disturbing and beautiful at the same time. Kind of like you.”
Students laughed.
Elizabeth glared at Kevin. He expected a snarky comeback, but instead she agreed with him.
“Exactly. ‘ ’Tis so appalling – it exhilarates.’ ”
“What?” Kevin asked.
“The picture is about the poem Emily and I worked on, but that line is from another poem. Before I go any further, though, I promised my mother I’d apologize to the class for my behavior last week. She’s going to e-mail you, Ms. D, to confirm that I did, so here I am saying publicly: I’m sorry for disrupting the class and for being disrespectful.”
“Thank you for apologizing,” said Ms. Diaz.
“But, I’m not sorry for what I drew,” she added.
“All right. Explain.”
“Well, I did a little research. At first, I looked for interpretations of the poem we got last week. I wanted to get a new idea for the visual part that would be less disturbing. But as I looked around, I discovered something.” Elizabeth paused. “Emily Dickinson had a dark side. I mean, I don’t know if she had a dark side in her real life, but she wrote some dark poems. They aren’t all about chestnuts and bumblebees. She wrote a lot about death and pain.”
Elizabeth reviewed her note cards. “Like, one poem, number 335, starts: ‘ ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so – / ’Tis Living – hurts us more –.’ Most people are afraid of death, and probably of dying a painful death, but this line says life, with all of its daily drama, is more painful.
“Poem number 281, the one that starts ‘ ’Tis so appalling – it exhilarates –,’ is one of her Gothic poems. At first I wondered, how can something be appalling and exhilarating at the same time? But then I realized, we pay money to watch horror movies, and we slow down to stare at car accidents. Why? Because they’re frightening and fascinating at the
same time.”
Elizabeth flipped to another note card. “She’s got lots of cool, disturbing comparisons, too. One example is ‘My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –.’ Another is ‘A still – Volcano – Life – / That flickered in the night –.’ Life equals a loaded gun. Life equals a still volcano. Loaded guns eventually go off. Volcanoes erupt.
“She even wrote one about suicide. At the end of poem number 1062, the person in the poem ‘Caressed a Trigger absently / And wandered out of Life.’ ”
Elizabeth paused again and scanned the room. Most students stared directly at her. Emily and a few others wrote in their notebooks. Ms. Diaz nodded for her to continue.
“Finally, I noticed she often uses exclamation points.”
“You go from suicide to punctuation marks?” Kevin asked. “So she was excited? Whoa, that is dark.”
Elizabeth glared at Kevin.
“Ignore him,” Ms. Diaz said. “Go on.”
“Maybe she was excited in some of them, but all of those exclamation points made me think … well, I know you told us we can’t assume everything a writer produces is about her own life … but when I saw those exclamation points, I thought …”
Ms. Diaz gradually moved forward from the back of the room to stand a few feet away from Elizabeth. The girl turned her head and focused on Ms. Diaz instead of the waiting students.
“What did you think?” asked Ms. Diaz.
“That maybe she understood.”
“Understood what?”
“Anger. Maybe she got pissed off, too. And not a little mad, but furious, like if a monster’s inside you, squeezing your lungs so you can’t breathe and pounding you right between the eyes with its fist.”
The class held its collective breath, waiting for their teacher’s response.
“And, Ms. Gilbert knows all about this?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said and shifted from one foot to the other.
“Okay. Continue.” Ms. Diaz strolled to her previous spot in the back of the room.
“After reading some of these other poems, I came back to the poem Emily and I read,” said Elizabeth. “And, it definitely had an underlying tone of resentment. My picture is disturbing, but I think it fits the poem perfectly. I mean, the person in the poem thinks she matters so little that her death would go unnoticed. That’s disturbing.
“So, I didn’t change the picture. I’m hoping the additional research and extra credit will make up for any points I’ll lose for not changing the picture.”
The class was quiet for a moment, waiting.
“The end,” Elizabeth said, unsure of how to finish the presentation.
Her classmates and Ms. Diaz laughed in response.
“Well done,” said Ms. Diaz.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not in trouble?”
“No.”
“Sweet!” Elizabeth walked to her seat with a genuine smile on her face.
Next to her, Emily shut her notebook to hide what she wrote inside:
Living hurts us more …
My life—a loaded gun … When will it go off?
A still volcano … When will it erupt?
When the bell rang, Elizabeth let the class empty and then approached Ms. Diaz’s desk. She opened her bag and pulled out a shoe box that was bent in a few places and completely wrapped in duct tape.
“Here, this is for you,” said Elizabeth.
Ms. Diaz turned the box over, eyes squinted in confusion.
“Thanks. What is it exactly?”
“A bunch of my stuff, poems and drawings mostly. I want you to have them.”
“Aren’t they important to you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you giving them away?”
Elizabeth shrugged.
“Can I read them?” asked Ms. Diaz.
“Not yet. I’ll tell you when.”
Elizabeth turned toward the door.
“Wait,” said Ms. Diaz. She grabbed a black binder from her bookshelf, wiped off a visible layer of dust, and wrapped masking tape around it several times.
“There.” She placed it next to Elizabeth’s box.
“What’s that?”
“A writing project I set aside when someone I loved died suddenly. Nothing mattered since she was gone. I keep promising myself I’ll finish it, but year after year the binder sits here and collects dust. The tape is a formality.”
She stared at the binder and shoe box for a second and then added, “I’ll tear off the tape and finally do something with it when you’re ready to share yours. No pressure. Whenever. I’ll be ready when you are.”
“Okay.” Elizabeth headed toward the door but stopped and spun around. “Ms. D, can I ask you something? You seem fine now. How did you get there?”
“After a while, something clicked inside me. It’s hard to explain, but at that moment, I was ready to let some things go and move forward.”
“Something clicks?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yeah. You’ll know. That’s the beginning of a long process.” Ms. Diaz pressed her palm on the center of her binder. “I’m not entirely fine yet. I’m still waiting for a couple of things to click.”
Unsure of what to say, Elizabeth was about to walk out when Ms. Diaz said, “I’m curious about the pink blindfold reference. No Doubt is a little old for you, aren’t they?”
Elizabeth grinned. “My dad left a few of his CDs behind.”
“He left an awful lot behind,” said Ms. Diaz. “I’m sure he misses … everything.”
“You really think so?”
Ms. Diaz nodded.
Elizabeth grinned and then bolted out of the room, wiping her eyes with her shirtsleeves.
Chapter 25
Letter #3
DECEMBER
Dear Ms. Diaz,
It’s Christmastime. I’m grateful for all I have, yet I’m dreading being home for almost two weeks. That’s all.
Dear Elizabeth,
You’re a smart, talented girl. If you find these days off from school unbearable, and you need to get away from your family, then do that. Go outside and discover something beautiful. Take pictures, draw, or write poetry. Do something. Sitting and thinking too much will make matters worse. I hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Ms. Diaz
Chapter 26
“To try to speak, and miss the way”
The Delgados sat in their ornate, candlelit dining room, silverware and china clinking on dinner plates as sweet potatoes, roasted ham, and pasteles made their way around the table. Water, wine, and coquito generously spilled into waiting crystal glasses.
Pop and Mamá balanced the table, sitting at opposite ends, with Austin and Tía Liana on one side and Emily on the other.
“So, how’s the school year, Sis?” asked Austin. He looked a lot like Pop: tall and broad-shouldered with thick, dark hair and a Hollywood smile. They both looked intently at whoever was talking, as if whatever was being said was the most important thing they had ever heard.
“Fine.”
“Her grades are down,” said Pop. “She never handed in an essay in English. I check your grades online, you know.”
“I know,” said Emily. “And my teacher gave me an extension on the paper.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t an indefinite extension. And she has a B+ in Spanish, of all things. ¿Pueden creerlo?”
“Give her a break, Eddie,” said Tía Liana, the only person who got away with using her little brother’s childhood nickname.
Emily grinned at Tía Liana. She was a perpetual student who was now pursuing a doctorate in fine arts. Always outspoken and spunky, she was quick to pick up her ankle-length peasant skirt and kick off her shoes to chase Emily and Austin around the house when they were younger. She painted with similar abandon, which is why splashes of color often streaked her clothes. Her brown, curly hair was usually tied back, high in a ponytail, so it didn’t get in her way.
“Going to school is her job,” Pop said. “We expect her to work hard and get good grades. Is that too much to ask?”
“No, but no one’s perfect,” said Tía Liana. “A B+ is a good grade, and she missed one essay in English. ¿Y qué? She probably handed in fifty others on time.”
“I’m in the top ten percent of my class,” Emily said quietly.
“That’s great, Em,” said Austin.
“Your brother was valedictorian,” said Pop.
“How could we forget?” Tía Liana lifted the glass plate of pasteles. “So much food, Eddie, it’s a shame your mouth is empty. Adelante, come más.”
The others laughed.
“Sure, send them down, Hermana,” he said, accepting the offer but ignoring the overt message to stop talking. Tía Liana winked at Emily.
“And you all wonder why I don’t visit more often,” said Austin with a smile. “Maybe we should talk about something less hostile on the eve of our savior’s birth. How about those Red Sox, huh?”
“You know I’m a Yankees fan,” said Pop. “And your comment reminds me, we are all going to midnight Mass tonight. I don’t want any arguments. This one has been throwing a tantrum every Sunday.”
“Oh, here we go,” said Emily. She turned to her mother who was eating small bites of food and sipping her wine. “Mamá, are you going to say anything?”
“¿Qué quieres que te diga?” she asked.
“I don’t know, something, anything to help me out here.”
“You’re old enough to fight your own battles,” said Mamá.
Emily’s breath caught short. She swallowed hard and said, “O-kay then, what about Austin? Does he attend church in Amherst?”
Austin shook his head and shot his sister the “cállate la boca” glare. He coughed before he said, “I go most Sundays.”
“Not every Sunday? Does that really count then?” asked Emily.
“The pasteles are delicious, Em,” Austin said. “You should eat more. You’re a little flaca.”
Everyone laughed.
“Saying grace tonight was probably the first time she’s prayed in weeks,” said Pop.
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