Someone to Love

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Antonia sits on the bed next to me. “What’s going to happen next?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I just hope Sam will forgive me.” I pause a moment, thinking about how much I want to share. “I think I might have feelings for him. And if I’m being honest with myself, I always have.”

  f o r t y - o n e

  “If you hear a voice within you say, ‘You cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.”

  —Vincent van Gogh

  I’ve been in the hospital for a week. I’m sure the tabloids are speculating about my absence or talking about Cristina and Zach getting back together, but I’m not checking them. I can’t get better while keeping tabs on what everyone else is saying about me.

  Dad has come and gone to my bedside. He’s been in Washington, DC, and back twice, not to mention stuck on the campaign trail in the OC as well as in Fresno for thousand-dollar-plate fund-raiser dinners. Mom keeps me updated, and I scroll to see his sound bites in the news. Journalists have asked them about Mom and I not being on the campaign trail with him, but he tells them that Mom is staying home with me while I’m studying hard for upcoming exams. I can tell Dad is stressed about me, though he hides it well. The close-ups reveal the toll of him being a dad and a politician.

  I always thought of him as caring about politics more than his family, but I realize that I was wrong. He’s always cared about me. He thought I could handle the pressure. I’d always been so strong.

  I guess we both live multiple lives. A social worker told me that we all have many roles—some we’re better at than others, and some, the dark ones, we have to cope with and keep under control. We have to find balance. I’m barely figuring out my role as a sick person. I don’t want to think of myself as sick, but I guess that’s the first step to getting better. If I’m going to get better, I have to confront these things.

  Dad surprises me today when he comes in. I can already tell that this time he wants to talk. My head’s been cloudy. I guess that’s because the doctors said some of my organs were failing and so they need time to get motoring again. They all say I’m lucky I’m young, though unlucky to be so ill.

  He scratches his head and sits in a chair. “How you feeling today, Honeybee?”

  “Same as yesterday,” I say. My voice is still weak. “Just want to sleep all the time. They make me take little walks though.”

  “That’s good. Gotta get your strength back. You wore yourself out.” He seems tired, beat down by life, but he’s smiling for my sake. I’m not commenting in case he’s looking for a recap I can’t remember, or don’t want to remember. I’ve come to terms with accepting help from my parents, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell them everything.

  “I hadn’t realized how severe your problems were,” he says, leaning forward, hands clasped. “And I’m sorry about that. I really am. We’re all torn up about what you’re going through. We feel guilty. I told Rich that I don’t want him talking to you about anything campaign related. He should have no reason to contact you.”

  I feel my eyes brighten. “You did?” I ask, haunted by memories of Rich sending me emails with links to articles criticizing every single thing about me.

  “The only thing I want you to focus on is getting better.”

  I’m glad Dad stuck up for me. I’d been feeling pretty alone. The way everyone’s been visiting has been nice. Except Sam. He still hasn’t come, and that’s hard to take because I thought for sure he would visit, text, something. I haven’t called or texted him either, so maybe I should. Maybe he’s just busy. He did say we would always be friends but if I wronged him again he would go silent. So is that what this is? Silence for my betrayal of his kindness? Silence for hurting him again and again?

  I don’t deserve him. I definitely don’t deserve my family. They’ve been so sweet and kind and I’ve just been a zombie to them. It’s these emotions. The doctors said I would be on a roller coaster. I didn’t expect it. I had control. Or I thought I did. I thought I knew myself so well. I thought I was preventing myself from stepping onto this roller coaster. One minute I’m ravenous. The next I’m hating myself for feeling hunger.

  I never thought one night out would be the tipping point. But doctors say it was the perfect storm and my body was in the middle of shutting down. They say a lot of patients with eating disorders don’t truly understand how much their bodies are shutting down from starvation. Now I’m just a silhouette in my own mushroom cloud. Trying to escape the burn. Trying to keep some kind of form of who I am through all this.

  “Are you going to hire a new campaign manager?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but don’t worry,” he says. “You won’t see him. Not anytime soon anyway. You’ll be transferred to an outpatient program soon as you’re better. I really believe the treatment there will help you grow and be the kind of person who helps other kids with this later on.”

  “I’ll probably start sounding like Jasmine,” I say.

  I’m only half kidding.

  “Not a bad thing. She has a lot of advice and kind words for others.”

  I do like that. I love her. I wish I hadn’t been so rude to her my first day in the hospital, such a zombie, though I can barely focus even now.

  “And if you want to be involved with the campaign, it will have to be your choice,” he adds. “Don’t worry about it until you’re completely better.” He slaps his hands on his thighs. “All right. I better go.” He comes over and kisses my head.

  My eyes tear up. Can I get better?

  Is it still possible for me?

  “What is it?” he says, looking down at me.

  “Nothing.”

  He lets out a sigh and kisses me again. “You have some other visitors waiting outside, so dry up.”

  I laugh. “All right, Dad.”

  “Love you, kid.”

  When Dad steps out, Royce holds the door. I can’t believe he’s coming down on the weekends to support me so much when he should be focusing on school too.

  “Don’t push her around,” Dad says jokingly to him.

  “I’ll try not to,” Royce says as he steps in followed by Sam, who has a bunch of stuff in his arms. “Look who I brought,” Royce adds.

  “Sam!” I say. My breath catches in my lungs. I’m so excited to see him despite the situation. “I’m so embarrassed. I look terrible.”

  “You’re in a hospital,” Royce says. “Play the part. You should be coughing and moaning more.”

  “Yeah,” Sam says. “You need to focus on getting better.”

  Sam hugs me tight, and I think there might be tears in his eyes.

  He pulls back, then looks at Royce. “I asked him to let me into your house to grab some things from your room. We figured you would probably be pretty bored.” He places a pile of my art pads, pens and pencils on the hospital bed.

  “Still want to show at that gallery, don’t you?” Sam asks.

  I don’t know what to say. Dad said to be strong, so I’m trying not to cry. My heart is beating so fast because he’s finally here, because he cares. Sam really cares. He always has.

  “You gotta keep the dream alive,” Royce says.

  I turn to my brother. “Are you and...”

  “We’re talking again,” he says. “What’s meant to happen will happen. I’m going to get some coffee, be right back. We brought some games too. Maybe we can destroy the world in a game of Risk, or play cards.”

  When Royce leaves, Sam says, “He’s right, you know. You have to pursue your dreams. It makes you who you are. Being an artist is just about the noblest thing anyone can do. You create something from nothing. You can change people’s minds. Influence culture.”

  “I can’t believe you came,” I say. “And you’re right. I promise to get better.”

  “Antonia said to say she loves you. She’s going to visi
t soon. The hospital doesn’t want a lot of people disturbing you.”

  “I’ve wasted so much time this year,” I say. “I’m going to get better fast. I’m going to do this.”

  f o r t y - t w o

  “Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with

  illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with

  your demons will cause your angels to sing.”

  —August Wilson

  I’m doing outpatient therapy now.

  We all gather around in a circle with counselors, sharing our struggles. The first few sessions were difficult. The therapist told me it would be tough even showing up. She’s right. You feel this kind of embarrassment. You walk in slowly, as if everyone around you suddenly knows you have a problem. And they know exactly what it is. Other kids look at you, smile, hide their faces, hug you, kiss you, laugh, cry.

  The strangest thing? After a while you sort of lose that complex. You accept everyone because you know what? They accept you. Your problem doesn’t become a problem at all around others with similar obstacles. You start to rally around others. All the laughing and crying and hugging you understand. Then, before you know it, you realize the stronger ones help the newer admits, and the newer ones remind the older ones how far they’ve come and how they need to keep up the power of healing to survive.

  We’re all survivors. We form a bond like some kind of sisters. I never would have imagined this dark part of my life would be the scar that gives me confidence to succeed, to feel normal in my abnormality.

  I’m feeling stronger. The doctors say there’s no long-term damage to my organs, but I do have to take it easy. Moderate walks. Healthy eating choices. Hydration. Rest. Therapy. I take some medicines in light doses. I don’t want to be on medications for long, but they help me stop slipping into those dark places. They’re concerned that the malnutrition can have long-term effects on my mood that lead to severe depression.

  I told the doctors I didn’t want to take them, but they mentioned that I could be weaned off pretty quickly once I began learning the tools to help myself overcome my impulses to purge or cut. I’m beginning to learn how to do this. How to retain my focus on health. How to redirect my own behaviors. How to breathe. How to talk to the friends I’ve made. How to realize no one is perfect. How to understand I should not be ashamed. That’s the one I really struggle with. Everyone around the treatment center is being so helpful, so loving. These tools they teach me help me to cope with shame, how to overcome it, how to overcome my own grief for losing parts of myself. It all might sound weird and strange, but when you go through something like this, it all becomes real and necessary, and a part of who you’ll forever be.

  My portfolio has become my new goal. The thing to obsess about and work toward. When I’m not at the outpatient clinic or at doctor’s appointments, I’ve been finalizing drawings and paintings, working on the birds I showed Danny, which are inspired by LeFeber’s angels and the fact that his focus was on creating beautiful things instead of his own sickness up until he died. That place inside my heart, that jewel I needed to grow, has been forged in this fire I’ve been in over the past months. I am my creations.

  And the new ones I create, the ones with artistry in mind, will be more symbolic of me than ever. That’s what LeFeber was doing. And that’s what I’m doing now. I’ll protect the gemstone in me. I’ll build walls around it. I’ll never forget me.

  Tomorrow, I’m sending off my application, which includes a cover letter, sample drawings, a photograph of one of my paintings and a recommendation letter that I was able to get from Ms. Day. If I’m accepted, I’m supposed to hear back pretty quickly so I can finish the other paintings for the gallery show.

  In my letter I wrote:

  Dear Board of Directors,

  I am a junior at Eastlake Prep High School. This has been a difficult year for me personally, but being a part of your gallery show is part of my dream for the future me. Let me tell you about the ‘me’ now.

  A friend said, “Being an artist is just about the noblest thing anyone can do.” It’s who I am, who I plan to always be. Another friend recently told me, at his show, “You were experiencing the art with the greatest amount of passion.” I told him I’d been waiting all my life to see his work in person. His show was about fallen angels. Sick angels. He said to me, “Every angel you see is fallen. They’re sick. Infected with their own lives. Broken, falling. Our divinity is hidden within us. We must nurture that divine nature. We all must find our way to peace and health.”

  He told me a story after I asked him about what inspired him. He told me, “So many things I can pull from the air just floating there. You inspire me. The answer you seek however goes much deeper. I am often secretly inspired by those early days when I borrowed money to rent a studio in New York. It was a chaotic time. I was full of dreams! I drew something from myself in those days that often seems lost now. You see, down inside of you is a purity. A gemstone of inspiration. It comes from within, forged from this unexplainable burning desire. You must keep it pure. You do understand this. Purity is everything. Protect it. Mine is housed, guarded within memories. When you do this you can gaze into the world. What do you see? You see poverty. You see war. You see hate. You see all these terrible things, and they burn in you because you want to help the world. You want your work to speak to the world. You want to save the world. Yet, after all, you are only a painter. You don’t create war machines. You don’t create political agenda. You create the aesthetics of the world that covers all, another form of meninges, a membrane of life and beauty pulsating over the sad brain of the world. Yes. That is our work. Our art. And while the pain of the world is inspiring, it all must eventually pass through the original purity within you in the first place. That gemstone. The one you must keep pure. The one that harbors the seeds of all your inspiration.”

  His name is Geoff LeFeber.

  You see, I’ve discovered that gemstone. I know where it is. It’s part of me now. I’m guarding it. And I’m ready. You have my drawings. You have this letter and the letter from Ms. Day, my art teacher. I’m ready to soar.

  Sincerely yours,

  Olivia Blakely

  f o r t y - t h r e e

  “The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.”

  —Djuna Barnes

  Royce and Mason are coming down from the Bay Area to visit. They’re in the dining room eating dinner when Mom and I arrive back from one of my therapy sessions that I’ve been doing after I was released from the hospital. Dad is in Hayward giving a speech. He’ll be back tomorrow. I miss him.

  Mom gives them that why-are-you-eating-without-us look.

  This is a big test. Eating in front of anyone.

  “We were hungry, Mom,” Mason says. “And the delivery guy just showed up out of the blue. It was like a gift from heaven. How could we refuse?”

  “The moo shu pork is really good today,” Royce adds.

  “You couldn’t wait for us to get home?” Mom asks. “It’s like you’re in high school again. The amount of food you two used to go through in a week... My god.”

  “Those were the good old days.”

  Mom looks at them as she takes a seat. “I know.”

  Mason passes me the fried rice. “Want some?”

  I take a chair too. “Not from the chopsticks you’re using.”

  “I’m not giving you those,” he says.

  I pour myself a glass of water. “Just put some on a plate for me.”

  “Sure thing,” Mason says, scooping a small portion onto my plate. I have to eat higher calorie meals, but I also have to be careful about how much I eat.

  My body is still sensitive to food.

  Just then I get an email notification. I click on the app to open the message. “Mom, it’s from the gallery,” I say, my heart pounding in my
chest. I’m nearly shaking with a mixture of excitement and dread. Did they accept or reject my application?

  “Give me that,” Mason says, grabbing my phone. “I’ll see what it says.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I say, trying to get it.

  He takes off running, but I’m after him.

  “Give it back to her, Mason,” Mom says, taking a bite of paper-wrapped chicken. “Now you’re acting like you’re in second grade.”

  Mason runs around the table.

  “He may be the oldest, but he’s obviously still in the second grade,” says Royce. “Come on, give it back to her before she cries.”

  I’m laughing, but too tired to keep after him. “I give up,” I say. “Read it.”

  “I was just joking,” he says. “You read it.”

  “No. You read it, please,” I say.

  We make eye contact.

  I can see how proud he is all of a sudden that I asked.

  “All right.” He looks at the email. “Hmm,” he says, tossing me the phone. “You’re in the show. You’ve got a couple of weeks to get ready.”

  I catch the phone and start cheering and high-fiving everyone, even Mom. I’ve never felt so happy about anything, ever.

  f o r t y - f o u r

  “Use your faults, use your defects; then you’re going to be a star.”

  —Edith Piaf

  School’s finally out. No one contacted me other than Antonia and Sam.

  I knew I was a loner before. That’s okay. I’ve learned that most artists are loners of some kind. We spend massive amounts of time in voluntary solitude creating our art. The less we socialize, the more we create. I’ve heard that the sooner artists realize this, the sooner they can put in the ten thousand hours needed to become great. There’s nothing I want more, except the friendships I do have.

  The next time Antonia comes over, I show her one of my paintings. It’s a portrait of her. It’s not done yet, but Antonia sees it and starts making these little squealing sounds.