The Way the Light Bends
Page 16
How we pretended
to fetch water.
I tell her then about Silas.
“I know I can be stupid
but I didn’t think I was that stupid.”
“Don’t say that,” she says.
“You’re not stupid.
You just really liked him.
Sometimes when we like people,
we ignore the things about them
that we don’t want to see.”
She looks down then,
sad,
and I can’t help but wonder
what more
she isn’t telling me.
BACK THROUGH THE GATE
Eventually,
we walk back.
My heart speeds up
as we
get closer
to home.
I tell her I don’t want to see them,
I have nothing to say.
She says maybe they’ll do the talking.
Almost all of me wants to keep walking,
go anywhere
except back there.
But Holly’s hand holds firmly
to my own
as we walk through
the gate,
and we enter together.
IN/AWAY
“Oh, thank God,” Mom says,
her eyes red.
They were about to head out
to look for me too.
She pulls me into a hug—
I pull away.
She lets me.
Dad says he’s so relieved to see me.
Hugs me too.
But I shrug him off.
He guides Holly out of the room.
I want to yell at them not to go.
Not to leave me alone
with her.
Mom sits on the couch.
Pats the seat beside her.
I sit as
far away
as I can.
In the chair that no one ever sits in.
She looks sad, nods.
And then she starts talking.
FUNCTIONS
“Linc, I want to explain what I think you heard.
There’s a lot you don’t know about
my own childhood
because I haven’t been ready to tell you.
There’s something you asked about
when you were much younger
but I never really answered.
You asked why summers were happier without my father.”
I look up.
This isn’t the conversation
I expected.
“As you know, my father died before you and Holly were born.
But not much before.
In those last years, I hardly saw him.
That was a choice I made.
He was a violent man,
a terrible alcoholic.
Half the time he was out of his mind.
So—when Roy—”
Pause.
She clasps her hands together.
Exhales.
I feel my own heart rate pick up.
I have no idea what she’s going to say.
“Roy was an artist and he was also gay. Did you know that?
It was something that my father tried to be okay with,
sometimes.
But really, he wasn’t. Not on the inside.
And when he drank, it was worse.
He beat Roy, frequently.
One night it got really bad.
Broken bones.
Called him horrible names.
And Roy never fully recovered psychologically—
Honey, he—”
And then she begins to cry.
“He committed suicide?”
I say it
so she doesn’t have to.
She nods.
The air in the room
sits heavy.
“If my father had been different,
I know Roy would still be alive.
He wrote in his note—”
Her voice cracks.
More tears fall.
“He just wanted his approval, really.
And Mom left Dad of course,
finally.
After.”
Deep breath.
“When I married your dad, I told him I never, ever
wanted to pass on my dad’s genes.
Alcoholism runs in families, you know. And his was so severe.”
Mom. Drinking now every Sunday.
“And I have some issues of my own. Maybe you’ve noticed?”
I nod.
“I drank too, after everything.
Some things are tough to fight, and I guess I wanted to forget.
But then I stayed sober for a long time, sweetie.
All through med school, you and Holly being little—
so long—
I thought I could—”
“Drink just on Sundays.”
She sighs.
“I thought I could handle it in moderation.”
“So you didn’t want to pass on his genes . . . or your own?”
“No I didn’t, and it wasn’t just that I—
I had so many fears thinking I could never be a good mom
considering the way I was raised.
But your dad wanted kids so badly
and when we went to Ghana, working with those orphans,
for the first time, I could picture myself as a mother.
So I told your dad we could look into adoption.”
She pauses. Looks away from me.
“But then—as you know—
I got pregnant too—
and I was so scared about it.
Your dad really wanted you, Linc.
And, yes, I did think about putting you up for adoption.
But then—
you were born—”
She is weeping now.
I can’t stop the tears
streaming down
my own cheeks
either.
“You looked so much like him.”
“Your dad?”
“No, honey—
Roy.
So when I saw you
I knew I had to try.
To hold on.
Even if I was scared.”
I wipe my face.
“And you were so creative
even as a child, just like Roy was.
But he struggled so much as an artist.
He never did well in school.
He flunked out of freshman year of college.
Tried to sell his art, never could—
he always needed money
which made Dad even more angry, disappointed—
he—
Roy never figured out how to find his way
in spite of Dad
like I did.”
She pauses.
“Watching you struggle,
it’s brought up a lot of my own past again.
But I thought if I wasn’t hurting you the same way Dad hurt
Roy, I—
maybe—
but somehow—
in trying not to make the same mistakes my dad made,
I think a part of me has found the similarities anyway.
He would get mad at Roy
for failing, for drawing instead of studying.
He never took the time to try to help him
with his work.
So I’ve tried my hardest to be present
; to help.”
She lets out a sob.
Pulls herself back together.
“Linc, I know I haven’t been easy on you, and maybe I should have tried harder to listen to what it is you really want.
I know I need to work on myself. I’m trying.
I’m going to get back into therapy, to recovery.
Do better.”
I look down.
“All I’ve ever wanted for you—and your sister—is for both of you to not have to struggle.
To be able to function
to succeed
in this world.”
The shadows of the window bars
crisscross on the floor.
In between them
light streams in
from lampposts
outside.
I try to process
everything I’ve just learned
this part of my past
I never knew
that now feels like the opening
of a door.
So I say to Mom,
“Maybe I have my own way of functioning?
And succeeding?”
It sounds like a question
but I know it is an answer.
She looks at me,
nods.
The light from the lamppost
just barely
touches her shoulder.
TOUCH
After we sit
breathe in silence
for a while
Dad comes in with tissues,
gives me a sideways hug
sits next to Mom.
Before leaving
I touch the place
on her shoulder
where the light hits.
LUCIDITY
That night
I dream:
I’m inside Gramercy Park.
I look down at my hands.
They are shadows.
Silas touches them
and
my shadow fingers
break
off
one
by
one.
I shout for help.
Mom comes but says
she doesn’t have the right medicine
to fix me.
She floats away.
I look down at a pigeon,
ask him if he has a key.
He shrugs and takes my picture.
EMPTY SPACE
I wake up early
Saturday morning
but stay in bed,
hoping if I do
I can pretend
I dreamt it all—
getting caught
expelled
jeopardizing my chances at IAA
Silas and his ex
Mom and her secrets
me, unwanted,
learning the truth.
I take pictures of the ceiling.
White
on white
on white.
GESTURES
Before her shift
Mom comes in
in her scrubs.
She has a breakfast tray.
Says I deserve something special.
She puts it down.
Then places a finger on Roy’s camera.
Out on my desk.
“I’ve been thinking,”
she says,
“if you think you can do photo class
and keep up with your schoolwork . . .”
She stops,
smiles.
“Really?”
I say,
then break into a smile back.
“Maybe for the next session?
In January?” I say.
“Start fresh?” she asks.
“Start fresh,” I confirm.
THE RIGHT MEDICINE
After she leaves my room
the details of my dream
come back into focus—
Mom didn’t have the right medicine.
I think of the truth—
Roy so badly beaten.
Mom,
an orthopedic surgeon,
Roy,
robbed of his fight.
And I know
with startling clarity
that my family’s
history may be in the choices
they—
we—
have all made
but our story
is still being written.
And
there’s always room for
re-
vision.
WORDLESS
I eat Mom’s pancakes
check my texts
Ellery.
She said Holly texted her
a bunch last night
asking if she knew where I was.
She hopes I’m okay.
I text her that
I’m home, safe,
no need to worry.
I tell her sorry
for not listening to her
about Silas.
She was right.
Silas.
He sent a heart emoji.
He can’t even say
sorry?
I toss the phone onto my bed.
Go find
Holly.
A SPACE FOR US
For the first time in a long time,
Holly & I have a lounge day in the den.
Pull out the couch,
make popcorn,
watch movie after movie.
Sometime later
we talk about my
conversation with Mom.
How intense
her childhood was.
How she makes
more sense to me now.
Holly says Mom talked to her too.
That she hopes things really will get better.
Then she says she has been feeling
more disconnected
from Stefano, Maggs
lately.
Even from Mom.
That she keeps wanting to know more
about where she came from.
Feeling not quite there, not here either.
I say
sometimes it feels like what’s
invisible
is more real than what’s actually
in front of us.
As we sit,
//side by side,
knee to knee//
we make a deal.
To help each other,
“one for one.”
And—as we do—
I make a wish
that there was more room in this world
for those of us caught
in the space between.
REENTERING
I.
On Sunday,
just two weeks until winter break,
Dad comes in to help me plan
my cyber week.
We enter the cyber school website.
Notice there have been three comments made
about my post on Richard III.
Looks like you’ve already made some friends,
he says.
I raise my eyebrows,
then click in.
II.
Two days later,
Dad starts going back
to his office.
The days pass faster
than I expect.
The silence of the house
helps me think.
Seem
s like I have a lot in common
with these online kids.
Kicked out of schools.
Couldn’t quite catch up.
Not sure where they belong.
III.
On Thursday,
a new comment
on the one I made about
Richard III’s duplicity,
someone named Rachel
calls me insightful.
Later,
I hear from Silas.
It’s been 5 days since he texted
me a heart
6 days since I saw him
with that other girl.
Now he wants to see me.
I ask him if he’s still with her.
He tells me I don’t understand.
That they’re old friends, will always be.
The first day we met
I was so drawn to him.
We seemed so similar.
I almost say: let’s meet up.
But I stop.
We are our choices.
And I know that
I don’t trust him.
My stomach knots
then releases
I think of finally standing up for myself
to Mom.
It feels the same when I write Silas back.
I tell him it’s over.
Deep breath in and then I write:
I’m not okay being in your peripheral view.
I know now I’m worth someone’s full focus.
I tell him it’s over
then take a celebratory selfie.
It’s me: I’m smiling, centered.
Then, to the class,
I write about the pity I feel
for Richard III.
When someone likes my comment,
calls it intelligent,
my body feels lit,
and this time
it’s from within.
ARRIVAL
I take a break
get a snack.
Look to see if the mail has arrived.
And there it is.
An envelope from the
Innovative Arts Academy
with my name.
I don’t wait.
I tear it open.
BUT/AND/THEN
Your portfolio is remarkable . . . strong vision and voice . . .
Highly recommended by your teacher . . .
But then:
When we called the school for your transcript we were made aware of your expulsion . . . and your current 2.4 GPA.
We regret to inform you that
we cannot offer you a spot . . .
Underneath my feet,
the ground cracks.
Eyes tear.