Stepping Into Sunlight

by Sharon Hinck

  I left her office and hurried through the lobby of gray-green walls and the people with gray-green spirits. Could they tell by looking at me that I was . . .

  What was I? Depressed, anxious, traumatized, and nutty as a Rocky Road sundae?

  Like Alex.

  Pressure built behind my eyeballs as I crossed the parking lot. My hands fumbled with my car keys. My foot hit the gas pedal with too much force, and the engine raced as I cranked the starter.

  Dr. Marci’s words pierced me again. “Genetic predisposition.”

  Why wasn’t I bouncing back like others who had seen evil, sudden and up close? I had my answer. Because my mind was flawed.

  I aimed the car for home, chased by dread that had coiled in a dark corner of my heart for ten years. All it had taken was the perfect storm to trigger my own descent from sanity. I had become my brother.

  I drove past a convenience store on the corner, and it leered at me, mocking my efforts to hold back the irrational terror it conjured.

  The restraint that had held me together all morning fractured. My arms shook, and my heart raced for no reason. Anger rose up to pulse at the back of my neck. I’d sat through the group session. I’d talked with Dr. Marci. I’d even come up with a proactive project to get my life back on track. Yet I was still a mess. What if nothing worked? What if I continued down this road unchecked? I’d seen the chain reaction. Witnessed it up close in Alex.

  Admit it, Penny. You’re crazy. You can’t keep pretending to be normal. You’re going to lose Bryan. And Tom. You’ll lose everything.

  Once the thoughts took hold, fear spiraled out of control. A sob grabbed me, but I fought back tears. I’d never cried this often before. Even when I was pregnant. Even when hormones raged after Bryan was born. The weepiness of recent weeks humiliated me each time it struck. And it was further proof I was broken. If my mind never healed, my life would be a series of gray-green institutions where nightmare images contorted my thoughts.

  That terrifying future set loose more sobs, and the tears sprang loose. I could barely keep my car on the road.

  A sudden whoop behind me made my stomach drop to my toes. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the flashing lights of a police car. I pulled over, and more tears erupted—tiny prisoners breaking through the walls and rushing to freedom. I couldn’t hold them back.

  A hefty policeman swaggered to my car, and I rolled down the window.

  “Ma’am, you were driving mighty slow and weaving. What’s going on?”

  I turned my puffy eyes and tear-swollen face toward him. “I . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry. I was at the victim center for counseling, and I guess it got to me, and . . .” To my complete humiliation, I burst into another round of tears and couldn’t speak. At least I was able to hand him my license. The car’s registration was harder to find, but I finally pulled it from the glove compartment and passed it to him, noticing too late that a half-eaten sucker was stuck to the back. The thought of Bryan set off another round of tears. Poor kid, having a crazy mom like me.

  The man sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ma’am, would you get out of the car, please?”

  He thought I was drunk? At eleven in the morning? I choked out a laugh through my tears—probably not helping my case.

  Cars slowed as they drove by, and I shivered at the sensation of being gawked at as I walked a straight line, balanced on one foot, and touched my nose. He handed me a Breathalyzer instrument.

  “This doesn’t react to Listerine, does it? I used mouthwash this morning.”

  He tugged the brim of his hat down, but it didn’t completely hide his eye roll. “No, ma’am.”

  The policeman’s face gave nothing away as he studied the results, but I knew he was revising his opinion. I turned to him with an apologetic smile and the flashing cherry on the top of his squad car hit me full in the face.

  The tingling exploded without warning this time. My blood seemed to flash freeze in my veins. I sucked in a couple tight, rapid breaths, but it didn’t help.

  I tried to form words. “I d-d-don’t feel so . . .” Then I reached for the support of the pavement. Arms caught me and eased me toward the ground. When I was able to breathe again, I looked up at a grim face that waited for explanation.

  “It’s your car,” I said. “The police cars. It brought it all back. Last month? The Quick Corner in Chesapeake? I was there.”

  His square-edged frown softened. He gave a soft whistle. “I’m sorry. I heard about that one. So you’ve been getting help?”

  I sighed, my muscles suddenly limp, as if I’d finished an hour-long spin class. “That’s what I tried to tell you. I was at the victim center to talk to someone.”

  He nodded. “Okay, ma’am. But next time maybe you should bring a friend along to drive you. You don’t want to be driving when you’re that upset.”

  “Okay.” How was I supposed to find someone to drive me when I didn’t know anyone in the area? But I’d agree with anything just to get away from him.

  He studied my license. “You’re almost home. Tell you what. I’ll follow you to be sure you get there safe. Okay?”

  In his mind, this probably passed as kindness. But did he have any idea how embarrassing it would be to drive home with a police car on my tail? “Will you at least turn off your lights?”

  When we pulled in front of my house, Laura-Beth left her lawn chair and hurried to the sidewalk. “Why, Penny, what on earth happened? You didn’t see another crime, didja? What are the odds?” She fluffed her brittle hair and smiled at the policeman who had stepped from his car. Apparently he wouldn’t trust the community’s safety until he’d escorted me to my door.

  I studied the anthills along the sidewalk cracks. “He stopped me for driving too slow.”

  She snorted. “Well, if that don’t beat all. I didn’t know they gave tickets for that.”

  “I didn’t give her a ticket, ma’am.” The policeman tugged on his belt, trying to pull it up over his paunch. “I offered to escort her home to be sure she got here all right.”

  Laura-Beth put an arm around my shoulders. “Well, I can take care of her now. You run along. Thank ya kindly.” She guided me toward her house. “Someone needs to look out for ya. Can’t leave my house or the twins would tear the place apart.”

  I tried to resist. To aim for my own home. But everything took too much effort.

  She threw open her screen door and guided me inside, through a cluttered living room with the same floor plan as ours. Her twins sat on beanbags a few feet from a television, identical thumbs in matching mouths. They didn’t pull their gaze away.

  Laura-Beth led me to the kitchen in the back of the house. Even though her windows were open to the backyard, the room reeked of cigarettes and kitty litter that needed changing. The windows had a thin amber coat from years of tobacco, giving them a stained-glass effect.

  I sank into a chair and pushed away the overflowing ashtray.

  “Oh, sorry ’bout that. I’m always after Ray to quit, but he’s gotta have some little pleasures. Poor man works so hard.” She grabbed a glass from the dish drain, rubbed it on her sleeve, poured some lemonade and handed it to me in a fluid movement.

  I sipped, letting the tart drink pucker my lips and swish warmly against the insides of my cheeks.

  “Sorry. Our ice maker broke, and I can’t get the kids to remember to fill the trays, so there’s no ice right now.”

  “Mmm. This is fine. Thanks.” Somewhere in the past weeks I’d lost my ability to carry on easy conversations. I tried to remember how it worked. “What does Ray do?”

  Her teeth flashed, and she sank into the chair across from me. “Factory work. Die-cutting metal. Well, that’s his main job, but he’s also been helping a friend with some construction after hours, ’cause they cut health benefits at the factory, and Ruthie’s got asthma, so we gotta keep up on her medicine and all.”

  “Ruthie?” My mind used to sprint joyously, but today it was limping, b
arely able to maintain my end of the conversation.

  “Yeah. The oldest. You remember. Ruthie-Mae?”

  I nodded and took another drink. Two high chairs cut into floor space, toys were scattered underfoot, and the counters were cluttered with boxes and cans that didn’t fit in the cupboards. Along the top edge of the wall, patchy remnants of an old border stood out against the yellow paint.

  Laura-Beth followed my gaze. “I bought a new border and keep meanin’ to put it up, but it’s a two-person job, and poor Ray is so tired come nighttime, I don’t have the heart to make him help.”

  Unbidden, the youth room at our church in Wisconsin sprang to mind. With the help of several teens, I’d painted, hung paper, and made new curtains. I’d also put up a new border in the women’s rest room at the church.

  In my purse, the notebook with Penny’s Project pulsed like radium, throbbing in time to the headache pinching behind my eyes.

  “I can help.” I blurted the words and then wanted to pull them back.

  Laura-Beth beamed. “Ya’ don’t say. I was hopin’ when you moved in that we’d become best of friends. Ya’ just never know about people. But I had a feeling.”

  She tore open a package of generic wafer cookies and tossed them toward me. “Let’s git started, and you kin tell me all about yourself. And maybe another day you can help me gussie up the bathroom, too.”

  I took another gulp of lemonade and shuddered.

  In spite of my qualms, I had a surprisingly good time helping Laura-Beth. As we scrubbed the wall, she told me her life story. As we lined up the border, she gave me her opinion on every current affair she could think of. As we wiped off the excess glue, she told me about her hope of opening her own beauty salon one day. The twang of her voice and swoosh of my sponge against the wall created music that soothed me. The simple, normal activity helped me avoid my demons for a few hours.

  When I left, I was exhausted and eager to retreat to the safety of my own walls. But I took pride in adding this good deed to my Penny’s Project notebook. “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” Did Jesus need help with wallpapering? A smile teased my lips. Hard to say. But this was tangible progress by any standard. Who would be my target tomorrow?

  chapter

  11

  THE NEXT MORNING, JIM-BOB didn’t wait for Bryan on the sidewalk. While I said my brief prayer for Bryan, Jim-Bob came right up to our steps. His gaze roamed the gutters, the tree, his shoes—everywhere but me. Something prompted me, and before my amen, I added a quick petition. “And bless Jim-Bob today, and thank you that he’s our neighbor.”

  Jim-Bob’s freckles pressed together in a face-squashing grin, while Bryan blinked at me in surprise. I watched the boys walk to the corner. Then I ducked back inside, locked the door, and trudged to the kitchen, where my notebook waited and Folgers brewed.

  I poured a mug of coffee and settled at the table, paging through my notebook. I’d been ducking conversations with my mom, hiding behind voice messages and e-mails. She’d love for me to call—just to let her know I was thinking of her. After a deep breath, I punched in the number.

  She answered on the second ring with a harried, “Hello.”

  I held my cup near my face fortifying myself with the smell of the steam. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Penny? Is it really you? I thought you never had time for the phone anymore.”

  I clenched my teeth and took a slow breath through my nose. “How’s it going? How’s Cindy doing?”

  “Esther has colic. Cindy’s worn out. I’m on my way over there now. And then I have a dentist appointment. You know, I thought things would slow down when I retired, but I’m always running. Oh, and the chamber of commerce meeting is tonight, and I promised to bring refreshments. They love my chocolate oatmeal bars. So you’ve been too busy to call all week?”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  Her tone softened. “Are you managing okay without Tom? I have a hard time when your dad takes a fishing trip for a week. I honestly don’t know how you’re going to last three whole months.”

  I felt a glimmer of warmth, a connection. How far could I build on this hint of understanding? Intimacy was a gift, and I wanted to offer my mom a gift today, the way the support group on Tuesday had given their honesty to me. “It’s hard. I’ve been kind of . . . down.”

  Awkward pause. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been tired all the time. I thought it was a flu bug, but it’s more than that. I’m having trouble doing things. . . . I’m just . . . kind of not myself.” The words slipped out like minnows and darted away.

  She scooped them up. “You know what I always say. If you’re down in the dumps, give the house a good cleaning. That’ll cheer you right up.”

  “Yep. That’s what you always say.”

  “My friend Janice was feeling blue last month and I told her all she needed was to get busy. Listen to happy music. Open the curtains. Try a little harder.”

  On the page with my mother’s name, I doodled into my notebook. Happy music, curtains, try harder. My shoulders sagged. “You’re probably right.”

  “You know it.” The compassion I’d imagined disappeared behind the crisp commands of a drill sergeant. “Nobody likes a whiner. Besides, you have Bryan to keep you company and cheer you up. How is my darling grandson, anyway?”

  I took my cue and brightly filled her in on Bryan’s progress in school, his friends, and his upcoming play. After a little more chatting, I hung up and rested my head in my arms. This good deed had been more exhausting than helping Laura-Beth.

  A month ago I might have spouted the same pep talk. I’d never had much patience with people moping through life and giving in to their moods. But that was before I’d felt the fierce power of a turbulent mind—the power to disrupt everything. Eating, sleeping, talking.

  Alex had tried to tell me once. I hadn’t understood. Hadn’t tried to understand. Had my brother felt this? These fractures through the landscape of the brain? Had I tossed him the same thoughtless Band-Aids in the face of aching wounds?

  A warm, grassy breeze slipped through the open kitchen window and lured me back to another summer day twenty years earlier.

  “Don’t tell me you understand!” Alex shouted the words with such force that spittle flew through the air. The tranquil wooden porch in front of our house couldn’t offer him comfort. He didn’t seem to see the towering oak tree with our old tire swing, or the broad lawn bright with clover and Creeping Charlie. He clutched his hair, shaking his head like a horse fighting a curb bit. “It’s like ants crawling in my head, faster and faster.”

  Alex’s depression of the past months had annoyed me. I was fourteen and clawing for some measure of popularity at the high school—I didn’t need my seventeen-year-old brother moping around. His new descent into desperation terrified me. “Let me get Mom. She can call your doctor.”

  “It’s not helping. Mom keeps telling me to try harder. And the doctors just talk and talk.”

  He sprang to his feet and ran into the house. The screen door slapped shut behind him.

  Funny that after all these years, that sound remained a vivid memory.

  Oh, Alex, I didn’t understand. I thought you were demanding more than your fair share of attention. I thought that since it left no physical marks on you, the depression couldn’t be all that bad.

  Of course, the physical marks on my brother came later. Sunken, haunted eyes, weight gain from yet another medication that didn’t work, pale skin as he withdrew from life. Immersed in my own adolescent selfishness, I’d resented all the trouble he was causing our family. Cindy had been young and oblivious, but I’d chafed against the way his mental illness disrupted my life.

  At school, whispers stopped suddenly when I walked to my locker. I couldn’t bring friends over. I missed pep band performances when my dad picked me up from school early because they had to take Alex to the hospital again.

  Alone at my
kitchen table so many years later, grief poured over me, and I begged the memories to carry me further back to happier times.

  Alex had been the one to teach me to ride my bike. Dad was busy at the store the summer I was seven, and Mom couldn’t push a bike in her low-heeled pumps and tailored shirtdress. Appearance had always been vital to her, and jogging down the street of our small town with her scrape-kneed daughter shrieking from the bike seat was not on her priority list. Alex didn’t care who was watching. He owned the street. He owned the world. “Come on, Pen. Work those pedals!” I wobbled and tilted and flew. I could still hear his whoop of triumph as he let me go. I got all the way past the Olsons’ porch before tipping over.

  Saturday morning I sat at the kitchen table again with my notebook, and stared out the screen door. The Penny’s Project idea had merit, but I needed some creative ideas before I ran out of the people I knew and had easy access to. Bryan was out back, swinging on a rope Tom had hung from a gnarled tree branch. His feet skimmed the tall grass as he experimented with different ways to dangle. Maybe I shouldn’t have resisted Tom’s repeated attempts to teach me to start the mower before he left. The grass had definitely gotten too long.

  Since I didn’t have a goat, I really needed to tackle the problem. My budget was stretched thin because of all the ordering in I’d been doing, and the thought of interviewing neighbor kids to hire exhausted me.

  I could figure out how to start a mower. How hard could it be? I pulled on my tennis shoes and pushed a gardening hat over my unruly hair. Mowing the lawn could be my good deed for the whole neighborhood and fill another day’s slot in my notebook.

  The metal shed door shrieked in protest as I slid it open. A coiled hose snarled my ankle. When I kicked it free, I bumped a pile of tomato cages that tipped over and scraped my shins. I finally wrestled the small mower out to the lawn.

  I’d seen Tom do this a hundred times. I studied the machine and found the string that he always yanked on. I gripped it and pulled. It refused to move. Wait. The grip bar at the handle must play a role. I squeezed and held it and pulled the string again.