Nice going, Vicky. That’s showing them you’re brave! Why is it that I’m so afraid to let my father down? I look at the open door, hoping to see Dr. Desai, but she isn’t there. Maybe she wants me to face my father and Barbara alone before she comes to my rescue.
“Vicky.” Barbara crosses her right leg, the one closest to my father. “Your dad and I talked to that psychiatrist we mentioned the last time we were here,” she said. “He really is one of the best in Austin. Dr. Saenz. We made an appointment for you for tomorrow morning. As I said before, he doesn’t take any more cases, but he agreed to see you as a favor to your father. He wants to talk to you first, of course, but he says that nine out of ten times, the best way to proceed is to get back to your routine.”
“My routine,” I repeat mostly to myself. And then I think, My routine will take me to where I ended up before.
“Are you still suicidal?” my father asks, concerned.
That’s a hard one to answer. The idea does not occupy all my thoughts, the way it did the week before the deed. But the possibility is there, like a snake under a rock, and it is real. “Not right now,” I answer.
“Then you don’t belong here anymore,” my father says. “You need to come home and get your life back in order.”
Barbara rubs his knee, as if reminding him of something they have previously discussed. They both missed the emphasis I gave to the word now.
My father continues, “Becca wants to see you. She’ll take a few days off from school and come home. She can’t believe you haven’t talked to her since you’ve been here.”
So Becca hasn’t told him about our phone call. I wonder why. Maybe it was an important conversation for her too, one she wants to keep to herself. “Dr. Desai thought it would be better not to have any phone calls or visitors.”
“Not even your own family? Does that make sense to you?” my father says.
“Yes.” I let the word hang out there long enough for Barbara and Father to read into it whatever they want. Then I add, “I want to stay longer. Dr. Desai has a ranch outside of the city. She wants us to go there for two weeks.”
My father looks at me incredulously. Barbara jumps in before he can respond. “Do you really want to throw away your whole sophomore year?” She hurries on, probably afraid that I will answer her question. “We talked to Mr. Robinson, and he spoke to your teachers. They think you can still pass this year if you do some remedial work next summer. We found a tutor for you. A young woman. Becca recommended her. She graduated from Reynard with Becca. She’s a law student at UT now.”
“You talked to Mr. Robinson? So everyone knows.” Becca told me that — that everyone at school knew I tried to kill myself. It’s not so much that I care what people think of me. It’s more like their knowing will be one more thing weighing against my ability to make it … to persist, to keep on living. “I can’t go back yet,” I manage to say, but my voice trembles.
“You’re going to have to see people sooner or later. Later is not going to make it any easier.” My father is now ready to resume control of the situation. He waits for me to meet his eyes and then continues, “Right now, if we handle this properly, you still have a chance at getting into a decent college — UT, maybe, if I talk to some people. You throw away this year and you’re looking at a community college.” He takes a deep breath. “Bottom line: Are you okay now or aren’t you?”
“I’m not okay. Not fully. Not yet,” I say. “I need more time. I want to go to Dr. Desai’s ranch.”
It is strange and scary to speak that way to my father. It’s as if his strength has sparked my own. He tries not to look upset, but I can tell he is. Barbara places her right hand on his lap.
“Whatever needs fixing can be better fixed in a place where you’re surrounded by healthy minds and attitudes,” he continues. “I don’t like you being surrounded by sick people, by … patients in a psychiatric ward.”
“These sick people are helping me.” I remember my talk with Gabriel in the fifth-floor dining room. “And I’m helping them.”
“Vicky …” my father says. He’s about to speak again when Dr. Desai enters the room.
“Good morning,” she says cheerfully. She walks straight to the chair behind her desk without shaking anyone’s hands and sits. “Well,” she says after studying everyone’s faces, “I take it Vicky told you about the ranch.”
“We would like her to come home with us,” my father says. He moves himself to the front of the red sofa, getting ready to stand up.
“Yes, certainly you have the authority to take Vicky home with you right now,” Dr. Desai says calmly. “You’re her parents, Vicky is a minor, and I have no say in this at all. But my professional recommendation is that she stay away from her regular environment for at least two more weeks. My ranch is a wonderful place to reflect, and Vicky has already benefited immensely from our group discussions and one-on-one conversations. I think she feels like she needs a little more time before she goes back to her day-to-day life.”
“Can I ask you something?” Barbara says.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a professional opinion about why Vicky did what she did?”
My father says impatiently, “What she did was a fluke, an impulsive mistake. It’s not going to happen again.” I meet his eyes when he says this, and I feel as if he is in fact warning me that it better not happen again.
“Vicky.” Dr. Desai waits for me to look at her. “Do you want to respond to your stepmother’s question?”
Silence fills the room. My father and Barbara are actually waiting attentively for me to speak. It feels strange to see them like that, as if what I am about to say truly matters. It’s how my father listens to Becca talk about her victories in debate.
I speak slowly, my eyes glued to the floor. “My thinking is not right. It hasn’t been right for a long time, maybe even since Mamá died. It’s like I got stuck in the sadness of Mamá’s death, and the sadness turned into something worse — an illness called depression. What I’m doing now is understanding how depression works, how it colors everything I see and do. I like some of the things I do here. I like the other kids. I haven’t liked anybody or anything for a long time. If I stay a little longer, maybe I can figure out how to like what’s waiting for me out there. That’s what I need.”
There is silence, a loud silence. I see what could be fear in my father’s face. Barbara seems confused. She clutches at her tiny brown purse that is just big enough to hold her cell phone and car keys.
Finally, Father breaks the silence. He speaks directly to Dr. Desai. “I can understand why she wants to stay here, protected, taken care of. But what Vicky needs is a future to look forward to. She needs the confidence of overcoming struggles, of accomplishments under her belt. She needs challenges and goals, things to strive for. I’m not talking about challenges that she can’t possibly accomplish. I’m talking about objectives that she can reach, given her abilities. Yes, there’s some pressure in that, but that’s what makes life interesting. You find your dream and then do what it takes to get there. She needs an environment that rewards healthy choices and effort, not illness.”
Dr. Desai’s dark face turns a darker color. She tilts her chair forward, places both her hands on her desk, and glares at my father. “Mr. Cruz,” she says, “your daughter is alive by the grace of God. A few minutes more and she would have been dead. She tried to kill herself. She wasn’t joking or asking for attention. She meant to do it, and every doctor worth his salt will tell you that the odds are high that people who try once with that kind of serious intent will try again. Do you understand that?”
She stops and waits for those words to sink in. My father’s jaw clenches. He’s not used to people speaking to him as if he were a child or an idiot.
“Vicky’s assessment of her situation, in my professional opinion” — here she turns to look meaningfully at Barbara — “is absolutely correct. She is depressed. The feelings that resulted from her mother�
��s decline and death turned from a sadness that was natural and even healthy into one that was unhealthy. That unhealthy sadness we call clinical depression. In the last few days, Vicky has had some remarkable insights into her condition. Those insights came with the help of other kids who are also in pain, like her, in some form or another. I urge you to listen to her when she tells you that she needs a little more time to keep figuring things out.” She pauses. “It is not only Vicky who needs to understand her depression. Her family must too.”
My father speaks slowly. “Understanding is not the only thing she needs right now. She needs to know that depression or no depression, you don’t ever quit.” He turns toward me. “Do you believe what you did was wrong?”
Dr. Desai crosses her hands on her chest. “Vicky knows that what she did was ‘wrong,’ as you put it, Mr. Cruz. But fully believing that it is wrong is not going to keep her from trying again. Right or wrong don’t matter when you’re in pain, and Vicky has been in pain. She needs a little more time to heal before she returns to her regular life. My ranch is on the Natchez River. Over the years, hundreds of kids” — she points at the pictures on the bulletin board — “have spent anywhere from a few days to a few months there. It’s a good place for young people.” Here Dr. Desai looks at Barbara. Maybe she hopes that Barbara will come to my aid.
“I don’t know how much Vicky has told you about her school situation,” Barbara says, “but she’s in danger of failing this year. The only way for her not to repeat this year is if she gets at least C’s in all her finals, which will not be easy for her. Missing so much school is just too costly. We’ve found a psychiatrist — maybe you know him: Dr. Saenz?” Dr. Desai shakes her head. “I’m surprised you don’t know him. He’s one of the best in Austin. Anyway, his philosophy is that a combination of medication, individual therapy — daily visits if necessary — and a return to normal life, with some additional support at home and in school, is the best way to treat Vicky. He likened his approach to how we deal nowadays with a sprained ankle. It used to be that when you sprained an ankle, you rested until it healed. Now medical practice recommends exercise immediately — not vigorous, certainly, but some. Healing in the midst of normal life. Being around optimistic, cheerful people. That’s what he’s proposing, and Miguel and I fully agree. We got Vicky a tutor to help her with her schoolwork. I also thought she could join me in my Zumba Yoga class.” This last suggestion is punctuated with a wink in my direction.
Not in this lifetime, I say to myself.
Dr. Desai turns to me. “Vicky, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to do or say.”
My father and Barbara have made up their minds. I feel so defeated just now. I don’t think they will understand what I want to say to them, but I go ahead and say it anyway. “I can’t go back yet. The first few days that I was here, I was sure that I was going to try again when I got out, and this next time I would pull it off. But now, after two weeks, that certainty … now, I don’t know. Maybe I can find a way to live out there. I don’t know. Maybe I can do it. Before I come home, I want the ‘maybe’ to be a little stronger, if possible.”
“That sounds like a threat,” my father says. There is more disappointment than anger in his voice.
“It’s not a threat,” I say. “It’s just the way I feel.”
He runs his hand over his neatly combed gray hair. He looks up at the bulletin board and then at me. “Why, Vicky? What’s so bad about your life? If you were depressed or whatever, why didn’t you say something?” He turns to Barbara. “I didn’t think she was depressed, did you?”
“There were no signs,” Barbara explains to Dr. Desai. She sounds almost apologetic. “There were bad grades, but Vicky was never a good student. Then she quit debate in the middle of a tournament, leaving her best friend without a partner. We thought it was some kind of sibling resentment bubbling up. Her sister was the best debater Reynard’s ever had.” She turns toward me, her eyes fixed on my hair. “The night you took it upon yourself to massacre your hair, I thought you were getting back at us for Juanita.”
“Getting back?” Dr. Desai asks.
“She didn’t mention that in your sessions with her?” Barbara says, her eyebrows lifting. “Juanita is our maid —”
“My nana,” I correct her, “who has taken care of me since I was born, who’s been with our family since my father married my mother.”
“I know who Juanita is,” Dr. Desai says. “She’s the one who found Vicky unconscious and called the ambulance. What I don’t know is how she’s connected to the cutting of Vicky’s hair.”
Barbara speaks, animated. “Vicky’s mad at us because we thought it best if Juanita went back to Mexico. She’s got advanced arthritis. She can’t work anymore; she can barely make it up the stairs. I discovered recently that Vicky has been doing her chores for God knows how long. Juanita needs somebody to take care of her, but all her family is in Mexico. Miguel and I thought the best thing would be to give her a very generous retirement package so she could go back to Mexico and live comfortably with her younger sister.”
“You don’t fire family,” I say.
“When did you find out about Juanita?” Dr. Desai asks me.
“The week before she tried to kill herself,” Barbara answers before I can. “I told her our decision, then she ran off in a huff and cut her hair. Was that when you decided to end your life?”
“No,” I say. “I planned on killing myself long before that.”
Barbara’s eyes widen and my father’s face deflates, like some kind of vital air has been let out. It hurts me to watch him. The image of him standing in the receiving line at my mother’s wake comes to me — the way he could barely say thank you, as if all he wanted was to go and be with Mamá, wherever she had gone.
I focus on Ganesh.
“Vicky …” Dr. Desai says softly after a few moments of tense silence. “Vicky, why don’t you go to your room and get your things, and let me talk to your parents alone for a few minutes?”
I get out of my chair without looking at Father or Barbara and leave the room. I walk fast, anger and frustration fueling my legs. In front of my room, I stop and take a deep breath. I need to keep it together so I can say good-bye to Mona. Then I need to find Gabriel and E.M., and I don’t want to be angry when I say good-bye to them.
Our room is empty. I sit in the chair next to my bed and put my head between my knees. I think of all the things I should have said to my father that I didn’t. I’m needed here. I’m good at things here, even if it’s folding sheets. I’m getting back on that horse of yours but I’m doing it my way, as best I can.
There is a knock on the door. I don’t know how much time has passed. I was supposed to be gathering my things. I stand up so quickly that I feel dizzy and have to grab on to the bed.
“Come in,” I say. It’s Dr. Desai. “I’ll be ready in a minute,” I add, heading toward the closet.
“Let’s sit down for a second.” Dr. Desai lifts the chair next to Mona’s bed and places it to face the chair where I had been sitting. We sit, our knees touching. She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how many suicides and suicide attempts by young people I’ve been a part of, and I am still amazed by the different reactions of the parents. There’s guilt, of course, but anger is right up there.”
“Like my father,” I point out.
“The thing we need to keep in mind is that underneath that anger, there is fear and hurt. In a way, your suicide attempt is a rejection of him, of his way of life, of the way of life he wants for you, of what he has worked hard to give you.”
Was there rejection on my part? It felt more like the life my father wanted for me had done the rejecting.
“Anyway,” Dr. Desai continues, “your father has given you permission to go to the ranch.”
“He did?” I feel my mouth fall open in disbelief.
“Yes. And your stepmother agreed as well.”
“That’s unbelievable. What did you tell them?�
��
Dr. Desai makes a devilish face, the one that says a magician cannot reveal her tricks. I feel so many things just now: relief at not having to go back, grateful to my father, glad that I will be with the group, and, surprisingly, fear. It’s as if I’ve been entrusted with something precious for which I am now responsible.
“Please tell me how you convinced them,” I insist.
She nods, her face turning suddenly serious. “The important thing to remember is that they put your needs ahead of theirs. They want what is best for you and are trying to give that to you the best way they know how, which may not always be the right way for you. I told them what I believed as a doctor who has treated hundreds of young people. It wasn’t much different from what you told them in your own words. In my opinion, although you are stable now and are no longer in the grip of suicidal ideation, there is a likelihood that at the next crisis — and the next crisis is sure to come sooner or later — the suicidal ideation will return.”
“And I will try to kill myself again,” I say.
“If you are not equipped to resist, yes. In the next few days, we will talk about the need for ongoing medication. My instincts were to hold off on it since you were safe here with us. But now we need to consider it in preparation for your return.”
“Will medication make me like my life?” I ask.
A tender smile spreads across Dr. Desai’s face. “Medication won’t make you like your life. It might help you accept the things you cannot change, and maybe even give you the energy to change the things you can, to paraphrase an old prayer. But to like your life, you’re going to need more than medication.”
“What else will I need?”
“Ahh,” Dr. Desai says mysteriously. “First let’s work on making friends with life in general.”
“But how?”
Again, her lips form into a smile. “Let’s see if we can at least glimpse the answer to that question in the next two weeks.”
Dr. Desai pushes herself out of the chair slowly. “Zumba Yoga, indeed,” I hear her say on the way out.
The Memory of Light Page 11
