Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  Her story made my overly controlling parents, eating disorder, and failed ballet career seemed like a minor speed bump in the road of life. Suddenly, feeling sorry for myself rated as a pathetic waste of time. Compared to Dell, I was like Joujou, wetting on the floor because my mommy left me home alone.

  When I returned to school tomorrow, I was going to find some way to get Dell back into my office—maybe call her in and ask more questions about the after-school arts program run by her foster mother. Anything to start up a conversation and dig a little deeper.

  I spent the rest of the evening combing through her file with a new passion, a revitalized interest in my job. By the time I finished reading, I had a glimmer of hope that I might have learned enough about Dell to help.

  Resting my head against the sofa pillow, I closed my eyes and pictured the place she came from—a tiny house in a row of decaying shacks squatting along the river bottom near a rural farming town. A grandmother who wasn’t equipped to raise a little girl, a small-town school where teachers tried to intervene, then found it easier to look the other way. A life that slipped from one year to the next, untended, unstructured, unprotected, unrestricted, in which Dell spent her time roaming the woods in solitude, stayed home from school when she felt like it, and largely kept to herself.

  Compared to that, Harrington was the other side of the moon. All the fuss about her instrumental and vocal abilities, the constant scrutiny of teachers and instructors in the music department, undoubtedly felt like suffocation. In a place like Harrington, there was no breathing room, only pressure and expectations… .

  My thoughts drifted away from the social worker’s report, away from memories of Dell in my office, away from my parents’ living room and Joujou snoring beside me, far from the half quart of Häagen-Dazs sitting like lead in my stomach. Miles from all that was real.

  Shedding the weight of everything, I soared through a cloudless summer sky, gliding southward, where the Ozarks lay like folds in a thick green blanket. Nestled in the valley, the river wound through the shade of the sycamores, carrying glints of sunlight that sailed past the girl in the water, travelers on a journey even she could not predict. Stretching out her arms, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back, and floated on the surface.

  I was the girl in the river, dancing the part of the Black Swan from KC Metro’s season opening performance of Swan Lake. Stretching out my arms, I sailed through the sunbeams, whirling like a floating leaf, lighter than air… .

  The sound of the front door opening pulled me from my dream. Beside me, Joujou yipped and jumped up, then dashed from the room, spinning out on the tile as she screeched around the corner to the entryway.

  “It’s just us,” Mom called, the way she used to when I was home alone as a teenager. “Anyone awake in here?” She came into the room carrying Joujou, who was happily slathering her face with kisses.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, and stretched, slipping the files back into my briefcase.

  “Did you girls have a good time?” It was hard to tell whether she was talking to me or Joujou. “How did your evening go?” Her gaze gravitated toward the kitchen. What she really wanted to do was check the plates, then weigh and measure the leftovers.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked.

  “Oh, he ran down to the store for some milk.” Setting Joujou down, she blinked in surprise when the dog hopped onto the sofa with me. “Didn’t want to be out of milk at breakfast.”

  “We should call his cell and tell him not to bother. I picked some up on the way home.”

  Mom gave me a panicked look, no doubt imagining a shopping cart full of binge food and laxatives. She glanced toward the kitchen again. “Oh, he’ll be back in a minute.” Instead of finding an excuse to check for leftovers, she sat down on the sofa next to me.

  I sensed an old parental tactic—the one in which Dad conveniently left the house so Mom could tell me something, or discuss a girls-only subject, or, lately, question me about food. “So, I have some news.” Twining her hands together in her lap, she plastered on a broad smile obviously meant to bolster me. “Bethany and Jason made a little announcement tonight. They’re getting married. Next month, if you can believe it. Jason just got word that he’s to be transferred out of state, and … well …” Mom leaned close to me, holding a hand beside her mouth, whispering, “They’re expecting.”

  I sat blinking at her, the words spinning around me. My little sister was getting married, moving out of state, and having a baby? Where was I when all that was taking shape?

  “Of course, they didn’t intend for it to happen—in that order, I mean,” Mom continued on, still whispering, as if Joujou shouldn’t hear. “But, you know, times change. These days, it’s not nearly the issue it used to be, way back when.”

  The sentence ended there, but I mentally finished it with, When you had me. It’s not the big issue it was when you had me. “That’s big news,” I heard myself say. “I’ll call her tomorrow and tell her congratulations. I’m kind of wiped out tonight.” Suddenly, my body felt five hundred pounds too heavy. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Mom felt my forehead. “Sure. Are you OK? I could make you some herbal tea.”

  “No … no, that’s all right.” My feet were in quicksand. “I’m fine. I just need to get some rest.” Not trusting myself to say anything else, I hugged Mom good night, climbed the stairs to my bedroom, and locked the door. Below, I heard my father come home and their voices vibrating in a low hum—no words, just muffled tones of concern.

  Joujou scratched at my door, and I let her in. We curled up on the bed together, and I hugged my body around hers, wishing I could slip out the second-story window, run down the street, fish the other half quart of ice cream from the Dumpster, and eat until the lost feeling went away.

  Instead, I closed my eyes, hoping I could fall asleep and dream of the girl in the river, dancing Swan Lake.

  Chapter 3

  I awoke to a wintery wind howling outside the window and Mom tapping on my door, asking if she should call the school to tell them I was home sick this morning.

  My thoughts floated between past and present as I opened my eyes, bringing into focus the white jewelry box beside the dresser mirror, its tiny plastic ballerina frozen in time. Around me, a dream of dancing hung suspended, luring me to close my eyes and go back to sleep.

  Rolling over, I checked the alarm clock, and everything snapped into focus. Friday, six-o-one a.m. It was a workday, and if I didn’t get moving, I would be late.

  “No, Mom, I’m fine.” Scrambling from the bed, I scooped up Joujou and handed her out the door. “Thanks for waking me up. I forgot to set my alarm.”

  “You don’t look well this morning.” Mom’s brows knotted. “Why don’t you stay home and go have lunch with Bethany and me? We’re going to talk about wedding plans.” She looked exhausted, as if she’d been up all night worrying. “I don’t know how we’re going to put together a wedding in less than a month, but I guess we will.”

  My burst of adrenaline drained away as reality solidified in my mind. My little sister was moving on in life, which made my failures seem that much more monumental. “I can’t,” I rushed out. “I’m in the middle of some things at work. I’d better get going. I have hall duty this morning.”

  Mom smacked her lips in disgust, the lines deepening on her forehead. “They shouldn’t be asking you to perform hall duty when you live all the way across town.”

  I had a vision of her calling the principal to complain. “It’s all right, Mom. It’s a good way for me to get to know the students.” Kissing her on the cheek, I backed away. “When I left St. Francis, Dr. Leland said the best thing was to keep busy, remember?” Anytime I couldn’t win a debate with Mom, I could fall back on Dr. Leland’s advice.

  “All right,” she muttered, starting down the hall with Joujou under her arm. “I’ll hurry down and fix some breakfast for you.”

  “No. Don’t bother. No time.” Every morning, we repeated
the same painful ritual in which Mom produced a June Cleaver breakfast, and the three of us sat down together. Mom silently counted every bite of food going into my mouth, and Dad hid behind his Wall Street Journal, trying to remain neutral, the Switzerland of food wars. This morning, we’d have to do that and talk about Bett’s wedding and unexpected pregnancy.

  “It won’t take a minute,” Mom called back as she disappeared. “I’ll have it ready in a jiffy. The weather’s turned cold and nasty this morning. You’ll need something solid in your stomach.” On the way downstairs, she cooed to Joujou, probably asking what she wanted for breakfast.

  I hurried through showering, then put on makeup and combed my hair back, twisted it upward and secured it with a clip, so that little blond shoots stuck out the top. Not great, I thought, looking at the woman in the mirror in her bra and panties, studying herself with a hollow blue gaze.

  I hated the way my eyes were rimmed with dark circles and sunken in around the cheekbones. I looked older than twenty-seven—sallow and weary, like the homeless people who lived under bridges and pushed shopping carts on downtown streets.

  The body line could be more refined—slimmer. That ice cream is showing… . I’d turned sideways and started to examine myself before I awakened to what was happening. Stop it. Stop it. You’re not going to do this. Moving away from the mirror, I stepped on the scale. When I had those thoughts, it helped to get on the scale, think of my target weight range, and see how far off I was. One hundred and two pounds was too low for someone five-foot-six, but not dangerously thin.

  Also not fat.

  Leaving the scale behind, I rushed to the closet and slipped on a flowered dress, then remembered the change in the weather and grabbed a blazer. Outside, the moaning wind was testifying to the fact that, in spite of an unseasonably warm February so far, spring wasn’t here yet.

  By the time I’d gathered my things and arrived downstairs, Mom was setting the kitchen table.

  “Mom, I don’t have time,” I said, looking at the clock. Six forty-five. If I didn’t leave now, I would definitely be late. Mrs. Morris would probably be standing at the door, taking notes.

  “You have to eat.” Mom stacked toast on a napkin, then scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate.

  Grabbing a piece of toast, I piled some eggs onto it, folded it over, and took a Diet Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. “Mom, I love you, but I have to leave. Now.” She pointed the spatula at me like a weapon, and I took a bite of my sandwich. “I’m eating—look, this is me, eating. Mmmmm.”

  “Don’t be sassy. You should have some milk. And a heavy coat. It’s cold.”

  Grabbing the glass from the table, I downed a swig of milk, then set it in the refrigerator, said, “I’ll save it for later,” snatched up my briefcase, and rushed out the door.

  Fortunately, the traffic was light for a Friday, and the seven-thirty bell had just starting ringing as I jogged up the side steps at Harrington, and blew through the doorway on a stiff north wind. Mrs. Morris was already patroling by her classroom door. Checking her watch, she frowned as I passed by, her hawkish gaze following my rush to drop my things at my office, then take my duty station before the principal unlocked the front doors so that early arrivals could start coming in.

  Mr. Stafford shook his keys at me as he walked by. “You’re giving me gray hairs, Costell.” It was one of his standard jokes, since he didn’t have any hair.

  “Sorry.” I ducked my head, embarrassed about skating in at the last minute. “Bad commute today.” Excuses, excuses. If Mr. Stafford hadn’t been an easygoing guy coasting toward retirement, he probably would have fired me already for being woefully underqualified as a guidance counselor. I was learning on the job, and he was extraordinarily patient with that. Then again, the former guidance counselor had been an old battle-axe like Mrs. Morris. Stafford was probably relieved not to have two vipers denned up near his office.

  “Watch out for Morris. She’s hot about yesterday,” Mr. Stafford muttered from the corner of his mouth as he paused by the administration office across the hall. “She’s got friends on the school board.” He sighed wearily, no doubt counting the months until he could spend his mornings on the golf course. “Would have been easier to just give her the essay.”

  “It wasn’t the right thing to do,” I replied, and he made a tsk-tsk sound, frowning in a way that said, Great. Just great. Another hopeless idealist who’s never held down a real job and doesn’t have a clue how the world works. When will she learn?

  “Just … watch out.” Opening the administration door, he stepped partway in, then added, “She wants something to come of this.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.” At the end of the hall, Mrs. Morris was busy forcing a half dozen kids to about-face at the side door, so that they could walk around the building and come in the front as the rules prescribed. She looked disturbingly pleased about sending them out in the cold. “It was a judgment call, that’s all. In my opinion, returning the paper was in the best interest of the student involved. Morris’ll just have to tear the wings off some ladybugs for fun.” The school was notorious for its prespring hatching of ladybugs, for which there seemed to be no cure. The bugs gathered in corners, marched in lines up and down the walls, and sailed down the corridors, landing like ornaments in students’ hair. They were probably smart enough to stay away from Mrs. Morris.

  Rubbing the side of his face, Stafford stretched his sagging cheek skin, his tired sigh saying, I don’t need this. What have I done to deserve this? “It’s Say No to Drugs Day.” He shrugged over his shoulder toward the huge banner that announced a special Kansas City Drug Task Force assembly after roll call. “You’re supposed to be wearing red.” Without another word, he disappeared into his office, and I stood reading the banner—FRIDAY: WEAR RED INSTEAD.

  Crossing my arms over my pastel flowered dress and peach blazer, I stepped back against the wall, watching as the hall became a shifting sea of color coordination. Mrs. Morris, of course, had on red. Later, maybe she’d pop out her devil’s horns and complete the outfit.

  “Hey, Ms. Costell,” one of the kids—an eighth grader I’d helped with a summer music scholarship application—called, “it’s Red Day.”

  Groaning in my throat, I chirped out, “It’s OK, Colton. I like to be different.” What else was there to say?

  Twenty minutes later, when we filed into assembly, I ended up on the front row, looking like a party pooper at the antidrug extravaganza. Even the police officers seemed to notice, or maybe that was my own paranoia. Across the aisle, Mrs. Morris was whispering to another teacher and glaring at me. It looked like she was pantomiming yesterday’s disagreement over Dell Jordan.

  I searched for Dell in the crowd of students and teachers, but couldn’t find her. Maybe she’s absent. The thought brought a pang of disappointment as I settled back into my seat, listening with one ear to the drug task force’s spiel about teenage substance abuse: the effects on the body; tragic stories of kids who’d died or screwed up their lives by smoking, snorting, huffing, graphic tales of drug arrests and junkies; and neighborhoods where dealers had taken over the streets. It was too much information for middle schoolers, and I fidgeted uncomfortably in my chair, anxious for the assembly to be over. When it finally was, I slipped to the exit, watching for Dell as the students filed out, jostling among themselves and making jokes about the assembly with immature bravado, while teachers ordered them to stop visiting and proceed to class. Dell wasn’t in the crowd, and I walked back to my office feeling that I’d missed the mark the day before. She was probably ducking me and avoiding my suggestion that she write down more of her story so we could talk about it. My first real counseling opportunity, and I had no idea what I should have done.

  The corridor cleared as students filed into their classrooms, and teachers stood in the doorways, urging kids on and breaking up lingering conversations. Outside the seventh-grade science room, the science teacher was holding a test tube with something smo
king inside it, and the literature teacher was loudly quoting a Shakespeare passage about haste.

  As the halls emptied, Mr. Stafford escorted the officers from the police task force toward the front door, so that they could walk over to the high school building and repeat their assembly for the older kids. “Down the front steps, follow the covered walkway around the middle school building to the right, through the parking lot, past the performance hall, the maintenance building, and the tennis courts, to the three-story brick building with the glass doors. The newer building.” It had always chafed at Mr. Stafford that the high school facility was years newer than the middle school building, which had originated in the thirties. After closing as a public school, the building had become an arts magnet high school, then finally a magnet middle school, as the program grew and a new high school was constructed. “The administration office is just inside the double doors, and …” He glanced at his watch, frowning. “I thought someone from the other building was coming to walk you over.” Spying me, he angled his guests my way. “Ms. Costell can escort you over there and check you in at the office.”

  He paused to introduce me. Shaking hands, I thanked the officers, politely complimenting the assembly and saying that it was beneficial for the kids. But what did I know, really? I was no expert on kids and drugs. I was just the dork in the sherbet-colored dress on Red Day.

  The police officers weren’t aware of that, of course. They assumed that, as my staff name tag indicated, I was an actual guidance counselor. The sergeant, a fifty-something seen-it-all type whose badge read REUPER, delivered some stats about marijuana, crack, meth, Ecstasy, and huffing common household substances among area teens. Giving me a list of Web sites that offered good information, he suggested follow-up techniques I might use to develop a cooperative home-and school-based prevention program.

  I tried to imagine actually calling some Harrington kid into my office and questioning him or her about drug use. The parents would have a fit. Harrington kids were above such interrogation.