Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  “It can happen anywhere. It’s not just gang kids from the wrong side of town.” Sergeant Reuper appeared to be reading my mind. “High expectations and performance pressure can cause kids to look for an escape hatch. These days, marijuana and methamphetamine are inexpensive and relatively easy for young people to procure. They can buy just about anything they want on street corners not four blocks from here. Then there’s the entire class of commonly available household products we talked about during the assembly. Kids don’t think that inhaling butane, correction fluid, or aerosol propellants is drug use, but it is. It’s pervasive, and it’s deadly.” His eyes narrowed toward the hallway, as if he could feel the demanding culture in the atmosphere. “Addiction is an equal opportunity killer. It’s a tough thing to beat, and the only effective solution is a coordinated effort between home and school. There’s no room for denial, in either place.”

  In that instant, I could relate to what the kids in our classrooms might be going through. I knew about addiction and denial. Not drug addiction, but I knew about keeping secrets and hiding who you really were. Even in middle school, I realized I had a problem with food, but I didn’t think anyone would understand, so I kept dabbling with binging and purging until I had an addiction I couldn’t control. “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll get busy putting together some awareness programs and parent information.”

  Mr. Stafford blinked in surprise. Clearly, he didn’t think I was capable of constructing an awareness program. He couldn’t imagine how much I really knew about hitting rock bottom, admitting the truth to your family, and climbing the twelve steps out of the pit.

  “Call us if we can help,” the sergeant said, chewing his lip as he surveyed the ceiling, where a line of ladybugs was marching in a lazy circle around the art deco light fixture. “You’d be surprised, even in a place like this, where the kids come from higher socioeconomic families, how many children go days at a time without anybody really talking to them. The thing about a smart kid with some resources is, he can keep up appearances for a long time. Combine that with parents, or schools, or teachers with reputations to uphold, and sometimes the reputation is more important than the truth, or the kid.” Turning back, he held my gaze for a moment, and I felt my focus narrow until it was just him and me in the corridor. I got it. He wasn’t talking in generalities. He was talking about Harrington.

  Breaking the connection, Sergeant Reuper glanced at the principal and said, “No offense intended, of course, but in this business it’s essential to be proactive.”

  “Oh, of course, of course. No offense taken. Children are always our first priority here,” Mr. Stafford answered, but he was starting to bristle. His short, round body had stretched to its full height, and his arms were stiff at his sides. He was ready to have the Say No to Drugs crew proceed to the high school building. They’d stepped on his toes, and worse yet, now they’d noticed the ladybugs. All four police officers were gaping at the ceiling in amazement.

  “Well, we thank you all for coming.” Clapping his hands together, Mr. Stafford wrung his fingers roughly like he was trying to compact a ball of rubbish before pitching it into the wastebasket.

  He reminded me of Dell, folding her essay into a paper wad and stuffing it into her pocket.

  “Guess we’d better get going,” the sergeant said. “We can find our way. No need to walk us around. It’s cold out this morning. Norther blowing in.” He pulled a couple of business cards from his pocket and handed them to Mr. Stafford and me. “Call us if you need anything.”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Stafford replied as the front doors opened and the high school principal entered with his guidance counselor at his side. “Well, there are your escorts now. Dr. Lee, Mr. Fortier, this is Sergeant Reuper and his staff. They’ve just given our students a real eye-opener, and I’m sure they’ll do the same for yours.”

  Dr. Lee and Mr. Fortier made quick introductions, seeming only slightly more sincere than Mr. Stafford. I felt sorry for the police officers. They could probably tell that their hard work was falling largely on deaf ears. They undoubtedly got this reception at a lot of places. No school, no family, no adult, no kid wanted to admit to an ongoing problem with addiction.

  As he turned to leave, Sergeant Reuper caught my gaze again and squinted thoughtfully, as if he could see the wheels turning in my mind. Then we said our farewells, all shook hands again, and he headed out the door with his crew, as Dr. Lee and Mr. Fortier made pleasant conversation about the wintry turn in the weather.

  Clapping his hands together again, Mr. Stafford rocked back on his heels, as in, Mission accomplished; now let’s get back to the bond elections and the federal grant applications for the new performance hall. He checked his watch, as if time were critical. “Well, that takes care of our Drug Education Prevention hours for the semester.” His shoulders sagged as he headed toward his office. “I don’t know when we’re supposed to educate these kids, between the DEP hours to keep them off drugs, and the character ed programs to make them good citizens, and the phys ed classes because they’re too fat, and the sex ed classes so they won’t get AIDS, and that idiotic mandatory achievement test. You’d think they don’t have any parents at home.”

  These days a lot of them don’t, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Mr. Stafford wasn’t in the mood. He wouldn’t have understood, anyway. But I knew how easy it was for a kid in a perfectly normal family to hide a problem for years. Even though I always knew my parents loved me, they never had a clue about my eating disorder. The fact was that they were both busy, and as long as everything appeared to be under control, they assumed it was.

  Family enablement trap number one, I’d learned in rehab at St. Francis: convenient assumptions. A smooth surface often hides a deadly undertow.

  Still standing in the hallway, I planned my day while watching the ladybugs, now marching single file down the center of the ceiling. First, read the rest of the grant application booklet, then spend some time looking over the Web sites the sergeant had mentioned. See if I could come up with ideas that would be viable at Harrington, then figure out how to get Stafford to agree. In the past, he’d backhandedly made it clear that I wasn’t to delve into the private lives of students, because, after all, their parents might complain to the superintendent or the school board. Heaven forbid.

  Flipping on the lights in my office, I realized that it was almost ten, and I hadn’t done a thing except attend the drug education program. In a way, I could see Mr. Stafford’s point. There were only so many hours in a school day. Trying to do anything more than process all the required paperwork seemed impossible, and probably not worth the effort. Who was I to think I could change the tightly-woven fabric of Harrington? The place was what it was, and I had to learn to operate within the confines that existed, not butt my head against them. Getting into a snit with Mrs. Morris about Dell Jordan’s essay hadn’t been a smart move, either. I was only making trouble for myself, and probably for Dell.

  When I picked up my briefcase from my desk, something fluttered underneath it—two pieces of lined paper, torn out of a spiral notebook. I recognized the handwriting. A ladybug was sitting in the center of the page. I blew on it, and it flew away as I sat down and started reading.

  It’s Say No to Drugs assembly, but I’m sitting in the storeroom behind the instrumental music hall. I think Mr. Verhaden knows I come in here sometimes, but he pretends like he doesn’t. He never says anything about it. Anything is fine with Mr. Verhaden, as long as when it’s time for music, my mind is on music. Other than that, he doesn’t care if I go in the storeroom where it’s quiet. Maybe he understands, or maybe he only cares about the music. I don’t know.

  I didn’t want to go to the assembly today, so I hung around until everyone left, and then I slipped into the storeroom while Verhaden was locking his office. I almost thought he saw me, but he didn’t turn around. My heart was in my neck, because I couldn’t stand it if he made me go to the Red Day assembly. I forgot to wear red toda
y. I’d be the only one there in a lime-green sweatshirt.

  That isn’t why I didn’t want to go. I hate those assemblies, because I know what they’ll say. They’ll talk about drugs, and all the bad things they can do to your body, and they’ll show some pictures of messed-up brain slices and lungs that are all rotted from huffing, or crack, or smoking weed. They’ll show some babies that scream day and night and will never be normal because their mamas did drugs.

  I’ll look at those babies and wonder if that’s me. Is my brain messed up like that? Was I like those babies? Did I cry, and twitch, and look all shrunk up and pale? Is that why Mama brought me home to my granny and didn’t stay six months before she went away again? Did she leave me there because she figured I was messed up and always would be? Is that why my daddy didn’t want me, either?

  Did he even know there was a me?

  I’ll go through the questions in my mind—why did Mama straighten herself out for more than a year when she had my baby brother? She wouldn’t do that for me. She was in love with Angelo’s daddy. Maybe that was the difference. He used to come around Granny’s house sometimes, when Angelo was tiny. Mama said that after she got straight, they would get married and move off and get a real house. If I was good, maybe she’d take me.

  I used to hear them fight sometimes in the other bedroom. Granny’s old house had walls thin as paper. I’d get Angelo and wrap him in a blanket, and take him out to the woods or down by the river. We’d sit where it was quiet, me propped up against a tree, and Angelo resting on my knees. He’d kick little baby kicks, and giggle, and stare up at the sky. His eyes were clear and blue, just like a mirror of what was above. I’d ruffle his hair, and he’d smile at me, and I knew how it was to really love somebody. I thought, if Mama left again, I’d take care of Angelo and I’d never be alone.

  By the time he got big enough to walk, I was sure that was how it would be. Angelo’s daddy had quit coming around. I knew sooner or later Mama would be gone, too. Some guy with long black hair was coming by the house a lot, and they’d go off in his pickup for a few hours, or all night, and she’d come back messed up. Even when you’re only eight years old, you know what messed up looks like. Angelo knew it, too. He’d cry when Mama would hold him and stumble around. Once, she almost dropped him off the front steps, and Granny said she wasn’t to pick him up anymore. They had a big fight, and Granny said Mama needed to stay home, that it wasn’t right for Mama to dump her kids on Granny. Granny was too old to raise another baby.

  I felt like someone yanked the floor out from under me, and I was just hanging there in space. I started walking down the river and stayed gone all day until after dark, thinking I wouldn’t come back. When I did, Granny was asleep, and Mama was in the front yard talking to somebody in a car.

  The next morning, Angelo was gone. Mama said she gave him to his daddy because she was afraid, now that he was walking, he’d drown in the river.

  Granny said I wasn’t to talk about it anymore. That was that.

  I told them I could watch after Angelo and they should bring him back. But there’s no point fussing about things, because nobody hears you.

  I went down to the river and sat for a long time. Just sat right in the water, and felt it sweep around me. The light went behind clouds, sending a shadow skimming over the surface like a water strider. I closed my eyes and felt it start to rain, quiet and soft.

  I dreamed that Angelo was someplace dry, in a baby bed with little ruffles around the edges, in a big house somewhere. Angelo’s daddy would pick him up from the crib, and bounce him, and laugh with him. Maybe sometimes, they’d go out into the woods, and Angelo would remember when the two of us did that. Maybe he’d remember.

  Mostly, I thought he’d be happy, even though he was someplace else. Because he was someplace else.

  A lot of what happens to you depends on who your daddy is.

  I always wondered why my daddy didn’t want me.

  And now sometimes I think, if he knew I could play the piano like I do, would he feel any different?

  I can hear the Red Instead assembly through the wall. It’s so loud, I can even understand the words. Say no to drugs! Wear red instead. Say no to drugs! Wear red instead.

  Just say no… .

  If it’s that easy, I think to myself, why didn’t my mama do it?

  Chapter 4

  I read the essay again before writing a hall pass so that Dell could come to my office. The third-period office aid, a chubby, baby-faced saxophone player named Barry, frowned disdainfully when I asked him to find Dell and give her the note. Apparently, even Barry was too cool for Dell Jordan.

  “Tell her not to come if she’s in the middle of something,” I instructed, and Barry blinked slowly, silently protesting, Now you want me to actually talk to her? My social standing as a chubby saxophone player will never survive this. “You know what …” retrieving the note, I propped it against my office door. “I’ll just write that on here myself. That way you won’t be disturbing Mr. Campbell’s class as much.”

  Barry looked relieved. “Sure,” he replied in the straitjacketed way of an adolescent terrified of any potential uncoolness.

  “Thank you, Barry.”

  His plump lips parted in a smile to reveal several thousand dollars’ worth of ongoing orthodontic work. Blushing, he ducked his head, and muttered, “Nice red shirt, Ms. C.” Walking away, he glanced back over his shoulder, smirking like he’d really gotten in a clever one that time.

  “Well, what can I say?” I held up my hands. “I’m a hopeless nerd.”

  His eyes widened in surprise at the idea that painful feelings of nerdiness were not limited to teenagers. With a look of empathy, he shook his head and said, “You look OK, Ms. C,” and slouched off down the hall, his oversize pants swishing against the floor.

  Slipping back into my office, I closed the door, took a deep breath, and dialed Bethany’s number. I couldn’t put it off any longer. If I didn’t call soon, her feelings would be hurt, and she’d know I was having an emotional meltdown about her unexpected wedding-and-baby news.

  Closing my eyes, I pursed my lips and blew out, trying to practice the guided-meditation techniques I’d learned from Dr. Leland. I pictured a clear blue sky.

  Thunderheads were roiling on the horizon.

  “Hello, this is Bethany …”

  The storm swelled around me. “Hi, Bett,” I choked out, and completely without warning, a sob fell on the heels of the words. A rush of tears filled my eyes, and panic tightened my throat.

  Bett kept right on talking. “… I can’t answer the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message on my voice mail, I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  Relief spiraled through me.

  “Have a great day,” she said, and I hung up before the tone beeped. If I left a message sounding like this, Bett would know I was a basket case. Then she would be worrying about me, and right now she had enough to worry about. I couldn’t do that to her. I wouldn’t. Everything had been about me these past few months. Now it was Bett’s time.

  I’d get my head together and call back in a little while, put on a happy voice and talk about bridesmaids’ dresses, tell her that even though the baby was a surprise, she and Jason would be wonderful parents, and I was really happy for them… .

  This problem, my problem, wasn’t going to ruin one more relationship in my life… .

  Through the blur, I stared at my fingers, remembering when Jonathan’s ring had been there. At twenty-four, when I was Bett’s age, that ring seemed like the perfect accessory. Just out of a five-year undergrad program, double major in education and dance, engaged, starting grad school, teaching part-time with the outreach gifted and talented program, still dancing. Getting married … eventually, sometime down the road when we were both out of grad school and life was stable. Maybe in New York, where I would be dancing with the New York City Ballet.

  By the time I was twenty-six, the engagement ring felt like a weight. J
onathan was finished with grad school, signing on as a chemist with a small pharmaceutical company, talking about buying a house with room for a family.

  After I’d suffered a minor ankle injury, a round of tendonitis, and two on-again-off-again seasons with the university dance company, the New York Ballet seemed a million miles away, completely off the map. I told Jonathan I wanted to concentrate on dancing first, think about children later. I didn’t admit that the idea of gaining all that weight made me sick, but eventually he began to figure it out. He started studying my body when I wasn’t looking, complaining about the hours I spent jogging and on the exercise bike. I passed it off as pushing hard to get in shape for the KC Metro’s spring auditions. Now that I was finishing my final grad school internships, and my college dance career was over, I wanted to put everything I had into making the cut with a professional ballet company.

  When I was chosen for the corps at the KC Metro, Jonathan’s ring became a noose. He was concerned that I was pushing myself too hard, trying to compete with dancers who were five and six years younger than I was, in my quest to move up to a soloist position. He wanted me to quit, to be realistic about the fact that, at twenty-six with a history of injuries, it was unlikely that I’d ever achieve the dream of being a soloist or a lead dancer with a large professional company. He thought I should “see someone” about all the weight I’d lost. He wanted to set a wedding date and move on with our lives. In July, I gave him back the ring and told him I thought we should take some time apart.

  He found someone else within two months. It was love at first sight. They ran off to Cancún in October and got married while I was in rehearsals for Swan Lake. I was so consumed with the upcoming performance, I found it easy to push aside lingering thoughts of Jonathan. I was understudying the Dance of the Four Little Swans, and one of the dancers was nursing an inflamed ligament. The evening of spacing rehearsal, I was to stand in for her. Then my parents, who always came to watch spacing rehearsal, found me on the dressing room floor in a pool of blood.