Drenched in Light

by Lisa Wingate

  Halfway through class, one of my students asked to go to the bathroom to blow his nose and became agitated when I suggested he grab a Kleenex off the bookshelf and wait until after class. Again, signs of possible drug use—runny noses and kids who desperately wanted to hang out in the restroom, where they could light up a joint, snort a powdered form of meth, or huff solvents from deodorant or hair spray cans. Sometimes they’d even smoke meth or crack through tiny pipes disguised as ink pens, belt buckles, or eyeliner pencils.

  In the back, two girls were covertly investigating the scent of a flavored lip gloss. Probably innocent, but possibly the tube contained more than makeup. When I walked by, they quickly hid the lip gloss; then one of them grabbed her purse and pulled it into her lap—another sign, hype-possessiveness toward personal belongings.

  “If I see that lip gloss again, it’s mine,” I said, and they looked surprised, then denied having it.

  In the front row, the middle school student council vice president, Cameron Ansler, had a zoned-out look and an unusual case of the sniffles.

  Passing by his desk, I tapped his notebook to get him back on task. “Everything all right, Cameron?” I asked, and he nodded, hunching over his paper.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was, as usual, polite but distant. “I’m just tired.”

  “Don’t stay up so late,” I advised, and he laughed.

  “Sure, Ms. C,” he replied, then started back to work, his cheek resting on his free hand, and his eyes drifting closed until he jerked, woke up, then tried to refocus on his paper.

  “You sure you’re all right?” I asked, passing by again.

  “Sure.” He smiled, as if falling asleep at his desk were perfectly normal.

  Maybe it was. Adolescents didn’t keep regular hours, especially these days, when they had cable TV, Internet service, and video games in their rooms. Teenage behavior was unpredictable at best; mood swings, sullenness, fatigue, withdrawal, strange fashion choices, like wearing a hood in a warm room, were all perfectly normal.

  Or maybe not. How would I know? How would I ever separate everyday teenage behavior from warning signs? If I started questioning kids, parents would find out, there would be complaints, and Mr. Stafford would have a conniption.

  If I left things alone, some of these kids might end up where I had—in the hospital, or worse, tangled in a web of guilt and lies, saddled with a lifetime addiction.

  Sitting on the edge of the desk, I watched them, wondering what was going on in their minds, what their lives were like. They were here at Harrington because they were exceptional, because they had extraordinary potential in art, music, theater, dance.

  Yet being extraordinary didn’t stop them from having ordinary problems.

  They deserved a real counselor, one who knew how to read the signs. The only experience I had with teenagers was with students in the university’s college-bound gifted and talented program, where the kids were high school juniors and seniors, mature beyond their years, serious about their futures, working to rack up college credits before they finished high school. The classes were small. The students were studious, competitive about grades and potential scholarships. They didn’t have time to chitchat over lip gloss or fall asleep at their desks. But here at Harrington, among kids who were still trying to navigate the pitfalls of adolescence, and years away from worrying about college, things were different, and I was woefully unprepared.

  By the time the substitute teacher finally arrived, and I turned over the classroom, I had a sense that, in taking the position at Harrington, I’d stepped into quicksand up to my neck. My parents were right—I wasn’t ready to handle such a complicated and demanding job. I could barely keep my own life on an even keel.

  Sister Margaret’s voice was in my head as I walked back to my office. “When life provides mountains, God provides the strength to climb.”

  If God had anything to do with my getting the counselor’s job at Harrington, He certainly had a fine sense of humor, or irony, or both.

  Back in my office, I closed the door and spent the rest of the afternoon working on the matching-funds application for the new performing arts center. Suddenly, the tedium of writing grants seemed refreshingly manageable and predictable, a part of my job I could handle. Even if I wasn’t much of a drug prevention czar, I was a pretty good writer.

  If the grant application was successful, I’d be a hero. Mr. Stafford would be overjoyed. The superintendent, the central administration, and the school board would be pleased. Everyone would be content with my job performance for the semester, and I wouldn’t have to do a single thing about the possible drug problem at Harrington.

  Except turn my head.

  My cell phone rang, and I glanced at the clock. Four forty already. Dad’s daily babysitting-Julia call. He was a few minutes early this afternoon.

  We went through the usual niceties; then Dad got down to business. “Mom wanted me to ask how your day went. She’s worried that you haven’t called Bett.”

  Ohhhh … my sister’s wedding and pregnancy. Hard to believe, but I’d completely forgotten about it in the rush of the day.

  Dad went on talking. “Mom thought maybe we’d all go out to dinner at the club, or down in Westport. I could circle by the school and pick you up. We can get your car later on this weekend. They’ll lock it up in the school parking lot, won’t they?” He didn’t mention that neither the country club nor Westport was anywhere close to Harrington. Apparently, Mom and Dad were worried that I was too distraught over Bett’s news to drive myself home tonight.

  “No, that’s all right… .” I paused, searching for an excuse that, without hurting anyone’s feelings, would prevent Dad from coming over to pick me up. Shifting my DayMinder on the desk, I unearthed several messages from Mom, as well as Dell’s torn spiral notebook papers. The Jumpkids program tonight … I started putting things in my briefcase. “You know what, Dad, I can’t. I … I already made a commitment for this afternoon. But, listen, we can all do dinner this weekend. I’ll call Bett right now, I promise. I tried earlier, but the day got busy and I just forgot about it. Tell Mom I’m sorry.” I imagined her at home, pacing the floor, calling Bett every little while, trying to find out whether I had checked in.

  “A commitment …” Dad, now suspicious, fished discreetly for an explanation. Had it been Mom on the phone, she would have come right out and demanded answers. “Well … how long will it take? We could have dinner after—”

  “I’m not sure how long,” I admitted, “but I think supper’s included.” Might as well go ahead and explain. You’ll never get off the phone otherwise. “I’m going by an after-school arts program a few blocks from here. One of my students invited me, and it sounds like it lasts through supper.”

  “You’re going to stay down in that neighborhood until after dark?” The tone was just right for, Now listen here, young lady, we’ll have no more of this nonsense.

  Slipping on my blazer and grabbing my briefcase, I started toward the door. A ladybug was roosting on the jamb, in exactly the right position to be compacted by the latch. I urged it onto my finger and carried it into the hall. My random act of kindness for the afternoon. Sister Margaret’s instructions were never to let a day go by without at least one.

  “Dad, until a few years ago, Grandma lived in this neighborhood,” I pointed out, as I hurried past the administration office and out the front door. As was typical on Friday afternoon, the place was a ghost town. Everyone, including Mr. Stafford, hit the door at four twenty-nine, so as to be at their cars and driving off the lot at four thirty, quitting time, officially.

  Sensing the fresh air from the front doors, the ladybug fanned its red wings, showing the diaphanous black skirt underneath before it flew away as I exited the building and hurried down the steps.

  “That neighborhood’s not what it used to be.” Dad’s voice disappeared into static, then cleared again. For a moment, I thought he was going to insist on accompanying me to wherever I was going
.

  “Dad, I’ll be fine.” The tone was more petulant than I’d intended, and with a sigh, I added, “Thanks for worrying about me, but it’s OK. I won’t be by myself. The mother of one of my students runs this program. They’re at this school every Friday. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” Call waiting beeped as I climbed into my car and cranked the engine to get the heater started. “Listen, Dad, that’s my call waiting. It’s probably Bett, so I’m going to sign off. I’ll see you later on. Don’t wait around for me, all right? You and Mom go out if you want to. I’ll be fine.”

  “Call us when you start for home.”

  “All right,” I replied, relieved that the conversation was finally over. “Love you.” Then I hit the button to answer the other line.

  “Julia?” Bett said quietly, like an explosives expert hovering near a bomb, trying to decide which wire to cut. “Everything OK?”

  If one more person asked me that one more time, I was going to explode. Everyone acted like I was made of glass lately. “Everything’s fine. Bett, I’m so sorry I forgot to call you. I tried earlier this morning and got your voice mail. I meant to call again, but it’s been crazy at work today.”

  “Really? What happened?” As usual, Bethany was happy to let the conversation focus on me. If there was a selfish, jealous, or unkind bone in Bett’s body, I hadn’t found it yet. She was going to be a terrific mother. Jason was getting a wonderful wife.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you all about it this weekend.” Buckling my seat belt, I coasted out of the parking lot. “So, let’s talk about you, and the wedding, and the baby. How in the world can you get married, move away, have a baby, and leave me here with Mom and Dad? I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed. You’ll have to tell Jason no.”

  Bett sniffed. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way… .”

  “Bethany”—I chuckled—“I was just kidding. I’m happy for you. I really am.”

  She choked and coughed on the other end of the phone, then sobbed out, “I know.” The word ended in a trembling gurgle. “But it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. We were going to have a big wedding next summer, and …” She sniffed and coughed again. “But the baby, and Jason’s job transfer … with the economy the way it is, he doesn’t dare say no, and th-then …” The torrent of words faded into tears.

  “Beth-a-nee,” I scolded. “I know this isn’t what you planned, but it’s OK. You and Jason are going to be fantastic parents. Did Mom say something that upset you?”

  “N-no-oh-oh,” she sobbed out. “I can tell she and Dad are disappointed in us, but she just … she just … said it’s not such a big deal like it used to be … the baby, I mean … that it’s different.”

  Different from when she was pregnant with me. The thought stabbed unexpectedly. I pictured my mother in Bethany’s position. Did she cry when she learned that I was coming?

  Weaving through the downtown streets, I pushed the images from my mind. “Bett, it’s all right,” I soothed. “This is a good thing. Jason is a great guy. You two are wonderful together. He lights up whenever you come into a room. You both knew you wanted kids—maybe not right now, but you knew you wanted them. You two are going to have a perfect life.” Doubtless, no such promises were made to my mother when she was pregnant with me. Whoever my real father was, he was gone by the time I came into the world—Grandma Rice had let that slip, as well. My mother was living with her and Grandpa when I was born. Theirs was the house she brought me home to. In the photos, she was neither smiling nor frowning. She just looked worried.

  Within a year, she had met and married my dad, and his name officially became mine.

  Bett’s voice snapped me back to the present. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I think I’m just hormonal.”

  “Well, OK, you’re allowed to be hormonal.” I won a stuffy-nosed laugh from my sister as I pulled into the parking lot of Simmons-Haley Elementary. “And, if it’s absolutely necessary, you’re even allowed to get married and move hundreds of miles away. I’ll forgive you, I promise.”

  Bett forced another strangled chuckle, then fell silent, drawing a long, shuddering breath. “I just wanted to be here for you, you know? Sisters are supposed to be there.”

  Tears prickled in my nose, and my insides twisted as if someone were wringing me out like an old rag. Sisters are supposed to be there… . How was I ever there for Bett when I was sneaking around, purging food, letting her think that I could magically stay wafer-thin while binging with her on Girl Scout Cookies, Häagen-Dazs, movie-theater popcorn, and deep-fried restaurant appetizers? All her life, Bett had worried about her weight, and the comparison to me didn’t help. If I were her, I would have felt betrayed and angry when the truth came out. Instead, Bett felt guilty for having a life of her own.

  Swallowing hard, I drained the tears from my throat. “Now, you listen here, Bethany Costell, you are not allowed to waste one minute worrying, do you hear me? We’re always going to be there for each other.” But you’ll be hundreds of miles away. “We’ll call; we’ll instant message. You’ll e-mail me sonograms. We’ll trade pictures from decorating magazines, and I’ll send you articles about how to have the perfect baby, the perfect marriage—” Pressing the tremors from my lips, I swallowed another rush of painful emotions, and added, “But don’t count on me for recipes, because you know I can’t cook.”

  The irony of that statement was clear as soon as I said it. Bethany didn’t answer at first, and when she did, her voice was low and serious. “I just want you to be OK. I need you to be OK.”

  “I am.” No matter what it took, I was going to be the sister Bett deserved—this time. “Really.” Dabbing my eyes, I looked toward the school door, where a Jumpkids banner was waving in the wind. “Listen, Bett, I’d better go. I promised one of my students I’d stop by this after-school arts program on my way home. I already told Dad I couldn’t do dinner tonight, but we’ll get together this weekend, all right? Dad wasn’t happy that I won’t be reporting home immediately after work today, and Mom will probably hit the roof, so I’m going to leave the cell phone in the car. Call me in the morning if you want to canvass the bridal shops and stuff, OK?” The invitation came out sounding genuine enough, but the thought made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. How was I going to put on a happy face while my sister moved on in life and left me behind?

  “I’ll take care of Mom and Dad.” As usual, Bethany was resigned to acting as the family peacemaker. “Don’t worry about it; just enjoy your evening. We’ll see about the bridal shopping. Mom wants this big to-do at the country club, and, really, if it were up to me, we’d just go to the courthouse and get it over with.”

  “Bethany,” I snapped, because I knew better. My little sister had been dreaming of herself as a bride for as long as I could remember. “You’re not getting married at the courthouse. You deserve the whole fairy tale—like one of those Malibu Barbie weddings you used to stage in the dollhouse, remember? It’s not like Mom and Dad can’t afford it. Mom’s been waiting for years to plan a wedding.”

  “I guess,” she acquiesced reluctantly. “There’s just so much going on right now… .” The sentence trailed off in a way that was filled with issues unspoken. The “so much going on” was about me—my problems, my eating disorder, my brush with death last October. Bethany didn’t want to have a wedding because she was afraid I couldn’t handle it—that her joy would somehow cast a deeper shadow over my pathetic life.

  “Not for the next few weeks, there’s not. There’s nothing else going on. It’s the Bethany-Jason wedding month, and that’s it.” My level of enthusiasm was almost convincing, but undoubtedly Bett knew I was putting on a show for her benefit. “Gotta go now, sis. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “All right.” She hung on the line for a moment. “Hey, call me tonight and tell me how the after-school arts thing was. Sounds intriguing.”

  “I’ll see what time I get done.” Bett wasn’t the least bit interested in after school arts. She was just
worried, like everyone else, that I couldn’t be trusted to spend an evening on my own, unsupervised. “Talk to you later. Love you.”

  “You too. Night, Ju-ju.”

  I groaned. “Ackh. Don’t call me that anymore. That’s the dog’s name now.”

  “Night, Ju-lia,” she rephrased, and we hung up the phone laughing at our own private joke. Mom had named her precious Pekingese in honor of Bethany’s childhood pet name for me.

  “Night,” I said, then set the phone down and got out of the car. The cool air was bracing, and I drew it in, clearing my mind as I entered the school through a door where the Jumpkids banner was posted. The hum of children’s voices drifted from somewhere near the center of the building, guiding me down a long corridor of classrooms framed with plain cement-block walls and low ceilings. Paint was chipping on the walls, and the overhead tiles were bowed and stained with odd-shaped patterns of dirt and mildew. On a rainy day, water probably dripped through in places.

  The classrooms were equally spartan—rows of desks with sagging tabletops and graffiti scratched into the wood. No cheerful bulletin boards, just a few posters here and there. In one room, a collage of children’s pictures provided a splash of color beneath a hand-lettered banner that said, In My World … With crayon on manila paper, the kids had drawn places that were bright and beautiful, people who were happy, smiling, holding hands.

  In my world, there’s five prizes in every cereal box.

  In my world, it only rains when you’re sleeping.

  In my world, nobody has fights.

  In my world, there’s no school.

  In my world, everyone’s got a coat in the winter.

  In my world, nobody’s in jail.

  In my world, there’s no wars.

  In my world, nobody’s hungry.

  In my world, everyone laughs.

  In my world, nobody hits anybody or shoots anybody.