The Memory of Light

  “But you weren’t responsible.”

  “Yes, I was. Yes, I am. We’re responsible for each other. We’re sisters.”

  “Yes. We’re sisters,” I repeat. I feel a warmth, a warm breath, rise from my chest and settle in my throat.

  “I’ve done some soul-searching since we talked,” Becca says.

  “You have?” That’s how her voice is different from the last time we talked. Her voice is what a voice sounds like after soul-searching.

  “I couldn’t figure out why I was so cold and distant to you. There you were in the hospital for an attempted suicide, and I couldn’t bring myself to be warm and accepting. Why was it so hard for me to tell you how I felt?”

  “You did tell me. I didn’t think you were cold and distant.”

  “And what I figured out is that, ever since our fight at Padre Island, I’ve been scared of you.”

  “Scared? Of me?”

  “Yes. When Mamá decided to not go for that last round of chemotherapy, the one that would have extended her life for maybe six more months, you were the only one who understood and let her know that was all right.”

  There is silence at the other end of the line.

  “Becca, are you there?”

  “Miguel and I didn’t get it,” she says softly. “We wanted her to fight for life till the last drop, even though I couldn’t bear to see her die. I was staying away from her, like you said.”

  “But —”

  “No, let me finish. Miguel and me, we’re alike in many ways. We don’t like to feel weak.”

  “I know,” I say. “I mean, I know you and Father don’t like to feel weak.”

  “The thought of someone not being in control, like when they are dying of cancer or trying to kill themselves — that drives us up a wall. Remember the time I sprained my ankle in that soccer game when I was in eighth grade?”

  “Yes.” I do remember. A girl the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger stepped on Becca’s ankle accidentally on purpose. I hear the bone crack once again.

  “Mamá couldn’t come because she was already sick, and you and Miguel were on the sidelines. I was on the ground writhing with pain. The game stopped and Miguel came onto the field, and he started yelling at me. He was angry with me for being in pain, for getting hurt, for letting a kid hurt me, of all things. I couldn’t believe it. Angry! Do you remember?”

  “Yes.” I was embarrassed for my father. Coaches, teammates, even the Arnold look-alike stared at him like What is wrong with you?

  “I finally figured out why this past week.”

  “Why?”

  “Why he yelled at me. He — I mean me too — we don’t like the way other people’s pain makes us feel. We turn into unfeeling robots to protect ourselves.”

  “You’re never a robot.”

  “Don’t defend me. I’m on a roll. I want to get all this out before I see you because, like I said, I’m a coward and it’s a lot easier to say all this on the phone than face-to-face.”

  “It’s going to be good to see you.” The lump in my throat melts. I’m getting my sister back. She’s coming back to me.

  “So. Where was I?”

  “You were calling yourself names.”

  “Okay, no more name-calling. Maybe just one more. Miguel is not a robot deep down either. We just get angry when we hurt, when we’re vulnerable or scared. The anger keeps us going. It got me into Harvard. Miguel was so angry after Mamá died, he went out and married Barbara.”

  I’m silent, thinking. You can’t ask a mule to be a racehorse. I sensed the disappointment in those words, but not the anger or the hurt.

  “Vicky, are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You trying to kill yourself must have reminded him of Mamá saying no to more chemotherapy, saying no to six more months of life. If he didn’t want you to stay at Lakeview or go to that ranch, it’s because he saw that as you giving up, like Mamá.”

  “It was different. Mamá gave up, if you can call it that, because she wanted to live more fully those last few weeks.” I swallow. “I gave up because I …”

  “Vicky?”

  “It was different. Mamá accepted a death that couldn’t be stopped. I brought death on myself.”

  “In Miguel’s mind, it amounts to the same thing. There’s no accepting in his vocabulary. Giving up is giving up no matter why. I agree with you that it was different, but it might take Miguel a little longer to see that too.”

  “So …”

  “So keep that in mind when he comes at you with his all-business, no-pain-no-gain face. And …”

  “And?”

  “Remember that the guy is hurting. He’s been hurting since Mamá died and he doesn’t even know it.” We are both quiet. I know what she wants to say next, and then she says it. “Just like me.”

  “Like you?”

  “You’re like the only one in this family that stayed with the pain and hurt of Mamá dying. Miguel and I couldn’t stand it. We’ll do anything to not feel the pain of losing her. But —”

  “It doesn’t work,” I say, finishing her sentence. One of the things I learned at Lakeview is that pain that is not acknowledged, talked about, shared even, doesn’t ever go away. It hides for a while and then comes back in a different form.

  “Yes.”

  “Becca … thank you … for the soul-searching.”

  “I know this is a lot. But this is my first step. This phone call is more for me than for you. This turning hurt into anger is not good, Vicky. I need to work on that.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “I think Miguel also needs to work on the hurt that’s turned to anger. It’ll be harder for him because he’s so set in his ways. See if you can manage to pierce through that, though. I learned not to take his anger personally. I learned to give it back to him and stand my ground. I’m not his favorite daughter, Vicky. You are. You’re the one who reminds him of Mamá.”

  “No,” I protest. How can I be my father’s favorite when we are so different, when I’m such a failure in his eyes?

  “Yes. Trust me on that one. Okay, okay. I’m done. I’ll let you go. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  I’m still thinking about my father. Is it possible to be loved and not feel loved? Isn’t love supposed to be felt by the beloved?

  “Vicky, are you there?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “School.”

  “Oh, God, are you ready?”

  “No. But tomorrow I will be.”

  “Listen, don’t let Miguel push you into doing things you’re not ready for. His instinct is to push, and he will keep doing it until you push back. Tell him what you think, what you really feel. Let him get angry. Don’t be afraid to negotiate with him. If he asks you to do something you don’t want to do, offer to do something else, something in the direction of what he wanted but also something that you can live with. Or ask him for more than what you need, and when he says no, settle for what you wanted all along. Negotiate.”

  “Okay. I’ll try. And Barbara? Any words of wisdom there?”

  “Yeah. Go shopping with her. You’ll suddenly appreciate her multiple talents. Let her buy you whatever her little heart desires. I discovered early on that nothing makes her happy like buying me stuff. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.”

  I laugh. “Bye, Becca. I’m glad I called you.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah. Can we talk like this when you’re here? Will you be brave and talk to me like this face-to-face? I’m good at talking about deep stuff now. All those therapy sessions.”

  “I could use some of those. Yes. We’ll talk. See you Saturday.”

  I place the phone on the small table next to the bed and go over everything that Becca said. I stop when I get to the part where she says that she’s not my father’s favorite daughter, that I am. How can he love me when I’m so different from him? But Mamá
was different from him, and he loved her. Have I been getting it all wrong? Was it a case of not feeling, not seeing, not understanding what was always there?

  I should confess to Becca how much I resented her. I should tell her all those uglies I saw in myself that night at Lakeview after Mona told me about them. The uglies. That’s what Mona taught me. Dr. Desai asked me to think about what each person taught me, about the tools Mona and Gabriel and E.M. gave to me. Don’t lie to yourself, from Mona. How to be brave and concentrate and work with the rocks that are always there, no matter if you wish they weren’t. That’s from E.M. And from Gabriel? The small things. That’s where the green of life is, which is all around us. A phone call with my sister. The look on Ed from IT when I asked him if people knew. Juanita. Knowing someone needs you. Maybe that’s enough. That’s good enough for one day.

  Close my eyes. Sleep.

  I wake up around six a.m., my head full of a poem. It isn’t the first time I’ve had a dream in which I write a poem and then I wake up remembering it word for word. But the poem I dreamt this time is different. The subject matter, the meter, the style, all of it is new. I amble over to my desk, still drowsy with sleep, and write it out on the last page of the notebook Dr. Desai gave me.

  You hardly see me in the sun,

  My sparkle’s in the stars.

  When all is dark around you,

  I’m the memory of light.

  I’m not the fruit of summer.

  I’m not the blooming rose.

  I live in roots of trees

  And in the seeds of love.

  When all is lost around you,

  When life’s last dream is gone,

  I’ll be the breath you breathe,

  The next step that you take.

  When I finish writing the poem, I pick up the picture of Mamá I keep on my desk. In the picture, I am six and she’s pushing me on a playground swing, my legs pointing toward the sky, my mother’s face full of joy and mine full of terrified delight. Is it possible to transform the yearning that you have for a loved one into the energy needed to dig around the daily rocks? I miss you, Mamá. You’re my memory of light. I hold the picture in front of me. Help me to be brave, like you.

  I glance at the digital clock on my desk. It is almost six-thirty. The whir of the blender comes from the kitchen. Barbara makes a protein shake for herself after she finishes her Zumba Yoga. I slept with my clothes on, so I quickly change into a plaid skirt and a pink blouse. It’s the outfit I wore when I took Juanita to Mass. I step in front of the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of the closet door. It has been so long since I last saw my reflection that it’s almost like looking at someone else. The girl in front of me looks older, calmer, kinder than I remember. It’s the reflection of someone who can go unnoticed, someone ordinary. Even her hair looks tamer and more at peace. It has lost some of its anger.

  I grab my phone beside the bed to call Lakeview and ask about Gabriel and also to try Mona one more time. I’m about to leave my room when I remember the emails I have not read.

  I stop. What would Huitzilopochtli do? I ask myself. I turn around and walk to my desk. I read Cecy’s email first.

  Hi Vicky,

  I don’t know if they let you keep your laptop over where you are so maybe you’ll be reading this when you get back. I’m sorry we didn’t get to patch things up before you did what you did. The thought that you might have died with us still being mad upset me so much, you don’t even know. I know it’s selfish to say this, but I felt so guilty, and then I got angry at you all over again. I also know you didn’t do it to make people like me feel guilty or angry. You tried to make up after the debate thing. It was okay to be mad at you for about three days max but not for so long. What’s worse is that I was pretty much set on never speaking to you again.

  Don’t get me wrong. I still think you quitting debate was inconsiderate and immature. It really sucked for you to do that. All I can think now is that you were going through stuff I had no idea. So then I got mad at you again for not telling me how you were feeling, for not trusting me. I was your only friend, remember? You and me are so different, I don’t even know how we became friends and now I’m wondering whether we were ever really friends.

  But anyway, when you come back, you want to try again? We can just hang out at lunch and on weekends sometimes and see what happens. Maybe we’re just meant to be regular friends and not best friends who share deep secrets etc. That would be fine too. I’m not saying this because I feel guilty or because I feel sorry for you or anything. I know I told you once that I only took you on as a debate partner because I felt sorry for you. The truth is that I thought the whole thing would be more fun to do with someone I liked, even if we didn’t win all the time. Of course, I never expected to lose every single match! No, seriously. I knew you were God awful bad. You need a mean streak like the one I have to be good at debate and there’s not even a mean spot in you. That’s probably the kind of friend someone like me really needs. Welcome back, Vicky. I’m glad you’re still around.

  Cecy

  I stare at Cecy’s email for a few minutes. Read it again. I like the part where she says that maybe we were just meant to be regular friends and not best friends “who share deep secrets etc.” It is hard to imagine talking to Cecy about the uglies like I did with Mona. But it could be that regular friends are nothing to sneeze at. The thought that I can hang out with her at school makes me dread my return to Reynard a little less.

  Then I read Jaime’s email.

  Hey Vicky!

  I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, but I had to write you. I called your father or your mother almost every other day to see how you were and also to find out if I could come see you, but they said they weren’t letting in any visitors where you were. Your dad was worried about people in school knowing. I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to tell him that word got around on its own, I don’t know how. Let me know when you’re back. I really would like to talk to you. I’ve recovered from you not liking me. It took a while! I didn’t do a very good job at getting to know you. Can you call me as soon as you get back, please? No pressure. Honest. Just talk.

  Jaime

  P.S. I’m attaching a poem I wrote the day I found out about what you tried to do. What you did made me realize what really matters in life. The poem is not about you but it is because of you. It’s probably the last poem I will write. I’m sticking to engineering, you’ll be happy to know.

  There’s a Word document attached to Jaime’s email with his poem. I don’t open it. I wonder what I will say to Jaime when I see him. Maybe when I get to Reynard, I can imagine the whole school as one big psychiatric ward and everyone there as mentally ill in some form or another. We are all mental in our own peculiar ways, all grasping on to hurtful mangos that keep us imprisoned. The world is full of Gwendolyns and Jaimes and Cecys and Vickys, and we should know that we are ill and be kind to one another.

  I click open Liz Rojas’s email.

  Dear Vicky,

  I was wondering if you’d like to come work with me at The Quill. We need an assistant editor and I think you’d be great. Mrs. Longoria says really good things about you, and I loved your poems that we’ve published. The assistant editor is pretty much a worker bee, but usually the assistant editor becomes the editor their senior year. One downside you should know about is that it’s against our policy for the work of staff to appear in the magazine, so you wouldn’t get to publish your poems. Can you send me an email if you’re interested?

  Liz

  I check the date of the email. She sent it the first school day after the deed, a Monday. There was no way she could have known what I had done, which means that she did not send her email out of pity or because someone asked her to help the sad suicide girl.

  Someone wants me to be a worker bee. It makes me smile inside. I close my laptop, grab my backpack, and head downstairs.

  Barbara is standing by the toas
ter, waiting for her bagel to pop, and Father is sitting at the kitchen table, reading The Wall Street Journal.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey there!” Barbara says, turning. She walks over and gives me a hug — or, rather, she leans over and pats me, making sure that the only points of contact are her hands and my back.

  Father waits for Barbara to finish her show of affection before speaking. “Good to have you back,” he says. “Grab some cereal, we’re running late.” He folds the newspaper, pushes his chair back, and stands. “I’ll get the car out. See you outside.”

  “You’re lucky,” Barbara says while I look for the bread to make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, one for breakfast and one for lunch. “You get to ride to school in the Spider.”

  The Spider is a convertible, which means Father and I won’t be able to talk. The car’s motor and the rushing air are so noisy that it makes conversation between the passengers impossible. It occurs to me that maybe this is why Father picked this particular morning to take the Spider.

  As I make my sandwiches, Barbara tells me about a new Indian restaurant where we can eat with Becca on Saturday. Becca also wants to go shopping, and Barbara wonders if I would like to go with them. She glances quickly at the blouse and skirt I’m wearing. “You can use some new clothes,” she says, not unkindly.

  “Okay,” I say. I’m trying to stuff the two sandwiches into a bag designed to hold one sandwich.

  “Really?” Barbara asks, shocked. “You’ll come?”

  “It could get expensive. I basically need a whole new wardrobe.” Some pretending is necessary and even good, I remember Dr. Desai saying. Besides, Becca will be there.

  “Then you’re talking to the right girl,” Barbara says. She looks happy.

  Father is honking in the driveway. “Bye,” I say.

  Outside, I open the passenger door and slink in. Father adjusts the Dallas Cowboys cap he always wears when he drives the Spider. I don’t have to worry about my hair flying all over the place. We take off with a jolt as the iron gates open.