Drenched in Light (7 page)

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.

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. Jonathan 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.