When Reason Breaks (25 page)

“Got it,” Tommy says.

“What I mean is I don't only care about whether you can read and write well. I care about you as people, and I believe you are capable of great things. Each of you will contribute something to this world. You are important. You would be missed.”

Ms. Diaz closes her eyes for a few moments, then opens them and says:

All but Death, can be Adjusted –

Dynasties repaired –

Systems – settled in their Sockets –

Citadels – dissolved –

Wastes of Lives – resown with Colors

By Succeeding Springs –

Death – unto itself – Exception –

Is exempt from Change –

Ms. Diaz lets her words sink in. She looks at each of them and smiles kindly. She stops when she gets to Emily's empty seat.

Everyone is still for a few moments and then Ms. Diaz says, “Let's get back to work.”

Students groan.

At the end of class, Elizabeth asks Ms. Diaz, “Can I come see you at lunch?”

“Sure. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Really. I want to open my shoe box.”

Ms. Diaz's eyes widen. “Yeah?”

“I'm ready,” says Elizabeth. “Are you?”

“I'm ready. I'll see you at lunch.”

Elizabeth meets Tommy at the door and slips her hand into his as they walk away.

At lunchtime, Elizabeth comes alone and pulls a chair close to her teacher's desk. Ms. Diaz hands Elizabeth the shoe box and sets her binder directly in front of her.

“Ready?” Ms. Diaz asks.

“Ready,” says Elizabeth. “On the count of three.”

“Sure,” Ms. Diaz says and laughs. On three, they rip off the tape. Ms. Diaz opens the binder and Elizabeth takes off the shoe box lid. They're quiet and alternately look at each other and the contents. Ms. Diaz flips the pages of the binder and unfolds some pages that were shoved inside. Elizabeth takes out her drawings, pictures, and poems, one by one.

“Some of these are pretty bad,” Elizabeth says and laughs.

“I'm sure some are pretty good, too,” says Ms. Diaz.

They continue to examine their work. Elizabeth opens her lunch bag and pulls out a sandwich, a bag of chips, an apple, and a soda.

“Apple for the teacher?” she asks.

“Thanks,” Ms. Diaz says and smiles. “So, how are you, really?”

“I'm okay. My mom packed me a lunch and drove me to school today, and I talked to my dad a little bit.”

“That's great. And, there's Tommy.”

“Yeah,” says Elizabeth, smiling. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“I'm not sure, but I know I need to move forward with my life, which includes doing something with this. It's not going to be easy, but I'm ready.”

“What are you going to do with it?” asks Elizabeth.

“Not sure yet. What about you?”

“I might enter the art show,” says Elizabeth. “I want to combine the poems with the pictures and drawings. A lot will have to be revised and redrawn. Most of these were done quickly. Will you help me with the poems?”

“I'd love to,” says Ms. Diaz. “You're going to display your work? That's a big step.”

“Yeah, but I think I'm ready. Maybe these will be my contribution to the world.”

“I'm sure you'll contribute to the world in many ways, Elizabeth.”

“Do you think she'll come back to school this year?” asks Elizabeth.

“No. Ms. Gilbert said she'll probably have a tutor from the homebound program through the end of the school year. If she's ready, she'll return in September.”

“I want to tell her how sorry I am,” says Elizabeth.

“You can write to her or you can wait and focus on yourself for a bit. You've been through a lot, too.”

“You, too,” says Elizabeth.

For the rest of the period, they nibble on their lunches and quietly sort through the fragments of their lives spread out before them.

On day eight, Emily feels stronger, lighter. She talks more to the doctors who stream in and out of her room. She's making progress, they tell her. She knows. She can feel it. The monster is wounded but still breathes. She has more work to do. She won't be able to walk away and leave all the psychiatrists and psychologists and social workers behind. She knows there'll be more of the same after she's discharged. She's beginning to accept this and the idea of home, but not school. She will not go back to school this year. That's fine, they say. We'll make other arrangements.

Still, Emily is apprehensive about leaving. She first saw the hospital as a prison. Now it's more of a cozy sanctuary. Everything runs on routines. Everything is monitored, and if something is “off,” it's adjusted to what's considered “normal.”
What happens when she goes home? Will everything start to unravel again? One thing she's learned from her chats with the shrinks is that she can't control what others think or do. She can only control her own thoughts, actions, and emotions. So, the big question hanging above her head is: How will she respond to her family and friends and Kevin and school once she's out of the hospital?

Emily doesn't know the answer. She doesn't know if she's strong enough to navigate her life and not lose herself again. Some days she thinks she is. Other days, she's not sure.

Emily stands by the window and watches the sky pelt the earth with a rainstorm designed to erase winter and make room for spring. Just then, a nurse walks in with an envelope.

“What's this?” Emily asks.

“You've got mail,” she says.

She opens the envelope and pulls out the card that has a sketch on the front of three people making snow angels. Emily recognizes the artist's style. Inside the card is a photograph of Elizabeth, Tommy, Kevin, and Lily, all making silly faces, and a handwritten note:

Dear Emily
,

Ms. Diaz's favorite female recluse once wrote: “The Soul selects her own Society –” Right now, you may hate us, and I know we're a bunch of crazy misfits, but we're so very sorry and we miss you. When you come home, if it makes you feel better, you can punch us each in the face (except
for Lily) because we deserve it. After that, maybe we can go bowling and cream the boys again. It can be a real double date this time. I guess what I'm trying to say is, you're not alone, and we hope when you come home you'll select us as your society
.

Peace
,

Elizabeth

Emily holds the card to her chest and sinks to the floor. She opens her mouth and lets out a wail. Nurses fly into her room and surround her, checking if she hurt herself. They lift her off the floor and walk her to the bed. Emily climbs in, hugs her pillow, and sobs uncontrollably. People are called. Coded language is used.

The doctor arrives and asks new questions, ones that assess whether she knows what's real. Is she seeing things? Hearing voices? Emily realizes they think she's much worse and losing touch with reality. She forces herself to sit up and gain control of her crying. She hands the card to the doctor. He has been here before, asking her questions about her family and friends. He reads the card and looks at Emily.

“Is this why you're crying?”

“Yes,” she whispers. Tears spill down her cheeks.

“Do you want to talk?”

Emily nods.

The doctor sighs with relief and dismisses the nurses. He listens and takes notes and asks a few questions, but Emily
does most of the talking. She talks about bowling and snow angels and catching flakes on her tongue. About sharing Pop-Tarts with an unlikely friend and finally kissing the boy she's liked since the second grade. She talks about Austin teaching her to play dominoes and Pop running beside her when she learned to ride a bike. She describes Mamá's laughter and how she misses hearing it.

For the first time, she talks about love and needing people and wanting to be strong all the time, not only sometimes. Even if she's wounded, she will never give up. She'll create a safety plan. Whatever they want, she'll do it. It won't be easy, but right now, on day eight, something has clicked inside of her. The monster is in a half nelson hold and she won't let go.

“I want to go home,” she says.

Two months pass. Snow stops falling and the wind loses its brutal bite. The days get warmer, and the sky often cries to soften the earth's surface and feed the flowers eager to decorate the world.

Ms. Diaz strolls into the main office before her first period class to check her mailbox. She recycles most of the contents, as usual, but among the junk is an envelope addressed to her in actual handwriting. She checks the return address and stands frozen for a moment before returning to her classroom. After period one, she asks Elizabeth, Tommy, and Kevin to see her at lunchtime. “Bring your jackets,” she tells them.

When they arrive, Ms. Diaz shoves the letter into her pocket, puts on her coat, and leads them outside.

“Where are we going?” asks Elizabeth.

“To the woods.”

Elizabeth and the boys stop in their tracks, but Ms. Diaz walks on.

“Ms. D! Hey! Stop!” Elizabeth shouts. They run to catch up. Elizabeth stands in front of Ms. Diaz to stop her. Tommy and Kevin stand to the side.

“Ms. D, what are you doing? Why are you going to the woods?” Elizabeth asks.

“Emily wrote me a letter.”

“Really?” asks Elizabeth, her eyes open wide.

“Yes, it's in my pocket.”

“Okay, but why go there? I don't think it's a good idea. Back me up here, guys,” she says.

“Definitely a bad idea,” says Tommy.

Kevin stares at the ground and snorts back a sniffle. “I can't, Ms. D,” he says softly.

“We need to,” she says and places a hand on Kevin's shoulder. “Before what happened, it was one of my favorite places. I brought my students there each year to write poetry. I can't imagine never going back. I need to reclaim the space, to see it as a stunning display of nature, not a mausoleum.”

“Fine,” says Elizabeth. “That's your thing. We don't need to go.”

Tommy crosses his arms. Kevin clasps his hands behind his head and walks in tight circles. Elizabeth closes her eyes for a moment. Tommy steps closer and holds her hand.

“I could use the company,” Ms. Diaz says. “I figure there's
strength in numbers. It might be easier if we go together. We don't have much time. Will you come with me?”

Elizabeth sighs and shifts from one foot to the other. Kevin and Tommy nod. “Fine,” says Elizabeth. “Let's go.”

The four walk side by side to the woods' entrance, where Ms. Diaz takes the lead and walks without haste. She carefully pulls aside or steps over any branches in their way. She turns around often to make sure the others notice the obstacles.

They walk past the area where Elizabeth fell. They continue deep into the trees to reach the clearing.

Tommy leaps atop a downed tree trunk and walks across it. Kevin walks the area's perimeter. He looks down and sees remnants of autumn and winter. Layers of dried-up leaves, buried for months by ice and snow, cake the ground. Ms. Diaz pats him on the shoulder as she strolls by. The branches above her sprout new life—young, strong, green leaves that hold on tight as the spring wind whistles through them. The sun shines almost directly above them in the clear blue sky.

Elizabeth inches toward the area in the center, the small clearing where a few trees didn't grow. She stares at the spot where Emily swallowed a handful of pills.

Ms. Diaz calls to Tommy and Kevin and moves toward Elizabeth. She stands next to her and looks down, too.

“Let's sit,” she says.

Elizabeth snaps her head up. “Right here? Seriously?”

Ms. Diaz lowers herself to the ground and crosses her legs beneath her. She plucks a nearby dandelion and tucks it behind her ear.

Kevin and Tommy sit opposite Ms. Diaz. Tommy gently tugs Elizabeth's hand, inviting her to join them. She sits in front of him, inside the “V” of his legs, and leans back into him. Tommy rests his chin on her shoulder.

Ms. Diaz rips open the envelope and removes the letter.

“Do you want to hear it?” she asks.

“Yes,” Kevin and Tommy say at once.

“No,” says Elizabeth. “I mean, she wrote it to you. You should read it first.”

Ms. Diaz reads the letter silently.

Dear Ms. Diaz
,

I've been home for two months after being in the hospital for a little while. I can't get into that right now. I don't have enough time or paper. I won't be coming back to school this year. I was going to write sooner, but I wasn't ready. Even now, I'm stumbling over my thoughts, so I'm just going to spit it out: I'm sorry for choosing you to find me. It wasn't fair to do that to you. I also want to say thank you for finding me in time. I know Elizabeth was there, too. Please thank her for me. I have so much more to say, but I can't right now. My mind and hand freeze up whenever I try to get it out
.

The one thing that keeps popping into my head is a dream I had recently. I know you'll understand it since you read my journal
.

I was on a plane, the skydiving propeller kind. It
glided over the ocean. The nose started to dip. I wasn't sure if it was going to crash or not, and I didn't want to wait to find out. The side door was open, and no one else was aboard. I walked to the edge and dived into the ocean like an Olympian
.

The ascent toward the bright light above the surface was easy since I pushed hard with my arms and kicked my legs. I broke through the water's surface and inhaled the fresh air. I flipped on my back and floated, surrendering to the push and pull of the waves. The water moved me gently, here and there, while the sun warmed my face. I closed my eyes and smiled. When I woke up, I was still smiling
.