We Are the Light(12)

Three or so months after the tragedy, maybe at the end of March, Sandra began to actively repurpose The Survivors’ Group, turning our attention away from healing and toward activism—specifically gun control. I have nothing against politics. I own no guns. If I never see another gun of any kind, even a toy gun, I will be grateful. So I’m not against what Sandra is trying to do. But the goal of our meetings quickly morphed from comforting each other to something that felt more like score settling.

At one point, I got brave enough to stand up and make a brief speech in defense of finishing the first task before we began the second, saying that surely we’d be better equipped mentally and spiritually after we finished mourning, at which point maybe we could vote on the next steps to take. I could see that I had spoken sense because almost all of my fellow members were nodding and holding eye contact with me.

But Sandra flew into a rage and began pacing around the room yelling things like, “How will you feel about your little mourning period if another young man kills another group of innocent people before we get around to doing something about it? Will we write the victims’ families, saying we had to heal ourselves before we did anything to fight back, but we’re terribly sorry for your loss? Does that sound responsible to any of you?”

With her hands on her hips, Sandra scanned the room, daring anyone to make eye contact with her. No one could. Not even me, and I’m backed by a legitimate angel.

Then Sandra said, “I’m surprised, Lucas,” which made my blood run cold, because—from the icy tone of her voice—I knew she was about to deliver her finishing blow, which she did, saying, “I’d think you of all people would be in favor of taking swift and merciless action.”

I couldn’t breathe. It was like Sandra had reached out some invisible hand and crushed my windpipe. I was five years old again and my mother was standing over me, yelling, “Shame on you!” I knew right then and there, I would never again attend another Survivors’ meeting. And I didn’t. That was the last one for me. Everyone visited my home and begged me to return to the group. Everyone except Sandra, which is how I know it was her intention to psychologically assassinate me. Or maybe Jungians such as yourself would say she wanted to psychologically castrate me.

At first, Jill and Isaiah and Bess all asked me many times why I wouldn’t return to The Survivors, but I couldn’t tell them. Darcy said it was best to bide my time and gather strength before I made a play, which she said I most definitely would, if only to save the others from the darkness that had taken up residence in Sandra Coyle. But when the political signs started going up in the front yards of Majestic residents and Sandra began making appearances on the local news channels and radio talk shows and even podcasts around the world, my friends got the picture pretty quickly.

Whenever I see the other Survivors around town now, they always say they miss the early days of the group and ask if I would like to meet for tea or a walk or a talk on a couch. I always take them up on the offer and almost every time I end up hugging the other Survivor and my shirt becomes soaked with tears. “I wish there was something we could do, other than be angry,” they all say to me, and I’ve been thinking long and hard on what the solution could be.

Darcy kept saying the answer would find me when I was ready and that it was a blessing not to know the exact battle plan before I was spiritually and psychologically prepared to implement it. I can see the logic in that thinking. I have to admit, it’s often quite helpful to have an angel around.

Sandra seems to grow more and more powerful by the week. She recently forced her way onto the high school auditorium stage, and from what Isaiah told me, the presentation she delivered to the student body was not exactly in line with my best friend’s educational philosophy. Isaiah said, “That woman is suffering unmercifully, but she unmercifully wants everyone else to suffer even more than her.” We’ll just leave it at that because I don’t want to speak unnecessarily ill about a fellow Survivor.

I’m not angry with Sandra. But I can’t help concluding that she pushed me out of the way in order to do whatever it is that she’s now doing. Maybe she will get some reasonable gun laws passed that will prevent future tragedies, who knows? Maybe the ends will justify the means. It’s certainly possible. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve let down the others by submitting to Sandra Coyle.

I really didn’t know what to do about all of the above until Eli Hansen set up his tent in my backyard.

Did you think I forgot about the cliffhanger I signed off with in the last letter?

Write me back and I’ll tell you all about Eli.

This is a story you definitely want to hear.

Trust me.

Please write back; it would help me tremendously.

To be honest—and despite the good face I’m putting on to keep these letters relatively upbeat—I’m just barely hanging on here.

I could really use a session.

Your most loyal analysand,

Lucas





5.


Dear Karl,

Well, you didn’t write back. I thought maybe the Eli teaser might tempt you. Perhaps I didn’t wait long enough. Actually, there was no way you could have responded by the U.S. postal system this quickly, but I had hoped maybe you’d hand deliver, call, or email. Because a lot has happened, and quickly, I decided to write again today. A million words want to jump onto the page. So let’s get started, shall we?