We Are the Light(51)

Before I came inside to write you this letter, Jill and I were swinging in Darcy’s hammock for an hour or so. We were mostly silent for our hammock ride, since we had both put in a long day of moviemaking. But toward the end, Jill said, “Lucas?” and when I said, “Yes?” she said, “Are you okay? Because you’ve seemed a little off lately.” She didn’t say it in a mean way, but in a loving, concerned way, which was more like, What can I do for you? How can I help?

But I couldn’t think of anything that Jill could possibly do for me. She didn’t have the ability to find angels. And I don’t think she would have wanted to speak to me about my strange dreams. I know she would have listened. Jill would listen to anything I ever wanted to tell her. But I wasn’t sure she had the ability to hear what I needed to say. I didn’t think she would be able to understand. And there is perhaps no greater pain than the suffering that comes from speaking plainly but failing to make any sort of meaningful connection with the people who care about you.

So instead of answering Jill, I took her hand in mine and held it as the last swipes of red and orange sunk below the western horizon.

“You’ve been very convincing as the monster’s father figure,” Jill said. “Especially when you got shot.”

So I told her no one had ever played a mayor better than she had, even though she still had a few scenes left to shoot.

“Don’t make fun of me,” she said.

“I’m not,” I said, and then sat up a little in the hammock so that I could assess her facial expression.

When she bit her lip and lightly poked my ribs with her index finger, I realized she was just teasing me, so I smiled, relaxed my body, laced my fingers together behind my head, and then searched for the night sky’s first star.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jill said. “I’m going to see this through. All the way. No matter where it takes us.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by “No matter where it takes us”—which seemed kind of dark—but it felt good to have her there next to me in the hammock and so, when she leaned her shoulder into mine, I didn’t move away. We stayed in that position until a few stars popped through the sky above and winked at us all at once, rather than one at a time.

When I said I was tired, Jill nodded, and then we were inside climbing the stairs to our bedrooms. I wondered what had happened to Jill’s house. Was anyone living there now that she’d moved into ours? Not knowing the answer to that question kind of frightened me, but I put it aside and began writing you this letter, which has calmed me considerably.

I really think I could benefit from a session.

If you’re embarrassed by your initial need to take a break from analyzing analysands, you should know that I would never shame you for needing a sabbatical. I’d only be so grateful for your return. We don’t even have to mention your hiatus, but could simply pick back up where we left off and never speak about our pause again.

I’m worried that I was only using Eli and the film as a sort of distraction from the darkness that might be chasing all the light out of me. I’m starting to really worry about myself, Karl.

To be one hundred percent honest, whenever I stop thinking about Eli and the film, I get so terrified I can hardly breathe. You’re the only one who knows this about me. I’m trusting you. I forgive you for needing a break from my neuroses, but please don’t let me down now. You’re kind of my only hope.

Thanking you in advance.

Your most loyal analysand,

Lucas





16.


Dear Karl,

Sorry I haven’t written in a long time. I haven’t been feeling well. Finishing Eli’s monster movie took all the remaining strength I had. It’s only now—weeks after we wrapped the shooting—that I find myself able to sit down and compose another letter for you.

Eli and Tony had been editing everything as we went along, the whole time we were filming. The movie is officially in postproduction now, and—for reasons not entirely clear to me—there’s suddenly an extra big push to have the premiere before summer officially ends. As a result, the orange tent in my backyard no longer lights up when the sun goes down. Eli lives with Tony and Mark seven nights a week. Jill and I hardly see him at all anymore.

I don’t know why but I’ve been humming “Puff, the Magic Dragon” in my head over and over again, and I can’t stop no matter how hard I try. My father had that Peter, Paul and Mary record and used to play it when I was little. The song always made me so sad. It still does. But at the same time, I also love “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” I thought maybe winged Darcy would be Puff and I’d be Jackie Paper, the boy who befriends the noble dragon. But then I realized that I was Puff and Eli was Jackie Paper, because, lately—ever since Eli’s disappeared from my life—it’s felt like I’ve slipped into a psychological cave of sorts. I definitely don’t frolic so much anymore. I find it hard to be brave. And, these days, I don’t really have a cherry lane to play along.

Whenever my father put on his Peter, Paul and Mary album and the aforementioned song started playing, I’d wonder if I’d ever find my Puff. Oh, how I yearned for a magic dragon to be my best friend—to the point where I’d tear up whenever I heard the lyrics, maybe because I was so lonely all the time.