We Are the Light(54)

I remember sort of retreating inside of myself that baseball season, and when we won the championship game and Mr. Minetti sprayed Dad with champagne and all my teammates were throwing their hats and gloves in the air, I started to worry that there was something very wrong with me. Dad later said winning the Little League playoffs was one of the greatest moments of his life. And many of my teammates wrote him heartfelt thank-you letters with pictures of them in their Centaur uniforms enclosed, all of which Dad hung up in his study, where they remained until he left Mom and me during my freshman year of college. I don’t know if Mom threw those pictures away or Dad took them with him, but if I had to bet, I’d say the latter.

During the movie shoot, no one treated me like my father had during the one season he coached my baseball team. No one yelled at me. No one shamed me. I had a starring role in the film, so no one had put me in metaphorical left field or had metaphorically batted me ninth. But I just couldn’t cheer as loud as my teammates at the end of each scene or when we wrapped. And I never felt like I was truly part of the team. Perhaps I put myself outside the circle, because I was definitely all alone in left field again, dreading the moment when they’d call me to the plate to strike out, even though Eli and Tony were always so happy with my acting. At one point Ernie Baum literally said, “Lucas, you just knocked that scene out of the park. Home run!”

We were winning the championship again, and although I was on the team, I wasn’t worthy of the celebration somehow. I didn’t want to be disappearing. More than anything in the world I wanted to connect with my fellow castmates, my neighbors, the people in my life, but everything was suddenly quicksand and I couldn’t manage to grab hold of any sort of lifesaving vine. And maybe no one else realized I was rapidly disappearing into the suffocating unknown below.

This is turning into a bummer of a letter and I feel like maybe I should apologize for that. If Darcy and Justin the cat were here tonight, I’m sure they’d find many things to be grateful for. Justin would purr and Darcy would remind me of all I have, how lucky I am to have so many friends and neighbors willing to make a feature-length monster movie with me. So many people who want to help us reclaim the Majestic Theater for the forces of good, uniting everyone through a shared sense of humanity and purpose.

There’s something else I need to say and it’s hard.

I’m kind of shocked that you haven’t answered a single one of my letters. I’ve put off saying anything about this for a long time. I thought maybe I didn’t want to hurt your feelings or put unfair expectations on you. But lately I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not mad at you.

Sometimes I think it cruel, what you did. Getting me to open up and really trust you. I showed you so much of what I had previously kept hidden from everyone, even Darcy, and then in my greatest time of need you send me a cold, heartless letter that ended my analysis without giving me any chance for closure. I realize that your wife was murdered, but so was mine. And all of the other Survivors showed up for me and each other in a pretty big way, which makes me wonder if all the Jungian stuff was as powerful as you claimed it is.

I remember you telling me that you had your own wounds, your own demons. That every healer is a wounded person first. And that the goal was to manage the pain, make it meaningful enough to carry on in a way that might be beneficial to others, which in turn helps to heal the self. “To make suffering meaningful,” you had said so confidently. I really believed you. Bought in. And everything I’ve written to you in these letters demonstrates that clearly, I’d say.

So what’s your excuse?

Why haven’t you responded even once?

Why did you abandon me?

I’m afraid the darkness inside is winning.

A response—even a few words—would do so much to help me hold on. And maybe if I can hold on for a little longer, the light will make a comeback?

I thought making the movie with Eli would fix all of this, but apparently it didn’t.

I don’t know what else to do.

I’m scared.

And I feel all alone.

Please help me.

Your most loyal analysand,

Lucas





17.


Dear Karl,

Jill’s rented me a tuxedo for the premiere of our monster movie. Apparently, she’s purchased a fancy dress and matching shoes, but I’m not permitted to see those until the big night, which—like the ads plastering every inch of town say—is this upcoming weekend. Jill’s also put up a sign in the Cup Of Spoons’ front window saying the restaurant will be closed the day of the premiere and the day after because of the big catered after-party at Mark and Tony’s. Jill thinks that will keep us out too late for her to get up in time to open for breakfast. She’s even scheduled a pre-premiere hair-and-makeup appointment, which seems a bit extreme to me, even though we’re going to arrive by limousine—donated free of charge by Michael’s Limos—walk a red carpet, have our photo professionally taken in front of our official movie posters, and maybe be interviewed by movie-industry reporters and local TV-news personalities.

Mark keeps saying he’s used his contacts to get “our narrative” onto the radar of “people who matter,” and therefore, our movie premiere is going to be “a very big deal.” I have a hard time imagining all that, but then again, the media came after the tragedy and didn’t stop bothering me for many months. Mark insists I will not be asked any “inappropriate questions” and even got one of his movie promoter contacts to agree to “handle” me the night of, which I gather means that this person will make sure no reporters try to make me look bad or bring up topics that might take me to a dark place.