We Are the Light(65)
Finally, I decided to keep precise track of how much money we were paying Phineas, so I could reimburse Jill once I got better and could therefore start working again, because I had no idea if I’d be getting a biweekly paycheck now that school had started back up again and my position had surely been filled by someone saner than me.
When I asked about Eli, Jill told me that Mark and Tony had indeed gotten him late admittance into some college in Los Angeles that had a film track and often got students internships at the various moviemaking studios. The boy was already in California, courtesy of Survivors’ Group member Tracy Farrow’s frequent-flier miles. Just like Aliza before him, Eli would go on to make California his full-time home, building various indie film sets during his summer breaks. Once in a while I’d get a bit of news from Mark and Tony, but the boy didn’t try to contact me directly. I figured he now most certainly knew exactly what I had done to his brother and, therefore, would never speak to me again. While his sudden absence hurt, I really couldn’t blame Eli and wished him all the best.
Sometimes, whenever she’d catch me feeling blue, Jill would say, “Eli will get back in touch when he’s ready. Give him time.” I’d nod in response, but I never allowed myself to believe her. Every cell in my body said he was gone forever—that, in addition to killing his brother, I had ultimately let him down when he needed me most by ruining his premiere and Majestic’s big chance at reunification and healing.
After a few weeks, Jill felt I was stable enough for her to get back to full-time work at the Cup Of Spoons. She arranged for me to be adult-sat by various Survivors’ Group members. Like I already told you above, Jesus Gomez and his soccer team had me on Sunday mornings. And we trained most Sunday afternoons after the a.m. games. Jesus is the only adult-sitter whom I don’t think I’ll outgrow after my mind and soul get better. Under Jesus’s tutelage, I’ve miraculously become the top-rated goalie in our over-fifty men’s league. With Jesus’s four sure-footed cousins lined up in front of me, I’ve got an impressive defense—which deserves the lion’s share of credit—but I have gotten much better at keeping the ball out of the net. If you can’t tell already, I’m pretty proud to have unearthed such an unlikely latent skill.
On Mondays, I volunteered all day at the library, putting books back on the shelves under the watchful eyes of Robin Withers. Tuesday mornings were reserved for games with Betsy Bush, Audrey Hartlove, and Chrissy Williams. Betsy was the queen of Uno. Audrey liked playing nickel-ante poker. And Chrissy’s favorite was Scrabble. I spent Tuesday afternoons with Bobby and his cop friends playing pickup basketball at the YMCA. On Wednesdays, I’d help file paperwork at Laxman Anand’s law firm in the morning and we’d lift weights and play racquetball at Majestic Fitness in the afternoons. On Thursdays, Carlton Porter and I volunteered at a homeless shelter in Philadelphia, where we mostly cooked and served food when we weren’t sorting through clothing donations, all of which we’d wash before distributing. On Fridays, I’d go running with Dan Gentile in the mornings and then I’d go to pottery class with David Fleming in the afternoons. And on Saturdays, Jill turned over the Cup Of Spoons to Randy so that she and I could get into her truck and go exploring. She’d always have a spot picked out and a picnic lunch packed. Sometimes we drove to the Jersey shore. Sometimes we’d go hiking. We might go to an arboretum or a flower show or a pumpkin festival or skiing or to a concert or dozens of other events and places that Jill had found when she researched possibilities on the internet.
In this way, years passed, and—thankfully—I didn’t have any more violent episodes, not a single one.
Oh, I forgot to tell you about Aliza’s baby, who is, of course, beautiful and perfect. Bess filmed her husband holding newborn Maj and kissing her forehead and making raspberries on her belly, and I had never seen my best friend so proud or happy. My heart almost couldn’t take how wonderful that scene was. “I’m a grandfather, Lucas! Me! Pop Pop Isaiah!”
Late one night during Isaiah’s first of many visits to California, Aliza video chatted with me. I hadn’t seen her face in quite some time. Lying in my bed, I lifted my phone and was shocked to see a lady in her late thirties staring back at me instead of a young woman.
“You were right,” Aliza said to me in the middle of our chat.
“About what?” I asked.
“That things would get better. That I could be the true me and my dad would eventually come around. That he’d forgive me and even accept who I am.”
“He’s a good man, your father,” I said.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Goodgame,” she said, and pointed her index finger at me.
Even though I could tell she meant it, I couldn’t allow myself to believe it. So I averted my eyes and started asking questions about baby Maj, which seemed to make everything okay, because Aliza lit up and didn’t stop talking for forty-five minutes after that. Everything about her daughter was a miracle to this first-time mother—everything was new and wonderful and full of hope.
Somewhere in that initial year—maybe it started a month or so before the tragedy’s first anniversary—Jill and I started visiting Darcy’s grave. And that became a weekly tradition that we maintain to this day. I didn’t notice this before visiting with Jill, but there are angel wings spread across the top of Darcy’s marker—wide enough so that you can see every feather clearly and skillfully delineated. Jill says I had insisted on the angel wings, which apparently cost a lot of money because they were hand chiseled by a sculptor, but I have no conscious memory of even going to pick out a stone.