Picture Us In The Light(104)

I think about that now. She was right, of course, but still, sometimes people give you that. And it’s a gift every time, something rare and important, not something you’re ever guaranteed and not any pattern that might help you understand the world.



My mom comes into my room that night a few minutes after I’ve gotten into bed. She sits on my mattress across from me and says, “I want to ask you something.”

I’m already half-asleep. “Mmph.”

She waits until I’m mostly awake again. “Do you mean it about RISD, Daniel?”

I do mean it. I don’t have a choice, not really. Anyway, I saw what it looked like for my dad to go after his dreams. Most people don’t get to, he was right. “Yeah.”

“What will make you change your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re certain?”

I try to blink away the heaviness in my eyes. I am certain, and more than that, I know they understand that—they understand what it means for your life to orbit around a single choice, how everything that comes after will always originate from a single point. And they know the grief and regret that come with it, too. “Yeah.”

She leans forward and rests her cheek against mine, then smooths my hair and kisses my cheek.

“You are such a good son, Daniel,” she says. “We are very proud of you.”



That night I sleep what feels like a century. Around noon, when my phone rings, I wake up abruptly with what feels like a hangover. The sunlight splits through the dark curtains, illuminating all the dust motes suspended in the air.

I roll over and feel around for my phone charging on my nightstand. It’s Regina. I try to clear the sleep from my voice. “Hello?”

“Hey,” she says quietly. It sounds like she’s been crying.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, but—yeah. Harry told me about your sister. I’m really sorry.”

What is there to say? It feels like a death. “Thanks.”

My phone buzzes with a message, and then another one. It’s probably Harry. “I wish it had gone differently,” Regina says.

“Yeah, well.” I lay my head back against the pillow and close my eyes. “Hey, Reg, I should’ve called you after Mr. Denton had us in his office.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, I should’ve—”

“I actually went and talked to the psychologist.”

“You did?” I open my eyes again and shift until I’m sitting up. “How was it? You don’t sound good.”

“No, it was okay. It was good, actually. She was better than I expected. It’s just been…kind of a long morning.” I hear her get up and close her door. “Did you know Harry was the last person she talked to?”

She means Sandra, I know. “He never told me that.”

“He never told anyone else.”

“What did they talk about? When was it?”

She tells me: it was two hours before. Afterward, a few days after, when he was in a panic he couldn’t come down from, Harry showed her the messages. He’d been at a tennis match and Sandra had written You’ll always be good to Regina, right?

He was sweaty and thirsty and hurried, ready for his next set, checking his phone while he was getting water, which his coach always yelled at him about when he noticed. Sandra was a possessive, bossy friend—she’d always been—and they’d banter sometimes over whether he was a worthy boyfriend or not. She’d dole out numbers like an Olympian judge sometimes (8 for being a good date to a dance, 6 for being a less-than-stimulating lunch companion), and he always laughed, but I know it kind of bothered him, too; if he could’ve figured out a way to say so without sounding oversensitive, he would’ve done it.

The text struck him as kind of unusual, but there was another set to play—he was down—and so he didn’t answer at first. Then he changed his mind and said, I always am already.

Sandra wrote back, Good. Keep that promise, and Harry put down his phone and went to play the rest of his match. He won.

My phone keeps buzzing. “When you told me about your parents,” Regina says, “something—I don’t know. Some part of me snapped out of something. I guess I just feel so guilty every time I’m happy, or every time I’m with anyone I care about. Like how can I just go on with all my friendships like everything didn’t end for me last year?”

“Oh, Reg—”

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you I turned in my deposit for Northwestern.”

“Wait, what, seriously? You did? Regina, that’s great.”

“My parents finally gave in. I think it was the tribute, actually—I think it really freaked my mom out.” She pauses. “Honestly, though, I don’t know if I can imagine going and like—I don’t know, cramming for finals or studying abroad or passive-aggressively dumping my roommate’s laundry on her bed or whatever you’re supposed to do in college. Just doing all those things like that’s all there is in my world.”

“I know what you mean. I think it’ll get there, though.” At the very least those things will happen; you go through the motions and then it turns out you did them, even if you weren’t entirely there for it as you did.