Dignity - a novel - 15. Chapter 15: Gilded

Chapter 15: Gilded

Fucking school, I hate it!

The last bell rang, and all the dweebs ran for the hills, except for the jocks and cheerleaders, who ran for the fields, LMFAO!

Ah. Whatever.

At least the corridors are quiet now. Light streaks in at a sharp angle and glints off the ugly and highly waxed floors. On the bulletin boards are cutouts of turkeys and pilgrims. Everywhere I turn, the colors are orange and yellow and brown, and they seem to pretty much match my autumnal mood.

I get lost in a thought. The rhythm of my shoes seem to beat out a time for it, namely, that Jack probably won't be around after Christmas. But, how will I know? Will he text me a last message – a swan song in the form of 'this is the end, good bye, Dawn'? I don’t want to consider it, but maybe despite this Lincoln person, Jack will isolate himself; Jack will die alone, as he planned, orange ribbons and all, everywhere around him.

Isn't it Salinger who says something like: "It would take forever to unwrite all the world's 'fuck yous!'"

I get to the principal's office. Funny, but the inner and outer doors both stand wide open; I can see straight back and through his office window.

"Hello?" I enter. The waiting room is empty.

"Hello?" I enter the office. No one.

He said to be here, the jerk.

On the wall are diplomas with large foil 'roundels,' LOL. Suddenly their glinting and show-off gold reminds me of the 4^th grade. We too used to get gold stars for A's on our spelling tests, and I guess, ultimately, these flashy and crinkly-edged seals are the supreme boats of 'a good student.'

The notion sorta makes me sick.

I look at one by getting real close. Through the reflection of the glass, I read: "Cornell University…Master's Degree in Child Development."

"Humph," I scoff.

I move to the next one: "Purdue University…Bachelor's Degree in Child Psychology and Education."

'Child psychology,' I think to myself. 'What a load of hooey!'

"Ah, Dawn." Principal Voorhies strides in with a handkerchief still drying his hands. "Sit down," he tells me.

At his desk, his hands come out and lock fingers towards me over his old-fashioned blotter. His pupils are probing, and they make me squirm.

"So, Dawn – do you and your family have big plans for Thanksgiving next week?" His tone is annoyingly 'interested.'

"Nope," I say. "Same old, same old."

"Yes," he continues to sing like a clueless jape. "Traditions are good. It's the one day we follow a routine, because we feel it is nice to reconnect with our family, and with our past."

I hope my eyes don’t show how pissed I am. I'm missing my laptop time to listen to this trite crap! Ugh, gag me with a Hallmark card.

"But…" his mood suddenly shifts. His glance turns cold and appraising. "Imagine how hard it will be on Jack's family next Thursday."

Bastard.

"Dawn, I do not believe anyone has given you a medical rundown – a briefing, as the doctors would call it – on how Jack's condition is ravaging his body. Leukemia means Jack's bone marrow is producing too many white blood cells, and they are mutated to seek out and destroy healthy tissue instead of fighting off infections as they normally do. Your friend's body is suffering. Five months now after learning he's out of remission – and untreated as it is – the leukemia is draining all his strength."

'Not all of it,' I think to myself.

Principal Voorhies stands and goes to his window.

"Do you know," he turns to me. "How it feels to be listless all the time? To be fatigued to the point where you can't think straight? Well, that is Jack now. He has horrible night sweats, the blood is pooling under his skin into lumps called 'purpura.' These show up under his arms, or on his neck. There are spider-web markings where blood vessels have collapsed, and because of the cancer, are dying."

"Mr. Voorhies – "

He cut me off, coming to stand next to my chair. "Fevers, delirium, shortness of breath…" his voice is rising in volume and intensity. "He bruises easily, and can bleed profusely if cut."

"Mr. Voorhies!" I shout. "Please. There's nothing I can do about Jack."

He inhales deeply, silently refuting my lie.

He sits on the corner of his desk, and asks very coolly, "Do you know what it is like to be a parent, Dawn?"

Is he serious? One awkward glance in his direction, and I know he is.

I shake my head 'no.'

"Dawn, it is scary as shit."

Now he gets my attention.

Voorhies goes on, "You wake up in the morning, and wonder 'Will she be ok?' You try to get through your workday without panicking that she hasn't texted you in a couple of hours. And all of it – all the fear and worry is like a paranoia that your child harbors a deep-seeded resentment against your helpless and bottomless love for them.

"To be a parent is to stand at a precipice every moment of every day and want your child to be ok, and to love you, and understand why you do the things you do."

Shit. He's gonna make me cry.

He shakes off the emotions he has just shown me by standing and adjusting the crease in his slacks. He begins to pace slightly. "How sad is that, Dawn? But, that's the way it has always been, and will ever be. The problem is often a misplaced sense of love within the young person. Do you know that I mean?"

"No, sir."

"Dawn, in my experience, fifteen-year-olds have a three-legged base to stand on. Do you know what I mean?"

Dweeb. He knows good and well I have no goddamn idea. I feel my eyes squinting as I say: "Sir?"

"It's like this – and this perspective is from my background, and from many years of teaching – one leg that people the age of you and Jack stand on is emotional maturity. This is an awareness that what they do as individuals can hurt others, and that this pain can mount up inside of them as others hurt us too.

"The second leg is a stubby little one – it's background experience. This is there to inform an intuitive notion as to why someone – or the self – is acting the way we see them do it. Without past experience, no one can tell the difference between a 'lash out,' and a cry for help, no one. And at your age, the experience level is very low indeed. That is natural.

"But, the third leg, that is ego – a growing desire to protect the innocence that our psyche still sees in us. The ego retains the vision of the pure form of us – of all of our potential – and sees it under attack from emotional bombardment. This attack is perceived as coming from 'outsiders,' and the ego is confused on how to deal with it by only using internal sources. This leg is all-important, for this struggle gives rise to the birth of empathy, or conversely, this is when empathy is suppressed and drowned under the weight of 'hurt feelings.'

"Love, Dawn – I'm saying that at this stage in your life, and deep within people your age, love is born. And if it is not born for the self, then it will never appear for any others either."

He stands at the window again. This time the early evening grayness seems to reach out and envelope him. He asks me, via the glass reflection, "Do you understand?"

I do. "Yes."

"Do you have love in your heart for Jack?"

"You know I do."

"Do you have love in your heart, for yourself, and for Jack's mom?"

I am still; I cannot move, because honestly, I do not know.

˚˚˚˚˚

The memorials by Jack's house look weathered, and like they want to hole up for the coming winter. Moisture has seeped into several of the plastic covers shielding posters, and Jack's innocent face looks wet and blistered.

The breeze blows chill as I stop and stoop down in front of the set-up.

The fake flowers are in vases, and the stuffed animals – anything with orange on them – look sun-bleached and sad. Candles are lit and flicker in small votive holders. The big orange candles look like left over Halloween decorations, but I know they are not. These are in tall glass tubes like the kind in churches, but the bright orange wax is cut by the diagonal lines of black skeletons printed on the clear glass holders. These figures stand or dance – one per candleholder – and all have the same bold lettering beneath: "La Santisima Muerte" or "Most Holy Death."

My fingers go up to my lapel. I rip off my folded snippet of orange ribbon, and slowly bring it to the flame of Her, of Most Holy Death. The plastic fibers catch, and I almost let it singe me before I drop in the wax. There it continues to flame and become a second wick to the sacred fire of life.

˚˚˚˚˚

Mrs. Shaw had looked surprised. A few minutes ago, she opened the door, and acted like there was some sort of mistake. It seemed she almost wanted to utter the words she would have a few months back: "Dawn! Why, Jack's not here." But then, she remembered, remembered that everything is different.

Now I stand in her living room, and my eyes drift over to the large picture window. I do not have to move to imagine the view Mrs. Shaw has from there. She can see the memorials; she can see the bleak days of the faded summer without Jack sinking into the on-rushing direness of winter.

"We're out of Snapple, Dawn. Is Pepsi ok?" Mrs. Shaw calls from the kitchen.

"Anything," I mumble.

She comes in with a glass of clinking ice. "Dawn, won't you sit down?" She presses the glass into my hand, and gestures to the couch.

I sit, and the coldness of the glass grows uncomfortable in my hand. But, I let the pain linger for a moment.

I don’t know what to say. I just stare down into the brown, bubbling liquid. The ice floats like lost chunks of slowly melting courage.

"Is your mom cooking for Thanksgiving?"

"Yes, she is."

"I…I don’t know what we'll do. Hamish and Christie will be coming home, but – maybe we'll go out."

Again, all I feel is the coldness burning my fingers – that, and my fear.

She continues, "Do you remember our Christmases here, Dawn? How Jack loved to sit before the tree and just stare. We always put it in the picture window so the neighbors can get green with envy."

"Yes. You have lovely Christmas trees."

She sighs. "I have to see what Jack's brother and sister want this year. But, I…I doubt we'll have one."

She inhales sharply, like a tear was getting caught and drawn back in.

"Dawn?" She pauses. I lift my attention to her. "Did you ever notice that I don’t call Jack sweetie, or baby, or other stuff like that?"

"Yeah, I guess, sort of."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

"He got sick so young, and came to the point of leaving us so early, it just didn’t seem dignified to reduce him to a mere word – I wouldn't do it to him in regards to 'honey,' or 'sweetheart,' and I wouldn’t do it to him in terms of 'sick,' or 'poor boy' either, because I love him."

I have to think to myself, 'Wo, Jack's mom is something like Holden Caulfield too…'

I tell her, "Maybe since Jack was so little, he never got your reasons – maybe what he got was that you called Hamish and Christie those things; maybe he thought, that he reasoned you did because you loved them better…"

Mrs. Shaw starts to cry and dig for a tissue. "Don’t tell me that, even if it’s the truth, because everything in life should have the time for an 'I'm sorry.'"

"I maybe shouldn’t speak for him, but Jack is not really sure if you love him or not."

"What..?"

"That – "

She cuts me off. "I show him, that I love him. I take care of him; I do everything for him."

"Isn’t that what the dad usually says: 'I don’t need to tell him, 'cause I show him.'"

Jack's mom sighs, then says with fresh resolution, "I've had to be father and mother to him. So I guess I can see some of how he feels."

Now I have the courage I need. My mind too is fueled with fresh resolve. I set the glass on the coffee table and stand. "Well, the reason I came here today is this: I have a proposition to make, but you must agree to my one rule. Ok?"

"Ok."

"Will you buy two plane tickets for L.A., one for you, and one for me?"

Mrs. Shaw slowly stands. A rolling quaver of suppressed emotions contorts her whole body. She bites her lip, and regains some composure, then she says with absolute, rock-hard dignity, "Yes."

"But," I warn her. "When we get there, you have to stand back. Let me find, and bring Jack to you. All right?"

I can hear an excited breath catch in her throat before she replies, "Yes. I will let you bring him to me."

"And maybe one more thing." I can barely keep my own voice from trembling. "If you get the chance, you will tell him, right? Tell him in words that you love him, and always have. So he knows it."

She nods, and appears to momentarily want to reach out and take my hand, but stops. Instead, she goes to the picture window.

Once there, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. She dials for a moment, then holds it up to her ear, and tilts her head towards me.

"Information – number for Delta Airlines."

She pivots her gaze to look out towards Jack's memorial, and a tear rides down her cheek. There it is gilded by the autumn light.