When Reason Breaks (12 page)

After a while, Tommy fell asleep. Elizabeth gazed at him through partially opened lids and inhaled and exhaled when he did, in the same slow, steady rhythm. Eventually, she dozed off, but her slumber didn't last long. She was startled awake when a newly felled leaf landed on her cheek.

Do you know the side effects of sleep deprivation, Ms. Diaz?

Fatigue (duh, right?), memory problems, feeling weak, irritable, depressed
.

I didn't need to look this up anywhere, although I did google it to see if my pessimism was a real medical condition or simply my personality. Seriously, though, I couldn't sleep. Not for a long time. And when I did doze off, I had nightmares
.

I had one over and over, of a plane crashing into the ocean. Sometimes I'd wake up as soon as the plane hit the water and broke into pieces. Other times, I'd find myself underwater, able to see and breathe. I was calm, looking up at the light above the water's surface.
A few times, I tried to swim to the top. I kicked and pushed with my arms, but about halfway up, I couldn't breathe underwater anymore. Salt water filled my nose and mouth. I fought to get to the top, but never made it. The illuminated surface was just out of reach
.

I knew then something deep down inside me was broken. It was the tiniest of cracks, like a pebble hitting a windshield on the highway—plink. No big deal, right? Wait a while. The crack will deepen and spread and permanently damage the once-strong glass
.

So, WWEDW? What Would Emily Dickinson Write?

Maybe this: “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain … And then a Plank in Reason, broke, / And I dropped down, and down –”

Yeah, that. Exactly that
.

Did Emily Dickinson pull away from the world because it was easier and safer to hide than face it all? Or did something inside of her crack? Was something really wrong with her, the way something was really wrong with me? No one seems to know for sure about her. No one really knew about me
.

I mean, something was obviously off, but I didn't want to get into it. It was none of their business
.

I had to do something, though, because I needed to sleep. So I did what Emily Dickinson wouldn't do. I went to Mom. Yeah, I know, bad move. I should've stuck with her idea that “I never had a mother”
because she's not the person I turn to with problems. I guess that shows how desperate I was. Or hopeful, maybe, that she would be like other moms for once. That she'd listen and care
.

I told her about the dreams and was ready to tell her more, but she stopped me. She walked into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed a bottle of pills, and popped off the cap. I opened my hand and she tapped one into my palm. “Take half,” she said. “They're strong.”

Thanks, Mom, for making it crystal clear that we can never have a conversation about anything that matters because you're too wrapped up in your own problems to unravel mine. Got it
.

The next morning, I wanted to thank her for real, though. I didn't remember anything from the night before. No dreams. No nightmares. Nothing. At first, this freaked me out, but then I was relieved. I mean, think about it. My plank in reason broke and I was dropping down and down. Eventually, I'd hit the ground and shatter. Hanging out in Limbo Land for a while seemed like a good alternative. I knew it was a temporary fix, but it was better than falling from planes or planks or anything else
.

“Good morning, everyone,” Ms. Diaz said as she closed her classroom door. “Today, you're going to work in pairs, so the first thing I want to do is …”

“Can we pick our partner?” asked Kevin.

“No. The first thing I want to do is move the desks into pairs facing each other.”

Ms. Diaz directed the students as they moved the desks into place. She then pointed—“You and you, here; you and you, there”—and handed each pair a folder. Emily raised her eyebrows when she was paired with Elizabeth, but she didn't say anything.

“Are you serious?” asked Elizabeth. “I sit next to her every day. Can't I work with someone else?”

“I put a lot of thought into this, Elizabeth. Emily is a good writer …”

“And I'm not?”

Some students giggled. Others watched intently.

“I didn't say that. Let me finish, please. Emily is an exceptional writer. You are a talented artist. Considering today's assignment, I think you'll be great partners.”

Emily, who was dressed in gray cargo pants and a simple white, long-sleeved shirt, immediately sat down, circled a piece of hair over her ear, and opened the folder to read every word of the directions.

Elizabeth sauntered to her seat from across the room, where she had been talking with Tommy and Kevin. She sat opposite Emily but didn't say anything. Instead, she retrieved a copy of
Jane Eyre
from her bag, opened it to a folded-over page, and read.

Once everyone was seated, Ms. Diaz said, “Inside the folder, you'll find a poem and some background information. Each pair has a different poem. You'll also find a handout with directions. Take that out and let's go over it.”

Since Emily had already studied the directions, she handed them to Elizabeth. She put her book down, picked the paper up, and scanned it.

Once everyone had the handout in front of them, Ms. Diaz continued. “Working with your partner, you'll read the poem and analyze it in writing and visually. You'll hand in a paper, no more than three pages, that analyzes the
overall meaning of the poem, highlighting the literary devices.”

“What's a literary device?” asked Kevin.

“In your folder, I have included a list of literary devices and their definitions.”

“You're my favorite teacher, Ms. D. Have I told you that?” asked Kevin.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, smiling and waving a dismissive hand at him. “Along with the paper, you'll also hand in a visual representation of the poem.”

“What if you can't draw?” asked Tommy. “Because I am a stick-figure kind of guy.”

“If you read the directions with me,” she said pointedly, “then you'll see that you don't have to draw. You may draw, but you may also use clip art or other images from the computer. You may even do an old-fashioned collage with words and images from newspapers and magazines.”

“Can we act it out?” asked Kevin. “Or do an interpretive dance?” He waved his arms, which made him look like he was flying rather than dancing. Sarah giggled loudly from her nearby seat, and Abby, who sat close to her, playfully slapped her arm and shushed her. Emily noticed the exchange between the girls, but didn't respond or try to get their attention.

Kevin winked at Emily. She smiled and quickly looked down at the top of her desk.

“No,” Ms. Diaz said while smiling.

“Aw, man. I don't know if you're my favorite teacher anymore.”

“I'm heartbroken,” she joked.

She waited a few moments to let her students consider the assignment.

“I'll walk around and answer any questions. Since today's Friday, let's have it due Wednesday. If you want extra credit, you can present your work to the class before handing it in. I'll give you the rest of the class time to get started.”

Elizabeth watched Emily as she took out her notebook and a pencil, and opened the folder she received from Ms. Diaz. Neither said anything. Emily read silently. Elizabeth continued to watch her. She scanned the room and realized they were the only pair not talking to each other.

“What are you reading? Is that the poem?” asked Elizabeth.

Emily glanced up at Elizabeth and looked back down at the paper.

“No. This is some background information.”

Elizabeth waited for more, but Emily didn't say anything.

“And …” Elizabeth led her. “What does it say?”

“You want me to read it out loud?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Oh, sorry.” Emily circled her hair around her ear again, cleared her throat, and read:

“ ‘As a woman in Puritanical New England, Dickinson had few options socially or professionally. She was expected to marry and have children. She was not expected to work outside the home. Even her work as a writer was limited. Women at the time published under men's names. Most wrote prose,
not poetry, and those who did write avoided expressing what would be considered controversial ideas.' ”

She paused for a moment and looked at Elizabeth. Her elbow was on the desk and her head was tilted, resting in her hand. Elizabeth made a circular motion with her other hand and said, “Go on.”

“ ‘Society's restricted expectations for women were reinforced at home. While Emily's father wanted and allowed his daughters to be educated, they weren't expected to accomplish much after their schooling. Emily Dickinson was well aware of the different standards for men and women. Her frustrations and criticisms were expressed in her poetry.' ”

Emily looked up at Elizabeth when she finished but said nothing.

“Now what?” asked Elizabeth. “Where's the poem?”

“Here it is. Do you want me to read that, too?”

“I'll read it. I don't want you to do all the work and then accuse me of being a slacker.”

Emily didn't respond. She wasn't sure if Elizabeth was joking. Elizabeth didn't clarify it for her. She leaned over, grabbed the folder with the poem, and read it aloud:

Poem #486

I was the slightest in the House –

I took the smallest Room –

At night, my little Lamp, and Book –

And one Geranium –

So stationed I could catch the Mint

That never ceased to fall –

And just my Basket –

Let me think – I'm sure

That this was all –

I never spoke – unless addressed –

And then, 'twas brief and low –

I could not bear to live – aloud –

The Racket shamed me so –

And if it had not been so far –

And any one I knew

Were going – I had often thought

How noteless – I could die –

“So, how do you want to do this?” asked Elizabeth.

“I don't know,” said Emily.

Elizabeth squinted her eyes at Emily. What was her deal? Was she trying to be difficult? Or was she not sure what to say because this was the first time they had talked since the party a few weeks ago? That was the most they had ever talked. Elizabeth even offered her a seat at their lunch table. Okay, maybe comparing herself to a rattlesnake wasn't enticing, but still. She extended herself. She held out her hand, and Emily left her hanging. The next few weeks, they went back to their usual routines. Sitting side by side in class, not
speaking unless they had to. Eating lunch at different tables. Acting like they hadn't shared something important.

“Why don't we talk it over, then you do the writing and I'll do the artwork. Does that sound fair?” asked Elizabeth.

“Sure.”

Elizabeth waited a few seconds. Nothing.

“Well …” she led her. “What do you think about it?”

“Well,” Emily began hesitantly, “she says she's the ‘slightest in the house.' Based on the background information, maybe this means that she knows she's the smallest … not in actual size, although maybe she is, but more like she's the smallest in terms of worth. She matters the least.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth said as she grabbed her oversize messenger bag and plopped it on the desk. She retrieved her sketch pad, a hair tie, and a charcoal pencil. She dropped her bag to the floor, pulled her hair back into a high, tight ponytail, and began drawing.

“Well, I'm not so sure about the second stanza, but the next one is pretty straightforward. She doesn't speak unless spoken to, and when she does, she's soft-spoken. Being loud and noticed scares her, would embarrass her.”

“Nice, Delgado. I'm with you.” Elizabeth drew furiously now. “What about the last stanza?”

“ ‘And if it had not been so far – / And any one I knew / Were going –' Hmm,” Emily said. “Where do you think ‘it' is?”

Elizabeth stopped drawing. “Heaven.” She picked up her bag again and dug through it to find a bunch of colored
pencils held together by a hair scrunchy. She selected a pink pencil.

“Heaven?” asked Emily.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. So if heaven weren't so far, or if someone she knew was going, then she would go with them? Like if someone she knew was dying, she would want to go, too?”

Elizabeth didn't respond. She kept drawing.

Emily read the rest of the stanza: “ ‘I had often thought / How noteless – I could die –' ”

“She doesn't think anyone would notice if she died. That's how insignificant she is,” Emily said, almost in a whisper.

“Maybe she's suicidal,” added Elizabeth.

“What?”

“ ‘I had often thought.' That's what she says. She often thinks about her death and how no one would care. If she often thinks about it, she might be suicidal.”

They stared at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds. Elizabeth looked down at her own paper and continued to draw. After a few minutes, she asked, “Want to see the picture? It's a draft. If you like it, I'll re-do it in more detail on larger paper.”

Emily's eyes widened as she viewed the drawing.

Elizabeth wasn't sure if Emily was impressed or scared. She leaned over to explain it. After several minutes, Ms. Diaz walked over.

“So, how are things going?”

“Great,” said Elizabeth.

Emily looked at Ms. Diaz but didn't say anything.

“Let me see,” Ms. Diaz said. She picked up the sketch pad with Elizabeth's drawing. Her eyebrows lifted as she scanned the page. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Not again
.