Sensing Light

by Mark A. Jacobson

  His mother ran down the flight of stairs and hugged him. She hadn’t done that since the day he departed for residency training, and it had been a forced gesture then. This hug wasn’t restrained. The cache of resentment he was hoarding, a secret he kept even from himself, vanished.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Everything has been taken care of.”

  He sensed she wasn’t devastated by his father’s death. Yet somehow she had changed. Following her into the kitchen, he watched her gait. It was relaxed, not an act of careful consideration. Kevin was fascinated by the metamorphosis.

  “There must be something I can do,” he said.

  “Your being here is enough.”

  Nothing she had said was steeped in abnegation, her default mode of being in the world. As Francine sat down at the Formica table she had manned for forty years, she didn’t search for crumbs to wipe off. Kevin put it together. She was relieved.

  “Tell me about your life in San Francisco,” she asked.

  That bombshell disabled Kevin’s habitual censoring of what he said to her.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Mom, you haven’t asked anything about my personal life since I left Boston eight years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.”

  Now, Francine’s posture drooped mournfully.

  “Mom, you don’t have to apologize. I never blamed you.”

  She studied him and waited.

  “Honest. Things are OK between you and me.”

  “Well…That’s good then.”

  Kevin eagerly nodded in agreement.

  Francine cradled his hands in hers. He watched her face as a rare and wonderful transformation occurred. She smiled.

  The life in San Francisco he told her of only involved his work, which did entail having to explain AIDS. Once he saw her reaction, her fear for his safety, he began asking who would be at the funeral and about the priest who would officiate. After that topic was exhausted, he asked what she planned to do with her time. He knew the garage had been sold and the house paid off. There had been enough money left over to buy an annuity. Adding social security, it was highly improbable she would spend half her monthly income before the next checks arrived.

  “You should travel,” he suggested.

  She squirmed and pursed her lips.

  “You can afford to take Katherine with you. Then you wouldn’t have to go alone.”

  Francine looked askance at him. Kevin momentarily considered inviting them to San Francisco. With his father dead, it wouldn’t cause a nuclear family holocaust. But no, he wasn’t ready for that yet.

  The animation slowly drained from their conversation. The silences increased. Kevin kept at the questions. Her answers were short but not rude. Did she want him to stop prying? Was she not saying so out of politeness? Possibly, though she obviously appreciated his interest in her. On the other hand, she had said his presence was enough to content her. Perhaps they didn’t have to talk.

  The funeral was at Saint Brigid’s. A larger mass of bricks than a row house, thought Kevin. That’s all it is, with some stained glass, incense, and Latin inside to embellish the homilies. Listening to the rotund, middle-aged priest recite the opening rite, he was skeptical of the man’s sincerity. This prayer can’t mean more to him than a random string of words. Kevin reproached himself. Who am I to judge?

  He contemplated the building to keep from thinking of the body in the casket, the dead man who could still elicit a flood of anger, grief, and guilt. He estimated the age of the bricks. Fifty years old at most, he calculated. His father had been an altar boy when this incarnation of the church was built. Strange, he thought. When I was an altar boy, Saint Brigid’s seemed ancient. Maybe it’s me that’s ancient. I was an altar boy a quarter of a century ago.

  Kevin tried to remember what had possessed him to apply. Of course, it had been his mother’s cajoling and his bowing to her will. Then a pressed and folded surplice appeared on his bedspread. He had never worn a uniform other than on Halloween. He put on the bleached white garment, admiring the lace bands above the hem and around the wrists. He looked in a mirror and saw someone with a purpose in life.

  The biggest challenge, memorizing Latin prayers, was a piece of cake after his mother taught him what the words meant. The responsibilities of mass quickly became rote, and Kevin would stop thinking during the service. This mindless state was so pleasant he actually looked forward to mass, believing he was in a state of exaltation there. He loved the equanimity of the altar. There was no struggle for power, no battle for survival between mortal humanity and the eternal divine.

  His new avocation had other benefits. At school, the nuns were more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. So was his father at home.

  Because I was an altar boy? What a fucking hypocrite he was.

  Kevin tried concentrating on other people to avoid wallowing in his feelings about the old man. He watched Katherine. The one downside of being an altar boy had been his sister’s disapproval. Katherine strove to be the most popular seventh grader at Saint Brigid’s. Altar boys were the antithesis of cool, and he had put her status at risk. Worse, their parents’ credence in his new angelic persona threatened a hostile realignment of family political forces against her. That must have been the last straw, he thought, because she had devised a plot to torture him.

  His mother went to the grocery store once a week and bought four boxes of cereal, no more. There were no mitigating circumstances that would change this rule. Suddenly, half-full cereal boxes were disappearing. When Kevin appealed, he was told he could have oatmeal with a single, level teaspoon of sugar until she went shopping again.

  The choice between spiritual sustenance and Sugar Pops had been a tough one. Reminding himself that Christ had suffered on the cross for him, he filled the chalice with wafers, turned missal pages, and recited prayers. Kevin didn’t expect Katherine to repent. He reasoned correctly that she would soon be distracted by other dramas and would ignore him once again.

  He continued to steal glances at Katherine. She was the only person at the funeral who seemed truly sad. He imagined what her life was like now. He knew she worked thirty hours a week at a rehabilitation center for brain-damaged patients. None of her four children, three boys and a girl, were terribly difficult. Francine had told him that Ben was good with the two older boys, using humor rather than abuse to keep them in line. In fact, Ben, not Katherine, made sure they finished their homework. Who would have thought? Katherine had just her daughter and the youngest boy, Douglas, to stay on top of, and they were both courteous, docile children. It was doable, he supposed, though she couldn’t possibly have any time for herself.

  After the burial, they went to Katherine’s row house. While Ben and the kids dived into a platter of pastries, Kevin had coffee with his sister and mother in the living room. Katherine talked about the rehab center. She rhapsodized over her charges’ achievements, ranging from bladder control to comprehensible speech. This was a revelation. He didn’t remember her ever being compassionate toward those less fortunate than her.

  Ben drove Francine home, and the children went to a nearby playground, leaving Kevin and Katherine alone.

  “Your kids seem good,” said Kevin.

  “I count my blessings. There’s not a bully among them, and they’re all doing fine at school.”

  She blushed.

  “Actually, the teachers say Emily and Douglas are gifted. Like you, I guess.”

  The compliment burrowed inside him. He couldn’t detect a shred of sarcasm in what she had said.

  “Why, thank you, Katherine. I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

  He had spoken playfully, his words leached of acidity. They eyed each other, looking for the hidden venom. Both burst into laughter.

  In the thaw that followed, Kevin told her about Marco. Instead of being repelled, she was pleased to
discover he wasn’t alone in the world. Though unlike his mother, Katherine could articulate her concerns.

  “Aren’t you worried about AIDS?” she asked.

  “Not really. We’ve been monogamous for years.”

  She nodded pensively, clearly wanting to believe him but unconvinced.

  “It must be hard for you, taking care of so many dying young men you can…”

  “Identify with?”

  “Yes. A lot of our patients don’t get better either. When they’re old, it doesn’t get to me. But when they’re my age or younger, it’s tough. Last year, we had a woman, a mom with four kids like me, who had been in a car wreck. She couldn’t speak or feed herself. And she understood what was going on, that she wasn’t making progress in rehab. Sometimes I’d come home and couldn’t eat. I’d feel guilty for being able to talk to my children.”

  Kevin was stunned. How could this woman be his big sister?

  “I don’t know,” he sputtered. “Maybe I’ve grown a harder shell than you.”

  Katherine raised her eyebrows. With a thin, doubtful smile, she shook her head no.

  They heard the front door open. Douglas, a chunky, freckled twelve-year-old, walked in. He stood in front of Katherine, demanding her attention.

  “Mom, I’ve been outside long enough. Can I read in my room?”

  Like a prelate, she lifted her hand, granting him dispensation.

  Kevin was intrigued that a son of Katherine and Ben would prefer reading in his room to playing outdoors. He asked Douglas what book he wanted to get back to.

  “A Tale of Two Cities,” Douglas confessed reluctantly.

  “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s OK. I have to read it for school.”

  “I read it when I was your age, twice. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’ Right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And the last sentence of the book can still give me chills. When Sidney Carton is taken to the… Oops. I won’t spoil it for you.”

  “That’s OK. I know how it ends.”

  “So you’re reading it again, too!”

  With a shy grin, Douglas retreated to his bedroom.

  XIV

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, HERB went for an early morning jog. When he returned, Martin was in the kitchen eating cereal.

  “I’ve got a surprise,” Herb said.

  “Yeah,” Martin said indifferently.

  “Come upstairs when you’re done.”

  Herb settled into the spare bedroom, which housed his new home computer. He turned on the Macintosh, opened a package that had come in yesterday’s mail, removed a floppy disc, and inserted it.

  “What’s that?” Martin asked from the doorway.

  “Tetris.”

  Clusters of squares in various shapes drifted down from the top of the screen. Using the cursor keys, Herb rotated the falling tetronimoes and moved them sideways.

  “It’s a game,” Herb explained as he let Martin have the chair. “If you can arrange these things to form an unbroken line, you get points. Try it.”

  Martin caught on quickly, manipulating the falling tetronimoes one, then two, then three seconds before they reached the bottom. He gave shouts of triumph each time he completed a line.

  Herb enjoyed seeing his son at play. Since starting high school, Martin had become guarded and inaccessible, like his older sister. Herb hoped he had finally found something fun they do together, a pathway to wider-ranging and more personal conversations. Impulsively, he tested the possibility.

  “How are you getting along with kids at school?”

  Distracted, Martin misplaced three consecutive tetronimoes.

  “Fine,” he said and stood up. “Thanks, Dad.”

  After Martin left the den, Herb watched the screen. Blocks were piling on top of each other. What was he doing wrong? He feared history was repeating itself. His father hadn’t put a fraction of the effort he had put into connecting with his son. Was alienation an inherited Wu defect, irreparable?

  Herb and Cecilia had a date that afternoon. They drove downtown to a matinee at the new concert hall, which had perfect acoustics, she told him. Still disturbed by the Tetris fiasco, he grumbled about Martin while she sat next to him knitting.

  “He’s not confiding in me either.” she said. “I’m not worried about it. It’s normal for a thirteen-year-old boy to be uncomfortable sharing anything private with his parents. His hormones and body are changing. You shouldn’t take it personally.”

  Herb knew it was unrealistic to assume a boy Martin’s age would admire his father. But a little affection was a fair expectation, wasn’t it?

  “Thanks,” he replied curtly.

  Cecilia stopped knitting.

  “What’s with that tone?”

  “What tone?”

  “You know what tone.”

  “You’re assuming innuendo that isn’t there.”

  “Right,” she said dryly and returned to her knitting.

  Inside the concert hall, he asked her, “Who’s performing?”

  “The Berlin Philharmonic.”

  “That’s supposed to be the world’s best orchestra, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  Herb was suddenly aware the word “Berlin” had caused him no distress whatsoever. Now he recalled Cecilia telling him weeks ago it would be the Berlin Philharmonic. He hadn’t reacted then either. It had been twenty-five years since he had heard the word “Berlin” without flinching.

  They had dinner at a nouvelle cuisine restaurant Herb had heard was terrific. He had two glasses of a very smooth cabernet and let go of his annoyance with Cecilia’s earlier lack of sympathy. He thought of her calmness during two pregnancies, her resilience when they were robbed the week after moving into their first home, her unpredictable earthiness. He touched the curve of her ear and let his fingers trail down her neck.

  “This is nice.”

  “It is,” she murmured and held his hand.

  “Another glass of wine?”

  “Herb, are you trying to get into my pants?”

  He looked away innocently.

  “It’s working,” she said and speared her fork into the bouillabaisse.

  XV

  HERB AWOKE WITH A headache. He kept his eyes shut. The brightness was irritating. Did I have too much to drink last night, he wondered. Herb remembered the restaurant though not the wine they ordered, which was odd. He couldn’t remember what time he went to bed either. Guess I did have too much to drink. Oh well, it’s Sunday. He went back to sleep.

  He woke again determined to brave the light. Squinting, he saw a white tile ceiling with bare fluorescent bulbs. He turned left and bumped his nose against the chrome side railing of a gurney. A medicine resident he recognized walked by. Her name eluded him. Dressed in scrubs, she was staring at him. Her eyebrows were furrowed. Oh no…this isn’t a dream, is it.

  Herb turned the other way and saw Cecilia, Martin, and Allison. He sat up, discovered he was clothed only in a hospital gown, open in the back, and immediately lay down.

  “What’s going on?” he cried out.

  No one answered. Martin and Allison looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

  “What’s happening?” he implored them.

  “It’s your turn to tell him,” said Allison to Cecilia. “I did it last time and Martin the time before.”

  “Please, Cecilia! What am I doing here?”

  Cecilia wearily explained that after dinner, on their way to the car, a Muni bus had nearly hit them. Herb pushed her out of the way then jumped, but not soon enough. As the bus swerved, it delivered a glancing blow that knocked him off balance. He landed on his head and was transiently unconscious. Once he came to, Herb was confused, unable to remember anything that had occurred after dinner. Six hours later in the City Hospital ER, he was asking his family every five minutes where he was and how he got here. After each explanation, he was again surprised to hear the news. Cecilia told
him a CT scan of his brain had been done. The ER physician said it was normal.

  “Then I can go home.”

  His children and wife lunged toward him, yelling “No!” in unison.

  Herb touched a cherry-size swelling on the side of his skull that throbbed painfully. He acquiesced.

  Since all the ER rooms were filled with more gravely injured patients, Herb spent the night in the hallway. He didn’t complain. He pretended to sleep so he wouldn’t see the passing house staff’s morbid curiosity. Yes, it can happen to us too, he wanted to scream.

  In the morning, Jared Hart, sans his retinue of surgical residents and students, came by and carefully examined him.

  “No motor deficits,” Hart concluded. “Are you thinking clearly now?”

  “More or less,” Herb hedged. To admit otherwise would be beyond mortification. But how he could not be truthful? His mind, not just his reputation, was on the line.

  “I still have amnesia for about six hours of last night. Otherwise, my memory seems intact.”

  Hart rubbed his chin skeptically.

  “I’m not quite playing with a full deck. Maybe it’s stress from the trauma?”

  “That’d be par for the course. But if you’re not back to normal in a few days, you need to be seen by a neurologist. OK?”

  “Sure,” said Herb, noncommittally.

  “I’m serious about that, Herb. I’m not trying to cover my ass. I’m trying to cover yours.”

  Cecilia picked him up at the ER entrance. On the ride home, he insisted he was fine.

  “I think there’s still time for me to round on the ICU patients.”

  She stopped the car and stared at him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He began to argue. Seeing her jaw clamped tight, he hesitated.

  “Herb, what did the ER doctors say about going back to work?”

  “We didn’t talk about it.”

  Cecilia and Herb had played chess when they were dating. They had been well-matched. She expected this response. She knew she had him in check and prepared her final move.