The Sound of Light

by Claire Wallis

  Louise McGee and her discard pile can go to hell.

  Adam’s palm moves from my cheek to the back of my head, holding me against his mouth. I lift my hand to his jaw, touching him with my fingertips, with four separate square centimeters of my own calloused flesh. They are the same fingertips I use to make music. The same pieces of me I use to show my love to strangers. They’re electric, carrying silent, awe-inspiring human music out of me and straight into him.

  Adam’s hand releases me just before his lips separate from mine. I open my eyes only to find his still closed. He looks peaceful. Sedate. A direct counterpoint to the craziness bouncing around in my chest. He inhales, then presses his lips closed and opens his eyes.

  They’re gray. I hadn’t noticed before. Probably because I was too busy looking for something else.

  “K’acy McGee.” His voice should be muffled by the blood and bass filling my ears, but the words are loud and clear. “I think I might like you.”

  I suck in a slow breath before I reply.

  “I think I might like you, too, Adam Sinclair. So much so, I’m considering upgrading your swooner status.”

  His eyebrows go up. “To?”

  “Chief Executive Swooner.”

  AFTER DINNER, Adam drives me home and walks me to the door, saying nothing more than you’re welcome when I thank him for dinner. He asks me for my number before he leaves, and I program it into his phone. He doesn’t kiss me goodbye, though. I don’t know what stops him, but I hope it wasn’t the enchilada.

  I feel better when my cell phone chimes the moment I close the apartment door behind me. I smile at the thought of Adam wanting to text me before he even sets foot off my front stoop.

  Gram’s gonna miss you for the next few days.

  And with that, the bitter absence of a good-night kiss turns to sweetness again.

  Sondra and the others will take good care of her. I promise.

  What I meant was, I’M going to miss you for the next few days.

  Whoa.

  Trust me, you’re not gonna miss me checking in on your gram every 15 minutes.

  Is that what you were doing?

  Yes…

  Uh-huh. Sure. Right.

  What else would I have been doing?

  Interviewing me for the job.

  I look out my apartment window. Adam’s car is still sitting at the curb.

  Good night, Adam.

  Good night, K’acy.

  Through the slats of the window blinds, I watch Adam’s car pull out of its space. My silly schoolgirl grin doesn’t last long, though, when I notice another car parked on my street, just a few spaces behind where Adam’s was. The glow of the streetlights bounces off its too-dark windows. I watch it there, wondering if it’s the same car that was parked across the street from the coffee shop on Friday. It’s out of place here, too, and I wonder for a second if it’s possible that the car is here because of me. When it pulls away from the curb a few moments later, makes a right at the corner and disappears into the night, my wisp of paranoia disappears, too. I dismiss it for what it likely was: nothing more than my own imagination.

  CHAPTER 12

  I come back from the grocery store on Tuesday evening to find Jarrod sitting on my front steps. He’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a pair of Beats covering his ears. His eyes are closed, as if he’s thinking hard about whatever’s coming out of the headphones. I set my grocery bags down, tap him on the shoulder, and sit next to him. He pulls the Beats from his ears and drops them down around his neck. A distorted collection of horns and drums is coming out of them.

  “What’s that?” I ask, tilting my chin and moving my gaze from his face to the headphones.

  “The demo for the gig at The Upstage. The guys from Jersey that wanna open.”

  “They any good?”

  He takes the Beats off and puts them down over my ears. It doesn’t take long for me to answer my own question.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be one hell of a night in Philadelphia.” I take the headphones off and hand them back to Jarrod with a smile.

  “Stevie says the promoter’s hoping for a sell-out.”

  “From the sound of it, he just might get one.”

  Jarrod takes a drag on his cigarette, then sends the stub out to the sidewalk with a flick of his finger.

  “So how’d things go with Mr. ‘Soul to Squeeze’ on Friday night?”

  “Good. But probably not as good as things went with you and the brunette.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your night was far better than mine.” He’s still looking at the burning cigarette stump.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Apparently, the brunette’s roommate didn’t appreciate her bringing a companion home at two in the morning.”

  “Oops.”

  “Yep. And it was especially awkward because her roommate is her father.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. I never ran so fast in my goddamned life. The old man was pissed. I should’ve known no twenty-two-year-old would have a duplex that nice.” He turns his head to look over at me. I can’t help but laugh.

  “That can’t be the first time that’s ever happened…”

  He sits up, raises his right palm into the air, laughs a single, loud laugh, and says, “I have never been chased down the street by a half-dressed man before. I swear on all that is holy. This was the first time.”

  “But will it be the last?”

  “Yes. Please, God. Please let it be the last.” He partners his hands and pretends to pray.

  “I bet the neighbors are still talking.”

  “I guess I’m lucky the guy didn’t have a shotgun or something.”

  I nod in agreement but keep quiet because the same thought had already crossed my mind. I know how fathers can be when it comes to their daughters.

  “So how about you?” His face switches from jovial to serious in a heartbeat. “What happened with you and The Mister?”

  “He drove me home after the show, that’s all.”

  “And?”

  “And he took me to dinner on Sunday night. After I got off work.”

  Jarrod raises his brow and draws in a sharp breath. “What? K’acy McGee let a man take her to dinner?”

  “Shut up, Jar. His grandmother is a patient. We just happened to be leaving at the same time, and he offered to take me to dinner to say thanks.” Jarrod pauses and eyes me suspiciously before he speaks again.

  “Kace, the dude put a Chili Peppers earworm in your head for two entire days, and he’s the first person you’ve ever invited to come see us play. It was not just a dinner to say thanks. You can’t lie for shit. Even to yourself.” I’m not telling him he’s right. Even though he is. “So, do you like him or what?”

  “Yeah. I kinda do.”

  “And he likes you back?”

  “So it seems.”

  Jarrod puts his arm around my waist and pulls me up against his side. I rest my head on his shoulder, looking at the cigarette stump that continues to burn on the sidewalk, a skinny trail of smoke wafting out of its tip. “You want me to run a credit check on him before this thing takes off?”

  I’m not sure if he’s serious or joking. “Nah. He’s unemployed. I don’t think I really wanna know.”

  “He doesn’t look unemployed.”

  “He says he has a master’s in finance.”

  “He doesn’t look like he has a master’s in finance either.”

  “I think it’s the bed-head that’s throwing you.”

  “Could be. I bet the guy listens to Death Cab for Cutie, too.”

  I smile against Jarrod’s shoulder. “Yeah, probably.”

  I DON’T TALK to or see Adam until Wednesday morning. I’ve been at work for a half hour when visiting hours start and he walks in through the sliding glass doors of Pine Manor, carrying a bouquet of daisies. Their necks are unbroken, with every petal in its perfect place. It’s much bigger than the bouquet he brought the first day h
e came to see his grandmother. The one I accidentally smashed. Adam signs in with Marie and heads for the hallway. He doesn’t see me changing the oxygen tank on the back of Mr. Ledbetter’s wheelchair.

  A short time later, I head back to Ms. Sinclair’s to say hello. But before I can even get the word out of my mouth, Adam is putting his index finger to his lips from his seat across the room. Ms. Sinclair is asleep in the bed.

  Adam gets up and walks over to my side of the room. He’s wearing the same dark hoodie he was wearing on Friday night, only this time it’s over a brown striped shirt instead of a blue one. The daisies are in a green plastic water pitcher on the nightstand.

  There’s a bright yellow tray of untouched breakfast on the bedside table. Something is going on.

  The bags under Adam’s eyes are hard to miss now that he’s standing right next to me. His right hand reaches behind me and pushes the door closed.

  “Hey,” I say quietly, trying to mask my worry with a casual tone. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s just say it was a rough night.”

  “Oh.” I reach out and grab one of his hands, holding it between my own. It’s warm and soft and still.

  “One of the nurses called at three in the morning to tell me Gram fell trying to get out of the bed. Not hard or anything, but they told me they have to report all falls immediately. I wasn’t allowed to come in and see her until this morning. After they called, I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “I’m so sorry. It happens sometimes. Patients lose their balance. Or their knees go out on the way to the bathroom. We have more falls than we’d like. Most places like this do. I’m sure Sondra and the night nurse made sure she was okay. If it was bad, they would’ve taken her to the hospital for x-rays.”

  “They told me Gram will be getting a lower bed today. And we should all remind her to use to call button to get help before she tries to get out of bed.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty standard. Other than that, there isn’t much we can do.”

  “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

  “Me, too.” I squeeze his hand and think about how many more times this is probably going to happen. “Next time you should call me. Maybe I could come check on her for you.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course.”

  Adam puts his lips against my forehead. I feel his breath skim across my skin. “Thank you,” he whispers, pulling his hand out of mine and caging my hips between his palms. He pulls me closer and slides one hand up to the small of my back. Then his lips drop to mine. Right here, only a few feet from his sleeping grandmother. It’s not a need-fueled kiss like the one we shared on Sunday night, but rather a gentle, appreciative kiss. One that makes me feel like my whole body is wrapped in a gigantic hug. I feel a different kind of happiness this time. There is comfort and gratefulness in the kiss. From both of us.

  THERE ARE EXACTLY five people at The King’s Court when I hit my first note. If there ever was a Wednesday night for an emotional-housecleaning, tonight’s the one. I need this. Probably more than I ever have before. It’s not because I’m confused about anything, or because I have to think twice about whether or not what’s happening between Adam and me is right. In fact, I’ve never been less inclined to second-guess something in my entire life.

  My need to houseclean stems more from what’s happening to Ms. Sinclair than it does from Adam. She’s the one who has my brain balancing on the railroad tracks. I know what’s going to happen, but I don’t know when. And the thought of it splits my insides right open. This is the sucky part, and I’m not sure this particular unfairness can ever be negated. No matter how many notes I play. But it isn’t going to stop me from trying. My father would never forgive me if I did.

  With every song, I’m reminded of how it’s all out of my control. There’s no doubt it would be easier if I was my mother. Then I could say—and believe with my whole being—that God would handle it. Because I would believe he has control and purpose and a damn good reason for everything he does. But I’m not Louise McGee, and I don’t believe in all of that. I don’t believe in a god that could ever watch the very things he created suffer so much. If we are all God’s children, like my mother always told me we are, then he is one hell of a sadistic father.

  So, instead of putting control of what happens to Ms. Sinclair into God’s metaphorical hands, I’m more aware than ever of my role. Yes, what will happen, will happen. But I will definitely be there to make sure compassion fills all the empty spaces in between.

  I play for two solid hours, just like last week. And the week before that. And the week before that. I want to finish where I started, with thoughts of Adam and how right we are. I finish with “Soul to Squeeze,” knowing full well that Jarrod is sitting at the bar laughing at me.

  When I finish the song, I pack up the StingRay and head over to the bar to have a drink with Jarrod. Just before I get there, the bartender puts a pair of Victory Wild Devil IPAs in front of him and offers me a nod. I pick one of them up and take a long, satisfying sip.

  “Nice set,” Jarrod declares as he lifts his beer to me. If I were any other woman, I’d assume he was talking about my breasts, but I’m me, so I know he’s talking about the music. I’m surprised he hasn’t made a smartass remark about my closing song. I’m sure there’s one to come.

  “You want us to close with that song on Saturday night?” And…there it is. “It might be a nice change to play a cover.” If he weren’t wearing the face of a lunatic, I might think he was serious.

  “Jackass.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “By me.”

  “By you, yes. And others.”

  “Wonder why.”

  Jarrod takes a sip of his beer while I give him a feigned look of utter exasperation. Even though I’m pretending to be irritated, our teasing always makes me appreciate him a little more than I did before. It’s like having a twin brother who rags on you, just to keep you humble. And it goes both ways. Our relationship is a two-way street studded with endless ego-balancing jabs. Never mean, and never serious.

  “You gonna invite The Mister to come see us play on Saturday night? I kinda wanna hang out with the guy a little bit. Make sure he’s suitable, you know?”

  “Suitable? What are you, my grandpa?”

  “Just watching your back, that’s all. It’s what best friends do. Or so I’ve heard.” He said best friend. Out loud. To me. And not through the proverbial grapevine. I can’t help but smile.

  “Okay, Grandpa, I’ll invite him. Just don’t take your teeth out in front of him, okay?”

  Jarrod curls his lips in until they cover his teeth, then, in his best grandpa voice, he says, “Wouldn’t dream of it, schweetheart!”

  “Thanks, Gramps.”

  We each finish a couple of beers and have a strangely candid talk about our own grandfathers. It’s a topic that, in our six-year friendship, we’ve never covered. Both of my paps were charmers. One played the squeezebox in a Zydeco band and the other was a school janitor. Neither is still alive. Seeing as how he’s never even met his father, Jarrod only has one grandfather. And he’s pretty sure the man disowned his daughter right around the same time Jarrod did. Jarrod says he should look the guy up sometime, just to see if he’s still alive. I tell him I think it’s a great idea, even though I don’t. I’d hate to see him get hurt.

  We’re climbing out of our seats when my cell phone chimes. I glance at the red digital clock above the bar. It’s almost one in the morning, which means it’s either Charlie or Adam. My stomach drops. I tell Jarrod to hang on a second and pull my phone from my back pocket.

  Hey. You awake?

  It’s not Charlie.

  Yep. Everything ok?

  Please don’t let there be anything wrong with Ms. Sinclair. Pretty please.

  Yeah. Just couldn’t sleep again. How bout u?

  Oh, good. Nothing’s wrong.

  Wide awake and slightly inebriated.

&
nbsp; Jarrod tells me he’s going to hit the bathroom before we head out. I tell him I’ll meet him at the front door in a few minutes.

  Slightly?

  Played earlier. Just blowing off some steam with Jarrod.

  Where are u guys?

  The King’s Court. But we’re leaving in a minute.

  U want me to come get u? Happy to see u both home safely.

  Sweet. So, so sweet.

  Nah. I’m good to take the bus.

  Yes, but is the bus good enough to take u?

  More sweetness.

  If Big Al’s driving, it is.

  Ummm…Big Al?

  He drives the 43D every Wednesday nite.

  U take the 43D on a Wednesday nite often enough to know the driver?

  Every week.

  Every week at 1:00 in the morning?

  Yep. Sometimes earlier. If I don’t get slightly inebriated.

  Then I guess Big Al is going to miss u.

  Huh?

  Meet me out front in 10.

  Dude. U don’t even know where The King’s Court is.

  Just Googled it. Not far from where I live. I’m already in the car.

  U totally do not have to do this.

  Can’t text…driving…

  He’s coming to get us. At one in the morning.

  Adam Sinclair is a really nice white boy. A really, really nice white boy. I wonder if Miriam Hansen knew about that part.

  I make my way to the front door and find Jarrod standing just outside, smoking a cigarette and typing something into his phone.

  “Everything cool?” he asks as I step outside.

  “Yeah. Um…apparently we’re getting a ride.”

  “What?” He looks appropriately confused.

  “Adam’s coming to get us.”

  Jarrod’s eyebrows shoot up, and a gigantic shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “He’s not coming to get us.”