The Sound of Light

by Claire Wallis

  I can’t stop myself.

  “Your mother has Alzheimer’s, Mr. Sinclair. There are a lot of things she doesn’t remember, and if you can’t understand that, then maybe it’s best for you to go back to Seattle sooner rather than later.”

  Adam’s mouth drops open. It takes everything in me not to say anything else.

  Mr. Sinclair straightens himself and stares at me for a long, intense moment. This time, I don’t look at the tip of his nose, I look straight into his eyes. Because this time, I want to see it. This time, I don’t want to miss a single detail. I want to see all of it.

  My gut rises up into my throat when Winston Sinclair turns his back on me and comes face-to-face with his son.

  “I will see you later,” he says, poking an angry finger at Adam’s face. “And don’t be late.” Mr. Sinclair rushes down the hallway and out the door without so much as a single backward glance.

  “Sorry, Gram.” Adam is now the one bending down to meet Ms. Sinclair’s face, only his expression is sympathetic rather than infuriated. I walk around the side of the wheelchair and stand next to him.

  “I don’t understand.” Ms. Sinclair’s face droops and her brow creases. Her hands fidget in her lap. Their movement sends specks of reflected light off her brooch and onto the walls and ceiling around us. They’re dancing and twitching and flickering like little, heatless dots of fire. Adam drops to his haunches in front of his grandmother and tries to meet her gaze. She lifts her hand and puts it against Adam’s cheek, softly shaking her head and pursing her lips as she shrugs her shoulders. “You’re not Bradley?”

  “No, Gram. I’m Adam.”

  “Where is he then?” She drops her hand from Adam’s face and looks down at her lap.

  “I don’t know. Because I don’t know who Bradley is.”

  Ms. Sinclair’s head quickly rises, and she lifts her chin proudly into the air. She speaks as if she can’t believe what Adam has just said. “Why, Bradley is Winston’s son, of course.”

  I can feel the weight of her words pressing down on Adam’s heart.

  “No, Gram. I’m Winston’s son.”

  “Yes, and Bradley is his other son.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Gerald Shrewsbury—Room number 101

  I spent most of my life next to a pond, searching for needles of red darting amongst the reeds. The Eastern Red Damselfly, Amphiagrion saucium, was my life’s work. An insect as long as a pinky finger and as slender as a poppy stalk may not seem very intriguing at first, but let me assure you, the moment you see the multifaceted eyes of such a creature through a magnifying glass, or watch it fly gracefully through the air while attached to its partner in a heart-shaped mating wheel, wonder and amazement will strike. It’s hard not to be rendered speechless by nature’s stunning beauty and complexity when looking at an insect as wondrous as the Eastern Red.

  For many years, each and every time I saw a flicker of crimson settle on a blade of grass and fold its graceful wings down over its body, my heart would warm and fascination would take hold. Some people dedicate their lives to understanding the human body; I dedicated mine to understanding an insect’s.

  Midair dips and dives that evoke thoughts of alien flight; four wings that work together in perfect, mind-blowingly complex harmony; a complete metamorphosis that rivals caterpillar-to-butterfly or grub-to-beetle; aquatic larvae that use harpoon-like jaws to capture prey—these are the things that made the Eastern Red Damselfly the love of my life. And these are the things I dreamed about every single night, until the day I died. The Eastern Red was my everything.

  When the Pennsylvania Entomological Society honored me with their Entomologist of the Year Award in 1980, I saw my life’s biggest goal realized. I had published three studies and was rightfully admired by many researchers in the international entomological community. To celebrate, I took to the wetlands, immersing myself in even more research and observations. I loved the steady buzz of wings beating through the air, the tickle of six tiny legs climbing over my skin, the soggy taste of the marsh constantly settled in the back of my throat.

  By the time I was fifty-five, I had taken more notes than Darwin himself and I set my sights on writing a book about damselflies. A book the average Joe could appreciate, one that avoided scientific jargon and focused instead on my passion for this charismatic insect. I wanted to write a book that spoke about the importance of nature to human beings themselves. I wanted to connect people to the Eastern Red with a trail of passionate and thought-provoking words about nature herself. I wanted everyone to have the chance to feel what I felt every time I saw a flash of red skimming across a pond.

  But it didn’t work out that way. I had my first stroke before a single word ever hit the paper. Without any family to help, my recovery was long and arduous. It was months before I could walk well enough to return to the wetlands. A speech therapist visited twice a week to teach me how to talk again, and an occupational therapist helped me relearn how to write. By the time I could hold a pencil and form written words correctly, nearly a year had passed. But, as soon as I felt I could, I started writing. I wrote fast and fevered, putting words to paper as quickly as I could, as if I was on a mission from Mother Nature herself. I spent long hours hunched over my desk, sorting through my notes, looking for ways to link people with nature through stories about the Eastern Red. I was halfway done with the manuscript when my second stroke hit. The blood thinners failed to do their job, and I was struck hard. My ability to write—and walk—was completely gone.

  From that day on, the words came out all wrong. I called girls, boys and cats, dogs. My brain knew what to say, but it couldn’t make my mouth form the right words. And it couldn’t make my hand hold a pencil anymore either. The Eastern Red’s lessons got tangled up in knots inside of me and no amount of therapeutic cajoling was ever able to get them out.

  I lived in Pine Manor for the last twenty years of my life, the right side of my body frozen and stiff, unyielding and useless. I chewed on the left, scratched on the left, breathed on the left. But when I dreamed, I dreamed with both sides of me. I dreamed about the Eastern Reds, rising up out of the reeds and surrounding me every single night. Observing me as I had observed them. They had so much to tell me, and I’ll forever be disappointed I wasn’t able to share their message with the world.

  On the night I died, my left hand held my last polyresin-encased damselfly against my chest. I had given the rest of my collection to the Natural History Museum years ago, but I couldn’t bear to part with my Eastern Red. He was my only comfort, aside from the young lady at my side. She was the one who handed him to me when the time came. And she was the one who listened to the last breath of air leave my body.

  She was the one who gave me peace.

  CHAPTER 21

  Adam and I are sitting in Wicked Mocha, each of us nursing a warm cup of coffee. His with a touch of cream, mine black. His elbows are on the table.

  We walked here together after my workday ended and he said goodbye to his grandmother. Winston Sinclair stayed away from Pine Manor for the rest of the day. I’m certain that in doing so, he made what was probably the smartest decision of his life. I think if he had come back, his own son would’ve smacked him in the face with the closest bedpan.

  Either that, or I would have.

  After I took Ms. Sinclair to breakfast this morning, Adam left. He walked right out the door of Pine Manor without saying another word. I spent the morning worrying about what he was doing, and wondering if there really is a Bradley and whether or not Dr. Kopsey agreed to let Mr. Sinclair take his mother back to Seattle.

  When Adam returned to Pine Manor just after lunch, his grandmother was napping, and when I asked him where he went, he would only say he had to get out of there for a while. He said he had to think about what it all meant. His uncertainty and hurt was—and is—undeniable.

  Adam spent the rest of the afternoon with his grandmother, treating her no differently than he ever has. I checked in on
them several times, and they followed their usual routine to a T, playing cards and watching the cooking channel until it was time for dinner.

  I’m not sure what he’s going to do or say in this coffee shop, but I’m not going to press him for anything. I’m just going to sit here and take whatever he’s willing to give.

  “Crazy morning, huh?” He takes a sip of his coffee after the words are out.

  “Yep.” I take a sip of mine, too.

  “Sure was fun to meet my father, wasn’t it?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Good thing I warned you about the giant dickhead part.”

  “Yep. And now that I’ve met him, I can think of a few other appropriate descriptors, too.”

  “I’ll bet you can.” His joking tone turns serious with the next sentence. “I’ve got a few new ones myself.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just take another sip of my coffee.

  “I’m going to see him tonight.” Adam looks down at the table, as if he’s ashamed of his words.

  “Oh.” I pause for a moment before I continue. “I bet that’s going to be one hell of an interesting conversation.”

  “I agreed to have dinner with him before Gram even called me Bradley, so it was going to be an interesting conversation in the first place, but now… Now, interesting doesn’t even begin to describe the conversation we’re going to have.”

  No one can blame him for being pissed off. His grandmother might be taken away from him again, and he might have a brother he never even knew existed. He’s obviously pained by all the lies he suspects he’s been told his whole life. It’s like watching him put together a puzzle, knowing all the while that the resulting picture is going to be nothing but a heartbreaking portrait of lies and deceit.

  “Do you think he’ll give you any answers?”

  “I’m not going to give him a choice. I’m not walking away until I have every answer I deserve.”

  I nod in agreement and silently hope he isn’t making a mistake by going to see his father while the wound is so fresh.

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “Dante’s on Fifth. Whatever that is.”

  “It’s a restaurant.” Which means it’s a public place. Good.

  “Want me to kick him in the shins for you?” He’s back to joking again, and a small smile crosses his lips.

  “That’d be nice.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  And with that, my bed-headed swooner and I finish our coffee without another word about Winston Sinclair and his giant dickheaded ways.

  Adam kisses me goodbye in front of the coffee shop twenty minutes later. I wish him good luck, knowing tonight is probably going to change everything for him.

  I’M SITTING on the couch, eating takeout from The Golden Duck and watching a rerun of Castle, when my phone rings. I’m expecting it to be Adam with news about the dinner with his father, but what I see on the screen instead is a 985 area code.

  Charlie.

  “Hello?”

  “K’acy? Are you there?” She’s whispering. No, I think maybe she’s crying.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Charlie? Is that you?”

  “I…um…yes, it’s me.” She sniffs and coughs, and her voice gets a bit clearer. She’s pulling herself together. “Hey. How are you, little sis?”

  “What’s wrong? Are you crying? What’s going on?” Something flutters around in the pit of my stomach, churning up my insides.

  “It’s okay. I’m just…it’s just a little crazy here right now, that’s all.” I hear voices in the background. Lots of voices.

  “Where are you? What do you mean it’s a little crazy?”

  “I’m at a bar. A restaurant, I mean. I just wanted to say hey and find out how you are.”

  “I’m fine. I’m great, actually. But you’re not. I can tell by your voice. Please tell me what’s going on. Are you in trouble?”

  “Kinda. Yeah. I mean, I know you’re tired of me asking, but I really need some money right now.”

  She’s asked me for money a million and one times before, but this time something is different. This time my heart is racing because her voice is all wrong. It isn’t Charlie on the other end of the phone. It’s panic.

  “You have to promise me you aren’t gonna give it to someone else. Promise me you’re not gonna let some what’s-his-face gamble it away.”

  “It isn’t like that this time,” she says, her quivering voice revealing a different kind of angst, one I’ve not heard before. “I promise. Really. I promise.”

  “And you also have to promise you’re gonna call me every week from now on, so I know you’re okay. I don’t like not knowing if you’re safe. Okay?”

  There’s more sniffling on the other end of the phone. “Yes. Yes. I promise. Just please…”

  For the first time in a long time, I believe every word she’s saying. It’s like a desperate beggar is pushing the words out of her mouth; I think my sister is quietly pleading for something that will save her life. I know instantly that the trouble she’s in is not the same as all the times before. “How much do you need?”

  “Like eight hundred.”

  Eight hundred? That’s a month’s rent. Half a month’s salary.

  “I’ll see what I can do. Which Western Union?”

  “Number 697. On Barrow Street,” she says, obvious relief behind the words. “Promise you’ll send it?”

  “I promise.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. By ten. Okay?”

  “Good. Okay.” She sucks in a deep breath and then exhales it slowly, as if to steady herself. I nod in understanding even though I know she can’t see me. “Thank you, K’acy. Thank you so much. I’ll pay you back someday. Seriously. As soon as I can, I’ll pay you back. And this is all I’m gonna ask for ever again. Really. This is gonna fix things for me, you know? Like, for real. This is gonna help me get it all back together.”

  “I believe you,” I say.

  “I mean it.”

  “Just be safe, Charlie. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she replies. “I’ll talk to you later. Next week.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Love you, sis.”

  “Love you, too, Charlie.”

  “Bye.” The phone goes silent and my fluttering gut turns over on itself. All I can do is hope we both just made promises we can actually keep.

  After I use my phone to Google “24-hour pawnshops in Philadelphia,” I head back to my bedroom to find my father’s wedding ring.

  IT’S NEARLY midnight by the time I hear from Adam. I expected him to text or call, but instead, he’s ringing my doorbell. I’m suddenly thankful to still be in my street clothes and not in my pajamas. I’m also thankful tomorrow is my day off. I head across the room to let him in.

  “Hey.” I open the door and see an exhausted Adam standing there with his arms slack at his sides.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you okay?” Because you don’t look okay. I step aside and motion for him to come in.

  “Funny you should ask that.” He walks into the room, and I close the door behind him. “Because ‘okay’ is not one of the words I would use to describe myself right now.” He turns to look at me.

  “Then what words would you use?”

  “Number one: tired.” He starts walking toward me.

  “Yeah, I can kinda see that.”

  “Number two: angry.” He stops and stands right in front of me.

  “Totally understandable.”

  “Number three: confused.” He puts his hands on my hips and looks me square in the eye.

  “Also, totally understandable.”

  “Number four: in love.”

  I must look confused as hell myself, standing still as a stone with my mouth hanging open. A second later he adds, “With you.”

  “Umm… Have you been drinking?” I narrow my eyes, but he doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Number five: completely sober.” />
  I shake my head in disbelief at what’s happening. Struck again by the astounding accuracy of Miriam Hansen’s words. I put on a smile so he knows I’m not about to trample on his heart. “Man, your father must’ve done a real number on you tonight.”

  He presses his thumbs against the front of my hips, but his face doesn’t change.

  “That he did. And it made me realize something. The whole time I was sitting there, listening to his bullshit, all I could think about was you. Yes, I’m desperate to know if Gram was telling the truth about who Bradley is, but I realized all my confusion and anger is because of my father’s life, not mine. I’m clear as a bell when it comes to my life right now. And that’s because of you.”

  Notes start to throttle around in my brain, bouncing and echoing and singing. They fill my heart with “Soul to Squeeze” and “That’s How Strong My Love Is” and “Ecce Homo” and every other song I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Before he can say another word, I stretch up onto my tiptoes and kiss him. My tongue dances against his, following the rhythms in my head. It’s like the music inside me is melting us together.

  Adam wraps his arms around my back and holds me tight as the kiss sinks deeper. A shockwave of emotion shudders through me at the idea of someone—no, of Adam Sinclair—being in love with me. It’s stupendous and terrifying all at once. It means all the love I’ve been sending out for all these years has finally been received. And, most importantly, returned. To be loved is a far more significant thing than anything else in this world, and to be loved by someone who doesn’t share your blood is something to be treasured even more. Because that kind of love isn’t given. It’s earned.

  When our lips separate, Adam tilts his head down. There’s a new energy on his face. I don’t see anger and confusion anymore. I only see strength and purpose. He lets go of my waist, and his hands fall to his sides.

  “My father is not a good person,” he says, with a voice full of clarity. “I’ve sensed it my whole life, but now I know it for sure. He refused to tell me anything when I told him what Gram said about Bradley. All he would say was she was mistaken. I fought for answers, but he gave me nothing. Nothing.” He takes a step backward, putting some distance between us.