The Light We See

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Copyright © 2019 by J. Lynn Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jlynnbaileybooks.com

  Cover Designer: Hang Le, By Hang Le, www.byhangle.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7324855-8-7

  For my husband, Brandon.

  Thank you for loving me the way you do.

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Note to the Reader

  About the Author

  OTHER BOOKS WRITTEN BY J. LYNN BAILEY

  2020

  If you had asked me what it was like before I met Luke, I would have answered, Easier. After you read my story, you might not agree. In fact, you might get angry. You might stomp your foot. This story might break your heart, but life is full of choices we don’t get to make and missed opportunities. I don’t regret a single moment with Luke. Sometimes, I miss him so much that I beg myself not to pick up my phone just to hear his voice again. Make the phone call I know I’ll regret come morning when the sun begins its rise again.

  You might ask yourself why I did it. Sometimes, we’re put in unfathomable situations, forced to make choices that eat away at us in the end. How we’re able to justify the wrong, rectify the right. But this story isn’t about regret; it’s about living life in the present moment—at least, that’s what Luke taught me. It’s about forgiveness. Because in the end, when the clock begins to slow and our bodies are taken to a time that simply cannot remember, we’ll know joy. Joy is the feeling we get when we set our burdens free. When we clean up our past and our souls become whole again. When we finally just let go.

  Luke taught me that the benefits of loving far outweigh the price we pay to allow our hearts to give, and in return, we receive something so pure, so untainted, so beautiful in the end.

  For, at the end of our days on this earth, it is love that sets us free.

  Six Years Earlier

  2014

  “Ms. Clemens? Mr. Jenkins will see you now,” the woman with the stiff bun and mauve pencil skirt says.

  She says Ms. Clemens like I’m not the only person in the waiting room. As if there were other applicants waiting. I’m the only one on the seventh story floor in the 1970-something building—well, me, Pencil Skirt, and Mr. Jenkins.

  I nod, grab my purse from my lap, and stand, following her behind the door she just came through moments ago.

  “This way,” she calls behind her, carrying a manila file in her left hand, tucked tightly against her side. Her heels clicking against the gray industrial-strength linoleum. Probably full of asbestos.

  This isn’t how I pictured the back office of US Monthly magazine. It’s desolate and quiet. Eerily quiet. I imagined staff writers at the water cooler, discussing their stories. Laughing at jokes. The sound of nails clicking on keyboards. A dry breeze from an open window, the Los Angeles smog blowing through the room where the writers sit, working on their word counts, fulfilling their quotas.

  The woman in the pencil skirt glances back, as if keeping an eye on me.

  My hands tighten around my purse—or rather, my sister’s purse, which she insisted I take even though I’m carrying a bottle of water, a pen, and my phone.

  Is she looking back at me because she knows my background?

  Is she doing that to keep her distance?

  The hallway is quiet, and we pass several doors before we reach the right one.

  Hello, Mr. Jenkins. I practice his name in my head.

  Hello, Mr. Jenkins. My name is Catherine.

  You’ll need to practice interview skills, Cat, my sister, Ingrid, said to me weeks ago.

  The truth is, I’m thirty-four, and I’ve never been to an interview before—unless of course, you count my college interview at eighteen … before everything happened.

  The woman stops and opens the door on the left. “Mr. Jenkins, Miss Clemens is here.”

  Mr. Jenkins doesn’t look up from his oversize mahogany desk, the top of his head on display, his hair sparse on top and full in the middle. Floor-to-ceiling windows sit behind him, which overlook the greater Los Angeles skyline. With only a hand and no glance, he motions me to a leather chair in front of his desk.

  “Please, have a seat,” Pencil Skirt says.

  My heart, as if it had a new gear, has reached its limit as it pounds out of my chest.

  The woman hands the manila file to Mr. Jenkins and leaves the office.

  I sit. Swallow hard. My mouth dry and full of imaginary cotton.

  Penny Ledbetter, who’s still at Federal Correctional Institution in Dublin, California, taught me to hold my breath and count to six before I spoke when I got nervous. She said anything under five seconds was too little and anything over six seconds made her pass out. So, six was a good number for her.

  She was sentenced to twenty years for setting her house on fire, her drunk husband passed out inside. She watched it burn to the ground. Others might call it murder, but Penny called it freedom from the nightmare she lived married to Bob.

  Some women in prison know they’re guilty. Others blame their mechanic for not fixing their engine properly when their car broke down while trying to outrun the police. Others believe while on their seventh drug charge, it was somehow their drug dealer’s fault for selling out. Some choose not to blame anyone and push it off on bad luck.

  I knew I was guilty, and so did Penny Ledbetter.

  I do the Penny Ledbetter breath. “Hello, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you for your time,” I say with far more confidence than I have. Somewhere within me, the words prove to be louder than I think when Mr. Jenkins picks up his head to look at me.

  “It’s a favor for Eddie. We’re old friends,” Mr. Jenkins says.

  Eddie McGavin is—was—my attorney.

  I assume my résumé is in the manila folder that was handed to Mr. Jenkins by Pencil Skirt along with the explanation of my missing in action period. And it isn’t the résumé and cover letter I’m worried about. It’s the application. The small box that asks if the applicant has ever been convicted of a felony.

  Eddie said it wasn’t his business to tell and that he’d get me the interview and I’d have to do the rest.

  I really need this job. A full-time job. Consistent paycheck.

&n
bsp; My hands sweat.

  Mr. Jenkins opens the file. Scans through the pile of paperwork, which includes my explanation of why I have to mark felony on all applications.

  After a few moments and what feels like an eternity, Mr. Jenkins closes the file and clasps his hands together. Stares at me intently.

  My stomach twists.

  The air conditioner hums to life, giving the building existence, a breath of life, and it fills the silence around us.

  Finally, he asks, “Did you do it?”

  His office phone rings, but Mr. Jenkins doesn’t move; he just stares at me, waiting for my answer.

  The ringing stops after three rings.

  The silence, along with the air-conditioning, reaches into my heart, wanting to take away the memories of that morning, and all my head wants to do is keep them. Store them safely, so I’ll never forget what happened. But I always answer this question with the same truth I’ve given for the last thirteen years. I always answer with the truth.

  “Yes.”

  Still, Mr. Jenkins doesn’t budge. His bushy eyebrows, I finally notice, are unruly and gray. What he lacks in hair on the top of his head, he makes up for with his eyebrows. Mr. Jenkins is in his late sixties, I assume. Maybe he isn’t though. Maybe it’s life that’s given him this look, maybe his own decisions, his long hours in the office, his cocktails that have turned into seven a night, or a line of coke in the morning to counterbalance the sleeplessness.

  He sighs, straightening the file with his fingertips against his desk.

  The air conditioner grows louder.

  It’s early September in Los Angeles. It’s in the mid-seventies all year long, except in the summertime when it reaches the eighties and nineties. I wonder why the air conditioner is on. Seventy isn’t that warm. Perhaps it’s part of the building standards, that the building must maintain a certain temperature at all times. Maybe because it reeks of age—and asbestos. Maybe the building has to be kept at a certain temperature, so the asbestos doesn’t warm and crawl off the building and leak into our lungs.

  Mr. Jenkins leans forward. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I get this line a lot. We’ll call you. I need the permanency of this job. I need a consistent paycheck. I can’t do freelance work any longer. It doesn’t pay the bills consistently, and with my mother needing more care, I need this job. The money ran out a long time ago. The reporters stopped calling the home Mother now lives in. The offers for movies and book deals fizzled. It’s a story I will never tell publicly.

  It’s not a story for the public.

  I say something completely out of my comfort zone. “Mr. Jenkins, I’ll be the best staff writer you have. I’ll work longer hours. I’ll give you the best stories I can.”

  “I’m not questioning your work ethic or your ability to write, Ms. Clemens. I’m questioning whether US Monthly can afford the liability of you working for us.”

  I feel my skin begin to tingle. My ears start to do the thing they do—fading in and out of complete silence and back to the ability to hear, as if a cover’s been placed over my ears, and noise becomes muffled and distorted and quiet.

  “I am worth the risk, Mr. Jenkins. What can I tell you to sway your mind about this job?” I’m persistent, and it’s really uncomfortable. Honestly, I’m not sure I believe what’s coming from my mouth.

  Mr. Jenkins cocks his head to the right and leans back in his chair, the leather grinding against his slacks underneath him.

  “What? That you graduated from Brown, top of your class? That you’ve written articles for national and international publications with circulation to millions?”

  No, not that. About what happened that night. But I don’t answer him. I really need this job. The desperation grows inside me as my stomach sinks to a pit of fear. I just need one person to take a chance on me. All I need is one chance.

  “I’ll need to discuss this with our legal team before I make any decisions.” There’s a long pause, and then he looks up at me. “Ms. Clemens, I know you can get the job done and get it done well. I just have to convince our attorneys and our public relations team of the same.”

  My stomach still twists, and the excitement leaves. There’s no way in hell any legal team will approve this hire.

  I reach across the desk to shake his hand. “I appreciate you meeting with me today, Mr. Jenkins.”

  He takes my hand in his and then settles back in his chair as I stand with my purse.

  I turn and walk toward the door, but before I reach for the doorknob, Mr. Jenkins says, “Eddie says you’re a good kid who was dealt a shitty hand.”

  I stare at the door in front of me, thinking about every single decision that’s led me to this exact moment, all the closed doors in my face. “No, I put myself here,” I whisper before opening the door. “Thank you again, Mr. Jenkins, for your time.”

  Ingrid, my younger sister by twelve months, is feeding Mother chicken soup. It’s well after noon the next day, and I haven’t heard from Mr. Jenkins yet.

  “Do you think he just said that to get you out of his office?” Ingrid asks as I stare out the window of Alder Grove Assisted Living. “Besides, Cat, maybe it wasn’t a good fit.” Ingrid gently puts the spoon to Mother’s mouth.

  My cell phone rings.

  “Is it him?” she asks, placing the spoon back in the bowl.

  I reach in my purse and pull my phone out. The one Ingrid insisted I buy. Cell phones weren’t really a thing in 2001, so it’s taken some adjusting to, but it does make life a little easier. You don’t have to pack change for the pay phone. You can make a call at any time. Take a call at any time. It tells you what number is calling. An 805 number flashes on my screen.

  “Answer it,” Ingrid says.

  I nod, swallow. “Hello?” My voice is quiet, as I don’t want to stir Mother, who’s sensitive to loud noise.

  “Hello, Catherine. This is Adrianne St. Clair, Mr. Jenkin’s assistant.”

  Pencil Skirt.

  “Hello,” I say again softly, trying not to sound too eager, although Ingrid says I’ve never been too eager for anything my whole life.

  “Mr. Jenkins asked that I call you to let you know he’d like to offer you the staff writer position on a probationary status. Please come to our downtown office on Monday morning at eight a.m. The address is 272 Wilshire Boulevard. Seventh floor. Different office than we met in the other day. Are you familiar with LA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. We will see you then.”

  Click.

  The line goes dead.

  With barely a smile, I look at Ingrid and Mother. They both stare back at me.

  “Well?” Ingrid asks.

  Mother just stares.

  “I-I got the job. Probationary.”

  Ingrid grins and picks the soup bowl back up. “I knew you could do it.”

  Mother doesn’t budge, staring into space.

  Ingrid smiles. Looks at Mother. “Did you hear that, Mother? Catherine got a job.” Ingrid stops. Turns to me. “Maybe your first assignment will be interviewing a rock star or something like that.”

  Pamela, Mother’s nurse, peeks around Mother’s door to her one-room studio apartment, Mother’s afternoon tea in hand and the monthly bill in the other. Pamela’s smile is infectious and her attitude more so. She’s the type of person who can look outside, see the rain for the eightieth day in a row, and say, Well, thank you, God, for another day of living.

  Pamela sets the bill on the counter, leans to me, as if Mother can’t hear, and whispers, “Rochelle combined the last six past-due months for you.”

  Ingrid sets the bowl back down, eyes the bill on the counter, grabs a napkin, and dabs Mother’s mouth. “Tell Pamela about the job,” Ingrid says to me.

  It’s a wonder we haven’t been kicked out of Alder Grove Assisted Living for failure to pay.

  “I got a job at US Monthly. It’s a magazine.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. But it doesn’t surprise me
in the least with those beautiful letters you wrote your mama from Dublin.” Pamela winks at me and walks over to Mother. “Ain’t that right, Sandra?” Pamela asks Mother, not expecting her to speak.

  She hasn’t spoken a word since January 2, 2001.

  I walk over to Mother and whisper in her ear, “I got the job, Mother.”

  I’m not sure she understands, but every once in a while, we’ll get a low moan from her. Pamela dresses Mother every morning in a blouse and chinos even though the only place she sits is in her wheelchair. Even though the only place she stays most of the time is her studio.

  Mother used to be an artist. She used a paintbrush like it was part of her. An added appendage. An existential part of who she was—is. Her art has been featured in the Musée du Louvre and the Museum of Modern Art. She’s also been featured in Metropolitan Museum of Art. Her love for color and seeing things through a different lens gave both Ingrid and me access to an artist’s imagination, expression. Ingrid took to it. I didn’t.

  Some things are.

  Some things aren’t.

  And everything else is just bullshit.

  Before

  Federal Correctional Institution, Dublin

  Dear Journal,

  “Straighten your bow, Catherine. Your father will be home shortly,” Mother said as she wiped the kitchen counter down for the tenth time.

  I rolled my eyes in the most godforsaken way, reached up, and made sure the pink-colored bow was still intact. I moved it a quarter of an inch, hoping that would satisfy Mother, only so she’d get off my back.

  Mother had had a six-person cleaning team at the house just hours before, who cleaned our entire house in four hours flat. All the bedrooms. All the bathrooms and everything else in between.

  Ingrid and I had timed them from underneath the dining room table. From the time they’d arrived to the time they left out the side door. Of course, Mother had had them come in the service road, so no one would see.

  Everybody had a cleaning service in Beverly Hills in the eighties and nineties. Mother didn’t believe Ingrid and me when we told her. Mother was from the Midwest where women stayed home, cared for the children, did the laundry, cooked, cleaned the house, and made sure the chaos was balanced, and life was perfectly pieced together on the outside.