The Light We See

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “I didn’t take this interview for a free ride,” I whisper.

  Luke’s eyes linger on mine.

  “Then, one room on the card?” Edwardo asks.

  Luke looks back to Edwardo. “Guess so.”

  Edwardo looks at the name on the card, looks back at Luke, and back to the card. “You look so familiar. Are you from the area?”

  “Just traveling through.”

  Edwardo slides the card through the machine. Shakes his head. “I feel like I’ve seen you before.”

  “Familiar face probably.” Luke looks back at me. Then to the clock. Then back to Edwardo.

  “You’re all set, Mr. McCay. Room 236.” He hands Luke a key card, a map of the hotel, and his receipt.

  Luke steps aside.

  “Room 237, and that will be one hundred fifty-two dollars and sixty-three cents. Cash or card?”

  “Cash,” I say and pull out the money from my wallet before handing it to him.

  He hands me my change, my receipt, a key card, and a map.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Upstairs to my right. Have a nice rest,” Edwardo says.

  Luke walks back to the counter. “Places to eat in the area?”

  “Which do you prefer, Mr. McCay—American, Mexican, Italian?”

  Luke looks over at me.

  “I’m easy. Food-wise.”

  “Mexican,” Luke says.

  “La Costa. Down this frontage road, about half a mile on your left. They’re open for another hour.”

  “Thank you, Edwardo,” Luke says.

  We exit the lobby and walk upstairs to find our rooms.

  I get a bean-and-cheese burrito because it’s the cheapest thing on the menu, and Luke gets the enchiladas. We eat in silence. The restaurant is nearly closing, and the employees are beginning to quietly shut down the place.

  I chew through the tortilla, and the bean-and-cheese combination is flavorful. Not like any bean-and-cheese burrito I’ve had before.

  “How is the food?” our waitress, Tami, a washout blonde with blue eyeshadow, asks.

  Luke nods, his mouth full.

  I take a sip of my water, too cheap to get anything else. “Good, thank you.”

  Tami walks away and comes back with the bill, a subtle hint maybe that our time here is up.

  Luke grabs the bill quicker than I can.

  “How much do I owe you?” I grab my wallet from my purse, waiting for his response.

  He grabs his card from his wallet and sets them down on the table. Waits for Tami.

  “You got a water and a bean-and-cheese burrito. It was five dollars and thirty-six cents. I can cover it.” Luke takes down the rest of his beer.

  I watch as his Adam’s apple moves with each swallow.

  His stare stays on me until he sets the bottle down, and I throw a ten-dollar bill down.

  Luke shrugs. “That’s a big tip for a bill that was no more than twenty bucks.”

  Tami walks back to the table, takes the bill, and Luke’s card. “I’ll be right back.”

  She leaves and comes back, sets the bill and his card on our table, and hesitates before she leaves. “You look a lot like a heartthrob on a show I used to watch in the 1990s—I can’t remember the name of it. I was doing a lot of drugs back then.” Shakes her head and laughs. “Clean and sober now.”

  Luke says, “Congratulations.”

  Tami wipes her hands on her apron and studies Luke. “Yeah, yeah, thank you.” Still trying to place his face. “Anyhow, you two have a great night.”

  Luke fills out the tag and includes a tip.

  I see him scribble the number one hundred where it says total.

  I shake my head, stand, and grab my ten-dollar bill back, shoving it in the front pocket of my jeans.

  We drive back to the hotel in silence.

  We walk up to our rooms, and we’re standing at our doors. He waits for me to slide my key card first.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I say as my lock pings, indicating it’s unlocked.

  “You’re welcome.” Luke slides his card and receives the same ping.

  His eyes linger on me too long, and I like the way this makes me feel, as if he’s searching for answers without asking, attempting to respect my privacy. I hold all my questions back until I can build the trust and do an extensive Google search.

  “Good night, Luke,” I say.

  “Good night, Catherine.”

  I walk in and quietly shut the door behind me, resting my back on the door.

  There’s a soft knock.

  I push myself off the door and open it; my stomach begins to explode with butterflies.

  Luke is standing there. “You shouldn’t open the door this late when someone knocks. You should ask who it is first.”

  “Thank you, Officer McCay. I’ll be sure to do that next time.”

  “Good. Thank you.” And he walks back over to his door.

  I shut mine again. Try not to smile as my back falls against the door this time, and the knots in my stomach grow.

  Before

  Federal Correctional Institution, Dublin

  Dear Journal,

  It was the end of my sophomore year at Brown. After Peter, my high school boyfriend, and before Michael, my college boyfriend.

  Sex.

  Just two humans consenting to a decision that allows them to feel good about themselves, about the world, about their good decisions, bad decisions, and everything in between.

  I didn’t know his name, but it felt really good when he pushed my body against the wall with his own, when he put himself inside me and moaned.

  Although I knew it wasn’t my best decision, sex with strange men began to cure whatever hurt I had inside me. It cured every insecurity, every broken piece of me. It helped the deep hurt. I knew it was a bandage for old wounds, wounds unseen by the naked eye. And I also knew how dangerous it was. How addicting it could be.

  After all, it was just a short-term solution.

  Then, it was sex in unsavory places. Sex in strange places with men I didn’t know. That’s why there were only nine men between Michael and Peter. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t right. Somewhere within me, every time it happened, something mended and something broke, but it was the broke that far outweighed the mend. Because, really, the mend was only like a bandage to the broken pieces of me. Through those nine men, every morning when I awoke, I’d promise myself it wouldn’t happen again. But the urge to fix me would return, and I always found the easier way.

  Man number one: sex in a public restroom in a stall.

  Man number two: sex in the park at night on the slide.

  Man number three: sex in a car with one of my professors.

  Man number four: sex with number fifty-two from the football team in the stadium after the game.

  Man number five: sex in his house after a house party.

  Man number six: sex at McPhail’s, a college bar, in a dark corner.

  Man number seven: sex at the Four Seasons when I was home from college.

  Man number eight: sex in my dorm room while my roommate slept.

  Man number nine: sex in an airplane on a red-eye home to the West Coast.

  I wouldn’t exchange numbers, even when the men asked. I’d stop them or leave before they told me their name.

  It wasn’t important.

  I know that sounds selfish, as if their feelings didn’t matter. But if I knew their name, shame and guilt would burrow itself deep inside me, and I’d have trouble finding air again.

  When the fear of what I was becoming became too much, I knew I had to stop.

  When Ingrid had explained that evening with Jake, when the wind had been warm, the music had been right, I understood. Though, deep down inside, I knew it wasn’t that. I knew it had everything to do with our father and what Ingrid and I could piece together about love.

  Michael approached me in the bakery, just off-campus, that cold, wintery morning. He asked if my coffee needed
to be refilled.

  I told him, “No, thank you.”

  He didn’t insist. He didn’t make small talk. He just sat down and explained to me all the reasons he’d asked about the coffee. Never used the old pick-up lines, instead giving me some truth.

  Nerves built up inside me, freezing panic. Michael wasn’t the type of man I’d sleep with and run. Michael was the type of man who wouldn’t let me leave, wouldn’t let me walk away without knowing my name.

  I knew my parents would love him.

  He volunteered at the animal shelter and was studying pre-veterinary science. Planned to transfer to Tufts University for veterinary school. He was German, a plus to Father’s side. Said he cooked on Christmas at the local food bank. I knew Mother would love him.

  I called Ingrid when Michael and I made it official, that I agreed to be his girlfriend.

  She was now at Stanford, getting her prerequisites done for nursing school. Ingrid was the smart one. I was the logical one. School, particularly science and math, just came easy to her. For me, school was a lot of work. I had to work hard for good grades while Ingrid breezed right through.

  I brought Michael home that Christmas to meet my family, though I didn’t want to. It wasn’t that I didn’t want Michael to meet my family; I just wanted to keep things separate. Michael was a safe place to land while my family and home life had deeper levels of chaos, ones that loomed in the background, festered, twisted, turned, shifted, moved. And now, my memories and Michael were tainted. Mixed together like dough and water.

  Every time I came home from college, it felt like I was stepping into a guessing game. When Ingrid and I had lived at home, I could gauge the situation. See where my place was. Fit in, mold myself around the situation or situations. I knew where I stood and what to prepare for. When I came home from college, it was a true Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Things had seemed to get worse between Mother and Father after we both left home.

  Father seemed more removed.

  Mother seemed distant, even from Ingrid and me. Maybe trying to protect us from what happened behind closed doors. Mother believed in protecting her children, us, from anything that might harm us, which included the truth.

  Father drank a lot more. When he came home from work, Mother would have his cocktail ready, and he’d retreat to his office. He wouldn’t come out until his movements were just a step behind normal. Until the smile he bore was on the brink of realistic.

  Mother’s left eye would twitch when she cleaned the kitchen even though the kitchen had been cleaned ten minutes earlier. She’d busy herself by baking bread at ten o’clock at night.

  One night, I came down, unable to sleep, and Mother was at the stove. Father had a handful of her hair and wore a look I’d never seen before. Father was never physically violent with Mother; he was far too smart for that. But his words were like the sharp end of broken glass—they could cut through anything.

  But in the darkness of the hallway, I stood, watched, just as I had as a child, too scared to move. In one quick movement, he shoved her head down, and her forehead knocked against one of the burners.

  Please stop, I begged Father through my unspoken words. Please.

  Mother pulled her head back up, blood dripping, and seconds passed.

  “Clean yourself up,” he slurred. “We have dinner guests tomorrow.”

  The next morning, Father was reading the newspaper, sipping his coffee just like nothing had happened.

  Mother stood at the stove again, preparing breakfast.

  Purple hydrangeas sat on the counter.

  I wanted so badly to believe this scene. I wanted so badly to live with this family, not the family from last night.

  “Look what your father bought me this morning,” Mother said, looking at the purple flower arrangement.

  “What happened to your forehead, Mother?” I asked.

  Please, I begged myself, believe what she tells you, not what you saw last night. Not the truth. Believe whatever comes from her lips.

  “You know me,” she said. “Bumped it on the shower door when I slipped.”

  Father turned the page of the newspaper and then took another sip of his coffee.

  “Good morning, Catherine. How did you sleep?” he asked without looking up from the newspaper, without looking me in the eyes.

  Maybe he’d see the hurt, the dismay, and maybe I would see his guilt. Maybe in that guilt, I’d be able to give him pity, but it didn’t happen.

  “Not well,” I said. Because I couldn’t get the scene out of my head—of you smashing Mother’s face against the stove, I wanted to say but held my tongue.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said as he continued to read the newspaper.

  Mother cooked.

  And I sat in silence and made my best attempt to unsee the truth.

  I called Ingrid later that night after the dinner company left. After we’d put on The Clemens Show, one of illusion, one of make-believe, a night full of smoke and mirrors. I wanted to tell her what I’d seen, partly because I wanted to get the ugliness out from my heart, but also to alleviate the loneliness of keeping the secret of what I’d seen the night before.

  But I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t want Ingrid to feel the same feelings I did. I wanted to protect her. So, I kept it to myself, tucked it into my heart, and allowed room for the bruise it would make. Instead, we talked about the new boy she was dating and Michael and school.

  “Is something wrong?” Ingrid asked at the end of our conversation.

  “No, just tired. Had some champagne that made my head ache,” I lied once more.

  But then, after we hung up, it dawned on me. What happened in my first year of college while Ingrid was home with Mother and Father?

  Ingrid never said a word, maybe for the same reason I hadn’t.

  It seems we spent many years trying to survive, to protect each other from things that were out of our control. Hang on to the good memories and the lies in between. The lies we told ourselves when our reality seemed so good on the outside, but on the inside, we were fading away.

  What seemed to redeem Father’s indiscretions and Mother’s will to make their relationship work came down to two things, I think—love and faith. Love that Father had for Mother even if it was tainted and ugly. Faith that everything would inevitably be all right someday.

  On January 2, 2001, all of that went away even if it was just for a few moments. But there were decisions we made that night that we can never take back. Decisions that we have to live with for a lifetime.

  —Catherine

  I shower first and then grab my laptop from my overnight bag. Pull the bedspread all the way off of the bed and set it in the corner of the room. Who knows what happens on those things? They aren’t washed every day, and I’m quite sure at least fifteen percent of the US population has left their DNA behind on a bedspread in a hotel room.

  I open up my laptop and grab the Wi-Fi code from the map Edwardo gave us. I Google Luke McCay.

  Many of his pictures come up. A few of them of him smiling with his costars—Jennie Gait, Steve Weatherby, and Brandon Pace. Birthplace is Bardstown, Kentucky. Born on October 8, 1970. I’m certain that Luke is a man who was graced with a face that doesn’t age.

  Maybe, I think, it’s the salt water from all the surfing. Maybe it’s the salt water that keeps his skin so perfect.

  After two hours of searching, I conclude that Luke doesn’t have any social media sites—because he hates social media, one article said. That he loves animals. That he’s a private person. That LA Hills was the last television show he did. That he hasn’t done an interview since the show ended on May 17, 2000. He’s done cameos for certain shows that his costars have gone on to make.

  That he’s been off the radar for quite some time.

  I did come across a picture taken back in 2002 of Luke and his father, James, at a junkyard just outside of Bardstown with a beat-up, old 1965 Mustang. I can’t find any traces of why he walked away from a
cting or any traces of family other than his mother, Beth, and his father, James. One article, published in 1995, said that he had his eye on a certain someone and that they’d married, but that was it.

  There’s another knock at the door.

  I walk over and open it up.

  Luke’s standing there, his hair wet, in a white T-shirt and worn jeans that hang loosely around his lean hips. From this angle, and many other angles, I see how women fawn over him. Men want to be him. But what I see in him and what others see from him are different. I see a man who carries a burden. A beautiful man who carries a heart too big for his body. But I’ve always been told I look at people differently than most.

  “You didn’t ask who it was.” He puts his hands on his hips.

  I shut the door. “Knock again,” I say through the door.

  My words are met with silence.

  Silence still.

  Luke finally knocks, but it’s slow and paced.

  “Who is it?”

  Again silence.

  Finally, “Luke.”

  I open the door. “Oh, hello.” I smile coyly.

  Luke shakes his head. “I need your cell phone number. Just in case.” He’s got his phone in his hand.

  I give him my number. No other comments or banter. I just give my number because I know it will ease his mind.

  My phone pings, indicating a text, but my eyes don’t leave his.

  “Good night, Catherine,” he says as he retreats back to his room.

  “Good night, Luke,” I whisper.

  I shut the door and grab my phone in my purse.

  Unknown: It’s Luke.

  I program his number in my phone.

  Me: It’s Catherine, but you can call me Cat.

  There’s no text back, so I put my phone on the nightstand, close my laptop, and turn off the light.

  After I’ve showered and packed up my stuff, I head down to the lobby for coffee to find Luke sipping from a glass mug, reading the newspaper. It’s just after eight in the morning.

  Lisa, not Edwardo, is on staff today.

  I walk to the coffeemaker and pour a cup of coffee. Luke doesn’t look up from his newspaper until I sit down across the table from him.