“I don’t know how to surf.”
“I assumed you didn’t. But what I meant was, what are your two truths?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out through my nose. Look over at Luke. “One, I grew up wealthy and didn’t have a thing. Two, sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder if I’ll ever make it out of my own head.”
Luke hits the gas pedal as I fall deeper into the seat, melding myself to it, wanting the fear and thrill to live forever.
I can barely hear the radio over the roar of engine.
Luke goes faster and faster.
I sink deeper and deeper.
Before
Federal Correctional Institution, Dublin
Dear Journal,
The only time Mother made me wear a dress was in Minnesota in April 1993. My maternal grandmother had passed away. We were there for the funeral.
“Catherine Jane, don’t you dare put a run in those tights,” Mother called from the house as Ingrid, me, and a few of the kids played in the front yard.
I rolled my eyes, and Ingrid smiled.
“Where’s your dad?” one of our cousins asked.
“Working,” was our simultaneous response.
Father didn’t go many places with us, and secretly, I always felt it was just easier without him. Mother was more relaxed, and Ingrid and I didn’t try so hard to impress him.
“But shouldn’t your father want to be with his family at this time? His wife at least, in her time of need?” a woman said from the sidewalk.
Ingrid and I stopped. Shielded our eyes from the sun’s light, stared at the woman who’d asked the question.
I didn’t know what to say to the woman I’d never seen before, and I wasn’t quite sure what she was asking. So, instead, Ingrid and I just stared. Eventually, she walked away.
But her question rummaged around in my head into the evening, the next day, even when we flew back home to California on Father’s private jet.
I didn’t ask Ingrid what she thought until Mother’s eyelids closed for a minute on the flight home.
“Do you wonder why Father didn’t come with us?”
Ingrid looked up from her book. “No. He had to work.”
That was when the realization of our chaos hit me.
Why would we know anything different when this life was the only life we’d known? Just like flying on a private jet rather than the big aircrafts with loads of people we didn’t know. Just like holidays with strange people in beautiful places. Lavish dinner parties with famous actors and actresses. Walking the red carpet at the Oscars with Father. Cameras being shoved in our faces—which only happened once, as Father put a stop to it. Beautiful homes and Olympic-size swimming pools. Our house was made up of seventeen bedrooms, thirteen bathrooms, and a lot of space between them. It had so much space that the chaos lay quietly in the grout of the marble floors until it was time for the madness to awaken.
Every single day, Mother paid the cleaning service to come. Ingrid and I knew that Mother feared Father’s backlash if the sink had leftover toothpaste or the marble counters had a smudge or anything was out of place. Because Father always knew when something was out of place or something hadn’t been cleaned to his specifications.
Mother knew she’d take the brunt of it. She didn’t know we knew, but we did. So, Ingrid and I became obsessive about keeping our rooms immaculate, cleaning up behind ourselves.
Father never really talked about his childhood. Though I remember one time, we came across some pictures of his childhood home. In the background of the images, there were things everywhere. Stacks of books. Stacks of dishes. New things. Old things. Used cat litter boxes. And in every picture, Father wore only a diaper and a filthy face. He never once talked about his mother. But sometimes, he’d talk about Grandfather.
One day, hesitantly, I asked Father if I could look through his childhood photos.
He responded with, “They’re all gone, Catherine. They’re all gone.”
More later.
—Catherine
Dear Journal,
One night, I heard Ingrid get out of bed.
“What are you doing, Ingrid?” I asked. “It’s late.”
She put her slippers on. “The top shelf of the refrigerator had a little spilled milk. I want to make sure it’s clean before morning.”
I understood. We didn’t want Mother to get into trouble because Father never laid a finger on us—no matter the circumstance.
“I’ll help you.”
And we both made our way down the forty-two stairs it took to get to the kitchen on the first floor.
Sometimes, I felt like a stranger in my own home. I’d watch reruns of Leave It To Beaver and feel the sensation of need. If only Father could smile like Ward Cleaver, I knew that would make things easier. If only he didn’t work so much, he wouldn’t be so stressed. The Cleavers had a normal house in the suburbs. Ward worked, and June stayed home. They didn’t have a lot of money, nor were they poor by any means. From the knotting pit in my belly, I knew the Cleavers were a happy family. Genuinely happy. And all I wanted as a child was to be a Cleaver. Molly Cleaver. Molly because of Molly Ringwald.
Ingrid and I had all this space, all this time, beautiful things, all the material things you could ask for, and yet all I wanted was a happy family. A home where we didn’t have to tiptoe around like we were on eggshells. Where Father was happy and smiled and gave love. Where he showered Mother with affection instead of purple flowers that resembled the color of bruises he left on her heart and, later, on her body.
Mother always sent us away to summer camp for at least four weeks in the summer. Space camp. Girl Scout camp. Horse-riding camp. Sports camps. Dance camp. Zoo camp. German language camp. Cooking camp. Music camp. Drama and acting camp. Film camp. Math camp. Writing camp. It wasn’t that she wanted to get rid of us. I knew Mother wished Ingrid and I would find some normalcy; she was giving us a break. And I knew Father would never argue to get us out of the house.
I think, in some ways, it allowed him to be someone he really was. I think he kept a filter on what he said and did when Ingrid and I were home. Which scared us for Mother when we left. We’d beg her, plead with her not to make us go—and not because we didn’t want to, but because we were terrified Father would do something to her while we were away. Of course, in true Clemens fashion, Ingrid and I never told her this. We just used the excuse of homesickness, which wasn’t entirely a lie either.
But Ingrid and I both knew that death would be the only thing to separate her and Father. And divorce, back in the 1980s, was looked down upon. And let’s not forget that Mother was—and still is, I suppose—a Midwesterner, and in the Midwest, you stay married—even in the afterlife. Divorce just wasn’t an option.
Besides, on the outside, the Clemens family kept all the pretty pieces together. Nurtured them, polished their outsides, but on the inside, the decay began to spread like a venomous poison.
—Catherine
“Thank you, Officer,” Luke says to the patrolman who clocked him at ninety-two miles an hour, only giving him a ticket for ten miles over the speed limit, not seventeen, because Luke posed for a picture with the officer for his wife and signed a patrol shirt the officer had had in the back of his cruiser.
I hadn’t minded the speed or the car or the heat. As the car had gone faster, I’d felt the speed trailing through my veins like a drug. Like sex used to be when I allowed it to be.
Looking over at Luke as he takes to the roads of New Mexico again, I want to ask him more personal questions, so I do.
“What was your first memory as a child?” I tie my hair up so that it doesn’t blow in my face. I want to see his mouth move when he gives me this answer. Watch how the answer falls against his lips, see if there’s trepidation or fear or love or commitment.
“I was about five,” he starts. A cool, calm look sets in his eyes, his sunglasses on the dash, where Luke set them when the officer asked for his license and registrati
on.
“My father told me not to do it. An electric fence could hold up to ten thousand volts of electricity. The fence was there, and I was there. Curiosity always seemed to get me into trouble, even to this day. Maybe I wanted to see what it felt like—the wire, the power, what my body would do when the electricity took hold of it. My father always said that I was too smart for my own good. I knew it would hurt, but I couldn’t help myself,” Luke says, resting his forearm on his leg, his fingers still lingering on the wheel. “So, when my dad turned around, I took ahold of the fence.” Luke smiles as if his conscience is clear, as if air is a drug and to breathe it is a miracle. “I fell facedown in the hard dirt. Felt like my entire body was one big muscle, stuck and cramped. It lasted for a few seconds maybe. My dad turned around, shook his head, and said, ‘I hope you live your life with a little more care, Luke,’ and then walked away.” Luke laughs. “I never touched an electric fence again.”
He looks over at me, drapes his eyes over my body. It’s the first time I see any emotion from Luke, and I’m stuck, staring at him, almost afraid to look away.
“What about you?” he asks, turning his attention back to the road.
I think on it. I want to buffer, filter the bad stuff. Because my first memory isn’t one I want Luke to know. So, I tell him what I want him to know, what I want him to remember, though lying might be easier. But I’ve learned, in the long run, the debts for lying are paid tenfold.
“I was seven, and Ingrid was six. My father came home from work early with a new Corvette and … purple flowers for my mother. Surprised us with a trip to Myers Flat. He’d purchased a cabin.” I feel the memory settle over me like the breeze on a warm summer day when it’s not too warm. The corners of my mouth turn up into a smile.
“You should smile more often, Catherine.” I hear Luke whisper. “You have a beautiful smile.”
A smile, a genuine smile, can be felt, understood, I believe.
“You should, too,” I say.
The Texas flag is larger than the state of Texas it seems. As it waves its glory across the state line, a light illuminates the red, white, and blue. The sun has set now, and other than the flag, we can only see whatever the headlights unfold.
“Are you hungry?” Luke asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“I can eat. Maybe we’ll find somewhere to crash and then find a place to eat.”
We pull into a motel. It’s the first one we see, and by our outward assessment, it seems safe, clean. Luke pulls under the covered awning. The Vista is dated, reflecting a time back when milkshakes were a dime and hamburgers were fifty cents. Luke opens the door for me when I attempt to walk past him, but a man storms out of the doorway, and in my best attempt to move out of the way, I fall against Luke’s chest.
The man turns around swiftly, looks back at the two of us. “My apologies,” he says and walks to his car.
With my back against Luke’s chest, my head tells me to move, but my heart won’t allow it. He smells like Polo, and all I want in this moment is to remain like this, his heart thumping against my back. His mouth next to my ear.
I hear a sharp breath from Luke, and somewhere deep inside me, I feel as though I’ve burdened him.
I pull myself from his chest and go to speak, but he asks, “Are you all right?” and he says it in a tone I’m unfamiliar with. In a tone I haven’t heard him speak from. It’s low and breathy and quiet.
I nod.
“Welcome to The Vista, friends. I’m sorry. If you’re looking for a room, we’re at full capacity tonight,” the man from behind the counter drawls, pulling his fingers across his handlebar mustache. “Y’all, we’re having a new country festival, and it seems from here to Odessa, all hotels full. Plus, there isn’t much out here.” A slow chuckle escapes his mouth. “Y’all can try The Sandman though.”
“And where is that?” Luke asks.
“There might be some availability just down the road, about a quarter mile. It’ll be slim pickins’ though.”
“Thank you,” Luke says from his position at the door, still holding it open, and I’m now a safe distance away.
We’re a quarter mile down the road, and The Sandman isn’t much different from The Vista. Same dated look but no overhead awning to speak of. The parking lot looks to be at maximum capacity.
“You stay in the car. I’ll go in,” Luke says.
“Okay.” I need some distance. I need time to get my brain straight and my heart right.
When Luke shuts the door to the car, I give myself a pep talk.
This is professional, Cat. Prison changed you. Sex can’t be a free-for-all anymore. You’ve grown out of that. You know it can’t cure you. You’re no longer a college student; you can’t use sex to fix your issues.
Luke returns. “Full capacity, but Larry, the guy inside, recommended the Kampground of America just a quarter mile down the road.” He looks at me. Smiles.
“I suppose everything in Texas is a quarter mile away?”
We both chuckle.
“I got a tent in the back and a sleeping bag,” Luke says.
He starts up the car, and I feel the power in the engine again.
Our last stop for the evening is the KOA. There’s a mini grocery store attached to the KOA, so when we walk in, Luke says he’s going to talk to the woman about availability and I peruse the food.
Nothing nutritious, just premade food that’s as healthy as prison food. But at least with prison food, we had representation from each food group.
I grab two beef cup of noodles, two breakfast bars, two bottles of water, and I’m about to go pay for them when Luke walks over to me and stands a little too close. Too close for any good thing to come of this, only because I know myself.
But if we’re two consenting adults, by law, it’s all right, right?
You’re working, my conscience chimes in.
You can’t do this, Cat. Stupid idea.
My face starts to burn, as do the tips of my ears.
“Looks good,” Luke says.
I swallow any saliva that I have, nod, and walk to the counter to pay, but Luke touches my hand so that I won’t pull out my wallet. And when he touches my skin, my whole body feels it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, setting my skin, soul on fire. Peter and Michael have touched me before. The other men have touched me before, but those touches, those men, have never given me this feeling, this reaction. Luke’s touch has somehow created a place for him in my heart, and this terrifies me.
Before I can pull my hand away, Luke uses the other hand and pulls out his wallet.
“Please,” he begs.
With this look, I feel like Luke isn’t just asking to pay for what I’ve put on the counter, but he’s asking for something more than just sex or want.
I put my hands at my sides and stare at the woman named Valerie, as the name tag on her top says. She has bright pink lipstick and red hair. I tilt my head because, oddly, the colors seem to flow, and I want this to move my thoughts away from Luke and to the color array that stands before us.
She pops her gum. “That will be seven dollars and sixty-two cents. Cash or card?”
At the same time, Luke says, “Card,” I say, “Cash.”
Valerie’s eyes dance between us. “What’s it gonna be?” she asks.
When Luke takes his card from his wallet and smiles at his accomplishment, the woman’s left eye squints.
“Hey, you look real familiar.”
“I work down the road,” he lies.
“Are you Ernie’s brother?” she asks as I reluctantly step back so Luke can slide his card.
“Can’t say that I have a brother named Ernie.”
“Well, you look like him,” Valerie says.
“Can we also get a spot to camp for the night?” I ask.
“I took care of it,” Luke says as he slides his card back into his wallet.
We exchange good-byes with Valerie, and before we leave, I fill up our cup of noodle
s with hot water and push the paper lids back on. As we exit the store and walk back to Luke’s car, the Texas night air meets our faces.
“I don’t need you to pay for everything,” I say.
“Well, I guess, on this trip, you’re going to have to get used to it.”
We get into the car. Luke starts the engine, and we quietly crawl to spot twenty-two.
Once we find it, Luke parks, and we both get out. He grabs the tent and the only sleeping bag we have. I balance our soup and carefully set it on our picnic table along with our waters and breakfast bars that I shoved in my jacket pocket.
Luke and I set up the two-man tent. When we’re done, I walk back to the picnic table and stir our soups while Luke brings over a lit well-loved candle.
“What else do you store in your car?” I hand him his soup.
“Thank you.” Luke rubs his hands together and stares at me in the candlelight across the picnic table. “Road flares. A first aid kit, a deck of cards.”
“Road flares?” I say and smile. Then, I take a sip of water.
He grins. “Road flares are a good thing to have in your car, although I’m not sure how well a deck of cards will help you.”
I try not to laugh. “Kill time, I guess?” I blow on my soup, smile at Luke as he chuckles, and take a bite. I allow the salty broth to settle into my taste buds. I swallow. “My mother never used to let us eat things like this, growing up.” I take another bite.
“Why not?”
“She said it was cancer-causing.” I shrug. “But isn’t everything cancer-causing these days?”
Luke shrugs. “Everything.”
It’s quiet for a moment, then he finally says, “One sister?” His voice gentler.
I shake my head. “No, I’m the interviewer. I ask the questions.”
“We can’t have a conversation without knowing just a little bit about each other.”
But the truth is, I like how, with Luke, I don’t feel like the woman with the twisted family. The one who went to prison. He makes me feel like he’d meet me at the edge of water and take me for who I am, not what I’ve done.
The Light We See Page 7