The Light We See

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Before

  Federal Correctional Institution, Dublin

  Dear Journal,

  Father went to his counseling sessions, his meetings, for the better half of a year, according to Mother.

  “He’s a different man,” she said.

  When Ingrid and I came home from college on holiday, Father seemed better, I suppose.

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Mother always said, her way of reminding us that everyone is a work in progress and we were no different.

  I suppose, too, that the ground seemed lighter, or we felt lighter, and the eggshells that we walked on for years seemed few and far between.

  I guess if Mother could forgive Father, then Ingrid and I should, too.

  Father engaged more but with reservation.

  He made more of an effort with us.

  Purple flowers were never seen on the kitchen table again.

  Father put down the newspaper when Ingrid and I walked in, though it seemed troubling for him. Us, too. We’d spent years experiencing Father one way that it felt like a stranger was asking us questions about school, about our studies, about life. At least, that was the way I felt. Ingrid, on the other hand, let Father know that it was awkward—said what we all felt—yet no one said anything about it, except Ingrid.

  I was always proud of her for doing that.

  I always envied that about my sister.

  She didn’t care about the repercussions. She didn’t worry about keeping the peace or keeping everyone happy.

  Ingrid was so mad one night, back when Father was sick in his disease, that she told Mother about the other woman she’d seen Father with.

  “That’s none of your business,” Mother said.

  Ingrid spoke up, as always, “Mother, you’re not in the least bit worried that he’s sleeping with another woman?”

  “Ingrid Grace Clemens, hold your tongue.” Mother was folding laundry. Looked up at us. Stopped. “I trust that your father will always make the right decisions for our family. Do you girls understand?”

  We weren’t girls anymore; we were women.

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Mother, you’re worth more than that two-bit whore I saw him with.”

  “Ingrid! That is enough. I will not tolerate your language or you disrespecting your father in that manner.”

  Ingrid went to speak again, but I touched her arm and shook my head. Both of us saw the look on Mother’s face. She hadn’t had any idea.

  We both turned to leave, and Mother said, “One day, girls, there will be a point in your lives where you’ll find that love always prevails. If it’s the love you’re meant to have, it always prevails. You might not understand my decision now, but you’ll understand it later.”

  “Well, in your and Father’s case, I hope it fails miserably,” Ingrid said.

  I thought Ingrid said that out of anger or more to protect Mother.

  “Ingrid, let’s go,” I said.

  We didn’t have the internet back then or social media, and I’m glad we didn’t. I don’t know what Ingrid would have done, but I’m certain that it wouldn’t have worked out in the other woman’s favor—or our favor.

  One thing about Ingrid is, she has many of Mother’s attributes—she’s flexible, a giver, empathetic, compassionate, loyal, and genuine—but one thing she got from Father was loyalty. Never, ever get on her bad side, and the only way anyone can do that is by stepping on the toes of her family.

  One might think that Father wasn’t loyal. But wasn’t he? Whatever happened with the other woman, he still came home to his family every night. Whether a need was met with the other woman or a box checked, he still came home to Mother every night.

  Even after Father did what he did, Ingrid still felt loyal to him, and so did I. But sometimes, late at night, deep down in my heart, I just knew things would end badly.

  I’ve served nine years and eleven months of my thirteen years. My release date was coming.

  I know what time we get up.

  I know when dinnertime is.

  I know what to expect each and every day—unless, of course, two women decide they need the top bunk and rip off each other’s faces.

  I’m terrified of being released.

  I’m terrified of facing Mother.

  I’m terrified of being in the house without Father.

  And I can’t tell Ingrid any of this.

  —Catherine

  I wake up to Luke coughing.

  I sit up and look at him. “Are you all right?”

  I open a water bottle and hand it to him. Begrudgingly, he takes it. Swallows a few gulps.

  “Thank you,” he says softly, handing the water back to me.

  I put the lid on and set it back in the cupholder. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Five hours.”

  “No, I haven’t.” I playfully slap his arm.

  He holds out his watch. It’s almost one.

  “I’ve been sleeping for five hours.”

  Luke uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. Sleeping on the job wasn’t part of the deal.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “I’m doing a story on you, Luke. Surely, I cannot tell a story with my eyes closed and while I’m snoring.” I grab my notebook from my bag and a pencil, still groggy.

  He laughs, and my heart begins to bounce around in my chest. “You do snore.”

  I whip my head back to him. “I do not!”

  He laughs harder, and I fall for the crow’s-feet that lead to his cheekbones. I try to control my heart, get it to slow down just so I can catch my breath, but I can’t.

  “Mouth open, head back. Here, I have a picture. Let me show you.” He reaches for his phone.

  My cheeks turn seven shades of red. I wince. “I don’t need to see a picture.”

  “It’s really cute,” he says as he hands me his phone.

  And there I am. Mouth open, leaned back. Eyes closed. “Did … did I really snore?”

  “Yes.”

  Embarrassment doesn’t cover it. Humiliating might. I hand his phone to him, and he pushes it back in his pocket.

  “It was really cute, Catherine,” he says.

  “Trust me, every woman wants a man to call her cute.” Sarcasm colors my tone.

  “Look at me,” Luke says in a commanding way.

  I peel my eyes away from the window and look into his doe brown eyes. His long eyelashes. “Not every woman can pull that off and be completely sexy.”

  I try to laugh off the word sexy and the way it comes from his mouth, his lips. I try to push away the way he’s starting to get under my skin, crawl into my heart.

  “Sexy? With my mouth open and snoring—that’s sexy to you? Do you also have some sort of weird fetish I need to know about?”

  “See, wit, brains, snoring. All beautiful.”

  This time, I laugh, and he’s watching me. Driving and watching me laugh.

  “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and puts his focus back on the road. “We’ll be stopping in Abilene, which is about an hour from here.”

  “What’s in Abilene?”

  “Aunt Gene and Uncle Al.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Probably the nicest folks you’ll ever meet. My aunt Gene moved from Kentucky to Abilene when she was eighteen. Had seven children after she married Uncle Albert. Gives you a soda pop with a napkin. Uses mean Southern cuss words like bless your heart when she’s real mad and jackleg if you’re being a dumbass. She called Nathan and me jackleg quite often.” The corners of Luke’s mouth curve upward but fall short of a smile.

  “Who’s Nathan?”

  “My cousin, her youngest. I’d go out for two weeks every summer, and Nathan would come home with me every summer.”

  I don’t ask why we’re paying Aunt Gene and Uncle Al a visit, and Luke doesn’t offer up the information either, just like he didn’t with Benny.

  He s
aid my heart could handle his story, but I’m starting to worry it can’t.

  We pull up to an old farmhouse somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Abilene is a city, but where we’re at seems so different. Rolling hills and cows, horses, chickens, dogs, pigs, and a rooster named Marvin.

  According to Luke, Marvin has outlived two cows and three dogs, and he’s mean as hell.

  Luke walks around the car, takes my hand and the lead, and looks back, stops, whispers, “Let’s pretend, just while we’re here, that you’re my girlfriend.”

  My stomach twists and turns and drops. His touch, his voice, his eyes, his smile, the button-up shirt that he wears that shows a tuft of thin, dark hair, reaches into my body and warms my soul. I don’t ask why because I don’t really care.

  I nod without a second thought.

  We walk on the cobblestone path up to the old white farmhouse. A big oak tree sits in the front yard, off to the right, and a tire swing hangs from it, the rope reflecting time passed, age. With plush grass on either side of us, I begin to wonder how the grass is so green in September.

  There are seven steps up to the front door. There’s a roomy front porch with a porch swing, a chair, and two end tables, which look well used, broken in.

  It’s warm in September, but not scorching hot, mid-eighties, which is where our weather sits all year in Southern California.

  Luke knocks.

  His hand in mine, I stand behind him, close to his shoulder.

  He gently squeezes my hand.

  Luke knocks again.

  The door opens, and the woman behind the screen door with an apron on, streaks of gray hair pulled back in a bun, puts her hands to her mouth.

  “Luke!” Hurriedly, she pushes open the screen door and calls, “Al, it’s Luke! Get in here!”

  She pulls Luke in for a hug. Tears brim at her eyes, and I feel embarrassed about staring, but I can’t seem to look away.

  “Aunt Gene, it’s good to see you,” Luke says.

  Al comes down the hallway, walking as fast as he can with a limp.

  “Well, ain’t this sweeter than stolen honey?” Al says as Gene releases Luke, and he pulls him in for a bear hug. “Missed you, boy. It’s been a long time comin’.”

  Al and Gene look to me.

  “Oh, my! Well, aren’t you as cute as a speckled pup under a red wagon?” Gene pulls me in for a hug against her breasts. A good hug. Not a California skin-and-bone tap, but a real tight hug, and it’s warm and soft.

  “Aunt Gene, Uncle Al, this is my girlfriend, Catherine.”

  “Catherine, it’s so nice to meet you.” Uncle Al pulls me in for a hug, too.

  “Please, please, come in.” Aunt Gene hurries us in.

  “Turner just installed an air-conditioning unit a few weeks ago ’cause the last one broke in June. It was hotter than a two-dollar pistol.” Gene shakes her head. “Please, sit. Y’all want any sweet tea?”

  “Please, Aunt Gene,” Luke says.

  I don’t know what sweet tea tastes like, but I agree. “That would be wonderful, Gene. Thank you,” I say.

  Al takes his chair, and you can tell it’s his chair because it’s in direct line with the tube television. It’s big, it’s brown, and it holds all six feet of him. Uncle Al wears old Wranglers and a red-plaid button-down shirt. His hair is thin on top and thicker at the bottom. Clean-shaven, working man hands. His smile is just as bright as his eyes. It’s as if he’d never met a stranger.

  Gene returns with glasses of sweet tea, napkins, and a pitcher, all on a wooden tray. Sets it out on the coffee table in front of us. Gives us all napkins with our glasses of tea.

  “I see that Marvin is still alive. How is that even possible?”

  Al shakes his head and uses his pocketknife to clean his nails. “Tell you what. He’s a real son of a bitch. Like a sheep-killin’ dog, that asshole. Tried to shoot him once. Came back, and the asshole was on my chest, peckin’ on my face.”

  We all laugh.

  “Rough as a cob.” Al shakes his head again, smiles. “But he takes care of the hens.”

  I look above the fireplace, to the right and to the left. On the walls hang pictures of children, ranging from ages six to the mid-thirties, early forties. I see a picture of Luke—longer hair, stonewashed jeans, a black sweatshirt—with a boy who looks similar in age, blond hair. That must be Nathan.

  “Now, Catherine, where are you from, honey?”

  “Los Angeles.” I take a sip of sweet tea. Because Beverly Hills makes me sound like a complete asshole. “Born and raised.” I try to switch topics. “I love your home, Gene.” The pink-flower wallpaper still sits pristine against the walls.

  “Well, you can’t be no city girl if Luke’s takin’ a likin’ to you,” Al says.

  I laugh and touch his arm as if we’d established time together. “I can wear heels when I need to and skin a skunk if I have to,” comes out of my mouth, and Luke is just as surprised as I am.

  “Luke was always a sucker for the nice girls. But you’re the second one he’s ever brought to meet us, Mr. Hollywood.” Gene laughs and touches her nephew’s knee. “But it sure has been a while—I’d say, fifteen years?”

  Luke takes a sip of his tea.

  I’ve decided I really like sweet tea.

  Gene reaches for my glass and fills it. When God invented Aunt Gene, he made her a saint, I’m convinced.

  “Thank you, Gene.”

  “What do you do for a livin’, Catherine?” Al asks, still cleaning his thumbnail.

  What I’ve been doing for the last year. I’ve been a freelance writer, but before that, I was in prison. “I’m a writer,” I say, trying to keep it vague.

  Luke and I didn’t talk about this, and it teeters somewhere in the truth. Does he want Al and Gene to know I’m doing a story on him? Ego isn’t something Luke gives off, so I’m assuming he doesn’t want them to know.

  “What type of writer?” Gene asks.

  Thank goodness, the phone rings.

  Gene stands, “Excuse me,” and makes her way to the kitchen as Al asks Luke if he’s still playing the guitar.

  On the mantel, an urn sits, a big silver urn with grooves at the top, some sort of decorative measure. It is simple though, quiet, doesn’t grab attention, and that’s probably why I didn’t recognize it when I looked up at the mantel before.

  Gene comes back into the living room. “August is on her way. Didn’t tell her Luke and Catherine were here. She’ll be just tickled.” Gene sits down. “Said she called the cell phone.” Gene pulls out a flip phone from somewhere in her dress underneath her apron as I take another sip of tea. She opens the phone.

  “Good tea?” Luke looks at me, his lips too close to mine.

  I swallow the tea and swallow the nerves he gives me.

  I nod, using the napkin Gene gave me to wipe my mouth and maybe create space with Luke. His breath smells like mint.

  “I’m really not sure how to work this thing. August got it for us. Told her a phone wasn’t necessary when we have the house phone. But”—she rolls her eyes—“August wanted Dad to have it in case he’s in the pasture and something happens.” She looks at Al, who’s finishing up his nails, rocking in his recliner. “Al won’t use it.”

  “If I become buzzard bait, ain’t nothing gonna stop the good Lord from bringin’ me home, Gene. Told August that, too. Still bought the damn thing.”

  “Your uncle”—she looks at Luke—“so stubborn. Anyway, talked to your mama yesterday, said you were comin’. Hoped you’d stop by, but we didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

  The screen door hits the doorframe, and a Southern drawl follows. “Y’all in the livin’ room?” The woman’s voice is soft.

  Her blonde hair trails behind her. She looks just like Nathan, I notice. I assume she’s August.

  “Well, I’ll be damned, Luke McCay. Look what the cat dragged in.” August smiles.

  Luke stands, and August pulls her cousin in for a hug.

  “Fe
els real good to hug your neck, Chicken Legs. It’s been a minute.”

  Al chuckles. “Chicken Legs. Remember that.” Now, he’s whittling a small piece of wood.

  Luke puts his hand at the small of my back. “August, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Catherine. Catherine, this is my cousin August.”

  I extend a hand.

  August slides her tongue over her teeth. Looks down at my hand and back to my face. “Nah, we don’t shake hands here. This isn’t a business deal. You’re family. We hug.” And August reaches in and gives me a hug just like her mother, Gene, did.

  I try not to melt into it, but it feels really good.

  “Y’all goin’ to stay for supper, right?” Gene stands, brushes her hands on her apron. Looks between Luke, me, and August.

  Gene looks right at Luke. “I believe fried chicken was your favorite. Don’t know if that’s changed since you’ve become the hotshot TV star.” She winks. “But I tell you what. The Gatenburgs, the Austins, and us all gathered over the television at the lodge on the last episode of LA Hills. Girls were falling all over you here.” She looks at August.

  August rolls her eyes. “It was disgusting.”

  Luke throws his head back and laughs. Puts his hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “I think that reaction right there was worth every minute of doing that show.”

  “Miss Libby down the road talked about you like you were a piece of meat. Made me as sick as a dog passing peach pits.”

  And this makes me laugh out loud.

  The family stares as I try to apologize through my laughter.

  Then, they start to laugh, and I can’t stop giggling.

  “Come along, Catherine. I think you’re gonna fit into this family real well.”

  I nod, stand, and follow August and Gene into the kitchen. I look back at Luke. He gives me the you okay eyebrow raise.

  Never better, I want to say.

  I don’t feel the eggshells in this family. I don’t feel the fear of the unknown. I don’t feel uncomfortable or fake or anything I’m not supposed to be.

  We gather around the dinner table. Al leads the prayer. Blesses the food.

  Luke takes a few bites. Stops. Puts his fork down. “Can we talk about Nathan?”