The Light We See

by J. Lynn Bailey

  Instead, when I reluctantly pull my lips from his neck, I say, “What now?”

  We’re only in Texas, and there are many hours of time alone between here and New York.

  Slowly, Luke turns me around, his hands now wrapped against my lower back, holding on for life.

  “We stay in the moment.” He touches his forehead to mine, and then he gently and hesitantly puts his lips to mine.

  I know in this single moment that I was destined to be with Luke McCay for my entire life.

  His kiss deepens, and I open my mouth for him.

  And I die a little more, feeling like our time is limited together.

  Before

  Federal Correctional Institution, Dublin

  Dear Journal,

  I wasn’t supposed to come home. In fact, in hindsight, there were so many indicators that I should have stayed at my place. But something beckoned me, called me like the night called the moon.

  I’d stayed late at work because things just kept coming up. I worked for the Los Angeles Times. Reporters never slept.

  So, I ended up working late into the night. Something felt heavy though, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I ended up grabbing takeout on my way home at about midnight.

  It was the night that seemed thick. Its darkness trudged through the cool, winter evening like an unwanted nightmare.

  I texted Ingrid just to check in. She was still attending Stanford, but she’d come home for the weekend, mostly because she didn’t trust Father. By this time, he’d become a loose cannon. He drank more and more. He had retired and stayed home more. More time on his hands.

  I tried to sleep that night, and finally, after the clock read three a.m., my lids shut.

  But it was the dream I had that jolted my body awake.

  A sinking feeling came over me, and I knew instantly that something was wrong.

  I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and called Ingrid. Nothing.

  I called Mother’s cell.

  Father’s cell.

  The house phone.

  Something was wrong.

  I got in my car and drove the twelve minutes to Beverly Hills.

  When I pulled in the estate, something felt eerie. Off. Misplaced and deathly evil.

  There are places you want to visit out of curiosity of the oddities that might unfold. There are places that you steer clear from. This was one of those places.

  Ingrid’s car, Father’s car, and Mother’s car were parked in the circular driveway. The early morning fog layer lay quietly, so as not to disrupt the world and its sadness.

  There are times in my life where I’ve felt terrified, not wanting to go, to see, but this is the only one time I dreaded to see what was just beyond the front doors of our family home. The one we spent years behind, holding on to secrets, lies, the past.

  I swallowed whatever courage, self-will I had and got out of my car, slamming the door, hoping that what was happening inside, they’d hear it and stop.

  The truth was, I was terrified of my own family, not for what they did, but for what they didn’t do. I was terrified of what we’d become—a codependent group of hearts that couldn’t seem to do anything but rely on each other.

  I didn’t knock. In fact, I stormed in. And I remember every inch of the scene.

  Broken picture frames splattered against the tiled floor.

  Holes in walls.

  The smashed crystal chandelier from France that Mother had brought home from our Europe trip lying in pieces atop the dining room table.

  Fear ripped through my body like a jagged knife.

  The sofa cushions in the grand living room torn to shreds. Cupboards open in the kitchen as if someone had searched for something they couldn’t find or someone had been trying to protect themselves.

  Screams shattered through the eerie silence, ricocheting off of the walls. My body exploded, and I ran toward the screams.

  My mother’s screams.

  I took off up the stairs, my adrenaline pushing me to the next step. And the next step. And the next step.

  Ingrid’s body lay against the white carpet of their bedroom. Red crimson stained the carpet in a perfect circle, too much to show signs of life.

  Mother was curled up next to Ingrid in a ball, hysterical.

  And I did the only thing I knew how. I curled up next to Mother, tried to quiet her screams.

  But Father returned. He always did. To pay his debt, to fix his own guilt, to reconstruct the way he felt.

  I remember his eyes mostly—red and swollen. Contempt and bitterness, guilt and shame flashed in his expression. He reeked of day-old liquor and new liquor and cigarettes, something Father never would have agreed to if his faculties weren’t straight. His mind.

  The gun was in Mother’s hands.

  This is the part of the story I’ve never told anyone.

  —Catherine

  The next day, Gene and Al follow us out, and when we get to the car, Gene hands me a bag of sandwiches and snacks for the road.

  I pull her into a hug, wishing, somehow, I was related to this woman. That somehow, I’d get just a piece of her DNA.

  “Thank you,” I say in our embrace.

  She squeezes me tighter. “You come back, you hear?”

  “I will.” I take her hand as I pull away.

  Luke hugs Gene and gives Al a manly handshake, but Al pulls him in for a hug.

  “Don’t make it so long next time, son,” Al says, pulling away.

  The perplexed look returns to Luke’s face. He doesn’t say anything but instead gives Gene a hug.

  I give Al a hug. “Thank you for everything, Al.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to it.” His scent is of Old Spice and soap. He pulls away. “Remember, always keep saddle oiled and your gun greased.”

  I have no idea what this means, and I try not to keep the evidence on my face, so I smile, nod. “Always.”

  Al laughs. “Just kiddin’. Uh, stay safe, in other words.”

  Luke turns to me and grabs my hand. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  The truth is, I’m sad to leave Al and Gene. From the moment we pulled up to their house, time slowed, and life got simple. I like this much better than the city life.

  Wake up.

  Eat breakfast at the table as a family—unless you sleep in by accident, of course.

  Dishes.

  Wash laundry.

  Feed the calves.

  Gather eggs.

  Fill the wood box.

  Hang the wash.

  Eat lunch.

  Set the table for dinner.

  Eat dinner.

  Dishes.

  Relax on the front porch until the day turns to night.

  And wouldn’t you know, that envelope and its contents stayed put on the red-checkered tablecloth on the dining room table, untouched.

  I wave out the window to Al and Gene until they disappear in the distance.

  Luke’s genuine smile is back. The one he only shows intermittently.

  He slips his sunglasses on, one hand on the wheel, the other now on my thigh. I somehow wish there were less fabric to the sundress now.

  The veins on his hands are large, and I trace them with my fingers. “Your hands are big. I’ve never noticed that before.”

  Luke doesn’t say anything.

  I lean forward and turn up the radio. “Ain’t No Sunshine” comes over the airwaves.

  “Headed to Oklahoma now. You all right with that?” he asks.

  I don’t care. As long as I’m with you. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to Oklahoma,” I say instead.

  “So, I take it, you’ve never been to Pauls Valley.”

  “Nope.”

  “Perfect.”

  The music plays as Bill Withers’s voice drags out, and I allow it into my soul. I wonder if he knew the song would live this long, over thirty years later. I wonder if he knew his lyrics would be so relevant and just as powerful today.

  “C
an I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.” His hand tightens on my leg. Luke looks over at me.

  “It’s personal.”

  “Off the record?” He coyly smiles.

  “Off the record,” I say. “How many women have you slept with?”

  Luke’s eyebrows rise. “Seventeen. You?”

  “Thought I was doing the interviewing.”

  Luke gives me a look.

  “Eleven,” I say.

  “Why does it matter?” His pinkie and ring finger are between my thighs.

  I shrug. “I guess I just want to know what I’m up against.” I blush, assuming it will eventually happen. Maybe a bit presumptuous.

  “I’ve only made love to one, remember?” He shrugs. “Some were time-killers, I suppose. Some I just thought were beautiful. Others were just there in a moment of weakness.”

  “I slept with nine because it helped console my heart.” I look out the window, too afraid to look at Luke, afraid of his reaction to my raw honesty. “I slept with nine of the eleven because it was easier to escape my emotions.”

  I’ve never told anyone this. Luke gives me the ability to speak what’s on my heart, and I’m not sure how he does it.

  “And the other two?”

  “Boyfriends. Peter and Michael. I loved them. I did. But I don’t think I was in love with them. Michael and I parted ways when I went to prison. Peter was a high school boyfriend.”

  “Good.”

  I swing my head back to look at Luke. “Good?”

  Luke looks at me, protected by the black glasses that separates his eyes from mine. “It takes two-point-five seconds to fall out of bed with someone. But it takes years to fall out of love.”

  My heart aches at the thought of Luke making love to another woman. Of him falling so deep in love that he doesn’t notice anyone else. That his world is her.

  He’s been in love before. Made love to a woman.

  “Are you still in love with her?”

  Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” comes over the radio. I try to allow the music to deflect the fact that he hasn’t said no yet. That with each second that passes, his silence breaks me a little more. I want to ask another question because the song’s lyrics are pushing my heart’s ache to the surface, and I’m not ready to face it right now.

  “When I met Julie, I was young. I think we fell in love with the people we were at the time. Then, time moved, and we didn’t.”

  “Are you still in love with her?”

  “I’m in love with the person she was.”

  Can you be in love with a person who doesn’t exist anymore? If so much time has passed, heart scars made, situations change who we are, is it still possible to be in love with a person who doesn’t exist?

  “Tell me more about Peter,” Luke says.

  “Not much to tell. He was my first.”

  Luke looks over at me. “What was that like for you?”

  I laugh. “It didn’t last long. It was his first time, too.”

  Luke quietly laughs, his left hand on the wheel, his other hand still on my leg where he gently squeezes. “I have to admit, I’m jealous.”

  “Why?” I say breathlessly, his hand and his words causing my body to ache in places it should and shouldn’t, knowing full well I’m looking for an answer he’s not ready to give and that I’m ready to hear.

  “That Peter got to share that moment with you. That you trusted him enough to take something that was worth a lifetime memory. A memory you’ll always hang on to.”

  “One thing I’ve learned about growing up with my family, it’s not about having; it’s about giving. It’s about what we get from those moments that make us who we are. That we get to take those moments, tuck them into our hearts, and remember them because it helped us become better. Besides”—I pause—“I’d rather know who I am and where I’m going and not bury my head in the sand,” I say into Joni Mitchell’s “California” as it streams out from the speakers.

  Luke gives me a hard look. Then, he says, “I’d like to kiss you, Catherine.”

  Slowly, I lean in and gently press my lips to his. Feel his ache in my own.

  I pull away, almost involuntarily.

  Luke glances at the road and back to me. “Has anyone told you that you’re wise?”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever shared that with anyone.” I look back at him. “Will you help me to remember that when we get home?”

  “I will. As best I can.”

  “Okay, so Pauls Valley,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Who’s there?”

  Luke moves his hand from my leg to turn up the air-conditioning. “Walker.”

  I don’t ask who Walker is because I know I’ll find out soon enough.

  “Favorite movie?” I ask.

  Luke thinks on it. “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.”

  “And why?”

  “The complexity of the story. And Johnny Depp.”

  “Have you met Johnny Depp?”

  He nods. “A few times. Nice guy.”

  “I thought you’d choose a movie like The Endless Summer or Point Break, I guess.”

  “So judgmental.”

  I laugh, knowing he’s being sarcastic.

  “What’s your favorite movie?” he asks.

  “Good Will Hunting.”

  “You came up with that answer pretty quickly. So, hands down, without a doubt, your favorite movie?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “And why?”

  He smiles, playfully grabbing my leg again, making my body shudder underneath his touch.

  “It’s a story about discovery, truth, and what you choose to make of your life.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Luke asks.

  “Yeah. Just don’t tell me you have some weird foot fetish or something, all right?”

  “Oh. Okay.” He’s quiet.

  My eyes grow big. “You don’t have a foot fetish?”

  Laughing, Luke catches my eye.

  I love his laugh. I could take my time with it, enjoy each tone, each note, attach myself to the way it makes me feel inside. Because it does something to me.

  “I was going to say, I haven’t seen Good Will Hunting.”

  I put my head in my hands and look back up. “All right. We’re stopping at the first place to rent movies.” I need to confess, too. “I have a confession.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t seen What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.”

  Luke slowly shakes his head. “It’s on. Movie marathon.”

  It’s been a long time since I watched a movie. Since I read a book. Since I enjoyed life this much. It’s as if the guilt and regret have somehow situated themselves to take a back seat to the way Luke makes me feel. And I’m okay with that. Even if it is just for a little while. Because until I completely deal with it, it’ll never go away. It will slowly pick at my conscience, wandering through the vessels of my body and attach itself to each organ and attempt to eat me alive.

  “The drive today, Ms. Clemens, is roughly four hours and fifteen minutes. So, sit back and enjoy the ride,” Luke says to me in a voice built for radio and a face made for all the beautiful women in the world.

  We talk about sports, politics, organized religion, and Gandhi. We talk about writing and surfing and acting. We discuss the ways of the world and how times have changed since we were kids. We talk about God.

  “Do you believe in him?” I ask Luke as if we were comfortable with the subject, which I’m not sure we, he, is. As if we were in a relationship and this item were on our list to discuss and we’d started the conversation like it was the second-most normal thing to the weather.

  Luke’s calm. He’s usually always calm, but this calm is different. It’s not an indifferent calm; it’s an inner peace in him that I haven’t seen before.

  “We didn’t have a choice, growing up. Went to church every Sunday at First Christian, down on the corner of Bethel and A Street. Big, old white church. Probab
ly older than sin.” He peers over at me. “I mean, we didn’t have a choice whether we wanted to go to church, but I suppose my belief in God has changed over the years. But to answer your question, yes, I guess I believe even though my concept of God has changed.”

  I smile at his over-explanation and the way he describes his childhood church.

  “How?” I ask.

  “How what?”

  “How do you know he’s real?”

  Luke shakes his head. “I’ve seen too much weird shit to believe he’s not.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “You sure you want to jump into this pile of talk right now?”

  I shrug. “We have four hours and, now, eight minutes. No time like the present.”

  “My sister, for one. Ella is her name.”

  Luke

  Age Eighteen

  “Ella, come on. You have to do it.”

  “No, I can’t, Luke. I just can’t. Not one more round.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m just … I’m tired, is all.”

  Ella sat there, weak, in bed, remnants of a full head of hair somehow slowly fading to nothing, and I couldn’t remember when that had happened.

  I sat down next her. Her fifteen-year-old body, all skin and bones, dark circles under her eyes, her gaunt face begging for an answer she wanted, which was, Okay, stop fighting, but I couldn’t give it to her.

  Ella had been fighting cancer for a year. Chemotherapy and radiation had left a wake of disaster, wreaked havoc on her body. And yet, still, the cancer wasn’t gone.

  “There’s a trial in Texas we can try.”

  I was eighteen, an adult. Clearly, I knew better than her. Mom and Dad were sick with worry. Just sick. So, I had to be the one to convince her to do the trial.

  I was supposed to protect my sister from everything. The older brother.

  I touched Ella’s hand. “With your cancer, they have a forty-two percent success rate. I spoke to the facility director yesterday.”

  “You know I don’t believe in statistics, Luke.”

  I knew. I remembered. But this one had to be better than the current treatment she was receiving. Ella used to be athletic, tall, blonde with legs up to her ears. She wanted to be a veterinarian. Wanted to help animals.