By Light We Knew Our Names

by Anne Valente

  Tee and Kestrel were already at the bluffs when Wren and I arrived that night, Tee swinging the bat against the silhouette Wren had carved. Tee set the bat down when she saw us coming, picked up a pillowcase instead, and held it before me while Wren pulled out her pocketknife again, stabbed with precise force into the tree, targeted thrusts, focused accuracy.

  It was me who first noticed when Kestrel never moved.

  Kes? I asked, lowering my hands, turning her way. She sat on the picnic table, hunched away from us, sweatshirt sleeves pulled high over her hands, hood obscuring her head and face.

  You okay? I walked over to her. You can take my place.

  When I was close enough to touch her, I reached a hand out to her shoulder. She flinched beneath my fingers.

  Kestrel?

  I moved in front of her, felt my breath escape my lungs.

  Swollen lips, crusted red. Damaged eye, bruise webbed down the capillaries of her cheeks. And in the glow I knew, could see the bloodied stain seeping down her jeans, ripped, staining the insides of her thighs.

  I whispered Tee’s name, then screamed, then screamed and screamed until someone’s hand clamped hard onto my shoulder.

  Jesus, what? Tee’s voice, beside my ear.

  Why didn’t you say anything? I screamed. You were here. You were both here.

  Tee stepped back, face splintered, confused. Then she saw Kestrel’s clothes, her bruised face, bleeding mouth. I heard her breath accelerate, watched her lungs pulse, then heave.

  Who the fuck did this? Tee yelled. Who did this, Kes? She looked at me. I didn’t know, she said. I swear to fucking Christ, she was sitting here when I came. I yelled over, she yelled back. I picked up the bat.

  I pulled off my jacket, wrapped it tight around Kestrel, a cocoon. I felt her body tremble through the fabric, small tremor burst to quake, burst to shuddering sobs, her mouth choking spittle, choking blood.

  Wren came over behind us, switchblade in her hand.

  Who did this?

  Kestrel trembled, moved away from me, stepped off the picnic table.

  Who did this, Kestrel? Wren repeated, voice level, harsh.

  Kestrel stumbled back toward the woods, away from the bluff, away from the lights streaking the sky. In her few unsteady steps she hobbled, broken bird, unable to stand fully upright, barely able to walk.

  Who did this? Wren shouted after her, voice echoing futility through the pines, since we all knew who it was, Kestrel’s brother and his friends, and we knew knowing wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t pull the blood from her jeans, paste her cracked lips back together, rethread her ripped clothes, ripped heart.

  Wren watched her go, while Tee ran after her, threw her arms around her, gently as she could, pulled her to the ground and held her, shaking. Wren stood there beside me, steamed breath escaping above her over the bluffs, settled against aurora, seashore green. Then she retracted the switchblade, dropped it heavily to the ground, and took off running, back through pine toward road.

  I ran after her, mottled fear choking my chest, dread clouding, growing thicker. She ran back the way we’d come, through pines, across road, back over the sidewalks and gutters that had led us, each night, from our homes toward the bluffs. I followed, gasping air, chest burning frigid, night pulled in on lung. When we finally reached our houses, Wren disappeared into hers, and I stood on her lawn breathing hard, immobile, waiting for a light to blink on inside her father’s room, for the same piercing thuds I’d heard so many times before, only now, something ending, something imminent.

  But then Wren reappeared, glanced at me and glanced away, moved from her front porch to the garage’s side door, slipped quietly inside.

  When I finally stepped into the garage, Wren was sitting in the driver’s seat of her father’s Ford, engine off, lights extinguished, hands fixed tight around the thin arc of the steering wheel. I hesitated a moment, then slid into the passenger seat.

  Wren, I said.

  She stared ahead, her father’s keys resting in the ignition, the glove box opened and waiting—she must have gone inside for every key. I knew he’d hid them, car key, deposit box key, Wren never said she knew where. The dread bloomed full swell in my chest then; this was it, her own plan kept quiet, crystallized, practice to performance, an end she’d always known.

  It’s bad, I said. I know. But it won’t help Kestrel if we leave. It won’t help any of us.

  I’ll pick her up. I’ll pick Tee up. All of us, we can go. She looked at me. It’s time, Teal. I can’t stay here anymore.

  I imagined her father waking up, car gone, money, safe box, daughter.

  It’s bad, Wren, the pay stubs are bad. But where would we go?

  Her eyes flashed to me, burning through dark, through me.

  You think I hate my dad so much about a bunch of fucking pay stubs? That’s half of it, but it’s nothing. She closed her eyes, turned away.

  Well, what then?

  Wren’s lips closed tight on themselves, pursed to trap something in.

  Your mother.

  Her voice stopped there. A haze floated across my brain.

  My mother what, Wren? What?

  My father. She looked at me, anger faded for a moment, eyes widened in the shape of apology. He raped her, Teal.

  The air of the car pulled the breath from me.

  Wren stared ahead, eyes wet. He told me this summer. Said she was always so smug, there across the street, no man. Just fine with only her parents, no one else.

  The car was a capsule sealed tight, smothering.

  He told me in one of his rages. Smacked me across the face. Said he’d do it again, if I wasn’t careful.

  Wren’s wet, red palm print, branded into wood. She’d known then, half-hatched plan, futile rage to pulse inside an eggshell of pines, for violence if needed, some space for us, some release. But for her, muscle to beat back if caught, only time to map the contours of escape. My chest seized, heart sputtering; my head swam through the years and years of asking about my father, who he was, where he’d gone and why my mother always turned away, deflected all question, said don’t worry, sweet pea. I’m here for you. I’m always, always here for you.

  Someone must have known, I said. Someone would have told me. I heard my voice growing louder. Why didn’t you fucking tell me?

  She touched my hand. I slapped it away. She sat back in the driver’s seat, stared ahead.

  You think anyone gives a shit here? Look at Kestrel. She can barely walk. Wren slammed her fists hard against the steering wheel. You think anyone will take care of her? Think anyone in this town gives a fuck?

  Wren grew quiet then.

  I’m sorry I told you. But we can leave this place. There’s nothing here for us. Any of us.

  I felt my nose burn, precursor to tears. I watched the dull walls of the garage through the windshield, and felt Jim Henshaw, Wren, her father, his past made mine, Wren’s, ours together—I felt them all burn through me. I felt Kestrel, blood-soaked legs; I felt Tee, rope-cut wrists. I felt all of Willow, boiling burn, the smell of pine, the flash of solar storm, bands streaked from sky to ground where at the end stood my mother, four walls, her hand on my hand. You’re my baby girl, Teal. I must have broken her heart not only to crack the silence of joy, but simply to make her say it.

  I can’t go with you.

  Wren turned to me, face red as if struck.

  I can’t go with you. I can’t leave my mother.

  You could do whatever you want, Wren said, voice lower, already resigned. We could cut hair together. Until you figured what you want.

  I didn’t need to tell her I’d figured. I knew. I looked at her, roil within me; I wanted to slap her, beat back the words unraveled, shake some logic rattled through my hands to her, make her stop, make her stay. But I touched her face instead, hand held to skin partly mine, then pushed open the car door.

  I walked across the street, stood on the front porch of the house that had always been my mother’s and mine, had al
ways been, still was. I sat on the steps, everything reeling, unsteady, and watched the shimmer above, fixed point, stable sky to hold me balanced. I heard the engine of the Ford ignite, the garage door roll up, watched the car back down the driveway, slow and quiet, rubber on pavement. Wren backed the car into the street, safely on road with highway ahead. Then she gunned the gas, tires screeching, smoldered rubber blazing a burn, particles unrestrained, streak like a hand held up in goodbye, scalded black. I watched her taillights fade until they became nothing more than a red glow sputtering out, until our street, our homes were what they’d always been again. Willow was quiet, unlit streets, darkened roads, everyone asleep. I thought of my mother, of waking her up, of pulling her onto the porch to watch the burn above, to see. I watched Wren’s window, no flash, no Morse. I waited for dawn beneath the blaze, streaks so palette luminous I wanted someone next to me to watch a rage of electricity, magnetic storm, made beautiful only by collision, trapped, shuttling toward earth just to break apart.

  IF EVERYTHING FELL SILENT, EVEN SIRENS

  The first night we heard it, I slapped Tom hard across the face. The first time I’d ever hit anyone. The first time we heard a low howl, like distant wolves, only the sound came to us less warm-blooded, breathier, a sound like a soft siren, not human. Tom stood bent over the bathroom sink, eyes open and unmoving, clenching his nose as blood seeped in heavy droplets through his fingers, spat against porcelain, wet paint on blank canvas. I stood motionless, watched the blood—what vessels broke, how much liquid a body could hold. I stepped toward him, saw him flinch and felt my belly move, small somersaults. And then the sound through the bathroom window, ethereal hum, so low we thought we imagined it.

  Tom stood, turned toward the window. Wrapped a tissue around his hand, held his palm to his face. I wanted to touch him, to feel some tenderness ripple through our separate membranes, smooth the razor inside me, to hold my hand against his skin. But he knew, as if we were one, as if his heart formed the other half of mine. He whispered Don't, a lone word to split a chasm, and in the slapped silence the sound outside filled the room, yawned through the bathroom window. A faint drone, not unlike slow-starting tornado sirens, the ones we’d heard all summer as storms swept across the Midwestern plains, a sound I knew even then I’d always associate with a taking away. The sound rolled over us, a wave, and I thought of my father then, touched Tom’s hand, a point of contact he was too distracted to shun.

  What is that? he said. He pulled the tissue from his face, stain of blood lining an edge of whiskers. He moved toward the window, peered outside. It’s too late for sirens, he said.

  I didn’t know if he meant the hour or the season, but I looked too, over his shoulder, at the tree limbs of our backyard, gnarled dark in moonlight.

  They wouldn’t run the sirens at night, I said. The sound grew louder, whirling murmur, a distant chorus of some highway drone, and Tom turned when I spoke, as if just remembering I was still there.

  I’m going to bed, he said, replacing the tissue against his face, moving past me, around the growing ball of my stomach, out of the bathroom. I followed him through the dark into our bedroom, curled toward him curled away from me, and tried to remember what it was we’d even fought about, my eyes closed, awaiting a sleep I knew would come in shallow fits, as it had all summer, as the hum threw its quiet weight against the stilled panes of our windows.

  My father was a researcher, a renowned scientist on echolocation, the best man I ever knew. He’d grown gentler with age, due to many things, I’m sure, but I always assumed that dolphins had softened him, their playfulness, the pri-

  There was a softness in him, a light that drew moths. A light I saw in Tom the first time I met him, something weightless and bright, a gravity sidling into the contours of my skin, a light to eclipse all moons. As a girl, my mother told me, you’ll marry a man like your father, you’ll be as lucky as I’ve been. I wanted to scream then, a revolt for rebellion’s sake, in the same way I shied away from sciences, moved toward business, a material terrain over nature. And Tom, too: no facts or hard science but the freedom of the creative, a graphic designer, a man who captured light in mysterious ways. And yet even so, at my father’s funeral, when my mother couldn’t look away from his open casket, even then I never told her, never said how right she’d been, not even with a tiny pilot flame burning bright inside me, growing larger each day. Tom sat beside me, held his hand against my belly, and listened to the pastor, words my mother ignored for my father, the only light she could see in the room. All I saw were my mother’s hands clasped together in her lap, her wedding ring visible, left hand atop her right—the way they rested there, alone, how they’d held my father’s hands, how they never would again.

  My father had cancer, slow battle, one that accelerated through the summer, one that hollowed us out beside his hospital bed in August. An unusual pattern of storms had circulated all summer, battering clotheslines, thrashing leaves, a pattern that carried us through hospital visits first, then brief stays, then a quick decline doctors told us to prepare ourselves for, as if preparation were possible. And then in late August, as we stood around my father’s hospital bed, the sky darkened and the sirens escalated and when my mother stood to close the window my father exhaled his last breath, a sound like a sigh, like the wind that blew through the open windows before everything fell silent, even the sirens.

  My father told me once that dolphin cries blared loudest, that their clicks of echolocation resounded higher than the decibels of blue whale calls, the gnashing of great white teeth, a sound to drown out the songs of every sea creature. I wondered what that would sound like, a sound loud enough to split an eardrum, louder than waves—or if it were quieter, a match for my father’s voice, my baby’s quiet kicks, a sound not unlike a breathy hum, its echo soft against our window.

  Maybe it was the lumberyard, I told Tom when he finally came down the stairs, poured his coffee and ignored me. Maybe they’re running the mills at night now, I said. Words that rang dumb in my own ears.

  Tom stopped on his way back up the stairs, turned to look at me. The curve of his face swollen, just above the lip.

  Can we talk about this? he said.

  I studied the lines of wood in our kitchen table, swirls as complicated as fingerprints.

  If it were the other way around, he said, you’d leave me. Can you hear me, Kate? You would leave me.

  I didn’t want to talk of double standards, or violence, or the hardened space between us that kept hardening though I knew we should, though Tom waited on the stairs for me, an apology I owed him. It was a weight too heavy, something ceaseless and vast, as terrible as a stretch of plains and blue planet without my father, a world that no longer held him

  At work, my mother called. The PR firm cubicle I inhabited daily, unthinking, a job dulled to rote instinct and a lunchtime check-in my mother had grown accustomed to across the distended days of the past month.

  They’re negotiating what to do with the dolphins, she said. The lab. They want to sell them, maybe to researchers, but maybe to amusement parks too. Some SeaWorld bullshit. I heard her sigh across the line from their house in Columbus where she lived alone. Your father would hate that, she said.

  Maybe he has a colleague, I said. What about Jensen?

  Jensen studies bats. He’s too busy at the lab anyhow, since your father passed.

  Did you hear anything strange last night? I asked. Tom and I lived forty minutes outside the city, but I felt suddenly exhausted, talking about dolphins.

  Nothing strange. If there was, I’d have heard it.

  I knew my father had snored, knew its absence stilled the house in ways my mother found unbearable.

  How’s Tom? How’s the wee one?

  Fine, I said. They’re both fine.

  Babies think in logarithms, she said. Before they learn to count. Did you know that? The distance between one and two for them is like a lifetime.

  I knew my father had told her this, his
bevy of trivia, little details she let slide in passing but with fixed frequency now, letting him breathe the air through her. I’d wanted him to fill our daughter’s mind with them, a childhood of facts, made to pull her toward the earth, to welcome her days to every wonder the world held. But the best we could do was let him go, just days after the ultrasound showed a little girl, my father knowing only she was on her way.

  I didn’t know that, I said, and felt shame wash over me then, a cascade.

  That night, Tom stayed on the couch, watched television. I pretended to read, gradually lost interest, curled into the space beside him on the couch, felt him edge away.

  They’re selling the dolphins, I told him.

  He didn’t look at me. The blue television light flickered across his face.

  My mother’s upset, I said. No one at the lab needs them anymore.

  Tom glanced at me, said nothing.

  She asked about the baby, I went on. She probably thinks I’m not eating well enough.

  And what did you tell her? Tom finally looked at me, straight on. Did you tell her that Mom punched Dad in the face last night?

  I sat back, moved away from him.

  Look. He closed his eyes. I know you’re upset. I know how hard the past months have been on you. But we’re having a baby, for fuck’s sake. He glared at me. You cannot do what you did.

  I knew that. I knew that, I knew that.

  But I’ve never done that before, was all I could say.

  I know, he said. You better never do it again.

  And as he said it, the same howl seeped through the walls, as low and breathy as the night before, only closer, an approaching ambulance, the sound of swirling emergency.

  As a girl, my father told me dolphins never really sleep. He said half their brain fall asleep, the other half in constant consciousness to watch for predators and to breathe. As I lay awake, listening to the hum, growing, settling like dust against our windows, I knew at last what he meant, knew it as well as I knew Tom’s heartbeat near mine, slowed, asleep, the pattern of his breath as painful as an elegy.