Summer Light: A Novel

by Rice, Luanne

  Made of papier-mâché, it had rough edges and a sideways tilt. Kylie examined it inside and out. She saw that the artist had painted it with garlands of green, signed it with the initials “N.C.” When Kylie held the bell over her head, it rang with a distinctive twang.

  “Natalie’s bell,” Martin said.

  “I can tell,” Kylie said. “She painted her initials on it.”

  “She sent it to me when she was five,” Martin told her. “I missed that Christmas with her.”

  “Where was she?”

  “With her mother, far away from here.” Martin was smiling slightly.

  “You saw her, didn’t you?” Kylie asked. “She was here.”

  “She was here,” Martin said.

  May couldn’t breathe. Martin’s eyes were shining, as blue as she had ever seen them, as if he could see everything in the room and beyond. And Kylie could barely hold herself still.

  “What did she say?” Kylie asked.

  “She told me you were right all along. That—”

  “You believe me?” Kylie asked him, the words tearing out. “That I really saw her, I wasn’t making it up?”

  “Yes, I believe you,” Martin told her.

  May’s gaze fell on the blue diary. She could write this down, add Martin’s experience to the pages. Instead, she looked over at Martin and Kylie, at a father who needed a daughter and a daughter who needed a father.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Kylie asked when she saw May’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” May said, wiping her eyes. “I wish I’d seen her, too. I’d like to see Natalie.”

  “I wish you had,” Martin said, holding out his hand until she took it.

  May watched Kylie ring the old bell, laughing at the funny click it made—the clapper was a twisted paper clip, the bell itself formed of old newspapers soaked and painted. But when she stopped, the strains of a different bell drifted through the window.

  The sound of bells pealed brightly across the hills and lake. They echoed off the mountains, whispering through the bare branches of sycamores, maples and oaks, through the soft boughs of tall dark pines. They rang over the ice, amplified by the lake’s deep holes and softened by its shallow coves.

  “Listen!” Kylie said.

  “What is that?” May asked.

  “The bells of Sainte Anne,” he said.

  “Playing a Christmas carol,” May said, listening to the clear tones. But she was wrong; it wasn’t a carol, but a hymn, and Martin recognized it before she did.

  “ ‘Amazing Grace,’ ” he said.

  “How sweet the sound,” May whispered. She remembered the words. They had sung the hymn at her father’s funeral, and she’d never forgotten it: “That saved a child like me; I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.”

  They listened for a few minutes more, until the bells stopped and the only sound was icicles rattling in the trees. A gust of wind blew off the frozen lake, swirling down the chimney. Thunder jumped up to investigate, his tail wagging as he stood by the fire screen. May shivered in the breeze, in anticipation of what was coming.

  Whatever she was expecting, it didn’t come from outside. Martin pushed himself up out of the chair. May and Kylie watched him, wondering what he was about to do.

  “Is there a star in that box?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Kylie reached inside the carton of ornaments. She pulled out a bent and battered cardboard star, covered with foil and painted with red and gold glitter. The sparkles came off on her fingers as she held the star aloft.

  “C’mere,” Martin said, bending down as he opened his arms.

  Kylie knew just what to do. She slung one arm around his neck, holding the star in her other. Martin lifted her up, stepping toward the tree. Holding his hand, May guided him closer, until he could feel the branches and know where he stood. She watched Kylie examine the star, looking for a signature.

  “Natalie made it?”

  “I did,” Martin said. “With my father, a long, long time ago. When I was about your age.”

  “He helped you?” Kylie asked.

  “Yes.”

  Then, hoisting Kylie even higher, Martin leaned forward so she could place the star on the tree’s uppermost branches. Kylie made sure to secure it in place. Martin didn’t flinch, letting her take as much time as she needed. When she had finished, she said, “Okay,” and he let her down.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” May said.

  “He helped me,” Martin said again.

  “You did a good job together,” May said. “It’s a perfect star.”

  “I’d like to see my father.”

  May’s heart pounded, and she felt Martin take both her hands. “On the way back home,” he said. “Do you think it would be too far out of the way to take the New York Thruway? We could stop at the prison, then take the Connecticut Turnpike home.”

  “I don’t think it would be too far out of the way,” she said steadily.

  “No,” Martin said, as if he had a road map spread out before him. “I don’t think it would, either.”

  Chapter 30

  CLOSING UP THE LAKE HOUSE, May went back inside for a minute because Martin had forgotten his bag. There it was, right by the door. May walked through the rooms, making sure she had left the heat on low to keep the pipes from freezing. The truth was, she needed this time to herself, to prepare herself for leaving.

  For several moments, she stared down the snow-covered yard to the gazebo. She could picture that summer day, with her and Martin surrounded by Kylie and their friends and family: their tribe. They had tried to elope, but how could they, when they had people who loved them so much?

  During her long years alone with Kylie, when May felt that love had failed her, she had never stopped believing in it for other people. She had watched her mother, grandmother, and aunt plan the weddings of women in love. She had stood up for Tobin, watched her best friend’s family grow; but deep down, no matter what Tobin said, May had never expected such things for herself.

  Then she had met Martin. Saying her wedding vows had been the biggest promise she’d ever made. She had meant them then, and she meant them even more now, when they counted most. Martin needed her; even more, she needed him.

  She reached into the big pocket of her wool jacket and pulled out the blue notebook. Sometimes she was tempted to send it to Ben Whitpen, let him keep it in his research file, so she’d never have to see it again. But May knew that it held their story. If Kylie never had another vision, never recounted another dream, May knew that every page in the diary led up to this moment.

  She opened it, read a few words, and felt her heart break open to her husband and their two daughters, to love and confusion, to the mystery of it all. Her daughter had seen through the veil, listened to the dead, shown them how not to be afraid. May thought of Richard Perry with gratitude, and she thought of Natalie Cartier with love.

  Now, May lifted Martin’s bag by the door. That’s what a married couple does, she thought: love each other through sickness and health; for richer, for poorer; in good times and bad. They love each other’s children and try to honor each other’s parents—even when the whole thing seems impossible.

  Through it all, they carry each other’s bags. And so, slinging the strap over her shoulder, May locked the door of their lake house and carried her husband’s bag out to the car. December’s sunlight was thin and pale, and she knew that the next time they came, the summer light would be back, filled with gold, pollen, and hope.

  They were on their way.

  Somewhere during the week between Christmas and New Years—he had lost track—Serge was lying on his bed, listening to hockey on the radio. Boston was playing New Jersey, and they were losing 4–2.

  “You need Martin,” Serge said out loud.

  The Devils were playing great, in a zone where they could do no wrong. The Bruins, on the other hand, were missing shots, allowing goals, throwing
the game away. It gave Serge a small, wicked satisfaction to know the Boston club was struggling without his son.

  “Visitors, Cartier,” the guard said, stopping by his cell door.

  “Funny,” Serge said. “Go screw yourself.”

  “Okay, fine,” the guard said, starting to walk away. “But you’ll be sorry. The kid’s cute.”

  Serge felt a chill go down his spine. Who could it be? Deciding it would be easier to go see than wait and wonder, he climbed off his bunk and followed the guard down the long hall.

  His stomach flipped, as if he had eaten something bad. His palms were sweaty, his jaw tightly clenched. Serge Cartier hadn’t been this nervous in a long time. He didn’t know what he was going to find, and stepping into the unknown felt terrifying.

  Maybe it was someone he owed money to.

  Maybe it was one of his old running buddies, one of the few who hadn’t written him off.

  Maybe it was Tino’s son.

  Or maybe…Serge wouldn’t even let himself think it.

  Martin sat in the visitor’s room, with May on one side and Kylie on the other. He was aware of clanging doors and shuffling feet, the smells of food, smoke, and sweat. Something about the place reminded him of certain locker rooms he’d been in, vast concrete caverns echoing with violence and aggression.

  “Kylie, you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “I wonder where he is?” May asked.

  Martin nodded. Maybe they should have told his father they were coming. Or perhaps they shouldn’t have come at all. His heart was racing, his nerves on fire. This was probably the biggest mistake he’d made in years. Visiting his father had seemed like such a good idea back in Lac Vert, but right now it felt like sentimental stupidity.

  But Martin had promised Natalie. Not for one minute had he doubted their time together, dismissed it as a dream. He had seen his daughter. She had restored his vision in a way Teddy Collins, the greatest doctor in Boston, never could. Natalie had shown him things locked deep inside, the secret to life he had been missing all along.

  And so, when the inner door opened and Martin’s father walked into the room, Martin felt his presence although he could not see him.

  Standing tall, Martin said, “Dad.”

  “Martin,” Serge said.

  They stood several feet apart. Other prisoners sat nearby, talking to their wives, playing with their kids. Martin could hear their voices buzzing, but the words faded into the background. Much louder, almost like the beat of a drum, was his father’s breathing.

  “I’m glad to see you,” Martin said.

  “Oh, son,” his father said, and he grabbed Martin in a hug. A guard came forward to push them apart, but Serge wouldn’t let go. Martin felt his father’s strong back with his hands, and he remembered being lifted and carried as a child.

  “Dad, I know you’ve met May—”

  “Hi, dear,” he said.

  “Serge, I’m glad to see you.”

  “Mommy likes your postcards,” Kylie told him.

  “Well, that’s good,” Serge said. “That makes me happy.”

  They talked for a while, about Christmas at the lake, holiday food, life at the prison, traffic in downtown Estonia, and Kylie’s school. His father asked whether she liked sports, and Kylie said figure skating, swimming, and fishing.

  “Fishing on Lac Vert,” Serge said. “Is that big old brown trout still there?”

  “The great-granddaddy,” Kylie said.

  “Must be the great-granddaddy’s great-grandson by now,” Serge said. “Boy, I remember how he used to hide out under that flat rock, poking his old trout nose out just far enough so I could see him laughing at me.”

  “Saying ‘you can’t catch me!’ ” Kylie added.

  “That’s the truth of the matter,” Serge said. “The simple truth. No one’ll ever catch him.”

  “I have a dog,” Kylie boasted.

  “Yeah? What kind?” Serge asked.

  “A basset hound. Named Thunder. His brother died.”

  “His brother wasn’t named Lightning, was he?” Serge asked, making Kylie squeal, reminding Martin of what a funny and present grandfather Serge had sometimes been, how Natalie had loved him.

  “He was!” Kylie breathed. “How did you know?”

  “Intuition,” Serge said, and Martin could almost see him tapping his head.

  “Wow,” Kylie said.

  “Yeah, Martin has it, too. That’s what makes him a great hockey player.”

  “Dad,” Martin said, wanting to steer the conversation anywhere but there.

  “He had it even as a little kid,” Serge said, not getting the hint. “Brilliant at any sport he played. I knew he’d go straight to the top. He had a real love of the game.” Martin opened his mouth to change the subject, but his father shifted it on his own. The conversation turned to some kid Serge had seen around, the son of a man who had died in prison.

  “The boy loves baseball, just like you did,” Serge said. “With a passion.”

  “Why does he come here,” Martin asked, “if his father died?”

  “Because this is the closest he can get,” Kylie whispered in his ear, sending a shiver down Martin’s spine.

  “He makes me think of you.” Serge’s voice was low and rough. Martin felt his father take his hand, and he had to fight the urge to pull back and run as fast as he could.

  “Well, playing sports, I guess,” Martin said.

  “More than that,” Serge said. “It’s the way he plays his heart out.”

  Silence fell on their little group, and after a few moments, May said she thought she’d take Kylie for a walk. She thanked Serge for his cards, and for seeing them. Then Martin heard his father kiss her cheek, and he felt May’s hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be right outside,” she whispered.

  “Good girl,” Serge said when she had gone.

  “She’s the best,” Martin agreed.

  But without May and Kylie, there seemed to be nothing to say. The two men found themselves back to small talk: the cold weather, tomorrow’s forecast, hockey. Martin tensed when his father mentioned listening to the game on the radio just before, but he found himself actually curious about the score. He hadn’t heard a Bruins score all year, and he was disappointed to learn they were down 4–2 after one and a half periods.

  “They need you, son.” Then, as if he’d realized what he’d said, he drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

  “Yeah, well,” Martin began, lowering his head.

  “Martin, you deserve—”

  Martin cut him off. “I have an excellent doctor. She’s doing all she can. It’s not easy, but being with May makes it better. I can be a real jerk to her sometimes.”

  “Cartier men are good at that,” Serge said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Martin heard himself say, the edge of his voice razor sharp.

  “You’re right,” Serge said. “I had no right to say—”

  “I’d never leave her,” Martin said. “Or Kylie. Never again. I’d never forget about them while I lived my life, going wherever I wanted, spending money as fast as I made it.”

  “In Vegas,” Serge said. “L.A., New York, Chicago.”

  “While they lived alone at the lake, hungry and cold half the time.”

  “No, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “And I wouldn’t put my little girl in danger,” Martin said, feeling his chest tighten. The aggression was building inside, and although he couldn’t see his father, he had the urge to knock his head off. “I wouldn’t let her be hurt.”

  “I did that,” Serge whispered. “I know I did. God, Martin—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I wish I could trade my life for hers. Do you know that? Do you think I’m kidding?”

  Martin bowed his head, shaking so hard he thought he’d come apart. But then he saw Natalie’s face, heard her voice telling him Serge hated himself more than Martin ever could, that there was more than one kind of prison
.

  “Martin,” Serge begged. “Answer me.”

  “I know you’re not kidding.” Martin wiped his eyes.

  “I’d die myself,” Serge said. “If she could live. I have, in my mind, a thousand times. I don’t suppose that will ever stop.”

  “Make it stop,” Martin said.

  “I can’t,” his father said, raw with grief.

  Martin took a deep breath. His eyes were open wide, though he couldn’t see a thing. “I forgive you, Dad.”

  Serge broke down. He cried while Martin listened, feeling his own heart beat hard in his chest, tears rolling down his own cheeks. Martin saw his daughter’s face, felt the ice beneath his skates as they flew over the lake, witnessing that scene from the past. He saw his father’s eyes as clearly as if his vision were perfect, and he remembered the childhood excitement of spending time with the father he had loved so much.

  “Forgive yourself, Dad,” he said.

  Serge blew his nose, and some of the prisoners laughed.

  “Natalie would want you to.”

  “I’ve always known that,” Serge said after a moment. “She was an angel, one in a million. But knowing you hated me, well, that made it kind of hard. Not that I ever blamed you for a minute.”

  “I don’t hate you anymore,” Martin said.

  “Thank you, son.”

  “May’s done that for me. I’m lucky, Dad.”

  “I know you are.”

  “When do you get out?”

  “Three years,” Serge told him. “That’s okay, though. It’ll make it easier being here knowing how you feel.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to people talk around them. There were young kids visiting their fathers, fathers visiting their sons, wives with their husbands, sisters talking to their brothers. Martin let the conversations wash over him, knowing he was where he belonged. When the guard announced visiting hour was over, Martin felt a deep pit in his stomach.

  “I’m glad you came,” Serge said.

  “I’ll come again,” Martin promised.

  “Can I do anything?” Serge said. “I’d give you my eyes if I could.”