by M. Leighton
In the quiet, I let my mind drift wherever it wants to go in an effort to calm myself. My insomnia is bad enough on a regular basis, so if there is any disturbance in my life’s rhythm, it throws me into a tailspin.
I consider this—this trip, this circumstance, this time in my life—a disturbance. If one can call a Category Five Hurricane a “disturbance,” that is.
I’ve always hoped my sleep patterns would get better, but they never have. Now I can only assume they won’t ever. At least not until medication is introduced. Once it is, I won’t be aware of much of anything at times. But at least I’ll finally be able to sleep.
Pushing that thought aside, I turn my head to look out the window. I left my shade up so I could see the puffy clouds below us. They’re illuminated only by the moon, which gives them a silvery appearance, like the white caps of waves in the ocean. They stretch as far as the horizon—a sea of shimmering curls, dancing lazily below the plane. I can almost feel the beauty of their glow, like a whisper-soft kiss on my cheeks.
As I stare out at the radiance, willing a dream to come for me, I’m reminded of the way I was ushered into dreams as a child—by a different kind of glimmer, one just as gentle, just as soothing. A jar full of lightning bugs.
My father has been on my mind a lot lately, for good reason. And where my father is, there are lightning bugs. And where there are lightning bugs, there is my father.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, moon,” I murmur, reaching out to brush my fingertips over the thick plastic of the window. “Goodnight, lightning bugs. Come again soon.”
“What’s going through that gorgeous head of yours?”
Nate’s soothing voice is near my ear, his tone so as not to disturb the other passengers in first class.
“Just thinking about Dad. This little thing he used to say every night when he put me to bed. A ritual, after we’d caught lightning bugs.”
“Lightning bugs? You caught lightning bugs?” My husband’s expression is quizzical.
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a Yankee! You probably called them fireflies.”
“I know what lightning bugs are, babe,” he snorts. “We called them that, too. But why would you want to catch them? What did you do with them?”
I shift my shoulders so I can better look into my husband’s handsome face. I’m bemused. “I guess I never told you about that, did I?” He shakes his head. “For a lot of years, it was an almost painful memory. And I suppose when you put a memory away long enough, it sort of…fades.”
“But you remember it now?”
“Like it was yesterday,” I reply quietly, a dull ache squeezing somewhere deep behind my breastbone.
“Tell me.”
“It was just something Daddy and I used to do when I was a kid. We’d poke holes in the lid of a Mason jar so they wouldn’t suffocate and we’d put a bunch of lightning bugs in there. I imagine it started out as just a little game, but for us, it ended up being so much more.” I smile as I step back in time to some of the only sweet memories I have from my childhood. “I remember twirling through the backyard on a night a lot like this, catching the bugs I could reach and pointing out the ones I couldn’t. My dad would get those. Sometimes we’d spend a whole hour out there.”
I close my eyes for a moment, recalling one of the nearly perfect nights spent with my father, doing what I loved most as a child.
“Daddy, get that one! Get that one!” my younger self cried, indicating one stubborn firefly that had made its lazy ascent to a place just beyond my tiny fingertips. The sky was littered with dozens of the insects. Their luminescent bellies winked on and off in a staccato rhythm, as if to a tune only they could hear. Catching them, with my sweet daddy by my side, was my favorite part of every warm summer night. For that one hour, my dad and I would dart in circles all around the yard, rounding up the beautiful bugs to put into a wide-mouthed Mason jar.
I open my eyes and smile over at my husband. “My heart would pound so hard. I’d hold my breath as he’d try to catch the ones I wanted. So many of them were out of my reach, like they would find a spot right beyond my fingertips and dance there just to tease me.”
Nate smiles, too, resting his temple against his little pillow, content to watch me as I reminisce. “Did he always catch them?”
“Always. And I’d squeal every time, I think.” I can remember with absolute clarity the sight of my father’s hand sweeping in from above to capture the tiny creatures, nudging them gently into the opening until the jar was too full to hold anymore. Now, the memories of doing something so simple with Daddy are just as delightful as the excitement of catching them was when I was a girl.
“What was the rest of the ritual?”
Happily, I recount our every step after that jar was full. “Daddy would take my hand and he’d say, ‘Let’s go get those feet scrubbed up, doodle bug. Time for bed and these little fellas have a job to do.’ Even now, I remember exactly how his calloused palm felt against mine. There was something so comforting about that scratchy hand of his.”
I sigh deeply, my soul filling with a subtle sadness that I haven’t thought of this in so, so long.
“He’d take me inside, to the bathroom—it had this awful avocado colored sink and toilet—and he’d plunk me down on the lip of the tub while he got the water just the right temperature. When he did, he’d loop his arm around my waist and pull me down to him. He’d make this vroom noise like a car going really fast. I think I giggled every night when he did that. Every. Night.”
A knot begins to throb at the base of my throat. Memories of my father are all I have left, all I’ve had for a long time. And even though I haven’t retold this one, it’s as precious and clear as if it just happened. Just as precious and clear as everything else about my father.
“What was the big deal about having clean feet?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. He just didn’t want me going to bed with dirty feet.”
“Interesting. Okay, sorry. Go on.”
“Daddy would tuck me against his chest and wrap his arms around me, press his scruffy cheek up against mine, and he’d lather his hands with soap. We always had this pink soap that smelled like flowers and bleach, but even over that scent, I could smell him. My dad. He smelled like smoke and pine. Like love,” I declare on a laugh. “At least that’s how I always thought of it.”
“So that’s what love smells like,” Nate observes, a playful quirk tugging at one side of his mouth.
“Yes. Love smells like my father. You should write that down.”
We grin at each other, falling easily into the lighthearted humor we’ve shared from practically our first meeting, over nineteen years ago.
“Duly noted. Now, proceed.”
I turn my eyes up, toward the airplane ceiling, looking at the seatbelt light, but not really seeing it. I dive back to my childhood, swimming in remembrance with all my senses, basking in those memories.
“When his hands were pink and foamy, he’d reach down and pick up one of my feet and he’d scrub the bottom until the lather turned green. He’d even get in between my toes, and you know how ticklish I am.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Nate nodding enthusiastically. “As he washed my feet, he’d tell me stories about where the lightning bugs came from, how far they’d traveled to get to me.”
“I bet these came all the way from California,” Daddy would say. “They laid low all day long, storing up that bright sunshine in their bellies until they could fly through the sky and make it to our backyard in time for you to find them.”
“God, he was charming! I hung on his every word. And he knew it. He knew I loved every second of it. It was our thing. I guess since Janet was so sick most of the time, he had never been able to do things like that with her. Or at least I don’t remember it if he did. Catching lightning bugs was always our thing.”
My childhood was littered with heartache and sickness. When I was too young to recall, my older sister, Janet, was diagnosed with acu
te lymphocytic leukemia. Childhood leukemia. She was sick for as long as I can remember. Our lives had revolved around Janet—her prognosis, her medications, her doctors appointments. Keeping her healthy. Getting her better.
Only she didn’t get better.
She died when I was only six.
That had been blow number one to our family.
“So your father hated dirty feet and gave elaborate backstories to the local insect population. I’m getting a mental picture.”
I reach over to lightly smack Nate’s arm. “Stop it. He was a wonderful man.”
“That’s a given. Look at his daughter. He couldn’t have been anything less than wonderful.” Nate’s eyes take on that warm, loving sheen that stole my heart nearly twenty years ago. I’d known the instant he’d fallen in love with me. It was there, on his face, plain for all the world to see.
Just like it is now.
If I could bottle that look, I would. I would eat it, drink it bathe in it. I’d breathe it in through my pores, draw it into my cells. I’d soak it up until it became a part of me, an inextricable part of me. I’d drown in it until I could feel it with every breath I took. Until I couldn’t see or hear or feel anything else. That’s how much I love that look.
“I wish you could’ve met him. He’d have loved you.”
“I do, too, baby. I do, too.”
Nate reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. Such a simple gesture, but such a profound one sometimes. It speaks volumes to me. It tells me of our inseparable bond, of Nate’s compassion for my loss, of his appreciation for a man he never knew. It reminds me that he loves me so deeply that he often feels my pain as if it were his own. I know this because I do the same thing. That’s why I worry so much about the future. I know how it will affect my husband.
I know how much it will hurt my Nate.
“So what did you do with your clean feet?” he asks, prompting me to get back to my happy memories rather than getting lost in the sad ones.
“He’d dry them off, my clean feet, and then he’d carry me and that jar of lightning bugs to my room. He would set them on the nightstand and kneel beside the bed while we said our prayers.”
“You said prayers?”
I roll my eyes again. “It was a long time ago. And that’s how I figured out that no one was up there listening. He prayed for me every night, and after he left my room, I would pray for him. I knew he was sick. They didn’t have to tell me. I knew. And I begged God to make him well so we wouldn’t lose him, too. But He never listened. Not even to the prayers of a little girl.”
Even after all this time, I feel the bitterness well within me. I don’t know what kind of God my father prayed to, but I hope there’s another one, one who wouldn’t give a child leukemia, one who wouldn’t take away both parents from a little girl. If there is more than one, though, I’ve never seen Him.
Shaking off my dismal thoughts, I let out a breath and continue. “But, after that, he’d tuck me in between my Holly Hobbie sheets and he’d tap that Mason jar and say, ‘Watch ’em close, doodle bug. Watch ’em close and count to a hundred. They’ll be gone when you wake up.’ One time I asked where they went. He said to heaven, to a beautiful place that my eyes had never seen. That night, I asked if I could go with them. He told me that it wasn’t my time. He said, ‘Just chase them, doodle bug. They’ll bring you sunshine and sweet dreams.’ And they did. They always gave me good dreams.” I snort, adding derisively, “Too bad I can’t get a jarful now.”
“When we get back, I’ll bring you a jar of lightning bugs,” Nate vows quietly. “Only I won’t kill them after you go to sleep.”
“Oh, he didn’t kill them,” I clarify. “One night when I was older, I caught him sneaking back into my room and taking the jar. I heard the front door open, so I looked out my bedroom window. He took them outside and set them free. I probably caught the same ones over and over and over again, poor things.”
“I bet every night they dreaded seeing you two coming.”
I can’t stop my snigger. “I bet they did. And we were out there every night in the summer. Without fail. Until…”
My thoughts sober.
Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, moon. Goodnight lightning, bugs. Come again soon.
“Until the night before he went into a coma. But up until then, as horrible as he must’ve felt, he’d drag himself out into the yard with me to catch lightning bugs. Every night. Until it was his time to say goodnight. Until he followed the lightning bugs.”
I glance down at my hand, the one still joined with Nate’s. For just a second, I can almost imagine it belonging to my father. I’d give anything to hold that calloused hand one more time. My heart aches with the residue of decades old grief. “God, I miss him!”
Wordlessly, Nate kisses my fingertips. The silence grows. Between us, around us, it yawns and stretches until we are enveloped in a tranquil cocoon.
Slowly, my eyes drift shut and I find my father again. I find him in the only place where he still lives—in my mind, in my heart.
In my dreams.
Where happiness will never die.
********
I startle awake when a warm, familiar hand touches my arm. My eyes flick open to Nate’s handsome face, to his strong jaw, smiling mouth, and sparkling green eyes hovering above me. I focus intently on him. I see my husband, but for a few seconds I don’t feel him. I’m still stuck in my dreams, engaged in a battle of fading sensations—the pleasure of catching lightning bugs with Daddy warring with the agony of losing him.
“Wake up, baby. I know you don’t want to miss this.”
It takes me a minute to shake the dream, and when I do, I’m speared with grief, a sharp lance that tears its way through and through. Dreaming of my father always leaves me feeling bereft when I wake, when I’m thrust back into a reality where he no longer exists.
Nate’s face grows blurry as he leans toward me, brushing my lips with his. Calm floods me, washing me back into the now, the immediate now, and the trip my wonderful husband and I have embarked upon. We are on a plane, stretched out in first class, crossing an ocean to a foreign land. His words finally settle in to make sense.
I know you don’t want to miss this.
My eyes widen sharply, realization dawning. “Are we on the ground?”
“Not yet, but soon,” is his smiling reply.
He kisses me again, a playful smacking of the lips this time. It carries with it the mischief I’ve always known him capable of, even when the stresses of our life are rising up to drown us. I love that side of him—his teasing, his wit, his ever-present sense of humor. I love his kisses, too. Especially the ones like this, that speak of excitement and love and something we will forever share so intimately.
I know I’d be perfectly content if I could be awakened in just such a way every day for the rest of my life. But some things just aren’t meant to be. Already, I’ve seen enough tragedy in my life to know that those are the facts. Fate sometimes makes different plans. And most of the time, she can’t be reasoned with.
Nate backs away and I sit up to flip open the shade that covers the window. Outside, I can see some of the drear I expected, but as the plane banks to the right, I see a wedge of sunshine illuminating the glorious, massive city of London as it comes into view.
Spread out as far as the eye can see is a tightly packed collection of buildings broken up by a thin network of streets. From our altitude, they look like veins on the back of a maple leaf. I watch the buildings grow larger as we descend, my excitement escalating as I begin identifying some landmarks I’d hoped to see from the plane.
The River Thames sweeps along the edge of the cluttered urban chaos like a lazy serpent, soaking up what little sun there is to be had in the city’s renowned gloom. Its graceful path is interrupted only by bridges slicing across its width like dashes of Morse code. On either side of the river, the bank is casually littered with such famous sights as the London Eye, the Palace of Westmin
ster, and Big Ben.
A finger softly strokes my cheek, and I turn to glance at my husband. Although he has his phone held up to video our arrival, his eyes are trained on me, eyes that glow with a love I know he feels as deeply as I do. I know Nate loves me. I can feel it as plainly as I can feel wind in my hair or water on my skin. This is how I knew Nissa was wrong. This is why I don’t doubt my husband’s devotion.
This.
This is what happiness is made of.
“What is it?” I ask of Nate’s touch, half smiling.
“This,” he replies, using his free hand to brush the corner of my upturned mouth. “I just wanted to see this.”
“A smile? You see those all the time.”
“But not this smile. This one reminds me of how you looked when we flew into Vegas that first time. Do you remember?”
I nod, the memory a sweet one despite its challenges at the time. “How could I forget? We’d only been married a few months, and I still hadn’t changed my driver’s license, which meant I couldn’t board the plane as Helena Grant, which was who the ticket was for. Yeah, getting us stuck in the airport for nine hours until we could get a flight out to Vegas isn’t something I’m likely to ever forget,” I pronounce. I feel chagrin for just a few seconds before the dreamy memories of the remainder of the trip rush in to soften it. “But seeing Vegas from the air at night… That was spectacular!”
“Not as spectacular as you were when it came into view. This face and those lights…” Nate’s emerald gaze glides over my features, one by one, as if memorizing every curve and line, every light and shadow. “Beautiful.”
Looking back on that night—at the awe I felt when the dazzling city came into view, at the excitement I felt as Nate and I explored the casinos, at the intimacy I felt as we’d held hands on the strip and kissed in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of our suite—I wish I’d done things differently. Rather than sticking to the strict itinerary I’d created, I would’ve been more spontaneous, laughed more. Simply enjoyed my husband more. I wouldn’t have gotten so hung up on the details, and we wouldn’t have fought on our last night there.
