The Color of Light

by White, Karen

  He stood in the foyer for a long moment, and then it was as if a voice had told him to turn around, although he was sure nothing had been spoken and that he was definitely alone. He turned slowly, then stopped, his heart stuttering in his chest as the feeling of standing in the path of an oncoming train came over him.

  The door to the hall closet, the one that had been permanently shut due to warping wood, now lay wide open, its doorknob embedded in the wall behind it, the closet gaping black and open. He smelled the ocean then, the salt and wet sand, as if he were standing in the surf, close enough that he could feel the water between his toes.

  The house is shifting, he thought, trying to explain the open door. He moved closer, his hand clutching the doorframe, and peered into the darkness, unwilling to shine the flashlight inside. The small room lay empty and open, with unanswered questions hovering somewhere in the darkness. Pressing his forehead against the wood, he clenched his eyes shut, almost hearing the voices, but resisted being pulled into the past.

  “Hello,” he called, feeling foolish. With a deep breath, he reached out and flipped on the hall light, throwing an arc of yellow light into the black interior. He peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the light, recalling briefly what it had once looked like. But now there were no coats or fishing boots or table centerpieces. Just old grocery bags filled with yellowed newspapers, and a single wire hanger on the chipped white painted rod.

  Stepping back, he turned off the light, being careful not to close the door completely and get it stuck again. It must have been the shifting of the house or a dramatic change in the humidity that had forced the door open. It had to have been.

  He searched the downstairs to assure himself that he was alone, checking the locks on the doors and flipping on the lights to be able to see better in the dark corners. The house was empty except for him, but he still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of someone watching him.

  Coming back to the hall, he returned to the closet, opening the door wider. He thought he heard the voices again and clenched his eyes shut, finally allowing himself to be pulled back into the past.

  The three teenagers ran up onto the back porch of Lauren’s house, pressing themselves against the cedar siding to avoid being seen by Mr. and Mrs. Parrish, who were now approaching the Millses’ front door.

  Lauren turned and opened the back door, peering in to make sure nobody could see them. “It’s clear.”

  Linc’s eyes met Lauren’s. “I can’t go in there—you know that. Your dad told me I’m not to have anything to do with you. That probably includes me not even being on your porch—much less inside your house.”

  Jillian was crying now. “I don’t want to get y’all in trouble. I’ve got to go home with them, and hiding will just make it worse.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes, impatient with anybody who didn’t see a situation the same way she did. “Don’t be silly, you two. We just won’t get caught. Besides, if they can’t find us until suppertime, they’ll probably stay, and you can spend another night with your grandmother.” Lauren yanked the door open further and motioned for Linc and Jillian to go ahead.

  Linc looked at Jillian, at her pale face and trembling hands. She was fourteen, only three years younger than he was, but at that moment she looked more like the six-year-old he’d met all those years ago on the beach with her grandmother. He felt a flash of anger, then anger at the two people who could make the strong-spirited girl he knew into the quivering picture of fear she was at that moment.

  Defiantly, he held out his hand to her and she grabbed it, her skin cool and clammy. He smiled at her. “I will if you will.”

  He watched her swallow before she nodded, and then he led her into the Millses’ kitchen. Lauren moved silently through the room toward the foyer, then paused, her finger to her mouth to remind them to be quiet. The sound of the TV came from the front parlor, and she made a move toward the steps leading upstairs when a knock came from the front door. All three pairs of eyes fell on the closet door.

  “No!” Jillian’s mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. She pulled back, but Linc kept her hand firmly held in his own.

  Lauren quickly opened the closet door and motioned for them to follow before ducking inside. Jillian’s look of terror was real, as if she believed boogeymen really lived in dark spaces. And when he thought of her parents and the things Jillian had told him and he had seen, he realized that to her, boogeymen probably did.

  “Come on,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ll be with me, and I’ll make sure nothing hurts you, okay? I won’t let go of your hand—not once. Promise.”

  She looked past his shoulder toward where her parents waited behind the front door, then up at him with terrified brown eyes. Clutching his hand tightly, she nodded and allowed him to pull her into the closet behind Lauren.

  The closet was dark and deep. They ducked under winter jackets and stepped over fishing boots and a tackle box to get to the back of the closet, where they could sit down along with Christmas decorations and a Thanksgiving centerpiece. He didn’t once let go of her hand.

  Lauren sat down across from them, her knees touching his as he sat next to Jillian. Jillian kept her knees up with an arm wrapped around them, as if for protection, and clung to his hand like a life preserver on a white-tipped ocean. They listened to faint voices in the foyer; the louder voices of Jillian’s parents mingled with the soft, reassuring tones of Mrs. Mills. Linc couldn’t distinguish most of the words, but could hear enough to know the Parrishes were angry and weren’t content with the noncommittal answers from Lauren’s mother. Finally, he heard their retreating footsteps and the front door being soundly shut.

  Jillian’s trembling subsided, and Linc knew she had heard her parents’ departure. Still, she clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder and hiding from the darkness and the unseen things he knew lived in her fear. Closing his eyes, he smelled the ocean. He wondered for a moment if the smell came from the fishing boots, not understanding how the scents of salt and decaying sea life could be so pungent within the four walls of the closet.

  “I’m hungry,” Lauren whispered, shifting restlessly across from him.

  “Not yet.” Linc squeezed her knee. “Your mom’s going to be looking for us. We should stay here for a while longer.”

  Lauren sighed heavily, and he heard her head thunk lightly against the closet wall. “I’m restless.”

  Linc felt a flash of irritation. “Then you can leave. Just don’t tell anyone where Jillian is.”

  He heard her snort softly. “Like I would. You know, Jillian’s dad is always nice to me—at least when Mrs. Parrish isn’t around. It’s like he’s a different person when she’s not with him. Maybe I could find him and talk to him. There’s no reason why they can’t stay a few days. I mean, it’s silly for them to drive all that way just to pick Jillian up and turn right back around for the long drive back to Atlanta.”

  Jillian’s voice was soft. “I don’t think my grandmother and my mother get along. I’ve heard them arguing, and it always seems to be about something my grandmother forced my mother into doing—something she said once that she wakes up every day regretting.” Linc felt her turn her face up to his. “I asked Grandma about it, but she just said it wasn’t her place to tell me. And I’d never think about asking my mother.”

  Linc tightened his hold on Jillian’s hand, knowing what she meant. He felt Lauren stand in the darkness. “Let me go see what I can do. My mom says I can charm anyone into saying yes.” He heard the smile in her voice.

  Lauren stuck her hand out and brushed his face, but her hand didn’t stop until it was resting on Jillian’s head. “You’re safe in here. Linc will take care of you.”

  He felt Jillian stir next to him. “I can take care of myself. I just need somebody . . . here.”

  Lauren straightened. “I know.” She paused for a moment. “I’ll make sandwiches for everybody and bring them down on the beach. I’ll see you there.”

 
Linc closed his eyes at the bright light when she opened the door and just as quickly shut it. With his eyes still closed, he began to speak quietly to Jillian, telling stories of his pirate ancestors and their imagined exploits as kings of the sea isles. He didn’t realize that he was almost asleep until he felt her warm breath on his cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said before laying her head on his shoulder. Her grip on his hand slowly lessened, as if her fear had been absorbed by him and dispelled, a conquering no less powerful than that of taking over a ship on the open sea. Her hand rested lightly in his, and they slept.

  Even now, all these years later, he could picture the welts on Jillian’s legs made by the buckle of her father’s belt. He was sure she still carried the small, curved and purple scar on her upper thigh. Despite her punishment, her parents had relented and had stayed for three more days.

  Linc stared into the gaping darkness of the closet, the voices finally diminished. Leaving the door open, he turned and slowly climbed the stairs.

  He paused on the upstairs landing, his gaze focused on Lauren’s old bedroom. Look in the window seat. He could almost hear Gracie’s voice in the darkened hallway. He looked at his watch: three thirty. It was the middle of the night and he was wide awake. With a soft curse, he went to his bedroom to retrieve his toolbox, then made his way to the window seat.

  The light from the overhead bulb shone dimly into the small space, but Linc could see enough to know that the button released the entire side panel inside the seat. He could force it with a screwdriver or break it with a hammer, destroying it either way. But he just couldn’t wait any longer. It almost seemed as if there were an invisible pull forcing him to lift his screwdriver and jam it into the small crack in the edge of the panel. The splintering and heave of the wood didn’t bother him at all.

  He lifted the panel out and stared into the exposed secret compartment and blinked twice. Inside lay a stack of envelopes, their edges frayed and worn, held together by a rubber band. Sticking his hand inside, he pulled them out, the movement making the old rubber band break, then fall back inside the compartment.

  The paper was warped and bowed, as if the envelopes had been at one time exposed to extreme dampness. Lifting the stack to his face, he sniffed, and for the second time that night smelled ocean waves full of sea life.

  He sat down on the floor with his back against the seat and picked up the first envelope. It was blank, without even a name scribbled across the front, and the flap was intact, as if the envelope had never been sealed but just folded inside. Without pausing, he pulled out the letter and unfolded it. He stared at the bold black handwriting—definitely that of a male. Gooseflesh feathered the back of his neck, as if someone were standing behind him, reading over his shoulder.

  Without reading the first letter, he flipped through the rest of the letters and examined the handwriting again. All of them had been signed with the single initial M. Small pricks of recognition floated somewhere in the back of his brain. With a deep breath, he opened the first letter again and began to read.

  My dearest Lauren, it began, and Linc closed his eyes, not sure if he could go on. But he forced them open again and continued to read. At first, he didn’t realize that he was holding his breath until he had to gasp for air. He read letter after letter, feeling more and more as if he were sinking into the deep water of the ocean, his head drifting farther and farther from the surface.

  And then he felt as if somebody had punched him in the gut before he’d had a chance to prepare himself. He sat where he was, breathless, the feel of the paper against his skin his only connection to reality. This must be what it’s like to drown. He stumbled to his feet when the first roll of thunder sounded, but he didn’t move. All he could do was stand there and feel the anger, the hurt, the disbelief. When lightning flashed and the lights flickered, he moved toward the door.

  “Oh, God,” he said softly as he forced his feet to move in the direction of the stairs and then out of the house, as the first raindrops began to fall.

  Jillian rocked back and forth, watching Ford’s eyes drifting closed, his cheeks dimpling in brief smiles as sleep tugged him into the land of nod. He hummed to himself, a milk bubble forming on his lips, bursting only as his mouth opened in a huge yawn before settling in a wide, toothless grin. His eyes stayed closed this time, but his smile didn’t fade.

  She knew she was supposed to put him in the crib while he was still awake so he would learn to put himself to sleep, but there was something almost addictive about holding a drowsy baby. The sweet smell of him and his small, warm body against hers almost made her weep. She knew she must have felt the same with Gracie, but all of her memories of her first child seemed to be drowned in her own feelings of incompetence and self-doubt. But now, looking down at her son, she felt different. It was as if the salt-drenched air of the ocean and tidal creeks were breathing a newfound strength and courage into her. Or maybe they had been there all along, and she just hadn’t known where to find them. She leaned forward and kissed Ford’s cheek and sighed softly to herself. She still didn’t think she’d ever be the perfect mother. But she was here, now, for both of her children, and maybe that was enough.

  She rocked for a few minutes longer, reluctant to put him down, especially since Grace was spending the night with Mary Ellen again and Jillian would be on her own. Jillian lifted the baby from the crook of her arm and settled him on her shoulder, resting her cheek against his fuzzy head as she rocked. She spotted her bare thighs below her nightshirt, seeing the faint purple crescent scar that was so much a part of her now that it seemed it had always been there. It wasn’t as noticeable as it had once been, and one part of her wanted it to fade completely. But another part of her wanted it to stay, to remind her of things she should never forget.

  Standing suddenly, the chair rocked in her wake as she walked toward the crib. Ford murmured something in his sleep, reminding Jillian of how her grandmother used to say that children could talk to the angels. She kissed him again and whispered, “Put in a good word for me,” then placed him down in his crib. He stretched and wiggled to find a comfortable spot before Jillian pulled the yellow blanket Martha had given him up over his shoulders.

  The lights flickered briefly and she cast a worried look toward the window. It had rained several times since the stormy night of Ford’s birth, but nothing so severe that the electricity had been knocked out. A flash of fear ran through her, and she forced it back. She now had a flashlight with working batteries in every room.

  She bent to flip on Ford’s night-light, but stepped back quickly as a blur of black fur streaked by at her feet. Spot stopped long enough to look back at Jillian, as if to make sure he’d frightened her enough before continuing on his way in a more sedate walk. The lights flickered again as Jillian straightened. With one last glance over at the sleeping baby in the crib, Jillian left the room, leaving the door cracked open behind her.

  She flicked on every light she passed as she moved across the upstairs hallway and then down the stairs. She stopped on the bottom step when she saw Spot waiting at the front door, staring at it expectantly. Lightning flashed and the lights dimmed at the same time a knock sounded on the door.

  Swallowing heavily, Jillian made her way to the door and looked through the sidelight, feeling visible relief when she recognized Linc on the other side. She turned the latch and the wind pushed the door in toward her, almost knocking her back, and then she was moving back, but it was Linc who was pushing his way inside.

  She opened her mouth to say something but stopped when she caught sight of Linc’s face up close. He was pale under his tan, his lips tight and white rimmed. His eyes stared at her as if seeing somebody else, and she stepped back farther to put distance between them. He slammed the door closed.

  “Linc?” she managed. She was alarmed but not afraid. Not of Linc. He was soaking, his hair black and slicked back off his forehead. He stood dripping on her wood floor and was staring back at her. She hadn’
t seen him since their kiss earlier, and she wondered briefly if his agitated visit had anything to do with that. But when she stared back into his eyes, she couldn’t imagine that anything as beautiful as their kiss could wound a man as much as Linc appeared to be.

  It occurred to Jillian that it was probably somewhere near three in the morning. “The lights aren’t out yet, if that’s why you’re here. . . .”

  “What do you remember about your father when you were younger?”

  She furrowed her brows, his words taking her off guard. “My father? You know what my father was like. Why are you asking me this now?”

  Thunder shouted outside, rattling the windows, but Linc didn’t shift his gaze. Instead, he took a step toward her and gripped her shoulders. She met his eyes and saw confusion, hurt and anger in the same moment she realized that none was directed at her but at some faraway person or thing that still had the power to cut him down. It seemed that all the strength and power Linc harbored were as impotent to him now as a ship’s sail in a hurricane wind.

  Linc moved his face close to hers. “We need to talk—now.”

  Instead of pushing him away, she moved her hands up and cupped his hands. It was a maternal gesture, meant to comfort, and she fleetingly wondered how she had known to do that. She spoke softly. “Come with me to the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee, and you can dry off and then we’ll talk.”

  He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “All right.”

  She turned from him, and she felt him follow her to the kitchen, pausing behind her briefly as she stopped in the powder room to grab a couple of hand towels.

  He sat at the large oak table while she began making the coffee and putting together a plate of brownies. She turned to put the plate in front of him and almost dropped it. He had stripped off his shirt, revealing a smooth, muscled chest and arms. He was watching her as a predator would watch its prey, and he no longer resembled the respected architect she had become used to. This was the raw man the young Linc she remembered had grown to be. He was unmasked now, and she felt something ripple through her, something that felt remarkably like desire.