The Sound of Light

by Claire Wallis

  “Nope.” He keeps staring down the street, as if something there is worth watching.

  “Maybe you should find yourself a nice, quiet librarian or a kindergarten teacher or something. You know…someone who prefers not to have her ankles bouncing around her ears ten minutes after you meet.”

  “Very funny, K’acy. Very funny.” He turns back to me with a snarl on his lips and a playful flicker in his eye. “You really should stick to bass playing and skip the stand-up.”

  “Then stop making it so easy for me to get my licks in.”

  “Don’t think I won’t kick your ass just ’cause you’re a black girl. I don’t mind making the six o’clock news.”

  “You won’t kick my ass, Jar. But it isn’t because I’m a black woman. It’s because you know I’m right. Even though you’re never gonna admit it.”

  “Admit what?” he says, lifting his palms in mock confusion. “That you’re a woman?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Never mind. Go with the ankles-to-her-ears women for as long as you want. No skin off my back. It’s probably better for the kindergarten teachers of the world anyway.”

  “And the librarians.”

  “Especially the librarians.”

  He looks away again, down the street. We sit in silence for a few minutes, passing the cigarette between us, each stuck in our own thoughts, mine focusing on why he refuses to acknowledge that he deserves more than a never-ending chain of superficial one-night stands. He deserves a perfect life. Just like I do. Just like everyone does. Until it’s proven otherwise. Crackerjack Townhouse may have saved him from wasting away, but now he has to put his balls on and save himself from everything else.

  “Stevie called me today,” Jarrod says eventually. “He said we got the gig.” He’s changed the subject enough to look at me again, his light hair vibrating in the wind.

  “The one at The Upstage?”

  “Yep. He says the promoter’s gonna set us up with an opener. Apparently the guy knows some funk players from Jersey. Says they’re worth hooking up with for a show.”

  “We’re headlining though, right?”

  “I asked the exact same thing. Stevie says yes. He put in for a demo to make sure they’re a good fit.”

  “Do you trust him to make the call?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jarrod drops the cigarette on the bottom step and snuffs it out with the ball of his foot. Something in the gesture makes me want to hug him and tell him everything will be all right, assure him that neither one of us will fall off the edge again. I’ve never said the words out loud, but he’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Or ever will have. And that includes my big sister, Charlie.

  “You wanna go get something to eat?” I ask.

  “No, thanks. I gotta go to work. I’m pulling an eight-to-four at the call center. Cross your fingers for a slow night.”

  I intertwine the first two fingers of each of my hands and raise them up in front of my face. “Fingers crossed that no one’s cable goes out in the next eight hours.”

  Jarrod lifts a pair of closed fists out in front of his chest, and a second later, a double fist-bump echoes between us, vibrating with unspoken understanding and love. Just like my bass strings.

  Right after Jarrod rounds the corner onto Barberry Street and I walk inside, my cell phone rings. I don’t know the number, but I do know 985 is a Louisiana area code. My heart rises in my chest.

  I slide my finger against the screen and lift the phone to my ear as I close my apartment door behind me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Robert McGee—1990

  I missed the birth of my second baby girl last night. Louise said she tried to call to tell me she was taking Charlie to her aunt’s house and then going up to Terrebonne General, but the bartender didn’t hear the phone ringing on account of the music being too loud. It’s a jazz club, so loud is the way it’s gotta be. When we get going, there’s no way the bartender’s ever gonna hear the phone ringing. The horns are just too loud. Unless we’re playing a down-tempo piece. But Louise said she called at one in the morning, and we don’t play no down-tempo pieces at one in the morning. By then, we’re dropping the notes loud and hard, like the whiskey’s free and there ain’t no tomorrow.

  So I missed it. I missed my second baby girl meeting the world for the very first time. And it hurts my insides.

  When I got home at five o’clock, just before the sun lifted up over the horizon, I saw the empty beds and knew Louise must’ve gone to the hospital. I figured she just called herself a jitney…till I saw her car was gone from the back shed. It was then I knew she didn’t take a jitney; she drove herself and Charlie to the hospital, and knowing it made me angry. Because she should’ve known better. She should’ve had more sense than to risk our little baby girl being born in a car on the side of the freeway while her big sister watched.

  But then I got to thinking, and I decided I really only have myself to be mad at, ’cause I never should’ve gone to play last night in the first place. I never should’ve walked out the front door with my trumpet case in hand and the mouthpiece knockin’ around in my pocket like a piece of loose change. Instead, I should’ve called Martin and told him they’d need to find another horn player for the night because my wife was having cramps in her stomach that more than likely came from something besides the dove sandwich she had for dinner. That’s what I should’ve done. But I didn’t. Louise didn’t ask me to stay neither, ’cause she’s not that kinda woman, but I should’ve known better. And now I’m holding my new baby girl in my arms and thinking about how much I’m gonna have to make it up to her.

  For the rest of my life, I’m gonna show K’acy that she and her big sister are the most important people in the whole world. I’m gonna prove to both of them that where you come from or how much money you have in your wallet is not what makes you special. ’Cause special comes from the inside. Special comes from doing the right thing, every time. Every. Time. Without excuses or regrets. You always gotta do what you know is right.

  Me missing the birth of my new baby girl will be the last wrong thing I ever do. It will be my life’s one and only regret. And I’ll never forgive myself for it.

  Now, I’m gonna sit here—in this hospital—for the rest of the day, holding my baby girl and telling my wife over and over again how sorry I am that I wasn’t here to hold her hand. ’Cause come tomorrow morning, I’ll have to go back to the quarry, blasting limestone for a smidge over minimum wage so I can keep clothes on the backs of all my beautiful girls.

  CHAPTER 4

  My big sister is a fool. She’s on the other end of the phone, asking me for money. Again. Why doesn’t she believe me when I tell her I don’t have a single dime to spare? She says she’s calling me from a “friend’s” phone, yet I hear a man’s voice in the background. He’s telling her what to say. No, change that. He’s not telling her, he’s ordering her. I don’t like it.

  “I’m sorry, but I told you the last time you called, Charlie, I’m barely making my rent. I want to help you, really I do, but I can’t.”

  “What about selling Daddy’s wedding ring? You still have it, don’t you?”

  If she thinks for one second that I’m going to sell my father’s wedding ring so I can send her a couple hundred bucks for some man to gamble away, she’s an even bigger fool than I thought. I hear the man’s voice in the background again. He sounds even angrier than he did before.

  “There’s no way in hell I’m selling Daddy’s ring. And whatever man you have there with you—bossing you around like you’re his to boss—needs to shut up. You are not his bank, Charlie, and neither am I.”

  She’s just like Jarrod. She doesn’t see that she deserves a perfect life. Even though our daddy tried over and over again to show her she does. Charlie’s just different like that. Some shrink would probably say it has something to do with low self-esteem, but I think it’s just ’cause she’s lost without our momma. No matter how hard Daddy tried to fill in t
he blank, it wasn’t the same as it was when Momma was around. Not for Charlie, anyway.

  “Listen,” I continue before she can argue, “I love you. You know I do. But you have to stop listening to the what’s-his-face standing next to you and start listening to your own common sense instead.”

  There’s a long pause before she offers a reply. “I know,” she says softly.

  In those two words, I hear so much. I hear resignation and exhaustion. Maybe even a bit of comprehension. But I hear no bitterness or anger. Maybe I got through to her this time. Maybe she’s starting to understand.

  “Do yourself a favor and dump the what’s-his-face, okay?”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Do it, Charlie. I’m serious.”

  “Bye.”

  Before I can say a goodbye of my own, she’s gone.

  MS. SINCLAIR IS bright-eyed when I get to work on Monday morning. In fact, she’s more active than I’ve seen her in a long time. When I walk into her room, I’m surprised to see she’s already managed to get herself dressed. She looks sweet in her bubblegum-pink sweater set with matching polyester pants. On her left side, just above her heart, is a gold brooch. It’s an owl with big, sparkly eyes. It’s a costume piece, but it glistens in the light as if it were made of solid gold and real diamonds, instead of gold-plated nickel and rhinestones.

  “Did you hear the news, dear? He’s coming to see me today.” She looks at me, and I feel sad. I don’t want her to be disappointed when “he” doesn’t show up. Again. But I also can’t bear to be the one to have to tell her “he” isn’t coming because “he” probably doesn’t even exist. I think for a moment about what I should say next. I need words that will neither encourage her delusion, nor tear her down.

  “Would you like me to comb your hair and put some blush on your cheeks?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. I would like that very much. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Sinclair.” I straighten her hair with the ancient tortoiseshell comb she brought with her when the county moved her in. Then I brush a streak of pink powder across her pale cheeks from the compact in her bathroom drawer. She’s wearing the biggest smile when she looks at herself in her hand mirror, and it breaks my heart to know no one is coming to visit her today.

  “Would you like to go and see your birds now? I think there’s been a woodpecker at the feeder the last few days. Would you be able to tell me what kind it is?” I’m trying to distract her with a change of subject. Trying to distract myself.

  “I bet it’s a downy woodpecker. Or maybe a red-bellied. They’re beautiful birds, you know. Let’s go see, shall we?”

  I help her take a seat in her wheelchair and push her out into the lobby, situating the chair next to the front window and listening to her describe each of the birds as they come and go. I sit with her for a good ten minutes before Sondra nods at me from across the room to let me know it’s time to get everyone to the cafeteria for breakfast and bingo.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, most of the residents like to take a nap. It’s a good time for me and the rest of the aides to catch up on our paperwork and do a little housekeeping. I’m realigning the wingchairs in the lobby when the glass entry doors slide open. Every time I hear the familiar whir of the door, I instinctively look. Just in case one of the residents has lost their bearings, or they forgot they live here now, instead of in their two-story Colonial over on Maple Street. I want to make sure no one wanders off and gets lost. Intentionally or not.

  When I look toward the door, I don’t see any of our residents. Instead, there’s a man there, looking back at me. He’s young. And he looks a little lost himself. He’s got his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and there’s a small bouquet of daisies tucked into the breast pocket of his plaid button-down. I immediately think he looks like the kind of guy who listens to Death Cab for Cutie or The Shins. The kind of guy that’s not overly interested in fitting in, but yet doesn’t wanna step too far out of the box. The hair on his head confirms the same. Controlled bed-head, Jarrod calls it. Purposefully disheveled.

  Once he’s inside the door, the man looks over at the front counter as if he doesn’t know what to do next. I’m guessing this is his first time at Pine Manor…or any other assisted living facility, for that matter.

  “You have to sign in here, sir.” Apparently Marie has noticed he’s a first-timer, too.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you. It’s my first time visiting. I wasn’t quite sure what to do.” He walks over and signs his name on the clipboard sitting on the counter in front of Marie. “I’m here to see Evelyn Sinclair. Can you tell me where I might find her?”

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  “She’s around the corner and down the hallway. Room 112.” Marie’s voice is as surprised as I’ve ever heard it. She’s usually an emotionless robot, so frankly, any inflection in her voice is a surprise. Even Marie knows this is Ms. Sinclair’s very first guest.

  “Thanks.” He puts his hands back into his pockets and walks right past me on his way to her room, smiling and nodding in greeting as he passes. As soon as he rounds the corner, I’m practically running to read the sign-in sheet.

  “Is that Bradley? How did she know he was coming?” I ask, mostly to myself, because Marie’s already turned her back and walked away. I look down at the most recent name on the sign-in sheet.

  Adam Sinclair.

  It’s not Bradley, but at least he’s got the right last name.

  I’m glad I combed her hair.

  Ms. Sinclair has a guest! After four months without a single visitor, she finally “gets company.” I want to smack the guy for taking so damn long.

  I know I shouldn’t, but a few minutes later, I find myself walking down the hallway and stopping just outside her open door. Eavesdropping is against the house rules, but this isn’t really eavesdropping; it’s a safety check. I’m just making sure Adam Sinclair isn’t stealing her owl brooch or something. As I stand in the hallway, completely out of their sight, all I can hear is the unwrapping of a peppermint candy. No voices. No television. No other movement. It’s quiet, except for the crunchy cellophane symphony of one of Ms. Sinclair’s candies.

  I look down at my shoes, suddenly ashamed to have followed him back here under the guise of a safety check. The poor guy is probably just trying to visit his Great Aunt Evelyn in peace, and here I am, treating him like he’s some kind of a thug. Nothing about him seemed suspicious, yet it took him so long to come see her that I can’t help but be guarded. I just don’t want her to get hurt.

  Me and my nosiness are just about to leave when Adam Sinclair comes out of the doorway, rounding the corner like a shot of lightning and running smack into me, nearly knocking me on my ass. He grabs my upper arms to keep me from falling backward and continues holding on to them until I regain my balance. Then he lets go.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were out here. Are you okay?” The daisies in his pocket have been smashed flat; their little necks broken and flopping forward, reminding me of life’s frailty and causing Miriam Hansen’s death to poke at my heart yet again.

  “No. It’s my fault, really. I’m fine. I was just coming to give Ms. Sinclair her medication. I shouldn’t have been walking so close to the door.” Good save, K’acy. Better than declaring it some bogus safety check.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” His breath smells like peppermint.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Are you one of my gram’s nurses?”

  Oh. Adam Sinclair is not her nephew. He’s her grandson. I didn’t even know she had any children. All she ever talks about are her birds and her students. And someone named Bradley.

  “No. I’m an aide.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks for taking such good care of her. She looks pretty comfortable in there. She’s out like a light. I was gonna go get a cup of coffee or something until she wakes up. I didn’t want to disturb her, but if you have to wake her for her medication…”

  “No. Th
at’s all right. I can wait until later. Whenever she wakes up is fine.” I’m standing in front of him, not knowing what to say next. I wish I was still out in the lobby straightening the leather wingchairs. “The coffee pot is in the back of the dining hall. You’ll see it.”

  “Okay. Cool. I’m Adam, by the way. Adam Sinclair.” He offers a hand for me to shake, and the instant our palms connect, I hear the bass riff from the bridge of “Soul to Squeeze” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers in my head. It’s more thought-provoking than I want it to be.

  “Nice to meet you, Adam Sinclair. I’m K’acy McGee. Chief wheelchair pusher and sponge bather.” He smiles and tilts his head, looking at me as if I belong in a 1920s Ringling Brothers sideshow. Then, because I can’t help myself, I shrug and add, “Someone’s gotta keep these people in line.”

  He doesn’t miss a single beat before opening his mouth and saying, “Gram always has been a rebel.”

  I’m considering asking him if it runs in the family, when I hear Ms. Sinclair’s voice.

  “Bradley? Is that you?”

  Adam raises his eyebrows at me, quickly puts his hands in his pockets, and turns away, walking back through the doorway and into her room. “No, Gram. It’s me, Adam.”

  “Oh, Adam!” There is unmistakable joy in those two words, and a jolt of happiness runs through me. But an instant later, when the next string of words comes out, her voice contains more confusion than joy. “Why are you here? Where’s your father?”

  I hear Adam sigh. “I came to visit you, Gram. Because I haven’t seen you in a really long time, and I missed you.”

  “Where were you?” she asks. I can’t believe I’m still standing in this hallway, not eavesdropping. There’s a long pause before he answers.

  “In Seattle. At grad school.” His voice is tentative.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Now I remember.” She seems to have forgotten her inquiry about Adam’s father, and his obvious avoidance of the question gives me the impression that it’s something he himself would rather not discuss.