The Sound of Light

by Claire Wallis

  The sad truth is that most people are too busy to hear these days. They just go about their business, listening to the requests of their boss, their child, their spouse, their neighbor, and trying to fulfill those requests with some kind of action. But they don’t really hear anything in the process. They don’t have the chance to open their hearts to someone else’s life. There’s no time for it. Their own life is moving too fast. But what they fail to see is that it only takes a minute to open your heart wide enough to hear someone. It only takes a single question to spark a story that takes but a moment to be heard.

  There’s so much to be learned from even the quickest glimpse into someone else’s life. This is especially true of children. Our children deserve to be heard more than anyone else. I wish parents wouldn’t just listen to their child’s requests and try to fulfill them with mindless immediacy. Instead, I wish they would stop and really hear their child. Hear the desires of their child’s heart, hear about her accomplishments, her struggles and fears, no matter how small or trivial they might seem to grown-up ears. Because to a child, these things are the world, and the only way you can learn what a child is like on the inside is to hear them talk about their world.

  But most people can’t do it. They can’t hear because they’re too busy listening.

  In all my days on this Earth, the only other person I found who understood how to hear people as well as me was K’acy McGee. From the moment they wheeled me into Pine Manor, I watched her hear people. She could take the smallest moment and fill it with a tiny slice of someone’s life by asking a simple question that would invoke a memory. She did it to me countless times, without me even realizing what she was doing. Later, I’d get to thinking about our conversation and realize what she’d done, and it would always make me smile. For the first time in my life, I was the one who felt heard.

  That girl was special to me, and I like to think I was special to her, too. Not only did she hear about my life, but I heard about hers as well. She told me about her father and her sister and everything they’d been through. Sometimes, she’d come in on her days off and play her bass guitar for me, its deep notes echoing off the walls of my tiny room. When it got close to the end, she’d stay with me, long into the night. She’d read to me, or we’d watch TV together, or she’d share some special memory, usually about her momma’s cooking.

  I knew about her and she knew about me. We heard each other in equal measure. I don’t know why God made her like he did, but I sure was glad to be a part of it.

  The night I died, I told her how important she is and that the world is lucky to have her walking around on it. I asked her not to be sad about me dying, but to be happy for the chance to know the next person who’s going to sleep in my bed. I assured her they’ll have a different story to tell, and their story will somehow bring her all of the happiness she deserves.

  I promised her the next person to fill my room will offer her the one thing she needs but doesn’t yet have: love.

  I told her all this without a second’s hesitation because you never know when and how love will come into your life. And, sometimes, if someone tells you it’s coming, it’s easier for you to find.

  I saw the displeasure in Sondra’s eyes that night as she stood behind K’acy only long enough to hear my promise. But it didn’t matter, because Sondra is one of those wall builders who never puts faith in her own emotions. She just tries to hide behind the wall and ignore how she feels. She offered me nothing but a small, disapproving shake of the head before turning her back on us and walking out of the room, no doubt to pretend she didn’t care.

  An hour later, I was gone. K’acy ushered me out with all the compassion any human being could ever ask for. I saw it and I felt it. And I understood.

  CHAPTER 31

  I’ve had this feeling before. Just over six years ago. The day after my father died. When Charlie didn’t show up at the funeral home to help me plan the service. I hadn’t seen anything different in her eyes when I left her a few hours before, and yet, when she didn’t come, I knew something was wrong. It feels that way again, like a giant sinkhole has opened up beneath my feet and swallowed me whole, closing over on itself and trapping me inside. Charlie wears the physical scars of that night, slashes of scar tissue across her wrists. But tonight, it’s my invisible scars that are humming with fear. They remember this feeling.

  I watch the numbers on the clock, willing 10:46 to never arrive.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jarrod’s head tilt with curiosity and his eyes narrow as he slides off his barstool and starts walking toward me. He seems to be moving in slow motion, with Grace in the background, her hands resting on her lap. As Jarrod moves closer to the stage, my mind snaps to attention, and I reach behind me to pull my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans.

  There is no message from Adam.

  Jarrod steps onto the stage in front of me, and I hear the low din of bar noises start to fill the room. Before I can even raise my head to look up at him, I hear him talking.

  “Kace. What’s up, girl? You okay?” His hands are on my shoulders.

  The moment I lift my head, I see it behind him.

  10:44. In neon red. Screaming at me.

  After sliding my phone back into my pocket, I lift the StingRay’s leather strap up over my head, knocking Jarrod’s hands off my shoulders. As I walk over to the stand and put it down, I brush my father’s cobweb with the tips of my fingers, feeling absolutely nothing through the numbness of my skin. The sinkhole squeezes me tighter, gripping my heart and stealing my breath. I want to cry.

  One of Jarrod’s hands is on my shoulder again, gently turning me around until we’re face-to-face.

  “What’s going on?” His expression is soft.

  I don’t know what makes me say it, but I do.

  “I think something bad is about to happen to Adam.” Jarrod lifts his hand from my shoulder and brushes it against the side of his chin. “He’s supposed to be here right now, and he’s not.” My tears are stuck in the bundle of nerves now clogging the back of my throat. I swallow hard, hoping to keep them from rushing out.

  “The man’s just late, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Words come out of me, faster than I can control them. I’m surprised at how angry they sound. “He’s not just late, Jar. Something is happening.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t… Just forget it.” I cross my arms over my chest and look away.

  Grace is next to him then, putting her arm around his waist and asking us both if everything is okay. Jarrod tells her everything is fine. He tells her I’m just worried because Adam is running late. She mentions that traffic might be bad because of some ballgame. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  10:45.

  I turn to pack up the StingRay, holding in my tears and wondering how in God’s name I’m going to do this.

  Then, from behind me, I hear Jarrod’s voice.

  “Told you the man was just running late.”

  The tension leaves my body the instant I see him. The sinkhole opens wide and spits me back out again, the force of it filling my lungs with a new, full breath of air. I can’t help myself. I’m at a near run when I slam into Adam, jumping into his arms and wrapping my entire body around his. Dark folded around light, covering it with love.

  A few seconds later, I let go. Trepidation sinks its bitter claws into me when I realize he isn’t squeezing me back. He is just standing there, letting me hug him but giving me nothing in return. I look up to find his face solid and unemotional.

  “What’s going on? Are you okay?” My voice is on the edge of tears again, ripped apart by a muddled concoction of confusion and cautious relief.

  In the second of silence before he speaks, the red neon switches to 10:46.

  “He told me about your deal, K’acy. He said you took the money.”

  The sinkhole bursts open again, this time filling with a surging tidal w
ave of disgust and fear. It washes over me and drags me under as searing bubbles of hatred scorch my skin.

  I picture Winston Sinclair’s body bursting into flames. His flesh melting away at the hands of the hottest fires of hell. His nerve endings blistering with pain so intense it would make the devil himself shudder. His eyes shriveling into burned-up bits of flesh, leaving him blind to everything but the charred memories of a life he’ll no longer have. I picture the pain. His pain. And I relish the knowledge that it is real. It is happening. Right now. Even as my own heart is being ripped out of my chest, Winston Sinclair’s suffering is all I can see. It’s all I want. Wrong or right, I’m heady with elation at the thought of it. I want him to experience every single second of the agony to come. I want his pain to be as intense as a billion atom bombs.

  I want him to suffer.

  I watch the movie—his movie—inside my head, remembering every detail and watching them all unfold in my mind exactly as it’s happening in real life. Six miles away. In front of the Star City National Bank.

  I don’t know what words to say to Adam, so I don’t say anything at all. I just stare at him as the movie inside of my head comes to its climax. Winston Sinclair’s burning body stumbles out of his crumpled, flame-engulfed car. He drops to the asphalt as a bystander throws a jacket over him to smother the flames. Black smoke wafts from his body. He’s screaming.

  The bank sign behind the car glows a brilliant green. 10:46, 58 F, September 20, Refinance TODAY.

  As soon as I see the sirens, I deliberately stop the movie in its tracks. I know the rest already. I know what happens next, and I don’t need to see anything else to know how the story ends.

  Adam’s voice snaps me back to reality and out of Mr. Sinclair’s movie.

  “I meant it, you know…every time I said I love you.”

  I can only look at him, my eyes open wide, struck with the knowledge that fixing this is impossible. Winston Sinclair will never be able to take it back. And I will never be able to explain it. There is nothing I can tell Adam—no reason for doing what I did—that will be good enough to fix this. Except maybe for the truth. And I can never tell him that. Because he won’t understand.

  He stands in front of me, in all his bed-headed glory, wounded and heartbroken. Mystified.

  Adam turns on his heels and starts walking toward the door.

  I say the only thing that feels right, even though I don’t think he can hear me.

  “Copy that and send it back.”

  As soon as the door closes behind him, Jarrod and Grace are at my side. My tears burst free in a rush of salty anger and grief. I bury my face in my hands, damning myself for being stupid enough to take Winston Sinclair’s money. Foolishness and regret stab at my heart, tearing it open and filling my veins with a whirlwind of disjointed, reckless notes, all of them out of tune and full of despair.

  I’ve broken us, and there’s no turning back. Destiny—and Miriam Hansen—had it wrong after all.

  “What the hell is going on?” Jarrod asks through my sobs, rubbing my hunched back in small, comforting circles. I can’t answer his question. I can only tell him I need to leave. I walk back to the stage, grab the StingRay, and head for the door, leaving Jarrod and his wispy, dark-haired savior slack-jawed with confusion.

  Just as the door to The King’s Court closes behind me, I see Adam’s Passat turn the corner onto Cohosh Street, the brake lights signaling his departure with another unwelcome jolt of neon red. I want to run after him, to chase his car until I fall over with exhaustion, screaming my apology and begging him to forgive me for what I’ve done.

  A new burst of sadness rips through me just as I hear the squeal of car tires from across the street. I turn around to see Perry Devine’s car peel out of its parking space and tear off down the street, no doubt after receiving word about what happened six miles away. In front of the Star City National Bank.

  BY THE TIME I’m standing in front of the glass doors, it’s nearly midnight. I slide my keycard through the slot, never believing for one second it will work. But, when the doors glide open and I see the leather wingchairs arranged in their perfect rows, I know Susan Campbell never believed him in the first place. Because if she did, she would’ve deactivated my keycard.

  I walk past Ms. Sinclair’s vacant seat at the lobby window, the exterior floodlights illuminating her birdfeeder. It’s empty and quiet, and it hurts me to know no one has paid attention to filling it for her while I’ve been gone.

  Like every other night, the front desk is unstaffed. The skeleton crew of night-shift nurses and aides are either busy helping someone to the bathroom, changing a soiled bed linen, or conversing about something in the back room. I hurry down the hallway, my gig bag in tow, and quietly open Evelyn Sinclair’s door.

  She’s sound asleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that’s happened to her son. Her breathing is steady and quiet. The bathroom light is on, no doubt to serve as a reminder for her to pull her call cord for help if she needs to get out of bed. The small pile of empty cellophane candy wrappers on her bedside table glints in the bathroom’s dull light. I walk across the room, past the foot of her bed, and place my gig bag on the floor before taking a seat in her recliner. More tears come then, when I see the framed photo someone has placed on her dresser. It’s an image of Adam as a young boy, perhaps five or six. She’s standing behind him with her hands on his shoulders. Her hair is in a bun; a clump of his is standing straight up in a little kid version of bed-head. They’re both smiling, filled with joy and obvious love. I can only guess Adam put it there to help her remember. My tears are silent, but they keep coming. I don’t think I could stop them if I wanted to, so I let them fall until my face is puffed with exhaustion. When they finally stop, I wipe them away with the back of my hand and rise to my feet. I straighten Ms. Sinclair’s covers before sitting down on the edge of her bed. I don’t know why, but I start talking.

  In my quietest whisper, I tell her everything that’s happened. I tell her I fell in love with her grandson and he loves me back. I tell her about what happened when he found out about my deal with his father and how much hope I have for Charlie now that she has enough money to get back on her feet. The whole time I’m talking, Ms. Sinclair’s breath is unwavering and her eyes stay closed. She sleeps through every word, but it feels good to get it out, even if my words fall only on her deaf ears.

  The last thing I tell Ms. Sinclair is the story of her son. I tell her about the accident and how difficult it’s going to be for him for the next few days. She doesn’t stir, so I just keep talking until I’ve said everything I need to say.

  Then, I ask her what I should do next. I ask her if there’s anything I can do to make Adam understand. But she doesn’t answer. No one does.

  I sit on the edge of her bed for a few more minutes, watching her sleep and thinking about how quickly life can change. I touch her hair with the tips of my fingers, remembering how many times I sat on the edge of my father’s bed, just like this. When he got too weak to eat, I would sit with a glass of chalky nutrition drink, holding the straw to his mouth and begging him to take a sip.

  Just one sip. Please.

  On “good” days, I would sit and read to him, but not from the Bible. From Louis Armstrong: In His Own Words. Sometimes, I’d give him a shave or brush his teeth from my place on the edge of his bed. He never once asked me to leave him alone. Even when he couldn’t tell me so, I knew he was glad I was there.

  I’ve sat on the edge of lots of other beds over the past six years, too, offering my compassion and comfort when no one else could.

  It’s what I do. It’s who I am.

  A smack of sudden shame barrels through me when I realize taking pleasure in Winston Sinclair’s suffering is against everything I am. Even if he isn’t the kind of person who deserves forgiveness, he’s still a human being, and no human being deserves to endure the pain that’s been thrust upon him. Wanting him to hurt is not a part of me; it’s a part of my ang
er, and I’m embarrassed to have embraced it, even temporarily. I’ve given meaning to my life by using my gift to care for people, and I can’t let Winston Sinclair change that. I can’t let him change me.

  My father would never forgive me if I did.

  I touch Ms. Sinclair’s hair one last time, and tell her goodbye. Then, I promise her I’ll take care of her son.

  I’m just about to stand up and leave when the door opens.

  Sondra is there, holding the door handle in her right hand and a clipboard in her left. A lick of surprise streaks across her face the moment she sees me.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What the hell are you doing here?” Her voice may be at a near whisper, but her shock is loud and clear. Before I can answer, she turns and glances down the hallway then quickly steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

  “I’m sorry. I was just leaving.” I stand and bend over to pick up my gig bag. When she sees it, she nods in understanding, obviously thinking I came to play for Ms. Sinclair, just like I used to play for Miriam Hansen.

  “This woman has already had enough activity for one day,” Sondra whispers as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve already had to kick two people out of her room tonight, don’t make me kick you out, too, girl.”

  I shake my head and furrow my brow. “You had to what?”

  We start walking toward each other, meeting at the foot of Ms. Sinclair’s bed. The whispers between us continue as soon as we’re within arm’s distance. “Your boyfriend and his father were in here arguing like a couple of fools in front of the poor woman. I could hear them all the way down in Mr. Rauch’s room. I had to tell them both to leave.”