When Light Breaks

by Patti Callahan Henry

  Maeve turned to me now. “Do you know this pain I mean, when you look and look and want and want and don’t find?”

  I nodded my head, which was heavy and full of unshed tears.

  “You know,” she said. “Already you know.”

  She took a deep breath. “Then the boy—the one who’d answered the door—runs from us. The nun reaches for him, grabs his ear. He lets out a yelp like a puppy. He flicks her hand away and runs through the hall. The nun looks down at me. ‘Do your mam and da know where you are?’ she asks.

  “I still believe she will be the one to help me, but doubts creep in and I do something I have never done: I lie to a nun. I wait for the bolt of lightning, the earth to swallow me whole. But this is my mission—to find Richard. I tell her that my mam has sent me to find him, as he is our neighbor and should live with us and not in a state home. Then this nun stands, calls out in a voice that sends shivers down my spine. Another tall, thin nun appears and looks at me. ‘This girl states she is looking for a Richard and that she has been sent by her mam to find him. Do you know such a child?’

  “The other nun says ‘no.’ I hang my head and turn away. When I open the large doors, the tattered boy runs to me, reaches my side, looks up at me. ‘Richard is here. He’s here,’ he tells me. The nuns grab him by the cuff of his collar, pull him away. The older nun leans down and looks into my face and tells me, ‘This poor child lost his mind long ago. God bless his soul. He also thinks St. Patrick lives here.’ I nod at her, but I am feeling it for the first time.”

  Maeve paused; I squeezed her hand. “Feeling what?”

  “The Spirit talk to me.”

  “The spirit?” Maybe Maeve was too senile to tell this story.

  “Our prayer, the prayer of St. Patrick. ‘Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ at my right, Christ at my left.’

  “I’d heard these words since I was a child; I probably heard Mam’s words echoing inside me. But it is there, in the Industrial School, that I finally feel it and know what it means as the Spirit whispers in my ear, ‘He is here.’ And I see the nun’s terrible lie spin and shimmer around me.”

  “Richard was there?” I asked.

  “Yes, he is there and I feel it in every way as the door slams behind me. I stand outside that locked door and weep as I have never wept. My world closes around me as evil threatens my soul. I have never experienced it before, as even in Richard’s parents’ death I felt only sorrow and grief, not evil.

  “This is a terrible revelation for a child—that evil exists beyond the bogeyman and the drunk father.”

  I nodded.

  Maeve looked at me; tears filled her eyes, but did not fall. “Richard comes out a side door, bursts into the lane. We fall into each other’s arms, weep and hold on to each other. He is thin, so frightfully skinny I think he will break beneath my weeping. His clothes are more tattered than the rags my mum uses to clean the hearth.”

  “Maeve, you saved his life,” I said as quietly as if we were in the lane, whispering to escape the nuns.

  “But, Kara, it was for that moment only that I saved him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I took him home to my family knowing that they would take him in.”

  “And of course they did.” I lifted my hands.

  She shook her head so furiously that hairpins scattered, her bun released and her braids fell to her shoulders. “Three nights later, while I was sleeping, they came and took him again.”

  “Who took him?”

  “The Irish state. Mam and Da had called—afraid that Richard would bring peril to our family.”

  “Dear God, Maeve.”

  “You must understand the times, Kara. It wasn’t as it is now—there was mysticism mixed with religion mixed with ideas of the revolution. The Irish Civil War had started that year—1922. Michael Collins was assassinated. There was much fear. My mam and da still adhered to some of the Brehon Laws. According to this law, marrying Richard would have meant a level five or six in the Brehon order. I was too young to marry, too young to know my own heart, they said. Da only wanted a level-one marriage for me. This meant my husband and I must be equal—with the same financial means and from the same class. These were confusing times, and Richard’s mam and da had been involved in the Resistance. My mam was scared out of her mind that evil would come to us through Richard’s family.”

  “What did you do?”

  She looked at me, but her eyes were glazed, as though she wore thick contacts over her pupils. “It is the ache, you know?”

  “The ache?”

  “For him. For that time. For that adoration. But life is so much more than the ache you feel for the person or place. What you remember about that person, about that place has much more to do with what you felt then—an expansive time when you felt the most loved and believed you were loved.”

  “But Richard . . . where was he?”

  “Of course I went again to find him, but he was truly gone now. My Richard O’Leary.”

  “O’Leary?”

  Maeve’s head rolled back onto the bench. “When you felt the most loved.” She released a long, hollow breath. Her gaze wandered upward to the crystalline sky. Her body slumped forward. Her legs splayed open, forming a tent of her robe. My limbs went numb.

  “Help over here,” I screamed, and grabbed Maeve’s body to keep it from falling to the ground.

  White coats, hollering voices came running. They held Maeve, carried her to the building on a stretcher. I followed them. “What’s wrong with her? What happened? Is she okay?” Questions flew out of me like birds released from a cage; frenetic, eager, not knowing which way to go.

  A nurse turned and grabbed my arm. “Stop. We will come and get you when we know what’s going on. Why did you take her outside?”

  “She wanted to go.” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the tears from coming.

  “Mrs. Mahoney is not supposed to be out of bed without a nurse.”

  “No one told me that.”

  “You volunteers are supposed to ask for permission to go anywhere with these residents.”

  “I’m sorry, so sorry. I wanted to help her, let her get some fresh air.”

  The nurse placed her hand on my arm. “We’ll come get you when we know something. You can wait in the lobby.”

  I nodded, fear mixing with my thoughts like the mud and sand at the marsh edge—unable to separate one from the other. I sat in the lobby and stared at the taupe-colored walls and the poster announcing Tuesday night bingo. Scattered thoughts, which would not stick for more than a moment, twisted inside me: Christ behind me, Industrial Schools, mail the invitations, Xerox the forms for Friday, tattered clothing, Christ under me, pot roast with potatoes, hints of the heart, Deirdre’s anger. Each thought begged for attention, and yet I sat in the lobby and observed them as passing strangers.

  Finally I shook my hair out of its rubber band, walked to the front desk. “Any more information?” I asked the volunteer.

  “On?” The woman in a shapeless tent dress looked up at me.

  “Maeve Mahoney?”

  The woman raised her eyebrows. “They didn’t come tell you?”

  “No.” My throat constricted as if she’d leaned across the desk and grabbed my neck. “I guess I wouldn’t be asking you if they had.”

  She grimaced. “They took her to Memorial Hospital an hour ago.”

  “How did I miss them?”

  “They go out the back door so as not to frighten visitors and other residents.”

  I stepped toward the door with my heart beating differently—not faster, not slower, just more . . . sporadically, then I ran to my car to drive to Memorial Hospital.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Peyton sat across the restaurant table from me. My glass of wine sat untouched, my food growing cold as he stared at me.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, Kara. Have you lost your mi
nd?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I thought you’d think this was interesting, an adventure.”

  “Okay, let me get this straight. You want to add more work to your plate—give yourself one more thing to do.”

  I closed my eyes. He might be right—I didn’t need one more thing to do. I grimaced. “I’ve just been thinking about it and I thought I’d tell you.”

  Peyton wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then stood. “I’ll be right back.” He patted his waistband. “Mark is beeping me and I’ve been trying to get hold of him all day about this investment.”

  Peyton drew his cell phone from his side pocket and walked off. I nodded, picked up my fork, and pushed the uneaten food around on my plate. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up my newly born desire to go to photography school. When I got to Memorial Hospital that morning and was told Maeve was in a coma and I couldn’t see her, my first regret had been that I had never taken a picture of her. The more I realized how much I wanted one, how much I relied on my camera to preserve my life’s moments, the more I understood I wanted to learn about photography, about light and dark, about f-stops and film speeds.

  I’d called the Savannah College of Art and discovered that one could major in photography, that there were over thirty-five different classes I could take on the subject. My college degree was in management and had nothing to do with art, with photography. I’d gone online and sat for over an hour reading the descriptions of each photo class, of the myriad techniques I could master. My heart had sped up and I felt that, for the first time since Daddy told me what Mama had said, I understood what she meant by feeling the hints of the heart. I’d sent away for an application without knowing any details, without determining whether I’d take evening or day classes. All I’d understood was that I needed to know more.

  I wanted Peyton to be the first person I told, the first one to see and hear my new desire unfold. Now I only felt a bruise below my ribs, as if his negativity and disinterest had hit me from the inside like a dense punch.

  He sauntered around the corner, sat down. “Sorry, darling.”

  “I understand.” I dropped my fork onto the table.

  “So.” He took a sip of water. “How are the wedding plans coming along? Have you talked to Mom lately about the rehearsal dinner?”

  “Peyton—” I took a deep breath. “I was trying to tell you about—”

  “I know, I know—photography school. Are you sure this is a good time to be taking on another big project? Are you sure this is the right time to start something new? We’ve got a huge tournament, a wedding and a life to start. Going to SCAD would mean a long commute to Savannah. You have to look at all the factors here, Kara, be logical. Do you want to be going to school, working and raising a family?”

  “What?” My right hand clenched into a fist below the table.

  “Kara.” He leaned forward, grabbed my left hand in his. “I want you to pursue your . . . hobbies. I really do. I’m just trying to be the voice of reason here. Maybe there is a better time to do this.”

  I nodded, but felt as though he had just sunk my dreams with the anchor of reason. And he was probably right—I couldn’t do one more thing right now even if I wanted to, even if I was accepted into the program.

  “Let’s be rational,” he said. “If you’re talking about this to make me mad, to get back at me because of what I didn’t tell—”

  “Speaking of—I do have a couple questions about that.”

  He leaned back in his seat. “Go ahead, Kara. What do you want to know? I thought we reached the end of this last night.”

  “Who were they?”

  His answers were robotic, empty. “Mia Garbinski and Emily Williams.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know them.” I lifted my wineglass, tilted it toward Peyton. “Go ahead.”

  “Nothing else to tell.”

  “Who broke off the engagements?”

  “Me.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother couldn’t stand Mia and Emily was clingy and needy, freaked out about everything I ever did, everywhere I went.”

  “I’m not sure your mom likes me much, either.”

  He squeezed my hand. “I love you.”

  For the first time the words sounded hollow, empty of anything but the outline of the letters. “You do?”

  “How can you doubt that? Kara, I am so sorry about all of this. Please let it go. I can’t take it when you’re upset . . . but quitting your job, running off to take some art classes, will not get back at me.”

  “I am not quitting my job—I’m exploring my options. I just want you to understand something: I am not asking for your permission. I am telling you about it because you’re about to be my husband. I don’t know if I’ll do it, I don’t even know if I’d get in the program, but I really want to do it. I feel like it is . . .” I searched for the right word, then looked up to him. “A hint of who I’m supposed to be.”

  “What does that mean? That doesn’t make any sense at all. Of course you’re already who you’re supposed to be.” He held his hand out to me. “My sweet, adorable Kara.”

  My heart skittered across his words, like a flat rock thrown over the water, then sank. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them, reached across the table for his out-held hand.

  “Okay, let’s talk about something else. Tell me a little bit about this investment.”

  Conversation smoothed into our regular cadence while I waited for the waters inside my heart to quiet. When he dropped me off at home, he kissed me. “We’re okay, right?”

  “Perfect,” I said, and touched the side of his face.

  I stood on the porch and watched Peyton’s car disappear. Darkness came complete on that night. The stars and thin, waxing moon hid behind low clouds—as if someone had forgotten to turn on the night-light. I looked over to Jack’s old house.

  Could it have been only two days since I last saw him? It seemed as though a lifetime of events had happened since the concert—my discovery of Mama’s dying wish, learning that Peyton had been engaged before, and Maeve falling into a coma. Time, like the river below Jack and me in Savannah, just kept moving. I didn’t even know him anymore—I only knew what I remembered, what had happened between us a long way up the river, a distance not measured in miles, but in lost years.

  I looked up to the night sky, then sat on a rocker and stared out to the road, to the neighbor’s front lights. A motor thrummed at the end of the road, then stopped in front of my house. I squinted and leaned forward. A man stepped out, stood with his hands on his hips and stared at my home. I stood to walk inside, then turned back to glance again at the confident manner in which he stood, as though he knew how to keep the earth solidly beneath his feet. Jack.

  I waved; he didn’t wave back. He turned to the house next door—his old home. He couldn’t see me in the dark night, but I saw him backlit against a streetlamp. I walked down the steps and moved toward his truck, came up beside him before he heard me.

  He jumped as I stepped closer.

  “Kara,” he said, then laughed. “Never sneak up on a man like that.”

  “What are you doing?” I patted his truck.

  “This is embarrassing, but I came to—see the old house. I haven’t really seen it since we moved, except for the other day when I drove past quickly.”

  I pointed toward his house. “It looks different, doesn’t it? At least five families have lived there, and each one has changed something about it.”

  “You know,” he said, “you haven’t left and you remember better, I’m sure. But I’ve lived ten, twelve places since here, and I really had forgotten a lot of it, a lot of those times and days. Until I saw you.” He turned back to me and touched the side of my face. I backed away in a slight movement.

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “I came in the dark so you wouldn’t see me. Guess that plan didn’t work.”

  “Why didn’t you want me to see you?” I leaned against his tru
ck.

  “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to mess with your life, since you’re engaged and all that.”

  I laughed. “Now why would I think that?”

  “Because I am,” he said, and pinched the tip of my nose.

  “You’re what?”

  “Wanting to mess with your life.”

  “Jack—”

  “But I won’t. I promise.”

  “You’re not messing with my life.”

  He faced me with his left shoulder against the truck. “Do you remember the ring I gave you?”

  I nodded.

  “You really do?”

  “Yes, I really do. In fact, I still have it.”

  In the light of the flickering gas lamp, his eyebrows rose. “You do?”

  “I do. It’s dented, but I have it.”

  “I bought that for your fifteenth birthday. I thought I’d give it to you down by the footbridge and ask you to go steady with me.” He laughed. “Steady? No one says that anymore, do they?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I bought it at the downtown jewelry store—McRorey’s. Do you remember that place?”

  “It’s still there, still run by Mr. McRorey.”

  “Wow, how old is he now?”

  “Jack—it’s only been thirteen years . . . or so. He’s in his sixties, I think.”

  “Thirteen years—seems like a lifetime. Well, he talked me into that ring when I was going to buy you a star pendant.”

  “For our game of who saw the first star. . . .”

  “Well, Mr. McRorey told me the ring stood for love, loyalty, and friendship. And well, then—back then, I mean—I thought that’s what we stood for.”

  “That is awful sweet.”

  “Or just awful, huh?” he asked.

  “No. Just sweet.”

  “I don’t know what happened to that boy.” He sighed. “Why don’t you just go on in”—he waved toward my house—“and forget you saw me. I really didn’t mean to bother you. I just came to take a little walk down memory lane.”