When Light Breaks

by Patti Callahan Henry

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  I stood in the hallway for the longest time, the second hand ticking above me on the hospital clock. She had told me the truth, round and full as she knew it.

  The County Library research room smelled of old books, paper and mildew. I crouched over the computer I’d been staring at for hours, attempting to search old articles and lists from Ireland in 1927—the last year Maeve saw Richard. The librarian had gone to look for a book she thought she had about the Connemara area in the 1920s. I’d worked my way through years of articles and lists and come up empty-handed.

  I possessed a desperate need to find this man for Maeve; she had changed my life, opened my eyes to wisdom only Mama could’ve passed on to me. I wanted, needed, to do something for her. I leaned back in the chair, rubbed at my eyes.

  The librarian tapped me on the shoulder; I looked up to her.

  “I found this old book.” She handed me a book entitled The Cleggan Bay Disaster by Marie Feeney. “I’d ordered it for a school child doing a report—and completely forgotten about it.”

  I held the book between my hands, nodded at the librarian and thanked her. This book wasn’t what I needed—I already knew about the storm. My eyes ached from staring at the screen; I picked up the book and flipped through the pages. My breath paused as my eyes skimmed to a list of the dead on the ships of Cleggan Bay. Richard O’Leary—born 1908, died 1927.

  There he was listed: a real man with a real story. He was among the presumed dead fishermen who had gone out that terrible night in October, 1927.

  I checked out the book, drove home and dropped into a chair in the study to read about the wives that had held their holy medals while praying, crying out for their loves ones, “Oh God who walked the waters once, bring them safely home.” Maeve’s true love had died the night she had decided not to run hard after him, not to leave her life for him.

  My tears came with the knowledge and the sorrow: her story and sadness were true.

  I don’t know how long I sat curled in that chair, how long I mourned for Maeve, for Richard. It was Deirdre’s face I finally saw when I looked up. She stood in the doorway with Bill.

  “Kara.” She ran toward me. “Are you okay? Is Daddy . . . is everything . . .”

  I wiped at my face and stood. “I’m fine . . . really.” I tried to smile. “I was just reading an old book. . . .” I glanced at Bill, at Deirdre. “What are you two doing tonight?”

  Deirdre smiled, but her face was pale, drained. “We came to . . . well...”

  “Thank you,” Bill said, and stepped forward.

  “For what, William Garner Barrett the Fourth?”

  He laughed, slapped his leg. “For—”

  Deirdre interrupted, “For helping me to—go to him, try and work this out, because I truly do love him, adore him.”

  “I helped?”

  She nodded. “You did.” She touched Bill’s arm. “Can I talk to her for a minute?” He nodded and walked toward the kitchen. “I mean it, Kara. I want to thank you. It will be a long, long road we have to get down—but I refuse to shut myself off from one more piece of life.”

  “What made you decide to go to him . . . to try?”

  “Your story about the turtles. . . .” Her voice choked and she turned away. “Your story.”

  When I returned to the hospital in the morning, the hush surrounding Maeve’s room was ominous. I knocked on the door; Seamus opened it and came into the hall.

  “She’s resting now,” he said, and wiped at his red face. “It has been a very long night.”

  “Can I just see her for one minute? That’s all I need,” I said, “one minute.”

  He squinted at me. “It’s important?” His hair stuck up at odd angles; his wrinkled shirt was buttoned one button off.

  “Very,” I said.

  He opened the door, escorted me in. The room was empty of other family members. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “They all went home to shower, shave . . . I’ll leave you alone, but it can only be for a few minutes. She must rest.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  Seamus closed the door behind him, and I sat next to Maeve. I leaned close to her face. “Maeve, it’s me, Kara.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, but didn’t open her eyes.

  “I found him.” My words caught in a withheld sob.

  She opened her eyes and stared at me with the clarity of a younger woman. “You found him?”

  “Yes, Maeve. He is real.”

  “Of course he is. Did you ever believe otherwise?”

  “Yes, I believed otherwise. I did. I loved the story and the sweetness of it, but I didn’t believe. . . . I do now.”

  “You must not need proof to believe.”

  “I know that now; I know. I should have believed all along—and deep down I did, I was just afraid to believe.”

  “Don’t be. . . .”

  “I am telling you, Maeve, because on the day I met you, you asked me to find him. I will never be able to thank you adequately for all you’ve given to me, for all you’ve taught me, but I can grant you that wish to know what happened to him.”

  “And?”

  “He died the same night you lay on the dock waiting for your husband, the night you vowed not to run after him, not to abandon your life for him. He was on one of the fishing boats out of Connemara; he died in the Cleggan Bay Disaster. You didn’t know this? You never saw the list?”

  “No, I never tried to find him and I never . . . knew all those who died that terrible night.” She sighed. “He died; I lived.” A tear rolled down her thin face. “My heart is full now, Kara. Full.”

  She closed her eyes and released my hand as her son, Seamus, walked in the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sleep flirted with the corners of my consciousness, but would not fully come to me. I finally rose from my bed at four in the morning, then walked over the lawn of our home to the footbridge where Jack had professed his love. I sat, swung my legs below me, and leaned into the railings, into the dark.

  Maeve was gone now, had been for a month. Something in me believed Mama had met her and thanked her. Maeve’s family had told me that in her will she’d requested that her ashes be spread over the waves during the Blessing of the Bay this coming August. They’d held a memorial service in Ireland the week she died, yet they were waiting until August to put her to rest in Galway Bay. They explained to me that she’d made this request because her husband was a descendant of the Claddagh kings who had led the blessing every year. But I knew the real reason and held it close to my heart.

  I’d filled out the application for photography school. I was still waiting to hear if I’d been accepted. Charlotte had held me like a life jacket through the storm of these past few weeks of canceling the wedding, facing those who disagreed with me. She knew my decision was not about choosing between two men, but about who I was meant to be. She had held my hand, listened to me cry. But she could not take the burden of my own thoughts away from me.

  I lay flat on my back, staring up at a moon that would be full in one more night; it billowed above me like a dented pillow. I closed my eyes and slipped into the darkness of my own thoughts. If Maeve’s story was true, was everything else she told me also true?

  The lessons she’d taught were priceless, worth more than the engagement ring I’d given up, more than my job’s salary or the wedding dress now wrapped in plastic.

  With the sun still below the horizon, I decided I would write down Maeve’s lessons, compile them for those who would never hear her wisdom. I listed them in my mind: directives about my feet leading me to my heart, about how our lives and stories are connected, about how family expectations influence what we believe, and who we love.

  My eyes flew open at a sudden realization about two of the lessons I had listened to but not deeply understood until this very moment: first, that I must be careful what I believe because it defines who I am; and second, that I ache fo
r the time when I was most loved.

  I jumped to my feet and stared at the sky, where the moon descended below my sight. I twisted around. The sun began to rise in a crescendo, the edges of the clouds taking on color. My heart lifted.

  If the ache inside me came from remembering the time I felt most loved, then why did I not feel the ache when I was with Jack?

  Light broke from the horizon, consuming the edges of water with fire.

  Would I fill my life with the things I had now if I knew he would come back for me? He had come back for me and I stood there—alone at the water’s edge.

  The answer rose with the sun: it wasn’t that I couldn’t love enough, I just couldn’t love Peyton enough. It was with Jack that I was the most loved and that I loved the most. If I had loved anyone else, it was only because he reminded me of Jack.

  The faith I’d had in Peyton, and in the life we would have together, had everything to do with what I felt I was supposed to do to diminish my yearning for something else. But the belief I had now—that I wanted to go to photography school, and I loved Jack—came with no guarantees, had no promised happy ending. I could no longer fill my life with busyness, with meaningless noise in a meager attempt to soothe my heart with cheap substitutes.

  I ran home at the start of that new day, at the start of my own story.

  I drove my car with the pure exhilaration of doing the very thing I most desired—running hard after love, after Jack. The Unknown Souls were performing at a concert outside Charleston at the Bay Side Amphitheater.

  Scalpers stood on the outskirts of the outdoor amphitheater. Cars were parked at odd angles; couples dragged coolers and wine bottles, heading for the concert. The bowl-shaped amphitheater had flip-down seats toward the front, a wide lawn in the back spread with colorful blankets.

  Twenty minutes of haggling later, after I’d just paid five times the usual price for a seat on the back lawn with the bay beyond, I entered the amphitheater and moved toward the stage, where those with better tickets sat at tables covered in white cloths and flickering candles, catered food spread between the china settings.

  A warm breeze blew; sailboats, motor boats, and trawlers bobbed at anchor. I reached the bottom steps, where a man in a blue uniform held up his hand. “Ticket.”

  I handed him my stub; he shook his head. “Ma’am, this is for the back lawn.” He waved toward the crowded grassy area in the rear of the theater.

  “I can’t see from the back lawn.”

  He laughed. “You got a good view of the bay from there, though.”

  My shoulders sank. “I know. I just need to talk to the opening band. I’m friends with them and I need to talk to someone.”

  “Sure you are,” he said, and smiled.

  “Really . . . can you go tell them I’m out here or something? Can I get a message to Jack Sullivan?”

  “Is it an emergency?” He tilted his head toward me, his hat over his eyes.

  “Absolutely. Most definitely an emergency . . .”

  He laughed. “Okay. What’s the message? I’ll try and get it back to him.”

  “Tell Jack that Kara is out on the back lawn. . . .”

  “That’s the emergency?”

  “Well, yes.” I shuffled back and forth, wanting to grab one of the wine bottles off the table in front of me.

  I nodded. “Please. He’ll understand.”

  “I’ll try. Now go on.” He waved toward the back lawn. I moved to the grass at the far right side and sat on a patch of moist soil. I hadn’t brought a thing with me; two hours from home without a bag, a blanket, or a plan.

  I’d said things to Jack that I hadn’t meant—words motivated by fear. Now it was time to say the true things; but what if he didn’t want to hear them? What if . . . .

  The band walked onstage. Jimmy grabbed the microphone. “Hello, Charleston.”

  Some cheered. Others ignored the opening act and went on with the business of opening their catered dinners and jabbing corkscrews in their wine bottles. Then the guitars started and the Unknown Souls began to sing; the crowd hushed, stopped their activity. The haunting sounds filled the theater.

  I drew my knees up and leaned against the stone wall behind me. Come find me, Jack. Come find me, please.

  Five songs into their set, Jimmy said into the microphone, “Okay, Charleston, we’re gonna try a new song for y’all. My bro Jack Sullivan wrote this one. It’s called ‘Looking for the Reasons.’ I hope you enjoy it—I think it is the best of our original songs. Oh, the angst of true love, ay?”

  The crowd cheered. I held my breath; my legs went weak. The words Jack said to me on the footbridge, words I’d listened to but not truly heard, came through my heart now.

  The flute started the song in a melody so otherworldly I could believe angels played an instrument that man had not yet invented.

  My heart opened wider than I believed possible as the first words flowed to the back lawn.

  Beneath the moonlight

  At the edge of the sea

  Where love feels like a simple thing

  I find my need

  The dreams return

  The hearts still burns

  Beneath the moonlight

  At the edge of the sea

  I look for the reasons

  You returned to me

  The dreams return

  The hearts still burn

  The chorus came next—a chorus about looking for the reasons—with an added guitar and piano; Jimmy’s voice was deep and resonant with the want that now whispered like wings against my body.

  I’m looking for the reasons, looking deep and wide.

  I’m looking for the reasons that you’ve come into my life.

  He sang of loving and knowing at the edge of the sea, of loving and losing in that meeting place. Jack’s words in Jimmy’s voice combined with Maeve’s story until I stood, and wondered if Jack had found the reasons.

  After a lingering flute solo, Jimmy sang the final words. “The reasons have only to do with love. Only love.”

  The crowd went wild; I clapped so hard my palms stung. I know the audience cheered for Jimmy’s deep, lush voice singing with the haunting melody, but I rejoiced at the words, the lyrics of a man who still believed.

  I glanced down at the stage; the band gave way for the main act. Jack came out, glanced into the audience, squinted and raised his hand over his eyes. I waved frantically in a futile attempt to make him see me all the way in the back row against the stone wall. He jumped off the stage, wound his way among the tables to the left of the theater—opposite from where I stood.

  I pushed my way through the crowd to the other side of the stage. “Excuse me, excuse me. . . .” I kept my eyes on Jack, knocking over coolers, beer bottles, chicken salad on paper plates as I hurried toward him.

  Then he looked up, and saw me. A smile so wide and accepting spread across his face. His strides were long, deliberate as he stepped over blankets, between people. He reached me at the back right side at the last row of chairs; I ran into his open arms, buried my head against his chest. “Jack, I love you.”

  He lifted my chin, placed his palms on either side of my face and drew me to him. He kissed me as I’d dreamed of since that first realization of love beyond family. The kind of kiss I’d wanted and needed all my life; a kiss filled with truth.

  Then he pulled back from me, smiled again, and I touched his face. “I’m sorry about what I said, I’m sorry for being such an idiot,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No apologies. You’re here.”

  “If I ever thought I loved anyone else, it was only because he reminded me of you.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “My beautiful Kara—you know exactly what to say to make a man weak, doncha?” He picked me up, swung me around, then kissed me again.

  “Do I?” I looked out over the amphitheater to the bay and almost swore I saw three brown sails, a sloped boat coming around the bend.

  He nodded, then touch
ed my face as the lead singer began to sing behind us: “I get weak in the knees, and I lose my breath....”

  Jack grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the side stage. “Follow me.”

  “Always,” I said, and did.

  a cognizant original v5 release october 08 2010

  CONVERSATION GUIDE

  When Light Breaks

  PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY

  This Conversation Guide is intended to enrich the

  individual reading experience, as well as encourage us

  to explore these topics together—because books,

  and life, are meant for sharing.

  A CONVERSATION WITH PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY

  Q. What inspired you to write When Light Breaks?

  A. I am fascinated by the power of story to change lives. I wanted to write a novel in which one woman’s story moves another woman in a positive direction. I believe that our minds communicate through reason and intellect, but the heart communicates through story. If Kara were to change her life, it would never be by logic alone, since the reasons for her life decisions are sure and strong. But through story, and its effect on her heart, she gains new insights, which help her take her life in new directions.

  Q. The idea of one generation passing on its stories to another generation lies at the heart of this novel. Why is that theme important to you?

  A. In today’s world, the different generations are separated much more than in previous generations, since we tend not to live together. Yet the wisdom and wit passed from one generation to another are what help tie families together. Kara lost her mama at a young age, and she yearns for the mother-daughter connection, the wise advice that comes from experience. Although Kara doesn’t understand it at first, Maeve’s words fill a need in her. I believe we must learn from previous generations, from those who have gone before us in this life journey.