The Light We See

by J. Lynn Bailey

  One night in January, it did.

  His rage turned blinding.

  Something flipped inside him.

  I saw it, and I also saw the fear in Mother’s eyes when she pulled the trigger.

  It’s astounding, what a mind will do to protect itself. What mothers do to protect their children. What children do to protect their parents.

  Someone knocks softly on the bathroom door, making me jump out of my own skin.

  I pull it open, and it’s Gene.

  “Good morning, sugar.” Her head falls to the right, and she pauses. “Are you all right? Why are you crying?”

  Crying?

  I look in the mirror and face the same person I’ve been facing my entire life. The one with the survivor’s guilt, who I’ve wrestled with for years. Battled with over what is right and what is necessary.

  Tears stream down my face, and I’m completely caught off guard.

  I could lie, tell Gene it’s eye drops.

  But I could also tell her the truth.

  When Gene touches my shoulder and urges me to her arms, I fold into her as if she were my own mother, just wanting to take away our own unique tragedies, just for a moment.

  I bury my head into her shoulder. All the shame, the guilt, the anger toward Father rests on her shoulder. In a sense, I know what she and Al experienced. I know what loss of life feels like. One day, the person you love is there, and then they’re not. And it feels so empty, so lonely, as if no one understands. How can you lose someone you began to hate and feel so sad at the same time?

  “I’m so sorry about Nathan,” I say to Gene.

  “Oh, sugar.” Gene’s embrace grows tighter.

  I melt into it.

  I’ve had to hold up this facade for so long. I feel as though the walls are caving in, and there’s nowhere left to turn.

  “Come now. Let’s have some breakfast and sweet tea, and we can talk, okay?” Gene pulls back, placing both hands on my cheeks.

  I look into her deep blue eyes that remind me of the shade of blue that only comes with warm weather and white sands. They’re a shade of blue that tells me kindness gets me far, and only love will get me through this.

  For so many years, Mother tried to soften the blow. Tried to tell us that it wasn’t that bad, and the sad part is we believed it. I knew in my heart that it didn’t feel right, what Father had done to Mother, but it came acceptable because it was the only thing we knew.

  Gene takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen.

  I feel like I’m beginning to unravel. My undoing.

  “When I was worried about Nathan, when he was alive, I’d busy myself with chores.” Gene laughs quietly as she makes a plate of food.

  I lean against the counter, unsure of where to stand, where to put my hands. Unsure of everything.

  “I don’t think this house has ever been as clean or as organized than it was the last year of Nathan’s life.” Her voice quiets. “I also know that people process life, grief, things a bit differently.” She hands me a plate. “Go sit down in the dining room, and I’ll get you some coffee, sugar.”

  I take Gene’s direction.

  She joins me and sits across the table from me.

  “Thank you, Gene.”

  She nods and curiously eyes me. “You don’t strike me as the type to cry too often.”

  I take a bite of bacon. Maple and salt ignite my taste buds.

  “You strike me as the type who shows a brave face. And for you to be at this point, something is awfully wrong or awfully right.” Gene puts her chin in her hand, taps her fingers on the red-checkered tablecloth.

  The white envelope that Luke set down last night still sits, waiting to be opened.

  I want to answer her. I want to talk about it. But I’m terrified if I open my mouth, years of fear, years of sadness, years of chaos will pour from my mouth.

  So, instead, I take another small bite of bacon.

  “Does Luke know what’s on your heart, baby?”

  I shake my head. Gene thinks we’re dating because of the lie we told. This isn’t something you tell a beautiful man you’re supposed to be doing a story on. This isn’t something you tell a man who you’ve somehow come to really enjoy being around. This isn’t something you tell a man you just met. But I can’t tell Gene this because we’ve already told her a lie.

  I set down the bacon. Take a sip of coffee. Quietly cough into my hand, not because I have to, but because I need to clear the emotion from my tone. I look into the living room and see the same pictures from last night, except I notice Nathan’s football pictures this time, something I didn’t see last night.

  “I hear Nathan was a hell of a football player.”

  Gene smiles as the memory touches her heart. “He was. But what’s more is, he had a heart just like Luke’s. Those two could have been brothers—hell, twins; they were so much alike.”

  “How so?”

  “Since the moment those two were born, Luke and Nathan have always been givers. Nathan would give his sisters whatever they wanted, and all they had to do was start the lip quiver. Luke and his sister, well—”

  “What?”

  Gene stops. “Luke’s sister, Ella.”

  I don’t explain to Gene that Luke told me he was an only child or that, right now, I’m confused.

  “Right,” is all I say.

  “Ella had Luke wrapped around her finger. He would have given her the world. Then, one summer, she just stopped comin’ to our place. But I’m sure you know the story.” She pauses. “Honey, whatever’s causing the sadness, it’s better to talk about it than to hold it all in.”

  I guess my problem is, I’ve never felt it until now. Until Luke told me the story of Nathan. “I see how happy and kind you and Al are, so open, maybe I want to get there, too.”

  Gene looks at me, draws her eyebrow up, reaches for my hand. “Because we love, we grieve. Whether it was a good relationship, a complicated one, or just plain ugly. It’s still the end. And we’ve got to do something about all those feelings.”

  I laugh at my self-centeredness. “You’ve lost your son, and here I am, talking about me.”

  “I’m almost certain I brought it up, sugar. Besides, sometimes, it’s easier that way—less tender, I suppose, to talk about someone else’s sadness than your own, eh?”

  Squeezing Gene’s soft hands, I nod. “Yeah.”

  Gene gives my hand one last pat and gets up from the table. “Okay, you finish eatin’ while I figure out what the hell we’re having for lunch.”

  As I watch her walk back into the kitchen, I wonder why Gene was put in my path. I bet Nathan misses her. I hope her kids know what they have with Gene.

  “More coffee?” She looks at me.

  “No, thank you, Gene.”

  She nods and proceeds to clean the coffeepot.

  What if God puts people in our lives to demonstrate goodness? To witness it. Feel it. What if God is disguised as Gene? What if he’s not disguised as Gene, but maybe there are messages I’m supposed to listen to? What if these messages were only supposed to come from Gene? What if I was supposed to hear the story about Nathan, so I could make the connection with Father?

  I take a big gulp of black coffee, finish my bacon and eggs, and contemplate if I’ll ever be able to live with a conscience as clear as Gene’s and maybe be the Gene to someone in my life.

  I see Luke from the field that butts up to the house. I’m shucking corn on the porch with Gene and August.

  His shirt is off, and everything inside me screams. His skin is golden and covered in sweat. I try to imagine this is normal and completely fine—with Luke and his body. That the ripples from his stomach, defined, aren’t making my heart beat a million times a minute. I try to collect my thoughts, and the lie we told Al, Gene, and August—that we’re a couple—sits uneasy with me.

  He comes closer. His shirt over his shoulder, he walks toward us.

  Breathe, Catherine, just breathe. Shuck corn. Try to act
casual.

  “Fix the fence?” August asks, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

  The porch fan blows air, though it’s warm. It creates a facade that makes our sticky bodies believe that the temperature is acceptable. That Texas in September is comfortable. It is not.

  “Yeah, Al’s coming up with the tractor.”

  Luke reaches the fence, and when he hops it, I see the muscles in his shoulders contract.

  Shuck corn, Catherine.

  Luke walks up the steps of the porch, waits for me to look, and when he does and he reaches me, he leans down and kisses me on the mouth.

  There are times in my life when I’ve felt stunned, speechless, and utterly helpless, but they’ve never happened all at the same time.

  So, when his lips touch mine, they’re soft and wet, and it’s nothing like I’ve felt before, so much so that I don’t want him to pull away and I want to feel this feeling of his lips on mine for the rest of my life.

  My eyes fall shut, and he pulls away.

  “How’s the corn coming along?” Luke asks.

  I open my eyes, stare into his, the brown irises with bursts of green, and he’s so close to me that I want to reach out and touch his face just to make sure this is all real. His breath is minty, and he smells like sunshine and sweat and woods. I want to wrap myself up in him.

  You’re dating, remember, Cat? Remember? He can kiss you.

  We’ve never kissed before, and I can tell you, it’s the best first kiss of all the last kisses I’ve ever had, and he’s ended it for me. Ruined it. I don’t think I can ever kiss another man and not think about this first kiss with Luke.

  “Corn is good,” I say breathlessly. I stare from his lips to his eyes and back again.

  I see the conflict in his eyes now. Has it always been there? Or did it just appear?

  My face grows warm. Did I do something wrong?

  Luke leans in and very delicately whispers, “I want to do that again, kiss your lips, but I’m too afraid I won’t be able to stop, and things here might get awkward.”

  The corners of my mouth turn up as my face and body ignite. Somehow, it’s hard to breathe and better to breathe, all at the same time.

  “Boy, Chicken Legs, you sure know how to make the ladies weak.” August shakes her head, pulling at another corn husk.

  Luke stands up, puts his hand on the back of my chair, and leans against it with his hip. His shirtless body is closer to me now. “How so?”

  Shuck corn.

  “Was down at Don’s today, gettin’ gas, waiting in line to pay—because you know, Rosie’s don’t take anything but cash. Don’s too cheap to pay for a debit card machine, and I told him it’d be easier on him, cheaper in the long run because he wouldn’t have to hire help. But anyway, Estelle and Carol Ann were in front of me. They didn’t see me, but boy, they were rattlin’ on about you bein’ back in town.” August laughs, looks at me, smiles. “I said, ‘Y’all, he’s taken now. Got him a real good girlfriend, and in fact, I think they’re gettin’ married. So, y’all can shut ya mouths.’ Never liked Carol Ann anyway. She’s got more faces than a seven-headed dragon.”

  Gene looks at her daughter, raises her eyebrows, continues to shuck the corn. “August, I raised you better.”

  “Mama, I didn’t say anything but the truth.”

  “You said they were gettin’ hitched, Aug.” Gene stops.

  August smiles. “I said, ‘I think.’ ”

  Gene rolls her eyes. “Well, don’t hang your wash on someone else’s line, is all.”

  I look up at Luke, and he looks down at me. The genuine smile I saw in the car earlier is back, and he wears it so beautifully, as if this is where he should be. Like Los Angeles and Hollywood and cameras and paparazzi only steal from his soul.

  “I’m going to go take a shower,” he says to me as if it’s a secret for only me to hear. A private joke. The inside scoop.

  “Okay.” I smile back, and his fingers graze my shoulder as he turns to go, just as Al starts to roll up on the tractor.

  He turns it off. “Where’d Chicken Legs go?”

  “Shower,” August says.

  Al rests his forearms on the wheel. “Man, I forget that kid is a hell of a worker. He can work four grown boys under the table like nothin’.”

  August looks at her dad. “Get the fence fixed?”

  “Shoot.” Al shakes his head. “We got the fence fixed, the barn fixed, and moved some cattle to the lower pasture.” He reaches up and wipes the sweat from his brow.

  “Come on in and get cleaned up. Supper’s almost ready,” Gene says.

  After dinner, when the sun begins to set and the dishes are done and the kitchen is cleaned, Luke asks for a few minutes of my time. It’s a quarter past seven. It’s still warm but a more comfortable warm.

  “Aunt Gene, Uncle Al, I’m going to take Catherine and show her some of the property, if that’s all right?”

  Al has settled in his chair with the nightly newspaper, and Gene sits and grabs her knitting.

  August left minutes earlier.

  “Enjoy, you two,” Gene says.

  Luke opens the screen door for me and follows me out. I feel his presence behind me like a long-awaited day.

  Luke’s white button-up shirt makes his skin appear browner, his arms more defined. He smells fresh and clean, and I want to know what his skin feels like when it’s wet. I want to know what he eats for lunch and what he considers to be the most pivotal point in history. Who his favorite president is. Where he stands politically—not that it matters, but his opinion is important to me. I wonder if he wears sunscreen and if he treats his mother the same way he treats his aunt. I wonder if he likes rainy days and books and movies that make you cry. And which season of the year is his favorite.

  I spent many years unable to remember what the rain felt like on my face or how a hot shower felt against my body. Good books and bad books. What each season looked like to the naked eye. And yet, still, I knew what to expect every single day from prison, and I took comfort in that.

  Luke walks next to me, our shoulders intermittently bumping softly as he leads me around the house to the back side of the property. He doesn’t touch me. His hand doesn’t slide into mine. His lips don’t come near me, and I assume this is because, out here, he’s not my boyfriend, and I’m not his girlfriend. We’re just Luke and Catherine. He’s an actor. I’m a writer. And we’re working together.

  I try to forget about him seeing my body last night. My face rushes with warmth. Forget about the times we’ve held hands because maybe this time, it is the only time it matters.

  I feel this aching in my heart for Luke. A longing.

  “We’re going to go to the end of this knoll over here.” Luke points in front of us.

  After Luke showered, I did, too. A T-shirt was all I had left before I did some laundry.

  “Thank you for washing clothes,” he says.

  “No problem.”

  We walk.

  “I’ll tell Uncle Al and Aunt Gene the truth. About us,” he says.

  “Why?” comes out of my mouth abruptly, selfishly.

  I like to feel his lips against mine, his body close to me, to pretend I belong to a man who’s genuine to his core, who looks out for others, who stands in his own truth, fesses up to things he hasn’t done right. I like to be in bed next to him. I like our game of make-believe.

  “It’s not fair to you, Catherine. It’s not fair that I asked you to do this. It’s not fair to anyone.”

  It’s quiet for a moment. My stomach grows into a fit of nerves.

  Say it. Just say it already. For Christ’s sake, he’s seen your breasts, Cat.

  “What if I told you I like how this feels?”

  “Like how what feels?” His voice grows tight.

  I cough slightly, only to clear my throat.

  We’re approaching the knoll.

  “You,” I say.

  We stop because we reach the knoll, and I can’t
find my breath between the beauty of what we’re looking at and what I’ve just disclosed to Luke.

  “Can I touch you, Catherine?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper.

  Luke comes up behind me and slides his arms around my waist, as if God built cradles so perfectly for his body to curve to mine.

  I drop my head to his shoulder, feel his minty breath against my forehead.

  We look out onto the city of Abilene, and it’s breathtaking. City streets make the city look so perfectly put together. Green and yellow dissolve into each other. And the big blue sky goes until it meets the end of the earth.

  “You like the idea of us,” he whispers in my ear. “Because I treat you the way you deserve to be treated. You like the way I kiss you because it feels right, the way it should.”

  I feel his voice down my spine and the sting in my eyes.

  “I think there are people we’re supposed to meet in life, and I think our souls aren’t tied to just one person. I believe they’re tied to more than one. Our hearts are meant to love and to be loved. I believe that’s truth to the core. It’s simplistic and natural.” His arms tighten around me. “I’m not going to be the last man that you love, Catherine. I refuse to accept that idea.”

  His words try to settle in my heart, but they won’t. They create a restless feeling inside me. Not one out of anger, but sadness.

  “I’m the man that you’re supposed to experience right now. This trip is our time together.” Luke pauses. “I didn’t expect to fall in love though.”

  I close my eyes and feel my heart disintegrate into ashes, scattering with the wind that blows through my body, through the hole that Luke’s just created. Feel my body waver and fold under his touch, under his brow. I will myself to believe that all my past relationships with men, with Father, Mother, Ingrid, they’ve all led me to this point, to Luke. And in a deep, existential way, I know Luke is right. That we’re in the present moment, and we might not make it out together, but it’s not about the end; it’s about the journey.

  I do the next right thing by turning around and kissing his neck, tasting of love, sweet and bitter. Tears start to form in the corners of my eyes as I feel his heart pick up pace. I don’t have to say I’ve fallen in love because he knows.