The Light We See

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “We could grab an early dinner and then come home and watch the movies?” He looks back at me from the mirror, a distant reminder that he doesn’t want me to know what’s going on with him.

  “Let’s,” I say.

  I quietly leave the confined space that tied us together and try to forget about the crimson, the ulcer, and Mother.

  They say it takes six to twelve weeks to recover from heart surgery. That’s doable. I can survive that, but I know that I won’t be able to survive Luke.

  At dinner, he tells a joke, although it’s corny, something about a llama and school supplies, and I laugh so hard that my wine almost comes out of my mouth. When I look up, his head is tilted to the side, his eyes painted a different shade of brown. Perhaps it’s the light or the room or God, but when I see his face, the look, I know Luke McCay wants more of me, and even if it is for a limited time, I’d be willing to give it. Because right now, he needs me.

  “Your laugh is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in a long time, Catherine.” He sets down his wine.

  We’ve drunk half a bottle between us.

  Caught up by the ambiance of the beautiful restaurant and the piano playing in the background, the white linens, and the wine, I can’t think of a more perfect moment I’ve ever had in my life, and something inside me pushes to say it.

  I tell Luke something I’ve never told anyone, and I blame it on this moment of wine, beautiful music, and vulnerability. “I remember one particular dinner party my parents had when I was almost twelve, and Ingrid was eleven. It was the first time I had an idea that my parents were wealthy. But when Molly Ringwald waltzed through our grand entryway, I thought, Wow. She was beautiful, and her saffron dress followed her in.”

  I take another sip of wine, and so does Luke. He looks at me.

  “I watched her as she sipped champagne every now and then. How she moved so gracefully around the dinner party. How her eyes lit up when someone approached. The whole evening, I just watched her. While I usually went upstairs to bed, bored from the whole thing, I just couldn’t leave. I just had to watch her until the very end when she climbed into the black limousine that took her home.

  “I was caught up in the moment when the door shut, when all the guests slowly trickled out like ants after that. I wasn’t sure which movie stars had ever come to our home, but after that, after Molly, it didn’t matter.

  “When the house was quiet, when Mother and Father were in the kitchen, Ingrid came down from our bedroom and told me it was time to come to bed. I told her I’d be up later. I just needed to stay here for a few more minutes. When the yelling started from Father, I knew it was time for bed.” My eyes fill with tears, and I look up at Luke to see his reaction. “I just stood up and carried myself to bed. I didn’t defend my mother like I should have. I didn’t tell my father to leave her alone.” I shrug as I swallow the lump in my throat. “Have you ever done that, Luke? Just walked away when you shouldn’t have?”

  I look down and toy with the napkin in my hands. He doesn’t answer. Maybe I wasn’t expecting an answer; I’m not sure.

  My mouth continues to move, and I’m unsure how all this will come out. “I wanted to be Molly Ringwald that night. I just knew she didn’t have what I had at home. That she had come from a family where her father was nice to her mother and that they had said grace every night before dinner. And that they laughed and held hands and sang family songs.” I pause. “It felt like Ingrid and I walked on cracked glass with bare feet every day of our lives, growing up. We were taught to pretend really well from a young age. We were taught to lie when opposition opposed us. We did this to survive. But one day, I knew it would all come to a head.”

  The waiter approaches and gives us the bill. I try to take it, unsure of what the hell I’d do with it once I got it. I didn’t have but a hundred bucks on me, but I wasn’t going to let Luke think I expected a free ride.

  “One of these days, Catherine, I hope you’ll be able to see yourself the way I see you.” Luke takes the bill, staring at me as he pulls out his wallet and throws a credit card down.

  I don’t ask how he sees me because I’m afraid of the truth. Afraid I’ll disagree. Afraid that his opinion of me will mean too much. Afraid of myself.

  “Do you know what I see?” he asks.

  I hold my breath, slowly shake my head.

  “Well, I’m going to tell you anyway.” He leans forward on his elbows against the white tablecloth. “I see a woman who has more strength than most men. I see a woman who is so beautiful that the sun is mystified of her presence. I see a woman who has fought fucking hard to be who she is today. I see a woman who brings light into a room and leaves it when she goes. I see a woman who doesn’t give up, no matter the circumstances. And I see a woman who’s seen tragedy, lived through it, and still gotten back up.” Luke leans back. “You don’t see this because you’re focused on what you’re not.”

  I stop fidgeting with the napkin. Meet his gaze.

  “That’s who you are, Catherine Clemens, not some drug-addicted Hollywood daughter with four rehabs and a rap sheet behind her. It seems to me that you’ve always accepted the responsibility for your shit and everyone else’s shit.”

  The waiter returns, and I see the fire in Luke’s eyes.

  The waiter pauses. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but are you Luke McCay?”

  It’s been my experience that restaurant staff always have the worst timing—or better yet, maybe it’s the patrons who have the worst timing.

  “Yeah.” Luke signs the tag, but clearly, he’s agitated. Looks up at the waiter.

  “Can I have you sign this for my girlfriend?” The waiter looks over at me, a blank piece of paper in hand. “Sorry, I hope this is okay.”

  I casually toss my hand out in front of me. “By all means.” I lean back in my chair and try to brush off Luke’s words, half-wanting them to disappear from my memory and half-wanting to hang on to them, hold them close to my heart so I’ll remember them and grab them when I need them.

  Luke holds his finger up to the waiter. Looks me dead in the eyes. “I’ll never set aside your feelings for anything, Catherine. Is this okay that I sign this?” He moves his elbows back to the table.

  “Yes.”

  “No, it’s not. Don’t settle to make someone else happy. Don’t settle for less than you’re worth, Catherine. Not for a single fucking second.”

  My heart begins to pound against my chest. My hands grow sweaty as I look up at the waiter and back to Luke. “It’s fine, really.”

  Luke smiles. Leans back. Runs his hands through his hair, frustrated. “You’re lying, Catherine. Whether you mean to or not, you’re lying.”

  My mouth falls open, and I roll my eyes. What?

  The waiter stands there, pen and paper in hand. Looks from Luke to me and me to Luke.

  “Is it okay?” Luke asks again, his eyes locked on mine.

  “No,” I whisper. And it’s not because I want to make Luke happy, but because he’s right. For years, I’ve been pushing my feelings aside for others. I hide how I feel to appease other people. I learned to survive uncomfortably, thinking it was all right. I learned that my idea of love was completely messed up.

  Oh my God.

  I cover my face with my hands. “Oh my God.”

  I stand, turn, and walk out of the restaurant, unable to breathe, praying my tears won’t see the light of day.

  When I finally reach the outside, I gasp, and the tears roll down my face, I run down to the river as dusk has settled into its rightful place.

  I scream, grab the sides of my head, and yell out, “I hate you, Father! I hate you!” The ending words die off before they become a whisper.

  Luke’s arms are around me, and his grip is tight.

  He breathes in and out with my pace, chaotic and rhythmic all at the same time.

  I groan as I feel like a bandage has been ripped away from old wounds.

  I scream again and try to fall forward, but Luke
catches me.

  “Breathe,” he whispers into my ear. “Breathe and scream and do what you need to do to feel.”

  Quiet sobs choke my throat. I cover my mouth with my shaking hand. “How—” I start. “How did I not see this?”

  “Your heart stood in the way, Catherine. I’m sure you spent years protecting your sister, dying to protect your mother, and trying to keep the shaky boat afloat. How could a little girl manage all that?” His question is rhetorical, and my body vibrates because of what his words do to me.

  I’m going to be sick. “I’m going to be sick,” I say as I push away from Luke, and he releases me.

  I run to a nearby tree and heave up wine and filet mignon and bread. I feel Luke grab my hair to hold it up out of the way as tears and vomit fall from me.

  Several minutes pass by. The world spins, and I struggle to catch my breath as my body heaves.

  When I’m done, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, embarrassed, too scared to face Luke, though I have no choice. I stand.

  With his hand still in my hair, I turn to face him, barely covering my mouth with my fingertips.

  He looks at me and pulls me to him, not allowing me to turn away, and I fall against his chest and quietly allow his arms to take me anywhere but here. My eyes begin to burn again.

  I come out in a sleep shirt and shorts, brushed teeth, freshly showered, feeling what’s left of the weight of the world against my chest.

  Luke is sitting on the sofa with popcorn and a cup of tea on the coffee table in the spot where I would sit.

  “Made you some tea. No caffeine.” He smiles as I sit down next to him. “How are you feeling?”

  I lean back after grabbing the tea. “Like a diesel truck hit me going a hundred miles an hour, and I’m questioning how I survived.” I look back at Luke. “Thank you,” I whisper. My eyes start to burn again, and I fight the urge to cry, so I take a sip of tea to combat it.

  Luke leans back, puts his arm around me, and hits play on Good Will Hunting. I lean into him, allowing his strength to give me some of my own because I’m just too tired right now. My eyes are heavy, and my insides feel quiet, less chaotic. My body feels relaxed. And this beautiful man next to me seems to hold me every time I’ve fallen since we met. I wonder where he draws his strength, his courage. I look up at him, take in his scent and the feel of the weightlessness of us.

  I watch Luke, and he watches Good Will Hunting. His lean jawline and high cheekbones. His five o’clock shadow that dips below his chin and disappears. I follow the lines from his eyes that disappear, and I want to know how each of them were earned.

  For the first time in my life, I want to ask for directions, for life instructions on where to go from here.

  I reach forward and set my tea down, sit back and curl myself into his body, wanting to be a part of him, wanting to spend tonight, tomorrow, and the next day with Luke.

  But what happens when the abuse you’ve lived with for so long is over, and you’re supposed to somehow survive?

  Luke

  Age Thirty

  I gently pulled the strands of her chocolate-colored hair that lay across my naked chest, and I wondered how long we could stay like this. How long we’d be able to love each other just like this. Without responsibility, without stress, without an afterthought of regret of where we’d been or who we’d been with.

  We’d just finished making love. Came here to reconcile our marriage. A cottage in Santa Barbara, California, overlooking the Pacific.

  How do you know when you’re in love? I remembered asking myself at age twenty-two.

  I wasn’t sure, but I was certain that it was something like my mother and father. My mom would quietly touch my dad’s back when it was time to go. When he’d give her a piggyback across the creek out on the property because Mom didn’t know how to swim. I supposed it felt a little bad, a lot good, and full of moments measured by commitment, the value of love. I learned from my mom and dad that it wasn’t about love notes and romantic evenings and all the good shit.

  It was about seeing your love at their worst, in the throes of hell, and helping them to find their way back to you. It was about picking up the pieces after a night of fighting and giving them your best, even when you didn’t want to.

  When Ella had died, Mom and Dad hadn’t grown apart; they had grown together, and I’d left for California, only coming back for holidays.

  It was too hard to visit. Too many memories Ella had left in her room, in our home, in our town.

  I just didn’t want to face it all.

  Julie stirred, sat up, pushed her long, dark hair behind her, and her breasts touched her stomach. I pulled her to me. Her big white smile encouraged mine.

  Falling in love wasn’t about making love; it was just a small piece of it.

  I felt her smile against my lips right before she pulled away.

  Her green eyes stared back, telling me she would always give me truth, even when it hurt. I grabbed at her naked body, just wanting two more seconds of her time. Her tan skin under my fingers looked like it should. Like my hands had been made for her body. I had written her a song, but I wasn’t ready to play it for her yet. I needed to wait until I got more practice. I wanted it to be perfect, like her.

  She moved up my body like silk. “I need you,” she said and kissed my jaw.

  My heart raced, and my body did what it did when she said things like that.

  Julie and I were good together, in bed and in life.

  She had been a bartender when we met. LA Hills had become a hit, and I had just been grateful I didn’t have to work construction anymore.

  And there was Julie, pouring a triple shot of Rémy Martin for a customer.

  She said, “What are you having, pretty boy?”

  What I liked more was, she didn’t know who I was. Preferred it that way.

  We talked for hours after the bar closed.

  And that was that.

  There was a lot to learn when you were in your twenties and felt like you were on top of the world or had the world by the balls. There were a lot of things I had done wrong, some things I had done right.

  One was having sex with a woman, Candida, before Julie, who I’d met on set.

  Candida said she was pregnant, and I was the father. I told Julie about it. I figured if it was real and if Julie really loved me, she’d stay.

  “Well, if you’re the father, we’ll make it work. We have to.”

  I was so relieved.

  After Candida reached out that first time to tell me she was pregnant, I never heard back. I tried to reach Candida by phone, but I couldn’t get through. Found her place, and it was empty.

  “Could have been a hoax,” Julie said.

  Maybe, I thought. I remembered sleeping with Candida.

  “Maybe a woman trying to get money out of you,” Julie said.

  We let the situation go after failed attempts to reach Candida.

  That winter, after Julie and I met, I tried one more time. It was Christmas after all, and Christmas was magical for kids. Maybe this time, I could get answers. By that time, if Candida was pregnant, the baby should have been born, but still, the number I had for her was out of order.

  I took Julie home to Kentucky to meet Mom and Dad.

  Mom and Dad fell in love with her, and so did I, just a little more.

  I realized in the quiet moments of us, when she touched my back when it was time to go and I carried her across the same river my dad had carried my mom, that I was in love.

  I told her about Ella and Walker and Ben and Nathan. She knew about Candida. There wasn’t much left to tell her.

  Some love was made to last, and other love just wasn’t. Not Julie and me. No, we’d be together forever. Come hell or high water, I knew she’d be there, no matter what.

  Spring of the following year, we got married. We tried to get pregnant for months. Years afterward. I thought something happened to a woman when she couldn’t conceive and that was all s
he wanted in life. She broke before me. What she wouldn’t give to hear the little pitter-patter of feet down the hallway. The belly laughs from somewhere deep inside her little body or the soft breath against her neck as the baby slept.

  I wanted that badly, but I knew Julie wanted it more.

  Julie took it upon herself, thought that it was her fault. And I thought everything I did reminded her of what we didn’t have. She always tried to say it wasn’t me, that it was her. But I knew, somehow, that I had the ability to split her in half by just a single touch. Julie had a way of pretending. A way of letting the world know that she was all right even though she was dying inside. I thought from watching that, her, something died inside me, too.

  That had brought us here, to Santa Barbara, our best attempt at rekindling us. The love I’d always felt for her.

  I watched her as she climbed on top of me and asked for more.

  Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was the feeling, the love, or her attempt at another pregnancy, but I went with it to make her happy. Pushed inside her. Held her breasts to my mouth, and never once did she look me in the eyes. She used to always do that. Look me in the eyes until she shuddered underneath me, beside me, on top of me, or in front of me.

  But to see the smile on her face just one more time, I’d do anything. To fuel the fire we’d felt in our early twenties. I knew though the flame would go out, and I’d be left in the dark to pick up the pieces. I was okay with that. That was what I’d signed up for.

  Until death do us part.

  I’d made a commitment. We’d made a commitment. I wasn’t about to walk away from that.

  I loved Julie too much to let us go.

  We returned home to Santa Barbara this afternoon.

  I heard Julie crying in the bathroom.

  I wanted to knock, but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure why, but something inside me didn’t let me. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to face her. See the defeat, the heartbreak on her face again. That somehow, she’d left herself down. That she’d let me down. And that somehow, I was responsible.