The Light We See Read online

  We’d always shared a room. With all the rooms in the house, Ingrid and I needed each other—as much as I hated to admit I needed anyone.

  Father had a way of manipulating Mother without insulting her directly. I noticed it even if nobody else did.

  “The meatballs were cold. The coffee was weak. Sharon Sunberg was insulted by the crackers. She’s Jewish, Sandra. Truly, I wish you’d take more care in planning these parties for our friends,” he said. “I wonder what you’d do without me,” he said rhetorically.

  Mother didn’t say a word.

  And she took it all.

  Then, when she was sure he was done, she said, “I’ll try to do better next time, Jonas.”

  “I hope so. I’m going to bed. Clean this mess up.”

  And when Father went to bed, I listened to Mother weep as she cleaned every last glass and fill the Tupperware with leftovers that we wouldn’t eat this week because Father didn’t like leftovers. Mother believed in leftovers and family dinners and cooking for families that weren’t well and church on Sundays and bake sales and fundraisers for good causes.

  Father worked many hours, so our family dinners consisted of Ingrid, Mother, me, and Eugene, the stray dog Mother had picked up one day down on Sunset Boulevard on her way home from the grocery store.

  While Mother cooked meals for families that didn’t have what we had, Ingrid and I helped. Father didn’t know. It was better that way. Father worked hard, very hard, for what we had. He hadn’t been given anything when he grew up.

  He always ingrained in our heads, “Nothing is a free ride. Work hard for what you want, and eventually, you’ll make something of yourself.”

  Mother, Ingrid, and I drove sixty-eight-point-two miles every Sunday to attend Saddleback Church. Father never attended. Sunday was usually his only day off, so instead of going to church with his family, he would stay home and read the newspaper or do what busy men do on their days off.

  Bake sales, fundraisers, and good causes at the church were big on Mother’s list, and it always included Ingrid and me. Mother had us giving back even if she asked us to lie to Father about it. When Mother made sizable donations to a charity or a cause, she’d make sure it was listed as anonymous. It was often enough that we continuously received charitable letters in the mail, asking for money. Mother hid those, too.

  There was a fire in Glendale, a suburb of Los Angeles, in June 1990. I remember watching it on the television. Mother called her friend Sally, who called Linda, who called Brenda, who called Nancy, and within an hour’s time, Mother had Ingrid and me in the kitchen, cooking for four hundred people who’d lost their homes.

  “If your father asks what we did today, you’ll tell him we went grocery shopping, cleaned the house, and washed the cars, understand?”

  We nodded.

  I’m not sure Father cared too much about what we’d done that day, but Mother constantly played it cautious, as if she wasn’t sure what storm she’d be stepping into when he walked through the door in the evening.

  One thing she constantly said was, “It’s better to prepare for the storm than be caught in the eye.”

  Ingrid and I went along with it, but I’m fairly certain we didn’t understand what she meant until we got older.

  Truly, I thought Father did care for others. He had an odd way of showing it. Mother bought us the gifts for our birthdays, Christmases, and Easters. Father put money into our savings accounts instead.

  One day, Mother sent me into Father’s home office to get his cocktail glass he’d left in there the night before. We were never allowed in Father’s office unless he was in there, and there had to be a reason we were in there. But Mother was in a rush. Father liked everything pristine, neat, organized. A leftover cocktail glass wouldn’t go over well, and Mother knew this. So, when she sent me in, I made sure to run my fingers along the giant mahogany desk. Touch the expensive pen that he had sitting next to the lamp. I made sure to take in the shelves of bookcases that lined the walls. I made sure to touch the leather chair, sit in it, slowly spin in it, stare up at the carefully designed ceiling made of ivory. Father had had this office specially designed for him to include the handcrafted ivory ceiling and the bookcases and shelves that held forty-two books each—because forty-two was his favorite number. The clear, glass paperweights engraved with JLC—Jonas Lee Clemens. Another with CIC—Catherine and Ingrid Clemens. I picked up the paperweight and looked through them, my best attempt to view the world through Father’s eyes.

  Magnified.

  Tainted.

  Distorted.

  Rubik Cubes made for Father from Ernő Rubik himself. Solved, they sat on a shelf, all three of them—one for Father, one for me, and one for Ingrid.

  But it was the dull orange envelope that caught my eye that afternoon in the bottom drawer, which had been left open only a smidgen. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to go through Father’s things, especially in his office, but I couldn’t help myself. After checking the doorway to see if it was clear, I carefully slid open the drawer, and in there, I found an opened St. Jude envelope. As quietly as possible, I took out the white piece of paper inside. My eyes saw the number amount, but my brain just couldn’t register it. My father had donated over one million dollars. A thank-you note from Danny Thomas himself.

  I slipped the contents back into the envelope as my heart pounded. I put the drawer back just so, took the crystal cocktail glass, and left no trace behind.

  I never asked Father about it even though I was curious. I wondered why he’d donated all that money to sick children when he wouldn’t spare any change for catastrophic disasters both in the Untied States and worldwide. I wondered why his heart seemed so tainted on the outside. I wondered why he acted as though he didn’t care about other people—aside from his family. But maybe he did, and we just didn’t see it.

  When I returned to the kitchen with Father’s glass, Mother didn’t ask why it had taken me so long. I didn’t think she cared. Ingrid eyed me like a hawk. She knew something was up.

  That night, when we went to bed, Ingrid in normal pajamas this time, I told her what I’d found.

  She was quiet for a long moment. Then, she said, “I saw Father with another woman.”

  I didn’t respond. I waited for words to settle inside me. This was a broad statement. It was filled with different scenarios. Different justifications, reasons that Father would be with another woman, and yet my heart didn’t allow me to ask what it meant.

  What do you mean, Ingrid?

  Instead, I ignored the statement as if she’d never said it.

  And she ignored the St. Jude donation.

  That night, we fell to sleep full of questions, and that was just how our life continued.

  In plain sight, our family seemed pleasant, as if we were well put together with God on Sundays, wealth, beautiful clothes, nice cars, family vacations, and if you looked in our family photo album, you’d probably agree that the Clemens family was quite perfect. But behind closed doors, that was when the skeletons came out and danced, and the elephants ran from one side of the house to the other. Ingrid and I soaked it in like a sponge.

  The only way to function in life is:

  Chaos.

  Lies.

  Repeat.

  Sometimes, the chaos got so loud that it was hard to see the truth, especially as Ingrid and I got older.

  It was my senior year of high school and Ingrid’s junior year. Neither of us drank or went to parties; Father wouldn’t have it. He’d have our asses if we were downwind of that noise. Both of us maintained a 4.0 grade point average. Did what our parents told us to do. Never stayed out late.

  But Ingrid had trouble with boys. One night, she came home from the “library”—that was our code word for breaking rules.

  She sat down on her bed, on her side of the room, with a look I hadn’t ever seen before.

  I sat on my side of the room, staring down at my acceptance letter from Brown University, and thought, I
can’t leave her, not in this house, not with Mother and Father.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said calmly. “And I don’t know what to do, Cat.” She twisted her fingers in her lap, stared down at her slender thighs. “Mother is too overwhelmed to deal with my mistake. And Father …” Her voice trailed off. “He’d most likely disown me.” A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Or write me out of the will.”

  Ingrid had never appeared more fragile to me than she did in that moment. Her heart wasn’t her own anymore, and I could see that. It belonged to what grew inside her. But I knew in my own heart that she’d make the right decision for herself. Most of the time she did anyway.

  “Is Donald the father?”

  “No.”

  At first, I heard yes, but after a moment, I realize what she’d said. Donald Martin had been her boyfriend since freshman year.

  “Then, who?” I whispered into the night.

  “Jake.”

  “How do you know? That you’re pregnant, I mean.”

  “It was one night a month ago. I-I don’t know. We were at the library, grabbed a bite to eat, and … then he kissed me.” She closed her eyes with a tight squeeze, maybe remembering her mistake, or her love for him, or something in between. “Maybe it was the spring flowers or George Michael’s ‘Faith’ that played on the radio in the restaurant. Or the way Jake told me that he’d always had a crush on me. Maybe it was something new, Cat.” She blew out a mouthful of air. From her bag, she pulled out a pregnancy test and showed me.

  I knew enough about pregnancy tests to know that two pink lines meant pregnant.

  “What am I going to do, Cat?” she asked.

  “I got accepted to Brown,” I said, my best attempt to alleviate her shock, maybe some sadness.

  The corners of her mouth spread, which created the beautiful smile God had given her.

  “You’ll make the right decision, Ingrid.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Cat.” Ingrid covered her mouth to hide the frown. “I’m really happy for you.”

  That fall, Ingrid didn’t have Jake’s baby in her belly anymore. She broke it off with Donald, saying she was going away to college, said she needed time, but I think the truth was somewhere in between. Ingrid, nor I, knew anything about love. We knew nothing about intimacy, but we knew how to survive in chaos. We knew how to survive, period. We’d watched Mother serve Father for years. We’d watched Mother take his words. His manipulation. His lack of acceptance. We’d learned well. We’d learned that to survive, love was earned. Love was only for pretty, perfect things, and maybe Ingrid was searching for a man’s acceptance that night with Jake. And even though she’d had all the acceptance from Donald, maybe it just wasn’t enough or what she thought she needed.

  What we saw was our father pushing Mother to do more, to be more, and yet the only time we saw him touch her was when they danced to “Fading Away” by James Taylor. The words were so simple yet so raw, so telling.

  The truth is, I think Ingrid needed a man’s acceptance instead of her own acceptance.

  And where did I stand in all of this? Well, I stood on the other side. I kept men at a distance. And if it was sex, it was just sex, and that was all it was. I wouldn’t let my heart fall for anyone. I wouldn’t become Mother or Ingrid. I was going to blaze my own path and never allow myself to get trapped into the perception of love.

  —Catherine

  “Where are we headed?” I ask, praying for a rest stop soon.

  If we hit another bump, I’m sure I’ll pee my pants, which wouldn’t make for a good first impression. Somehow, I convinced him in a not-so-convincing way that I should come along, and I’m not about to start asking for things.

  “You hop in a car with a man you don’t know, drive for five hours, and then ask that question?”

  With my eyes on the road, I say, “Seems to me if you tried any funny business, all fingers would point to you. My car is parked at your house. My fingerprints are in your car.” I run my fingers alongside the doorframe. “And if it makes you feel better, I’ll leave a trail behind us that will lead to my whereabouts.”

  He does this thing with his lip, as if he’s trying to stifle a smile, but it turns out to be a lip quiver instead.

  Luke says, “Funny business. I haven’t heard that term in a long time.”

  A blue sign appears up ahead.

  “Rest stop. You have to pee?” he asks.

  Yes. I shrug. “Sure, if there’s one up ahead.”

  We pull into the rest stop, and I jump out and try to casually stroll to the restroom marked Women.

  I hear Luke’s door shut behind me, but I don’t look back because if I don’t stay focused, I’ll have to ask Luke to find a washer and dryer.

  I’m walking out of the restroom when I notice a man and a woman talking to Luke. Slowly, I make my way toward them. He signs something, nods, listens. From the woman’s animation when she speaks, I can tell she’s excited. The man, arms crossed, listens to his wife, smiles, and then takes off his hat and points to a place.

  Luke signs the man’s hat.

  But I stay back and watch it happen.

  The woman hands her phone to her husband, and he snaps a picture.

  They wave.

  They leave.

  Luke turns and sees me walking toward him. Crosses his arms. “Either you really had to pee or you walk really funny when you walk fast.”

  “I’m a dancer.” I nod. “Working on a few new moves.” I pull the door handle of his Mustang. I don’t say anything about the fans because it seems like that isn’t a comfortable place for him to be.

  Luke gets in, shuts the door, and starts the engine. “You asked earlier where we’re going.” He puts on his blinker, and we get back on the highway. “New York. Make some stops along the way.”

  New York? I pull out my phone. “I’m going to make a call to law enforcement—you know, so they can track my whereabouts—and hopefully, I’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

  Luke shakes his head, again with the lip quiver.

  I’m kidding. He knows it, but neither of us smiles as I slip my phone into my backpack.

  “Figure we’ll drive for another three hours or so and then find a place to sleep.”

  I nod, wondering how in the hell I’m going to afford to sleep where he sleeps. Shower where he showers. Eat where he eats.

  Luke turns on the satellite radio. James Taylor starts to play.

  The tail end of “Fading Away” plays. It’s the song Mother and Father used to dance to. Still, after all that happened between them, watching them dance, the memories I have when Ingrid and I used to sit under the dining room table and watch them move so effortlessly, it still brings me a sense of hope. And all of this is way too close to home, and we haven’t even reached the Arizona state line from California.

  “Fire and Rain” begins.

  Luke drives.

  The engine quietly roars beneath us.

  The wind blows in my hair.

  And James is on the mic.

  I close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest.

  It’s a sad song, and when he sings the part about not being sure where to send this song he’s written, my heart breaks a little more than the first hundred times I listened to it.

  The confusion of death. The complacency, the displacement, the lack of what to do and where to go and who to call. How to do laundry and make a grilled cheese. The simplicity of mundane tasks seems so much more difficult, and it’s not that one can’t do it, but because it just doesn’t seem that important anymore.

  Luke doesn’t ask my last name until the song is over.

  “Clemens.”

  “Catherine Clemens,” he says. His eyes search the surrounding area that’s slowly fading to black as the sun bids its last farewell before setting.

  “Luke McCay,” I say. “What part of Kentucky are you from?”

  “Bardstown. You familiar?”

  “No. Do you go back to
visit?”

  “My parents.”

  “Siblings?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Luke looks over at me and then back at the road.

  When he looks over this time, I notice his eyes are an earth brown with flecks of green that could also be seen as hazel, maybe, depending on the light and the mood and goodness of the world.

  “Your love for James Taylor.”

  “What?”

  “Statistically speaking, seventy-one percent of James Taylor fans come from single-children homes.”

  Luke looks over at me again. Shakes his head. “Seems to me you like him, too. Are you an only child?”

  “No. One sister. Ingrid. I’m of the twenty-nine percent of multiple-children households who love James Taylor.”

  Then, I see his smile crack, and it’s beautiful. “You’re lying.”

  There’s a long silence as the road hums under us.

  “Maybe.”

  It’s just after nine p.m. when we pull into a Best Western in Mesa, Arizona.

  “Can never go wrong with a Best Western,” Luke says. “Are you hungry?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll get checked in and see what we can find.” He looks at his watch that looks like it’s worth a million dollars.

  We grab our bags from the back and walk to the front door of the hotel. I go to reach for the door handle, but Luke grabs it instead.

  “My father wouldn’t be too happy with me if he knew I didn’t open the door for a woman.”

  “Hello. Welcome to the Best Western in Mesa. One room?” a man says from behind the counter.

  “Two,” Luke and I say at the same time.

  Edwardo, his name tag reads, says, “Wonderful.” His fingers slide across the computer keyboard. “You’re in luck. We have two rooms right next door to each other.”

  Luke grabs a card from his wallet. “Put both on here, please.”

  “No. I’ve got mine.” I touch Luke’s arm, not out of attraction, but out of surprise.

  When our eyes connect, he knows I mean business.