When Light Breaks by Patti Callahan Henry Page A

mirror Mama had given me for my eighth birthday, and stared at my face. “Get it together,” I whispered, then yanked my baby-blue cashmere sweater over my head, flipped it right-side out and pulled it back down. The sleeve caught on my hair clip; I jerked it down to a grotesque ripping sound.
    “Damn.” I yanked the sweater off and stared at a gaping hole in the right sleeve.
    I walked to the closet and stared at my clothes. All I wanted to do was slip into my silk pajamas, crawl into bed with a cup of hot lemon tea and read the last chapter of Beach Music , discover if love was truly everlasting.
    The only sweater still in its dry-cleaning bag was the black one with the beaded trim: guaranteed to be clean. I slipped it on and grabbed my black Gucci boots—the ones that killed my toes, but ones I’d wear until they fell apart because of what I’d paid for them, with my first real paycheck.
    I came to the top of the stairs and looked down at Peyton. He stood at the front door with his back to me. He fidgeted back and forth on his feet while he fingered the walking cane collection at the front door, then lifted one that Daddy had bought in Charleston. He twirled it, put it back in the holder. He let out a long sigh and called my name as he turned.
    “I’m right here, Mr. Patient,” I said, walking down the steps.
    “You changed,” he said.
    “Is that okay?”
    “Yes . . . just noticing.” He opened the front door and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.
    “Sorry . . . I’m just tired.”
    “You do look a little . . . pale.”
    I came up next to him, grabbed his hand and placed it on my forehead. “Do I feel hot?”
    “No, but you look hot.” He pulled me toward him. “God, I cannot wait until we are in the same house and I can see you and hold you whenever I want. This living with Daddy thing is not working out well for me.”
    Warmth ran over my body, and I immediately thought how to slip away that night before returning home—how to spend a few hours allowing his love to quiet the flurry of thoughts and feelings running through me. With all the craziness in our lives, it had been two or more weeks since we’d been together. I kissed his cheek. “Let’s go. I don’t want to face your mother if we’re even one minute late.”
    “Good point,” he said and clasped my hand. “Very good point.”
     
    The large pub room located off the garden terrace of Mrs. Ellers’s spacious home was overcrowded and stifling hot. Looking around, I was reminded that Peyton had bought this home for his mother, the fulfillment of a promise he’d made when he was six years old, when his father had walked out on them, to always take care of her. His protectiveness toward her was one of the many qualities in him that I adored. I stood behind the bar, which was piled high with wrapped gifts, and squeezed his hand.
    “It is so hot in here,” I said.
    “It is?” He took a long swallow of beer from a frosted mug with Ellers Pub etched in the glass.
    This was a moment I should have savored. But I often found that when I should be most “in the moment,” I became an observer instead of a participant, as if I were watching my life through the lens of a camera—filtering it through the convex lens, the images distinct but distant. This habit of observing my life had started at Mama’s bedside the night before she died, and it hadn’t quit yet. I reached for my camera at one side of the bar, lifted it to capture this moment I might be able to fully enjoy later, while looking at the pictures.
    There was Daddy talking to Mrs. Carrington at the far end of the room, near the door that opened to a deck. Mrs. Carrington motioned for them to walk outside, but Daddy shook his head and smiled. My heart hurt for him, as I knew how he felt—Mama was still in our hearts even if she wasn’t standing next to us. Someone can die, or leave, but the feeling of attachment doesn’t leave with them. Oh, if only it did—if only desire