Waves of Light (2 page)

I
can’t believe you guys are going to New York without me.” Ruth leaned against the
VISITOR PARKING
sign. “And you’re deserting us for the Easter egg hunt.”

“We’re going to miss you, too.” I stood on tiptoe and looked for Helen’s car again. It should have pulled into the church parking lot ten minutes ago. “Where is Andrew?”

Behind us, the worship band struck their first chord. Ruth glanced that way.

“Let’s go in.” I laced my arm through hers. “Wouldn’t want to miss any of Cameron’s music.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Like we didn’t just wait forever on the curb for Andrew …”

Ruth and I practically finished one another’s sentences these days. Where Frankie and I carefully skirted certain subjects, Ruth and I fought it out whenever we disagreed. In that way she was an even closer friend than Pippa, and
I’d known Pips my whole life. I could tell Ruth anything. If she didn’t agree with me, she’d tell me so. And if we had to, we’d simply agree to disagree.

We hurried across the grassy field toward the Tree House, newly painted for the spring. Even now, after coming here for youth group every week since September, the odd turrets and decks jutting out from the branches of the huge tree behind the church made me smile. Especially now, actually, because Penny’s obsession with bright colors had migrated from her hair to the Tree House. Our youth group leader had gone wild, adding magenta trim around the windows and lime green accents across the deck railing. The snow was finally gone from the roof and branches, leaving all the weathervanes and whirligigs free to spin and ring. As we climbed the rope ladder, the tinkling of the chimes mixed with the deep beat of the bass drum. We slipped inside and found an open cushion on the nearest window seat.

Music washed over me the way it always did when the band played. Most people sang along, but I just listened as the voices wove together, filling the small space with an energy I wanted to be able to draw. Not being able to see something didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Ruth’s voice was like liquid gold, solid and smooth. Sitting by her was like having my own mini-concert. Yet for some reason, she refused to let Cameron, the leader of our youth group’s student worship band, hear her sing — no matter how many times he asked. Her stubbornness made no sense to me.

As the song finished, the door opened and Andrew slipped into the room.

The corner of his mouth tipped up as he sat beside me. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Phone call.”

That smile. He’d flashed that same smile at me when I’d first seen him, surrounded by bears at the research station where he and his mom, Helen, lived. At first I’d assumed the bears were making my heart thud like a bowling ball against my ribcage. But even now, far away from the bears, Andrew had the same effect on me.

He nudged me with his elbow. “I hear you’re going to New York instead of hiding Easter eggs in full view and chasing a crowd of very small people around the church lawn.”

I elbowed him back. “You only volunteered so you can skim candy off the top.”

He winked and happiness bubbled up inside me.

Doug bounded up to his usual stool at the front of the group, and Penny joined him. I could tell she was trying not to smile. Our youth leaders were up to something.

Doug rubbed his hands together. “So, we’ve had normal youth group for months, right?”

No one answered.

“Right?” he asked again.

“Right,” we all echoed warily.

“And you all know that tomorrow’s Good Friday. But you may not know about the vigil. All day long, people from church will be coming to the sanctuary to pray so at least
one person is there at all times. If there’s any way you can attend tomorrow, I encourage you to do so. Even if you can’t come to the vigil, take time for some quiet this weekend — let God draw close to you.”

“How do we
let
God do anything?” Claudia asked. “He’s powerful enough to do whatever he wants.”

“Right, but God doesn’t force a relationship on us. He wants us to talk to him, to open up to him — the same way we might call a friend whenever we’re thinking of that person.”

When Claudia shrugged, Ruth elbowed me and smiled. Claudia constantly tried to catch Doug saying the wrong thing, so we secretly loved it when she backed herself into a corner.

“So what’s going to be un-normal about youth group then?” Irritation filled Claudia’s voice.

“Ah, yes.” Doug motioned toward his coleaders. “Penny, Ben, and I were talking this week about all the cool things you guys have done as a group this year — particularly how you helped give Christmas to the Thompson family. Well, Maundy Thursday is also a time to give, and since tons of places around the world need aid, we’ve cooked up a plan.”

“And the plan is …?” Ted wasn’t known for his patience.

Doug grinned. He was dragging out the reveal, and we all knew it. “We have so many talented people in our youth group—”

“Spit it out, Doug!” Ted shouted.

Doug threw up his hands as if in defeat. “Actually, Jasper should tell you about it. This was his idea, after all.”

As Jasper shuffled to the front of the room, everyone razzed him about not saying something earlier.

“A few weeks ago,” Jasper said, “I went to Canada to visit my aunt and uncle, and my family saw this play out in the forest. Each scene happened in a different part of the woods, and the audience hiked to get from scene to scene. So I asked Doug if we could do a play like that here — you know, to raise money for a good cause.”

Hands shot up all over the room.

“What play?”

“Raise money for who?”

“When would we start?”

Doug laughed and held up his hands. “Whoa! Let’s take this one step at a time. No decisions about the play or the cause have been made yet. Let’s start there. Whoever wants to discuss possible play scripts, head over to the snack tables with Penny. If you want to brainstorm about good causes, meet with me over here at the windows.”

Ruth and I decided to join Penny and Andrew headed for Doug’s group.

“It should be a play that lots of people know,” Claudia was saying. “Like
The Sound of Music
or something like that.”

“But shouldn’t it be one that takes place in a forest?” Lindsay asked.

Always dramatic, Bea threw her hands in the air and leaned forward. “Wait! What if we used improv games to turn a story into a play, like the way we created our
Christmas skit two years ago? No set script to start? We used an old Christmas story then, but this time we could use a folk tale or something.”

“Oooh!” Ruth said. “How about that story Penny told us last Easter. Remember, Penny?”

“That was just—” Penny began.

“She wrote this story,” Lindsay jumped in to explain, “that was like a folk tale, kind of. This girl got kidnapped and locked inside a music box. Then she escaped and there was this big storm—”

Penny shook her head. “I don’t know …”

“Come on, Penny. Please?” Bea asked.

Penny looked around the group. Clearly, she was outnumbered. “Fine. We can use my story. Using material we own, and not having to write a script ahead of time will make things easier, since we want to start rehearsals next week during spring break.”

Ruth frowned and whispered to me, “You’ll be gone part of next week.”

“I’ll talk to Penny. It’ll be okay,” I said.

After some debate, Penny and I decided I would head up the set crew, which suited me fine. Vivian could help me make some three-dimensional art pieces, a good challenge for me and different than just drawing images on a page.

When Doug gathered everyone together, the other group explained that they wanted to raise money to send food and clean water to children in Somalia. The vote was unanimous. We’d all seen the recent newscasts about the drought
over there, and we wanted to help. Even Jasper, who usually wanted to help people locally — someone he could see with his own eyes — agreed this was the perfect idea.

Penny announced that play auditions would be held on Monday, and then Cameron and the band took the stage for one final song. They played “Amazing Grace” unplugged. As everyone sang, the excitement about everything to come — my trip to New York, Vivian’s art show, designing sets for the play, even my hopes about Mom — they all settled like confetti drifting to the floor.

“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.”

I’d felt lost for much of the past year. In the same way you suddenly realize after being sick for a long time that you finally feel better, I realized the words of this hymn were finally true for me. My life wasn’t perfect or anything. I still had all kinds of questions. But here, sitting between Ruth and Andrew, filled with happiness, I didn’t feel lonely or confused. Before, I’d often felt like someone pretending to be Sadie, or hoping to be Sadie someday — the Sadie I wanted to be. Now, I finally fit inside my own skin.

I’m right here. I’m found
.

W
e’d left midmorning for our drive to New York and had skipped lunch; by three, we were starving and needed to stretch our legs.

“Tacos or burgers?” Vivian asked us.

“Tacos,” I answered.

“Burgers,” Frankie said.

“We’ll drive through both, then,” Vivian said. We collected our food and found a picnic table at a park. The cool breeze tickled my neck, and I didn’t mind that my food was sloppy because we were eating outside. After we threw away our trash, Frankie and I went over to the swings and tried to swing as high as the bar.

“Vivian, I want to learn how to draw this. The air, I mean,” I called out as I swung backward, my stomach dropping in that way that gives you shivers to the very roots of
your hair. “You can feel it all around you, but you can’t see it. I think you should be able to see it.”

“What would it look like?” Frankie asked.

“I don’t know. All different colors, like the way prisms make rainbows. But it would be all thick and shimmery — mixed together.”

I wanted to hold on to this fluttery, happy feeling while Frankie was still around, Mom was on her way to getting healthy, and an unopened note from Andrew sat in my pocket. Right now, this minute — life couldn’t get much better.

“Okay, girls. Time to hit the road,” Vivian called.

We counted to three and then leapt from the swings. Vivian planned to drive until ten o’clock, and then we’d stay in a motel. We’d drive the rest of the way to New York in the morning. Frankie’s mom had arranged for us to have a special Easter dinner, so we had to be in town by two o’clock at the latest.

When we finally parked at the motel, my legs felt like Jell-O. I dragged myself upstairs, and fell into bed.

“Uh-uh. No way I’m sleeping in the same bed as you if you don’t brush your teeth first.” Frankie dragged me to my feet and into the bathroom.

I half-slept through the teeth brushing and face washing and putting on of pajamas, and then I slipped into one side of the queen-size bed. Frankie took the other side, and Vivian took the rollaway bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I awoke with a too-full feeling, thoughts pinging around inside my head like marbles knocking against one another. The room had an air-conditioner chill and smelled of strawberry-scented air freshener. My mind started to piece together where I was — not in my own room, but a motel room — dark, but not too dark.

A light illuminated the small desk by the door, and pencils scratched across paper, stroke after rhythmic stroke. I propped myself up on my elbow to watch Vivian draw. Her black hair fell loose around her shoulders, and she wore a polka-dotted tank top with striped pajama pants. So Vivian. So unlike every other adult I knew.

Carefully, so I wouldn’t wake Frankie, I slid out of bed and tiptoed across the room.

“What are you drawing?” I whispered.

Vivian looked surprised, as though I’d pulled her from a dream. “Did I wake you?”

“I think I woke myself. My head is too full.” I’d been so tired that I hadn’t done my nightly drawing, and now I was a mess.

Vivian gestured at her sketchbook. “Well, you know what I do when my head is too full.”

Vivian had drawn a series of pictures of her house in every season. Fall — a few leaves strewn on the ground and a pumpkin resting on her porch. She sat on the porch swing with a steaming mug in her hand. Winter at night — piles of snow, a little boy facing a snowman in the yard, and bright stars in the moonless sky. Spring — Vivian in her front yard,
finishing the angel sculpture, a few patches of snow still here and there. And then summer — the raspberries in full bloom, a reddish sunrise streaking across the sky, Vivian holding hands with a man. I guessed her husband, David, who’d died a few years ago.

“New York seems so over the top for me, the kind of thing I’ve always dreamed about,” Vivian said. “But what actually makes me happiest is my own home full of memories.”

“Is that Peter?” I pointed to the little boy.

“Yes.” Vivian smiled. “He asked about you the other day. Wanted to know how you were.”

I sat down on the rollaway bed. “What did you tell him?”

“That you’re becoming quite the artist. And, as always, you are such a kind friend.”

“Not such a kind friend to him.” I pulled at a loose stitch in the blanket.

“Peter might have stayed with me forever trying to help me get over David. But I will never get over my husband. You gave my son a gift. He’s free now, fighting fires and living his own life. Even though facing the charges from the DNR was difficult, Peter grew from the experience. You told the truth, Sadie. And the truth always helps people become free.”

Tears pooled in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, so I just nodded and blinked hard. I hadn’t expected to talk about Peter. He hadn’t even been on my list of worries for the day. Now I really wanted to draw, but I wanted privacy to do it. This kind of drawing wasn’t something I liked to do with anyone watching me. Vivian may have sensed my hesitation,
or maybe she really was tired. In either case, she closed her sketchbook.

“I think I’ll lie down now,” she said. “But feel free to leave the light on for a while, if you want. It won’t bother me.”

She slipped into the rollaway bed, and I glanced over to make sure Frankie was still asleep too. Sure enough, she was mouth-hanging-open, arm-draped-off-the-bed, deep asleep.

As quietly as I could, I unzipped the front pocket of my suitcase and took out my sketchbook and pencils. I returned to the desk and sat there, rolling my pencil between my fingers and studying the blank page in the lamplight, waiting for my heart to slow. My thoughts still clacked around, stirred up further by our conversation about Peter. Recently, ever since I’d moved to Owl Creek, actually, I’d felt like a human wrecking ball.

On the whole, things had gotten better for me. But still, so many people’s lives had changed because of things I’d done or said. Peter, for one, had moved away from Owl Creek after I’d reported him for illegal hunting and the DNR revoked his hunting license for two years. Now Frankie was moving away because her dad couldn’t stand my dad. Even though that wasn’t exactly my fault, I felt guilty by association. And then Mom — while I knew her sickness wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t help but wonder if I could do something to help her get better. Should I help around the house more? Not ask her to drive me places? Was it possible to never worry her? And if I could somehow, miraculously, become the perfect daughter, would she finally get better?

I didn’t know what to draw. I wanted to believe I was worried over nothing. I wanted to believe what Vivian had said — that Peter
needed
to move away, that I hadn’t ruined his life or hers. I wanted to believe Frankie would eventually love living in New York. And I really, really wanted to believe the health spa would fix Mom. Finally. But wanting those things didn’t erase my worries.

The blank page stared back at me. I finally drew a long black stroke right in the center of the page, winding around and around on itself. The line was too raw there, a tangled mess. I wanted to put it somewhere safe, somewhere hidden. I drew a box around it and added a padlock. Then I sketched waves and seaweed until the box sat at the bottom of the ocean.

I closed my eyes. The drawing wasn’t finished. I’d locked up my mess and buried it, but I didn’t feel at all settled. The air conditioner hummed, the desk light buzzed softly, and as I listened, an image floated into my mind. A key with an ornate handle, the kind that might come with a fancy diary, or the kind you’d find in an antique shop. A key to unlock secrets. I opened my eyes and stared at my picture. I didn’t want to unlock that box. Keeping the box locked was the whole point of sinking it to the bottom of the ocean. But even with my eyes open, I could still see the key. It wasn’t going away. Finally, because I knew I had no other choice, I drew a rock and put the key underneath.

That’s good enough, isn’t it? For the time being?

No answer boomed down from the sky — it never
Did — but still, a velvety calm came over me. Words from one of Doug’s talks came to mind. He’d said something like, “God gives us only what we can handle, never more.” For a second or two, I thought I understood what Doug meant. Of course, I had more to think about, more to see, more to unlock. But for now, knowing about the box and the key was enough.

I closed my sketchbook and checked the clock before turning off the desk lamp. Twelve fifteen.

Happy Easter
.