Read Summer Light: A Novel Online
Authors: Luanne Rice
Summer Light: A Novel (44 page)
For support, May turned to Tobin. They talked on the phone five times a day, to make up for the fact that May was taking time off from work, that they weren’t seeing each other all day at the barn.
“I’m so worried,” May said. “He’s completely isolated, won’t talk to anyone. It’s as if he thinks everything will get better if he just sleeps through it.
“He’s ashamed, I think,” she continued. “That’s the worst part. He didn’t do anything wrong, but he’s hiding out as if he can’t face his friends.”
“Just like when John lost his job,” Tobin said.
“Sometimes I want to blame hockey,” May said. “I see how rough it is, how they take their injuries for granted. I think about Serge and Agnes and wonder how they could have let him—Serge knew how bad it could be. He knew, Tobin.”
“Like John and Michael in their race car,” Tobin told her. “Believe me, I think about the possibilities. But fathers and sons…that’s how they bond. How they communicate. Sometimes I think it’s the only way they can say they love each other. In a sport so dangerous they know they could get hurt.”
“Maybe,” May said, and she could see Serge in prison, his face scarred from pucks and sticks, just like Martin.
“Your coach called again,” May said, going upstairs to find Martin sleeping in the middle of the afternoon several days later. Just as she had told Tobin: All he did lately was crawl under the covers and hope the days would pass.
“Leave me alone,” he said. “I’m tired.”
“You’ve been sleeping for fourteen straight hours,” May said, sitting on the bed. Thunder was asleep beside Martin’s leg, and she had to push him aside. “You can’t be tired.”
Martin just rolled over.
“He reminded me we’re having dinner with Nils and Britta Jorgensen on Saturday night. We’re supposed to meet them at the Ritz at eight o’clock. Should I ask Aunt Enid if she’ll stay with Kylie?”
“You know the answer to that,” Martin said.
“He says it’s an order.”
“Tell him to fuck himself.”
May checked her watch. It was nearly noon. Martin had an appointment with Teddy today at three. He had canceled the last two, and fifteen days had gone by since he’d started taking the cortisone.
“Teddy called,” May told him. “She says she has to see you.”
“Or what?”
“Or things will get worse.”
“Do you really think they can?”
“For me,” May said. “If you can’t do it for yourself, don’t you remember you promised you’d do it for me?” Placing her hand on his back, she began to rub in slow circles.
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know,” she whispered, leaning over his back to kiss the side of his face. “But for me and Kylie. Do it for our family.”
They walked into Boston Eye Hospital in the middle of the afternoon. Martin held May’s arm, and she carefully steered him down the corridor. The guard called “Hello, Martin!” and various patients and doctors stared as he passed. One young boy wanted his autograph, and Martin silently gave it.
When they got to Teddy’s office, May waited while Martin had his exam. Teddy was friendly, happy to see them; she didn’t give Martin a hard time for taking so long to come in, and for that May was very grateful. Martin was operating on a hair trigger, and anything could set him off, send him storming back to the refuge of his bed.
The exam was over quickly. May stood as Teddy beckoned her into the inner office, where Martin was already seated. Today Teddy looked very professional across the desk in her white lab coat. But in her inimitable style, she wore her white hair piled on her head and diamond earrings dangling from her ears. Her expression was filled with compassion, and May felt her own heart breaking.
“The cortisone isn’t working,” Teddy told them. “Not in the way we’d hoped.”
“No,” May whispered.
Martin stared straight ahead. He was so handsome, his blue eyes sparkling with life, and May had a sudden memory of falling in love with him: that very first day, when he had carried Kylie from the smoky plane.
“Complicated detachments, giant retinal breaks and traction detachments, sometimes require a different sort of treatment,” Teddy said. “The best course being a vitrectomy.” May listened, her head buzzing, as Teddy went on to describe the operation: removal of the vitreous humor, to evacuate the blood from his right eye—his good eye—before more retinal nerve damage occurred, in an attempt to save what sight remained.
“My left eye—” Martin said.
“There is nothing to be done for your left eye,” Teddy told him gently.
“Will my right eye get better if I have the operation?” he asked.
“No.”
May’s eyes filled with tears. She was temporarily unable to see herself, and she heard Teddy gently push the box of tissues across the desk. Martin sat perfectly still. When May was able to see, she looked over at him. His back was so straight, and his face was full of courage. There wasn’t a trace of fear in his eyes as he turned to May.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Oh, Martin—” she replied, her voice catching.
“I’d like to schedule the operation as soon as possible,” Teddy said.
“Okay,” Martin agreed.
“Next Tuesday. First thing in the morning.”
“That’s fine.”
May gathered her bag and jacket, listening to Teddy give Martin directions on where to go, how long to abstain from eating or drinking the night before. As she spoke, her kind voice full of confidence, May looked around the room.
William’s lighthouse pictures shone down from the walls. May remembered when she’d first seen them, how their torches had seemed so full of hope and inspiration. Right now she knew Martin was entering the darkness, and she prayed for the strength to help him through whatever was about to happen. She closed her eyes and imagined a beam sweeping the horizon, showing them the way.
Chapter 27
B
EFORE
,
HE HAD WANTED ONLY
to sleep; now, Martin wanted nothing more than to stay awake. Holding May, he stared at her beautiful face, the curve of her body, the look in her eyes. Would he be able to feel her love if he couldn’t see it?
Boston was a blur of lights. He stared into them, remembering the lake. He pictured the mountains, sharp against the sky. He saw thin, white moonlight spreading over the fields and barn, over Lac Vert itself. He thought of how Lac Vert moonlight was the most beautiful anywhere.
“What are you thinking?” May asked, coming to stand beside him.
“I don’t want to lose it,” he said. They were naked, facing each other. He gazed at the liquid light on her soft skin, and he took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply.
“Come to bed,” she said, pulling his hand.
“I don’t want to forget,” he told her. “I want to remember it all.”
“Remember…” she began, a question in her voice.
“How it all looks,” he said, his throat aching. “How the world really is.” He had fire inside, and he went to the bureau where he had laid his wallet, and began to ransack it for pictures. Natalie, Kylie, and May.
Staring at the photos, he couldn’t make out the features. Already the faces were beginning to fade—he couldn’t remember the shape of his daughter’s face, the exact color of her hair and eyes, the way she could never hold back her smile.
“I can’t see her,” he said, panicked.
“Martin,” May said, trying to hold him, but he pulled away.
He stared at his daughter’s picture, every feature blurred. Bringing it close to his face, he couldn’t make it come into focus. He felt terror run all through his body, and he knew there was no escaping this. It was like falling through the ice, not being able to climb out. Freezing, suffocating, drowning. It was like being trapped in his own coffin.
“I can’t see her face anymore,” Martin said, shaking.
“I know,” May said, her voice breaking. Martin could no longer recognize his own child. May didn’t even try to console him. She couldn’t, and Martin was glad she didn’t even try.
On Friday, the day before he and May were supposed to go to the Ritz-Carlton, Martin phoned Jorgensen.
“What the hell do you want?” Jorgensen demanded.
“To talk,” Martin said, his mouth dry.
“Can’t you wait till tomorrow?”
“Forget dinner,” Martin said. “Meet me at the Fleet Center.”
“Where?” Jorgensen asked in disbelief.
“Your home ice,” Martin told him. “In case you’ve forgotten.”
The drive into Boston seemed to take forever. May was against the meeting, but she drove him anyway. They listened to the radio so she wouldn’t be tempted to try to talk him out of it, and he wouldn’t feel the need to defend his actions. When they got to the Fleet Center, he kissed her good-bye and grabbed his stick and skates from the backseat.
“Am I allowed to say be careful?” she asked.
“Not today.” He grinned.
“I’ll say it anyway.”
“I’ll do my best,” Martin promised.
Although he and Jorgensen hadn’t advertised their meeting, many of the other guys had somehow decided to show up. They milled around, saying hello as Martin suited up. Ray walked over, and Martin could feel his disapproval before he opened his mouth.
“Don’t say it,” Martin said.
“You’re being a jerk,” Ray said. “Whatever the hell you think you have to prove, put it aside. He’s your teammate now.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybes about it. He’s making more than anyone here, and the fans are in love with him. So suck it up and move on. You have your big dinner tomorrow night.”
“There’s not going to be any big dinner.” Martin had pulled on his Bruins jersey for the first time that year, and now he finished lacing up his skates. He felt the rush he always felt before a game, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t see where he was going. On the ice he was king, he could skate blind. Hadn’t his father always told him that?
But rising from the bench, he bumped right into Ray’s arm.
“You’re doing it again,” Ray said.
“What?”
“Walking like you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, I had a few on the way over.”
Ray was silent, shocked.
“Martin, he’s waiting for you,” Jack called.
“
Bien
, okay.” Martin moved through the room on autopilot. The rubber flooring felt solid and eternal beneath the blades of his skates. Stepping onto the ice, he felt alive and powerful. The cold surrounded him, and once again he felt invincible. He flew down the rink, blind to anything in his path. But he knew he and Jorgensen were alone out there, that no one was going to get between them today.
“You ready?” Martin called as he flew past the goal.
“To kill you,” Jorgensen yelled back.
“Try,” Martin said.
He caught the blur of black and yellow, and he shivered to see his eternal enemy wearing the Bruins’ colors. The two men had agreed to a private face-off, a sort of sudden death. Coach Dafoe had told them to go at it—in a field, on the ice, or at the dinner table. Well, there was only one place on earth Martin wanted to meet Nils Jorgensen, and it wasn’t at the fucking Ritz-Carlton.
“You done sightseeing?” Jorgensen shouted.
“Just giving you a chance to back out,” Martin called to the goaltender. He found his heart rate nice and steady. The ice felt like home to him; he loved to skate, and the feeling of his stick in his hand gave him pure confidence. He wasn’t going to crash into anyone, and he wasn’t going to miss. This was one-on-one, and Martin knew he could do it.
“Hey, Martin,” Ray called, and Martin followed the sound of his voice.
“What?”
“Put your damn mask on.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“No, you’ve got May to mother you. She’s up in the stands watching. But do it anyway—”
“She’s here?”
“Yeah, watching you from the nosebleed seats.”
Martin didn’t smile, but he sort of liked thinking of May watching him today. He felt as if he was on the edge of something, that this might be his last time skating on this ice. It was fitting his wife should be here to see it. Ray skated over to hand Martin his face mask, and with deliberation, Martin put it on.
Ray started the clock. Martin Cartier and Nils Jorgensen had ten minutes to show who was best. If Martin scored one goal, he would win. If Jorgensen shut him out, the goalie would prevail.
Dangerous from anywhere on the ice, today Martin Cartier was a sniper. He fired cannon shots from inside the blue line, nailing Jorgensen with all he had. Jorgensen refused to yield any goals, and Martin was determined to see that he did. The first minute was a slick blur. Martin came around again and again. Twice he drilled the puck straight at Jorgensen’s head, and twice he was blocked.
He heard May call from the stands.
Martin steeled his spine and took a spin across the red line. His heart was pumping, and he remembered days on the ice with his father, practicing penalty shots until after dark. It was like that now, amid the glare of Boston’s gleaming rink, shades of black blocking his sight. He clutched, nearly skating off the ice.
“You can do it!” May yelled.
“Come and get me,” Jorgenson snarled.
Martin thought of his father, and he could hear him saying the same words on the vast mountain lake:
Come and get me.
His father had taught him everything he knew about competition. Hockey was a blood sport, and it could make bitter enemies of best friends, of father and son, if they were on the opposing team.
“Come and get me,” Jorgensen shouted again, and this time Martin thought of their worst fight, Jorgensen’s stick to the eye, his own shattered eye socket. He felt the howl beginning in his gut, and it roared out of his mouth as he started down the ice.
Martin Cartier advanced like a departing jet on the runway, achieving velocity he’d never experienced before, cocking his arm with blinding force. As he fired the puck toward a goal he couldn’t see, he felt the sweet spot.
“Score!” Ray Gardner yelled a fraction of a second after the puck slammed past Jorgensen’s glove. The small crowd broke into cheers, May’s voice louder than anyone’s.
Grinning, Martin pumped his fists in the air. His stick waved around, and he heard his teammates’ skates clicking the ice as they came to greet him. Suddenly he was being swarmed, and he felt the panic of being unable to see. They were all around him, shaking his hand, punching his shoulder.
He hunched over, protecting himself from what he couldn’t see. Ray gave him a bear hug, then skated off. The other guys zigzagged in front, trying to punch his fist with theirs in a salute of victory. Martin felt dazed by the motion, and he felt the rush as Jorgensen skated over. Activity ceased, and Martin could feel Jorgensen waiting for something.
“Okay, I’m extending my hand and you’re still so fucking rude you won’t shake? You won, is that what you want to hear?”
Martin heard his voice, but he couldn’t see him.
“Martin…” came Ray’s voice.
Turning toward where Jorgensen had spoken, Martin wheeled around, but the goalie had moved. Nervously skating around, he was everywhere, swearing about Martin’s bad manners.
“Jorgensen,” Martin said, putting out his hand.
“Yeah?” The goaltender stopped short.
Okay, Martin had him now. He had his back to the locker room, a halo of rink light silhouetting him from behind. Martin’s hand was shaking as he moved forward. The goalie laughed, backing up, making Martin work harder just to shake his hand. Wanting it to be over, to get out of there, Martin put on the speed.
He crashed straight into Mark Esposito, who had crouched down to tie his lace. The men tumbled over each other, and when Martin looked up he couldn’t see a thing. The rink was black, as if night had closed in on the lake, as if there wasn’t a moon or a star to light his way. Mark scrambled to his feet, but Martin just sat there.
“Martin?” It was Ray’s voice.
“Help,” Martin heard himself say.
A hand came out of the darkness. Martin took it, felt himself pulled to his feet. Suddenly his skates felt unfamiliar, and he thought he’d lose his balance again.
“Steady, Cartier,” came Jorgensen’s voice, and Martin felt the goalie’s arm around his waist. “You all right?”
“Yes, Martin,” Ray said, standing so close Martin could feel his breath on his cheek. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Martin heard himself whisper into the vast and empty darkness of the rink that had been his home.
“How long have you known?” Genny asked the evening before Martin’s surgery. The Gardners had come down to Black Hall, and she and May were walking through the rose garden as the sun began to set.
“Most of the summer,” May admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Genny asked, hurt.
May thought about it. The breeze was chilly, and she had her hands in her jacket pockets. Autumn was just around the corner. She and Kylie had seen the first red leaves that morning, a crimson vine slashing through a pine tree behind the barn. Kylie would be starting school soon, and Martin would be recovering from surgery.