Read Summer Light: A Novel Online
Authors: Luanne Rice
Summer Light: A Novel (38 page)
The two strange dogs ran straight past him, bound for freedom. Thunder bayed with gratitude, jumping up as high as his stumpy legs would allow. Martin bent from the waist, to let him lick his face. He thought of how little it took to make an old dog happy, how easy it was to please a little girl. Kylie would be overjoyed to see him.
Natalie would be proud of him. If she were here, she’d tell him he’d done the right thing, running half-blind up the lake to rescue Kylie’s dog. Martin should have let her have Archie. He had known that for years, but right now, in the very building where he had let her down, he felt it in his skin, his teeth, his bones.
Thunder trotted over to the door, leading Martin outside. Reaching into his pocket, Martin withdrew the length of rope he’d remembered to bring. He didn’t want Thunder running off in search of Fifi, getting picked up by the cops again. Thunder pointed his nose into the air, breathing in the fresh night.
Martin did the same. He felt free, holding the other end of a long leash. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and found a loose check. He wrote it in the amount of five hundred dollars and left it on the woman’s desk. The check had his name on it, and he knew he’d probably get a visit from the police tomorrow, at least a call, but he didn’t care.
Setting the dogs free, bringing Thunder home to Kylie, was worth it. But when he stepped back outside again, something happened. The night had gotten darker. Or fog had blown in. Martin couldn’t see. Thunder was pulling on his rope, but Martin didn’t know which way to walk. He was alone in blackness, and he couldn’t see which path to take.
Martin was out there, but at least he hadn’t taken the car. May sat on the sofa, wondering where he had gone. She tried to do some paperwork: Tobin had sent her last month’s invoices, and May tried to go through them with her calculator and pen. But the more she tried to concentrate, the more her mind wandered.
Walking over to the window, to peer into the blackness for the hundredth time, she glimpsed the blue envelope. It lay in the trash among fliers and old newspapers, and May knew she should forget about it. But she couldn’t. Maybe if her husband were home where he was supposed to be, if she weren’t worried to death about him, she wouldn’t be so distracted by a dumb blue envelope.
Not only did she pull it out of the trash, she opened it. She unfolded the letter—written on plain blue stationery—spread it out on the window seat beside her, and read it.
Dear Martin,
You deserved to win, son. I’m not saying that winning’s the only thing, but we’re both competitors and we both know we’re in it for victory. You made it to the finals again. That in itself is great. There’s always next year, if you have the team to back you up. The Bruins had better appreciate what they have, or I know plenty of other teams who’ll still be fighting to have you.
It’s been a long time, Martin. Yes, for you waiting to win the Stanley Cup, but other things too. Since we talked, saw each other. I read about you. Watch you on TV. I know about your marriage. Congratulations on that, too. She is a good person. She held up when the press wanted to turn on her, so I know she’s got guts. And she has a little girl. You married a woman with a little girl. I smiled when I saw that. Does she make you think of Natalie? I see her pictures in the paper, and I think maybe she has the same sparkle in her eyes.
I miss Nat. I know you think I took her from you. Maybe you think that means I didn’t love her. Believe me that’s not true. Boy, I loved that one. Almost as much as I loved you.
I’ve been a bad father. A bad grandfather. People make mistakes, Martin. I wasn’t around enough for you and your mother. I didn’t take care of you the way I should have. Her, either. Neither of you deserved what I gave you. Will you let me tell you this in person?
What I’m telling you is, I want to see you. May has probably told you that by now. When she came to visit me, I told her to give you a message. I know that she would keep her word, so I know she told you. You hate me for what I did. But will you listen to what I have to say?
A young man died here tonight. He was very young, about the age you were when you first started playing for Vancouver. Someone stabbed him in a stupid fight. At first, all I knew was that he had been hurt. But just now the guard tells me he’s dead. As young as he was, he was a father. In my own way, I cared about him. I wanted him to be a better father to his kids than I’ve been to you.
Whatever you decide, I’ll live with that. But I hope you decide to come.
Love, Dad
When May finished reading the letter, she realized her hands were balled into fists. Her cheeks were hot and wet. She read the words over and over. She thought of Martin reading this letter, wondering whether he would ever consider visiting the prison. She wondered whether he could even read the words.
“Mommy!”
At the sound of Kylie’s voice, she tucked the letter back into its envelope and slid it into the desk drawer. Then she climbed the stairs.
“What is it, honey?”
“Is Thunder back yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Where is he?”
“Roaming, I guess,” May said. “Can’t you sleep?”
“Not really. I’m trying, but—” she stopped as the phone rang.
May didn’t say a word, didn’t tell Kylie she would be right back or anything. She tore down the hallway, knowing she would hear his voice even before she picked up the phone.
“May, it’s me. I’m at the dog pound. I have Thunder.”
“I didn’t know where you were,” she said. “I was worried.”
“I need you,” he said.
Her heart was in her throat as she listened.
“I can’t see,” he told her. “I can’t see where I am.”
“I’ll come to get you,” May said. “I’ll be right there.”
Then, telling Kylie to put on sneakers and a sweater, May hurried out into the warm, starry night to pick up her husband and their dog.
The short drive seemed to take forever. Kylie was wide awake, totally focused on the fact Martin had rescued Thunder. When they pulled up at the pound, she opened the car door and Thunder scampered in. May’s hands were shaking as she walked over to Martin, took him in her arms.
“We’re here,” she said.
“I can’t see anything,” he said, his voice thin and wild with panic.
Chapter 23
L
AC VERT AND ITS SURROUNDING
towns did not have any ophthalmology specialists, but May found an optometrist located in downtown LaSalle. The drive along winding country roads took about thirty minutes, with pine boughs and oak branches interlacing overhead. Genny had come to pick up Kylie—no questions asked—and Thunder was securely locked in the kitchen. The police had stopped by to ask about the break-in, to apologetically issue a warning against it ever happening again.
“Well, my eyes are better today,” Martin said.
“They are?”
“Let’s not go.”
“We’re already on the way.”
“It’s too gorgeous a day to waste in town. Let’s row out to the island.”
“Please, Martin.”
“Ten kilometers to LaSalle,” Martin said, reading the mileage sign.
May felt relieved, although she realized he probably knew every sign on this road by heart. She wanted to believe that a migraine headache or a minor infection had temporarily affected his sight, that it had cleared up on its own.
“He’s going to say I need glasses,” Martin said.
“That wouldn’t be so bad.”
“How would I play hockey with glasses?”
“You could wear contacts,” she said.
“I’ve been lucky,” he said, “never to need them. I always feel sorry for the guys who have to wash them, get them in right…when there’s a problem on the ice, it’s hard to fix a contact with gloves, pads, the face mask on. You know the difference between a good player and a great player?”
“What?”
“Great players have superior vision. It’s just a fact.”
“You’re a great player.”
“Who might need contacts.”
“Maybe you won’t need them,” May said.
“I hope not.”
LaSalle was a small town built on the top of a hill. It overlooked Lac Vert and the Ste. Anne River, a hundred small hills and valleys rising into the Laurentians. Two Catholic churches anchored Main Street, one brick and one white clapboard. Development had left the town alone, with Victorian houses, an old movie theater, and a long row of two-story office buildings.
Maurice Pilote, Optometrist, occupied a second-floor office, just above Pierre Pilote, Accountant. When May and Martin walked into the room, they found the optometrist, his receptionist, and an elderly customer deep in conversation. But the talking stopped as soon as they recognized Martin.
“
Mon Dieu!
” the optometrist said, striking his breast. “Martin Cartier! It is an honor to have you here!”
“We don’t have an appointment,” May began.
“It is for you?”
“For me,” Martin said.
“Come right in,” Pilote said, standing aside.
Together May and Martin walked into a small back room. Making light of the situation, Martin explained what was going on, that his sight had been fading in and out, that last night—in the dark, without any lights at all, with haze all around—he had been temporarily unable to see. The optometrist listened, making notations on a clipboard. Then, leading Martin to a darkened cubicle, he positioned him facing the eye charts.
“I’ve always had six/six,” Martin said. Then, to May, “In Canada, that’s the same as twenty/twenty.”
“Perfect eyesight,” Pilote said. “That would explain your perfect shot. Well, don’t worry. I can make you an excellent pair of glasses. My God, to have Martin Cartier in my chair! Are you ready? First line please.”
Martin read the large letters across the first line of the eye chart right away: “E N Y I Z X.” Then the next: “H L B T D A,” and the third: “Q F R M C.”
May felt so relieved, she wanted to laugh out loud. Maybe this was nothing at all. Maybe they’d be out of here, rowing to the island, before the morning was up.
“Very good. Now I am going to cover your right eye. First line, please.”
May waited for Martin to start. She read the letters silently to herself: E N Y I Z X. The room was silent except for the buzzing of a wall clock. The optometrist cleared his throat nervously. In case Martin hadn’t heard, he said more loudly, “First line, please.”
“Try my other eye,” Martin said, without reading one letter.
“It would be best for you to tell me what you see right now with your left eye, not worrying at all about how many letters—”
“My other eye,” Martin said sharply.
“Very well.” Maurice Pilote covered Martin’s left eye instead.
“E N Y I Z X,” Martin read. “H L B T D A. Q F R M C.”
“Excellent,” the optometrist said. “Now, again, let’s try the other eye.”
Martin stared at the chart, his right eye covered, trying to read with only his left. May watched him concentrating, as if he was setting up a shot against Nils Jorgensen. He squinted, leaned forward, frowned.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Just the top line.”
“I said nothing.”
Pilote paused. He checked the chart himself, made sure Martin’s eye was covered properly. He took away the card covering the eye, told Martin to read the chart with both eyes. Then with just the right. When he asked him to read again using just the left eye and got the same response as before, “Nothing,” Maurice Pilote’s face looked pale and grave.
“Have you had an eye injury?” he asked.
Martin tried to laugh. “I’m a hockey player.”
“A particularly bad injury, I mean.”
“One,” Martin said. “Three years ago.”
“When is the last time you had an eye exam?”
“Last year. During the team physical.”
“Was it like this, or more intensive?”
“It was pretty basic.”
“I would like you to see a specialist,” he said.
“But I can read fine with both eyes,” Martin told him.
“Your right eye is normal, or very close to it,” Pilote said. “It is working for both your eyes.”
“But I see fine with both,” Martin said. “You heard me read the chart.”
Pilote shook his head. “You see nothing with your left eye. It is virtually blind.”
Blind
…someone had said the word. May felt the room get very cold, and when she looked at Martin she saw that he was frozen as still as stone.
The first step was getting a referral, finding the best possible doctor. Maurice Pilote recommended an ophthalmologist in Montreal, but when May called, he was on vacation. Martin didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t even want to think about it. Feeling lost, she turned to the yellow pages, but how would she know who was good?
“I can do exercises,” he said. “Strengthen my eye that way.”
“Martin, can we call your team doctor and ask for a referral?”
“It’s like any other part of the body, isn’t it? Injure something and get it fixed. I work with a trainer for my ankles and knee—what the hell, I’ll work with someone for my eye.”
May stared at the yellow pages filled with listing after listing, and her own vision swam. She wanted to approach the problem from one angle, and Martin was taking it from another. All she could think of was getting him to a doctor as soon as possible, and he wanted to start doing exercises.
“I could ask Genny,” May suggested. “Either she’ll know someone good, or she’ll know whom to ask.”
“No, May,” Martin said sharply. “I don’t want anyone to know there’s a problem. I don’t want it getting around.”
“Martin, Genny wouldn’t tell anyone! She’s our friend. We have to tell her and Ray—”
“No!” Martin said, so loudly it shocked her.
Staring at him, she watched him shake his head, try to pull himself together. He walked over to the sofa and sat down beside her. Aware that he’d hurt her by his tone of voice, he held her gently and whispered against her ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, May. I didn’t mean to yell. But I don’t want anyone to know yet. Not even Ray and Gen.”
“They’d never tell,” May repeated. “We can trust them.”
“I know we can. But let’s keep it secret for a while. Just till I get a chance to see the specialist, do some exercises, whatever they tell me to do. Build up strength in my left eye.”
She watched him cover his right eye, look from floor to ceiling with his left. He squinted, blinked, tried all over again, as if he could make his left eye work by sheer force of work and will.
“I can do it,” he insisted. “I know I can. I’ll be fine by the start of the season.”
May looked down.
“I will, you know,” he said, embracing her and smoothing her hair as if she was the one hurt, in need of comforting. Or as if he thought she wouldn’t love him anymore if he couldn’t play hockey.
“The start of the season,” she said, thinking of practice and training in August and September, the first game on October first.
“So don’t tell anyone till then, okay?” he asked.
“Someone will have to watch Kylie while I go with you to the doctor.”