Dark Is the Way, Light Is a Place

John flies to Portland.

Fast forward to Tuesday morning, past all the blasé and nonchalant routines that result from being ready to fly to Portland a day early.

            My favorite part of waking up is seeing the dust flying around in the air, made visible by the morning sunlight streaming in through the window. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s a small reminder of the fact that no matter how clean we think we’re living, God shows us that there’s always more to improve on. Or maybe its just I like watching dust particles fly around, and I pretend that I am God, and they are my creation, and my room is the Earth. They always wind up falling down to where I’m at, and make me give into my morning sneeze. Then, I wonder if we are that way to God, always failing him and falling, and making him sneeze a lot. But then I wonder if since I still enjoy the dust particles, maybe he enjoys us just the same. I’m not sure. But these are the thoughts that often go through my head each morning, along with the usual “What can I avoid doing today, what can I put off till tomorrow” and the natural “how much longer can I sleep in and still do what I absolutely have to do today?” things everyday ordinary people think when they wake up each morning.

I’m not sure why, but people think just because you’re more important according to worldly standards that you have a better life, or more friends. I’m a pretty popular children’s author, very successful (although it isn’t what I wanted in this life, I am an exceptional children’s author) and rather wealthy (for a children’s author.). But I really don’t have friends, and though I have coped with this rather well, a man starts to realize he’d like to roll over every morning and see something other than tiny dust particles floating around his room.

So, to sum up this whole analogy, the dust particles only reminded me of my loneliness, and the approaching funeral that I would be attending, and how much more lonely I would probably feel by the end of the weekend.  Oh, goodie. Portland.

I had to get out of it somehow. Surely I had something I needed to do this week…. But then chimes in my ‘inner creativity’, saying “You have nothing to do this week except to go to that funeral. And,” it adds with a wry smile, “Don’t call me Shirley.” Aye yaye yaye. Even I’m on my case. I have to go to that funeral.

I got up from my couch, saying goodbye to the floating dust particles as I closed the blinds.  I loved seeing the particles at first, but couldn’t stand noticing them for very long. Another important point I’m sure I will elaborate on later in life.

Life was rather repetitive for me; thus is the life of a writer. I wake up at generally the same time, watch the news, write down some thoughts, eat lunch, write for a few hours, do some chores, eat dinner, read, sleep, and so forth. My day is usually no more complicated than that. But this morning I got up with a strange, opaque understanding, a vague sense that I was again entering a world I left so many years ago. It was a sense I had never wanted to sense again; reattachment. What would I say? What will they say? Should I give a warm smile when greeting the family, or should I give an obviously fake smile of shame? Will they be happy to see me, or angry that Sophia even thought to invite me? I shouldn’t over think these things, but I’m a writer and it’s inevitable. I always, and I mean always, over think. A good thing to know about me, though you’ve obviously figured that out already.

I often wonder what it would be like in the morning if I was a father. I would wake up early, not because I needed to, but because it seems sophisticated for a man to wake before the rest of the family and go through a routine. I would let out the dogs to do their business, and start the coffee. I would, if it was still chilly, put on our gas fireplace and sit and maybe even read a good book. Because no matter what, everyone needs those times, and since my Saturday nights would be spent with my family playing Monopoly and Apples to Apples, I would instead choose to wake early, only to be by myself, and bask in those moments. It would be nice. But as a single man with no living thing in the house but himself, I often wake up rather late in the morning, I’m up by at least noon but asleep till at least ten. I’ve been thinking about getting a collie, but they’re rather expensive and I’m not so sure I would manage to remember to feed it. And as for the coffee, I’d just as well walk down the street to the local Starbucks and get something worthwhile.

            I hoped to have that life someday; who wouldn’t? But at the same time, I felt I didn’t deserve that chance. I had my chance and forfeited it with my selfishness. Maybe fate or God would give me that chance again, but I doubted it.

            There was an excited energy pulsing throughout my body; not a happy excited, such is the positive connotation. Rather, it was a nervous excited, like a dog pacing in the back seat of a car, wondering where his owner was taking him, and if he would ever return to the home he knows and loves. I’m not sure who my owner is, maybe it’s God, but that wasn’t the point of the simile…  I was nervous. After opening the door, I picked up my bags (I had set them a day earlier, ready for the trip) and made my way to the trunk of my pickup. Don’t ask me the make or year, I wouldn’t know. The only time I ever looked it up was when I was signing it over in my name, years ago. All I know is it’s a rather old pickup and that it’s a Chevy. It’s got that cross thing on the front, you know, the little + …. Anyways.

            I lifted the bags into the back, then breathed in the morning air. It was beautiful, you know. I didn’t get out much to smell anything other than the musky smell of my house, and when I did it was closer to sunset than sunrise. I had woken up rather early today, a cheery 8 o’clock with just enough sun to smile but just enough cool to shiver. I wish I got up this early on a normal basis. It makes me =], and that’s just not normal. In a good way.

            I went inside and had one last good look at my house. I hadn’t left this place in a while, and never for this long of a time period. I had a strange foreshadowing feeling that made me feel as if I was just a character, in just a novel. Like I was going into a trip that would change my life. But I always had these feelings, call it superstition or call it self centered, but I always felt like my life should be a movie, and if it had my conflict (Jade’s death, my fault) it would be the perfect premise for a popular romantic novel, and I would live happily ever after with a beautiful woman, and forgive myself, and reconnect with God, and become a high school English teacher during the day and a rock star during the night.. Wouldn’t that be nice…

           ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

As I drove to the airport, I reminisced on my younger days (what am I, an old man? I’m 28…) I was once very interested in writing songs from creative perspectives. I had written broken hearted love songs all my high school days, along with various worship songs, but never swayed from the two categories. So early on in my adult life I started postulating situations and writing songs about how I would feel if that situation happened. It was always an extreme, such as being stranded on an island with plenty of survival tools but no chance of leaving, or waking up in a different house with a different life, or one of my personal favorites, getting in a fight and having to move to Bel-Rance. But there is one that always stood out in my mind as the most heart provoking. While Jade was still alive, I wrote a ballad on the piano about being trapped in a mining incident and knowing I would never see my wife and son again. The song was the letter I wrote to my wife and child just before my death. (as read in the song booklet at the back of the book. Take the time to read it whenever you’d like.) I was speaking out of true feeling. Like if I did die like that, in that scenario, I would have felt that way. But after Jade died, I stopped writing songs. And it was because of that one. I mean, though I knew that’s probably what she would have told me, deep down I just don’t want to be happy. I don’t really feel like I deserve to feel happy.  I know that in a way its self-centered, that I focus more on that than the fact that she passed away, but I cant help feeling like a terrible guy. I never wanted to hurt her.

So, I stopped writing. I threw out my songs, I sold my guitar and bought a new TV, because the old one was smashed. That one resides in the boat garage to this day. Haven’t played music a single time in three years. Anyone who has met me in the past three years does not know that I sing or play, because I never mention it.

I admit, I do miss it. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I even wish I still had my song lyrics so I could see what an inspired person I once was, and I could get a sense of what it felt to be alive. But I remember it distinctly;

 

  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

            When I came home I was in a fury. If the door hadn’t been wide open, I would have plowed right through it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. If only…. I can’t even think “if only” because in life there are no second chances with life and death! I made a mistake and it cost Jade her life. And her family had no idea. They only knew she was on her way to the store for washing powder and a terrible accident occurred. But I was the only person on the planet who knew it was my fault. I didn’t deserve anything anymore.

            I looked over to my guitars, and my song binder.

            I didn’t deserve anything.

            I  took my least expensive guitar (with what sensibility I could muster) and bashed it over the remains of our shattered TV. The first slam only broke a few strings and punctured the front of the guitar. But it felt good. So I made sure the second swing was much more damage-inflicting.      

            With a terrible crunch the body of the guitar cracked into two. That’s more like it, I said to myself.

            So I just kept swinging until all I had was the neck of the guitar. Then, I took that outside to our junker of a car, which miraculously was barely scarred and still in running condition, and proceeded to bash out any glass structure that was not yet destroyed, and then continued to beat on the hood of the car, until the fretboard broke in two as well. And, with a sob, I fell to the ground, buried my face, and cried for what felt like hours.

            “John?”

            I looked up. What had felt like hours obviously hadn’t been, because it seemed to be the same time of day as when I curled up. It was Sophia, with tears in her eyes. She picked up the two halves of the fretboard, looking to see the brand name.

            She let out a sigh and a fake laugh, saying “Thank goodness. I thought it was your Takamine, but it was only the Dean.”

            I looked up through red eyes and said as nicely as possible, “Takamine is up next.”

             She sat down beside me; possibly the last thing I wanted her to do. “John, you have a gift, You are a brilliant writer, singer, and guitar player. Why would you ever trash these things?”

            “Because I don’t deserve them. I don’t deserve anything anymore.” She was on the verge of crying with me, more so because of my answers. I was a broken man and she could tell.

            “That’s not true, John. She loved you with all her heart, and what happened was an accident. Things happen, she wasn’t going to live forever. And by suffering through her death, you’re taking the hardest part of your marriage. You spared her having to deal with your death, eventually anyways, and-“

            “So her death was ok? That’s what you’re saying, right? Cause that’s what I’m getting. You’re saying I should be happy she died before me because that means she didn’t have to deal with me dying before her.”

            “Well… I mean… I guess. Yes.”

            “You don’t know anything.

            “What don’t I know then, John?”

            Those words, that question, was the whole key here. She didn’t truly know anything, and if she did, she would hate me forever.

            “Me and Jade… we had a fight last night.”

            Sophia sighed and looked down. “What about?”

            “I’d rather not talk about it.”

            With this answer she showed signs of guessing in her head, but she probably would never guess. She’d probably think I cheated on Jade and I was the scum of the Earth. At least that doesn’t leave me directly responsible for her death.

            “Well,” she started with a sniffle and intake of breath, “We better get going.”

            “Where are we going?” I said, cautious of anything.

            “Well, in an attempt to save your Takamine, I think we should go sell it to the Music store. Maybe you could put the money towards Jade’s funeral… or I mean, whatever you feel is necessary.” I actually thought about her idea, and it was a good one. Because no matter what, I wasn’t keeping that guitar. Anything music related was leaving my house by tonight.

            “Good Idea. Thanks, Sophia. Lemme go get it.” I got up, wiped my eyes, and headed inside to get my guitar. As I stepped over Dean’s remains and grabbed my Takamine, I noticed the binder of songs, and grabbed it as well. And on my way down the driveway to get in her car, I tossed the binder in our (my…) recycle bin.

            “John… really?” Sophia looked at his recycle bin sadly, beginning to tear up again.

            “I wrote them, I can throw them away too.”

            “She sighed, said alright, and we drove off.

 

               ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I walked into the airport a good hour and a half before my plane was scheduled to take off, which was 10. The bustle of thousands of bodies, men, women, children, laughing, crying, screaming, smiling, complaining, all of the emotions engulfed me in a cloud of indistinct conversations. So much for being a hermit. I had been so secluded for three years, writing everything and nothing at the same time. But entering this large gathering of uncorrelated adventures dazzled me; I was finally somewhat alive. Whether or not I wanted to be was out of the question, I had forced myself into it.

I arrived at the security check, which was a RATHER long line. Just saying. It took me a good forty-five minutes to get through. And it didn’t help that the little boy in front of me kept staring up at me with really big eyes. It was bothersome but I tried my best to be a good person and smile. I’m glad I did, because when the parents finally looked to see who he was annoying they recognized me.

“Well, hey, I know you!” The father exclaimed. “You’re the author of  ‘Jamba the Pup’! No wonder James is trying to talk to you, isn’t that right James?” James nodded his head vigorously. I smiled. That was the only book I ever put my picture and bio in. It was actually my latest work, and it was pretty good if I do say so myself.

“I didn’t know I was so popular,” I smiled to the parents, then to the kid. I even knelt down to his level. “Now, what was your favorite part of my story?” The little boy smiled, then stepped back behind his dad’s leg and clung to it. The Parents smiled, and the dad spoke for him.

“His favorite part was that one part when Jamba found his favorite toy after forgetting where he placed it. We read that part to him over and over, it never got old.”

I looked back to the boy, smiling warmly. “Did you lose something, and couldn’t remember where you left it?” He nodded again, in an awestruck type of  way. “Did you ever find it?” This time the boy looked down, sadly, and shook his head.

“James here hasn’t spoke in a while…” The father explained. “He lost his parents two years ago, when he was four. He hasn’t spoken since. We’re his temp foster parents, and he loves us, but he still hasn’t spoken.” Ah, I finally understood his silence. These weren’t his real parents, rather his semi-adopted ones.

I turned back to the boy. “Are you searching for your voice, James?” He nodded shyly. “Well, James,” I started again, still at eye level with him, “I lost something very dear to me too. And I’m still looking for it. But don’t ever give up hoping that you’ll find it. Understand?” He nodded excitedly.  I tussled his hair and gave a big smile. “I know we’ll find what we’re looking for, just like Jamba did.” I didn’t exactly believe anything I was saying, but there’s nothing wrong in giving a kid some hope after a terrible ordeal like that. I stood up, and the parents thanked me just as they were up for a security check. They went through, then I went through, and surprisingly they were waiting for me on the other side.

“We forgot to give you our names!” The husband again spoke. He must be the spokesperson of the family. “This is Stephanie,” he made a gesture towards his wife, she held out her hand, and as we shook she said a petite “Hello”.

“and,” the father continued, “my name is Robert. Robert Hansen.” We shook hands as well. Unlike shaking hands with Stephanie, Robert’s handshake was much more firm. “And you know James already,” He gave another hand motion towards James, still hiding behind his leg.

“Would you shake my hand, James?” I held out my hand to James. He grabbed ever so lightly, we shook, and then he quickly retreated to his former position. I smiled. What a funny kid. But I understood his situation. I smiled, exchanged pleasantries, and went on my way.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Fast forward. Lines. Check-in. Waiting. Gate change.

 More waiting.

Flight delay. Waiting. Board plane. Trip over heavyweight sitting next to me on the flight.

Flight attendant spills beverage on me.

Flight attendant offers a free set of headphones for the in-flight movie.

Flight attendant doesn’t realize “Death at a Funeral” isn’t exactly the best movie for me to watch right now.

Flight attendant apologizes, and offers me some of the alcoholic beverages for free.

I sigh.

I fall asleep to the soothing sounds of a baby crying.

I wake up to the soothing sounds of a man vomiting.

Flight lands. Heavyweight takes forever to get up. Decides to kneel down and tie his shoe in the isle.

I trip again.

I apologize. HE gives ME a dirty look.    ……what???

I leave the cabin.

Flight attendant smiles and says “Have a great day!”

I sigh again.

I get my luggage.

I grab a cab.

I tell the driver Sophia’s address.

I think.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

I woke up on the couch; I had given Jade the courtesy of sleeping there without her telling me. I planned to apologize to her when we woke up to go to the airport. But I had drank a little too much after the fight; I passed out on the couch late, and didn’t wake up until now. I looked at the clock; noon! Our flight was at 9 oclock in the morning, surely she didn’t leave without me! I jumped off of the couch, stumbled a bit because of my raging hangover, and walked cautiously to the bed room. Sure enough, she was gone. But wait; her bag was still open near the closet, untouched. Had she really gone without a bag? Maybe she was at Sophias, and was going to borrow clothes. Was she really that angry?

I went to the phone and dialed sophia’s house number, rehearsing what I might say if anyone actually picked up. “Hello, um, this is John. I was wondering if you might have seen Jade…” if no one picked up I would call Sophia’s cell, because if they had gone to Portland without me, surely they would have landed by now.

The phone rang once and immediately Sophia picked up. You could tellthrough her voice she had been crying. Surely today had been an emotional day for her, especially if she had missed the flight too her mother’s funeral.

“H-hello?” She nearly whispered.

“Um..Hi, it’s John… Have you seen Jade? We missed the flight too…”

“John! Everyone’s been trying to contact you, where the hell have you been!!” Sophia was near hysteria, and I couldn’t understand why.

“Hey, calm down, I’m sorry, I must have had too much to drink…”

“Oh, John, oh…oh john…” I was starting to have an uneasy feeling. Where was Jade in all this? Sophia didn’t sound upset at me, just upset…. It didn’t make sense.

“Sophia, where’s Jade?”

silence on the other end. Only sobbing.

“Oh, John… She’s…. she’s gone.”

Gone. An irreversible word. She could have said “she’s away” why gone?

“What do you mean, like, she left us and took the flight?” Something I knew wasn’t plausible, since she hadn’t packed her bags or anything. She wasn’t that wreckless.

            “No, John, I mean she’s... dead.” With this she broke into a higher hysteria that I barely noticed, because inside I was becoming to be much worse than that.

            “You don’t mean that. You’re lying. She’s just playing a joke on me.”

            “Really, John! Really?! Why would she do that!?!” It was becoming ever more apparent to me that her words were true. She wasn’t this good of an actor and furthermore that would be such a foul joke for her to play, especially at a time like this. I was slowly sinking.

            “But… but… how…” I faintly whispered, tears filling my eye  “John I can’t…. I just can’t talk right now. She’s at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Do you need the address-“ I hung up before I could answer, and more than likely by the time she realized I hung up, I had gathered my keys and bolted out the door. Oh yeah, no car. I needed a run anyways.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

“Hey. Heyyyyy…..” The cab driver pulled me away from my subconscious. “You’re here, and the engine is still going.” I looked up. Sure enough, I was here. Moment of truth, I guess. This was so weird. But I couldn’t just hide in the cab; I didn’t have enough money.

I thanked the driver, handed him his tender, and hopped out, pulling my bag out with me.

The house was beautiful. Sophia obviously had the taste of Jade when it came to design and such. The lawn was well kept, beautiful flowers lined the walk to the door. The house was a sleepy white, in rather strange but descriptive terms. The house faced west; therefore, in the morning the white would be shaded, asleep, but towards the end of the day you’d see the house in all of its glory, shining white brilliance. A classic choice of blue shingles, and a loveseat out front (though I doubt it was used for that), and it was a comfy home for a family of four. Sadly, it now only had one resident.

I was nervous, and as the cab drove away, I realized it had been the wall I had backed myself against for safety, and now that it was gone I had nowhere to hide. I was now a man with some bags standing on the sidewalk. And I looked rather suspicious, or awkward at least. I waved at a man mowing his lawn. He put up his right hand and nodded his head, as if to say “I know why you’re here. Good luck.” I looked around at the neighborhood, and then realizing that I was wasting time and looking like an idiot, I took my first step, followed by another, and another, until I was under the porch and at the door. I took last one look at the street, and began to second-guess my decision to come here. I was afraid I would regret it. But I was here.

With a huge effort of mind over matter, I forced my finger into the doorbell. I retracted and realized no bell had rung.

Crap, that was hard enough as it was.

With rising strength I knocked on the door.

            The next thing that happened was rather comical, to say the least. I heard the doorbell ring, seemingly an effect of my knock at the door. So by the time Sophia finally opened the door, the moment that was supposed to be a meaningful, emotional point to this story,  I had a thoroughly confused look on my face, and when she saw it, her first response was “…..what?” All I could do was point up, still conf used.

“Oh,” Sophia started, rather flustered but somewhat entertained, “The doorbell has a delay. Pops was going to fix it soon, but… he never got to it. Sorry.” Oh, great, now I felt bad. At least it made sense now.

            “Oh… okay. Hi, Sophie.” I hugged her around the shoulder, and we walked inside, into a warmth I hadn’t felt in my house for years.

Author's Note

chapter title is from Anberlin's Album "Dark Is The Way, Light Is a Place"

Reviews

[Matt Pellegrini]

Nicely done. Your interspersing of narrator thought with actual plot is pretty good. Right now there's definitely more time spent inside the narrator's head which I think is fine for now, but I think that in later chapters the story may need to shift a bit more towards plot, but obviously while still keeping the narrator's internal monologue going. That's really the big strength right now and what you've probably worked hardest to put out in the story so far.

So here comes a few minor things I would consider altering or taking out. The parenthetical, (although it isn’t what I wanted in this life, I am an exceptional children’s author), I would take out "I am an exceptional children's author." That sentiment is pretty much said just before that with the I am a popular children's writer line, and most writer's in real life, learn that such finite statements like that about their own writing should be avoided, so it doesn't seem like the kind of thing the narrator would say. Of course, if your plan is to expose the narrator as a little full of himself and self-centered, you may want to keep it then. But this is only the first time he's kind of tooted his own horn, so that's why it throws me off, since it has happened so late, considering how much time we've spent in the narrator's thoughts. If you do want to show him as a bit egotistical, I would suggest having him say something in the first chapter that could then make this line more plausible.

This next thing is obviously up to you, as it is a stylistic/experimental type preference here, but I'm not sure on your use of an emoticon in the narrative. The "+" sign for Chevrolet I thought was something that fit and had a purpose to be that way, the smiley, I'm not so sure. Again though, this is something that is all your preference, but I would just like to suggest that if you are going to keep the emoticon, the rest of the story would probably need several more instance of symbols in the text so the smiley doesn't seem like just some strange, pointless anomaly.

Along the same lines as the I'm an exceptional writer line, the line, "It was pretty good if i do say so myself," still seems out of character for the narrator.

Finally, I think the Sophia's dialogue as she tells John that Jade is dead is a little off. "No John, I mean, she's she's...dead. She's dead, John." I personally have never been told that someone very close to me has died, so I'm not sure how much weight my opinion carries here, but those lines just don't sound like how someone would break that news. I came up with something along the lines of, "John, last night, Jade was in a car accident and well...," or maybe something that isn't so sudden and seems almost in a way, careless.

I thought the flight montage was well done and probably works much better than spending an extended seen on an airplane. It's good, quick details that tell a lot in short space.

Again, the narrator rings exceedingly true with my at times. Specifically in the first few sections. John is a wonderfully believable character, is well-written, and is definitely the strong point of your story so far.