We Are the Light(44)
“I want to reach out to Sandra Coyle one last time,” I said, which surprised me.
“You don’t think I can pull off the mayor role?” Jill answered, half joking and half serious.
Which is when I said Jill would most definitely make a much better Sara than Sandra—I went on a little about Jill’s table read performance, which really was excellent—but then I told the truth, adding, “It’s just that you weren’t there in the theater that night. And, well… Sandra was.”
“Okay,” Jill said, and went up to the guest room, leaving me alone on the couch.
I pulled out my cell phone and went through all The Survivors’ Group numbers I had programmed in after the first meeting back in December. When I found Sandra’s entry, I pushed it and then held the phone up to my ear.
It rang five or so times before Sandra picked up and said, “Lucas Goodgame, do you know what time it is? It’s almost midnight!”
“I didn’t realize it was so late,” I said truthfully, and then there was a long pause before Sandra asked what I wanted.
It was here that I felt my average self step outside of my body again. The mundane version walked over to the opposite side of the room and then leaned a shoulder against the wall, where I watched a superior Other Lucas field Sandra’s question.
I told Sandra we wanted her to be in our movie. That we knew she thought it was a waste of emotional and financial resources. I described the read throughs with an intensity that was almost poetic. How we had all been laughing together in the library conference room—so loudly that Robin said we were practically shaking the books off the shelves. I let Sandra know everyone except me had cried communally on multiple occasions. So the monster movie project really was therapeutic. It miraculously seemed to be helping The Survivors. And maybe it would help Sandra too if only she’d join us. Because it wasn’t good to hole up and exclude oneself. And art could most definitely be medicinal, which was probably part of the reason why she went to the Majestic Theater with her husband, Greg, that night in the first place. Because she knew the unifying and soothing powers of the silver screen. I was tapping into the great transformative passion that is sometimes hidden within my shadow. I thought I might be winning Sandra over. So I wasn’t surprised when she asked me to visit her house in the morning at eight o’clock, which I, of course, immediately agreed to.
But when I hung up the phone, I began to feel as though I had stepped on a psychological bear trap. The steel-toothed mouth had crunched down on my leg bone, and my bloody stump was now chained to a giant stake from which no amount of pulling could free me.
Upstairs I opened the windows like always, but winged Darcy didn’t make an appearance. It’s been an alarmingly long stretch since she’s held me in her wings. And as I lay on my bed, I thought about Sandra and you excluding yourselves from the project. I tried to be curious about your reasons. I attempted to neutrally look at things from your point of view. I could have understood not wanting to participate if you two hated movies, but you were both there with all the rest of us in the Majestic Theater the night of the tragedy. And I have countless other times seen you both at Mark and Tony’s cinematic cathedral. Remember how I’d always wave from a respectable distance and you’d nod back once in acknowledgment, in a way that wouldn’t let anyone else know you and I had a clandestine alchemical relationship? Regardless, I know you and Sandra at least like movies. So I just really can’t make the pieces fit. If you want to end your part of the mystery, I’m all ears. Or maybe it’s more appropriate—given the present mode of communication—to say I’m all eyes.
Around five a.m., I realized I wasn’t going to sleep, so I got up and showered and then caught Jill just before she walked out the door on her way to yet another day of cooking at the Cup Of Spoons.
“What are you doing up so early?” she asked with her truck keys dangling from her right hand.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said.
Jill examined my face for a beat before saying, “Sorry, but I’m late,” and then rushing out through the front door, which is when I knew she was still hurt by my wanting to recast Sandra in her role. But psyche was telling me I needed to reach out to Sandra and you taught me to always listen to psyche.
I wanted to go for an incredibly long walk but worried I would get too sweaty and smelly to meet with Sandra, so I instead made a coffee and sipped it as I watched the early morning light sweep away the last tiny bits of the previous night’s darkness.
When the kitchen clock said 7:20, I took a deep breath and left the house.
As I made my way across Majestic—leaving the smaller-house section, passing through the medium-house section, and then finally entering the large-house section—I tried to mentally clarify what exactly I hoped to accomplish when I looked Sandra in the eyes.
Did I merely want to complete the set—meaning make sure all seventeen Survivors’ Group members participated simply for the sake of being whole?
That wasn’t it, I thought, especially since I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have your participation anyway.
Did I want to exert some form of control over Sandra to fill a narcissistic need?
No.
The icy edge in her voice—what seemed to make everyone want to look down at their shoelaces—motivated me. So did the pain I felt radiating off her whenever she was within ten feet of me. I thought maybe I could relieve Sandra of that discomfort.