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The Lighthouse
Mary Schramski
I've never been close with my father…Even though I'm his only child. We were both held together by my mother, the warm, dancing flame attracting the quiet moths. Dad was always on the other side of the sun; I could never reach him.Now Mom's gone. It's Christmas. And my unapproachable father is chasing a wild, crazy, impossible dream. He's putting everything he has into restoring an old, abandoned lighthouse that Mom loved.Yet, after a while, something about restoring the landmark started to make sense. Because in the glow of that beacon, a wife and mother was not gone, but instead was showing her two most treasured people the way toward peace.
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS…
Suddenly I was thinking about my dad and how I hadn’t spent many Christmases with him. We’ve never really connected, but as far as family goes, he’s all I have left. That’s when I burst into tears—a forty-two-year-old successful Realtor, crying her eyes out on her Pottery Barn couch. I sat there, thinking about how this year, if I didn’t go home, I’d be alone. I don’t have a boyfriend. Truth be known, I haven’t had a date in a year because I work too much and I’m picky as hell about the men I date.
Long story short—I bought an airline ticket online. Deep down, I was hoping I might get closer to my father over Christmas.
Then I called him.
Mary Schramski
began writing when she was about ten. The first story she wrote took place at a junior high school. Her mother told her it was good, so she immediately threw it away. She read F. Scott Fitzgerald at eleven, fell in love with storytelling and decided to teach English. She holds a Ph.D. in creative writing and enjoys teaching and encouraging other writers. She lives in Nevada with her husband, and her daughter who lives close by. Visit Mary’s Web site at www.maryschramski.com.
The Lighthouse
Mary Schramski
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
From the Author
Dear Reader,
I was inspired to write The Lighthouse because I believe:
There are people in our lives who guide us through the rough times,
Lighthouses are special,
And no matter what problems we face, there is always hope.
I also love the sound of the ocean in the morning, the veil of fog as the sun breaks through the clouds at sunrise and the happiness I feel when I connect with my family. The Lighthouse is the story of how a family deals with love, grief, past hurts—and how the light of forgiveness can bring us home, as a lighthouse does.
Come with me. We’ll stroll the beach, watch the sun set, laugh, cry and believe!
Mary
For my daughter
Jess—my light.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
The stars and the rivers
And waves call you back.
—Pindar
I feel invisible right now.
I’m sitting on an airplane next to an older man who reminds me a little of my father. And we are waiting to deplane into the Los Angeles airport. We never spoke a word to each other. At thirty thousand feet, when it got really bumpy, I wanted to say to him, Wow this is scary, but he was reading and I didn’t want to bother him.
Not saying what I feel isn’t unusual for me. Even when I have my feet on the ground, I don’t tell people what I think.
Like three weeks ago when I was watching TV. A Christmas commercial about cameras came on. In the middle, where the smiling, tearful mother says goodbye to her daughter, I started thinking about my mom, how I miss her, and how I wish I’d told her I loved her the last time we spoke.
Suddenly, I was thinking about my dad and how I hadn’t spent many Christmases with him. We’ve never really connected, but as far as family goes, he’s all I have left. That’s when I burst into tears—a forty-two-year-old, successful Realtor, crying her eyes out on her Pottery Barn couch. Twice I stopped, then I’d think about my mother, alone, in her smashed-up silver Camry. I’d start crying again. She called me the night before her accident. I didn’t call her back because I was angry about a million-dollar house I’d missed signing.
That night, after the commercial and tears, I sat on the couch thinking about how this year, if I didn’t go home, I’d be alone. I don’t have a boyfriend. Truth be known, I haven’t had a date in a year because I work too much and I’m picky as hell about the men I date.
Long story short, I bought an airline ticket online. Deep down, I was hoping I might get closer to my father over Christmas.
Then I called him.
He sounded surprised to hear from me, and when I told him I was coming home for Christmas, there was this long pause. He said, That’s not such a good idea. I have to go.
Click.
I stared at the phone, felt confused, then I got mad. My own father telling me not to come home for Christmas! I stomped around the house, threw a pillow across the room. Then when I thought about how my mother always let out a whoop when I told her I could make it home for the holidays, I started crying again.
I finally got control, but it took a while. I was holding my breath, trying to get rid of a mean case of hiccups and telling myself as soon as they went away I was going to call my father back and ask him what in the hell was wrong. That’s when the phone rang.
I said hello, and Dad launched into this explanation about how I woke him up. I looked at my watch, didn’t believe him, yet didn’t say anything. He asked what time he should pick me up at the airport. I got more confused, but I still didn’t say anything. None of this was like him. Instead of asking him what was really wrong, I gave him my itinerary and here I am, waiting to walk into the LAX terminal.
The airplane door must have opened because people are grabbing bags and inching down the aisle.
The man next to me smiles, leans a little closer. “Have a nice holiday,” he says.
I smile back. “You, too.”
He gets up, walks down the aisle in front of me.
When I reach the terminal, I take a deep breath. It’s late and the terminal is almost empty. I go down to the baggage-claim area. I see my father right away. He’s standing by the far wall, arms crossed with that familiar, serious look on his face. His hair’s a little grayer than I remember, and his blue shirt doesn’t match his brown pants, which surprises me because he’s always been a neat dresser.
As I walk over, he sees me, smiles, steps forward.
“Christine,” he says in the same deep, calm voice I’ve heard all my life.
“Hi, Dad.” I hesitate, want to hug him, but I’m still a little miffed about the phone call. I give him a quick hug, then pull back. “It’s good to see you.”
“Same here. Are you ready?” he asks, then looks at my roller bag. “This all you have?”
I nod, take the handle of the suitcase, and we begin walking.
“Flight okay?”
“The landing almost knocked out one of my fillings.”
Dad smiles. We’ve talked this airplane talk for a long time. That’s one of the first memories I have of my father. Him standing over my bed in his smooth, dark blue pilot uniform, and Mom saying, Good night, have a good flight. I probably giggled because of the rhyme.
“How’s work?” he asks as we make our way toward the exit door.
“Busy. Really busy. I’ve got a lot of house sales coming up. One big one.” I’ve always tried to impress him. People have called me a workaholic, and it was a big stretch for me to leave all my listings right now, but after I bought the ticket and called Dad, I didn’t have a choice.
He stops right before we walk out the door. “Can you afford to be away from work from now till New Year’s Day?”
The man behind us trips a little over my suitcase. My father puts his hand on my back, moves me to the side, out of the way.
“Sure. Christmas week is really slow, nothing will happen. I’ve worked hard all year. I deserve a little break. I’m the office’s top seller.”
“As long as you’re not losing money. We’ll play it by ear. If you have to go back early, I’ll understand.”
“Nobody buys a house around Christmas.” This isn’t exactly true—a listing can sell anytime. I lean closer, give him a quick hug. “I’ll handle everything when I get home. I’m a master at real estate sales.” I doubt if my father cares about this fact. He wanted me to go to college and become a doctor or lawyer, but I didn’t want to. We had a lot of fights over this. And it didn’t make it any better that I wasn’t settled until six years ago, when I finally found something I’m good at.
We walk outside.
“I had to park far away.”
“Parking at the Tucson airport is terrible, too.” I fill my lungs with moist air. The scent of the ocean brings a memory of my mother sitting on the back porch step, her head held back, lips parted. She takes a deep breath and smiles at me.
My heart begins to ache.
“Those bastards. President has to do more.”
“What?” I look at him. We’re walking past the corded-off, empty parking spaces.
“President needs to do more about security,” Dad says, gesturing toward the spaces. The irritation I hear in his voice surprises me and I feel achy and tired.
Dad settles my carry-on in the trunk of his Volvo and opens the passenger door. His car is immaculate, as usual. I glance down. A list stands at attention in the cup holder: bread, milk, gas, 8:15 Christine. I laugh.
“Something funny?” Dad asks as he climbs in.
“Your list.”
“Yeah?”
“You put me on the list. Would you have forgotten me if you hadn’t?” I’m kidding, but then remember the other night when he told me he didn’t want me to come home. Yet he’s always been a list-maker, a dependable man.
“Of course not. Just a habit.”
He starts the car, maneuvers out of the parking lot, and soon we’re on the 405. Air rushes in through his open window. I open mine, breathe in, feel as if I’m washing the last bit of arid desert out of my lungs.
Dad sighs.
A memory of my mother sneaks in. I close my eyes, relax. Warm afternoon sunlight streaming onto the back porch, my mother acting silly, telling me I can drink air. Me, a giggly girl. I hold my head back, sip the cool breeze. Dad asks what we’re doing, and in my little-girl voice I tell him drinkin’ air. He sighs, shakes his head and explains to my mother she shouldn’t fill my head with nonsense.
I look over at him. He’s driving like he always has, right hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on his left thigh. Some things about him I know well.
“So everything’s okay? You don’t mind having company this week?”
He glances over, then back to the road. “Of course not. Why should I mind? Everything okay with you?”
“I was just wondering. You know, well, you hung up on me.” I feel the anger I felt in my living room, but I push it back so I don’t have to feel it right now.
“I was tired.” He stares straight ahead.
For some reason, I don’t believe him and I want him to explain more, say something else, yet I know he won’t. “But you’re okay?”
