Nobody spoke while Merritt made strangling noises. “That’s a very good question. I’ve always wondered how the Professor could make a working radio out of bamboo but not fix a boat. Boggles the mind, really.” Another pause. “You know, Gilligan’s Island aired way before my time, so I think it’s pretty cool that you and I both somehow discovered it and liked it enough to memorize the theme song.”
“Yeah, sort of like we were a regular brother and sister, growing up watching the same show but in different houses.”
“Something like that.” The mattress creaked as Merritt shifted position. “Did I tell you that I used to be afraid of the dark, too?”
“You were?”
“You bet. That’s why, when I heard you crying, I thought the night-light bulb had burned out. I remember that happened once when I was a little girl. I was staying with my grandmother and she told me that it was time I got over it. It’s not that easy, though, is it?”
Loralee heard the rustle of Owen’s head against his pillow as he shook his head.
“So I just slept with a flashlight under my sheets after that, and did so for a very long time.”
“Do you still?” Owen asked.
“No. Because somewhere along the way I learned that even the darkest nights are full of light.”
“Really?” Owen’s voice was slurred with sleepiness.
“Really. Have you ever been outside after dark, when the stars and the moon are out? It’s like a filter has slid across the sun. Everything’s the same, except all the colors are different. And inside, after you turn off the lights, if you push your fear aside just long enough for your eyes to adjust to the dark, you’ll find that you can still see.”
“But everything is in different colors,” Owen repeated slowly, barely finishing the last word.
Merritt must have recognized it, too, because she stood.
“Merritt?”
“Yes, Owen?”
“You can unplug my Darth Vader night-light if you want.”
“All right. But only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Merritt stood and leaned down to kiss Owen’s forehead. “Good night, Rocky.”
“Good night, Mary Ann,” he said with a sleepy giggle.
“Why not Ginger? She had better hair.”
“Okay. Good night, Ginger.”
Loralee smiled to herself at the mention of the hair, thinking that Merritt might not be so hopeless after all, then quietly backed away from the room, pausing at the top of the staircase so she wouldn’t be seen.
“Merritt?” Owen’s voice slurred again as he called out to his sister.
She paused in the doorway where Loralee had been. “Yes?”
“Or you could leave it on. I’m only ten.”
“True. Okay, then, I’ll leave it on. Good night,” she said again.
There was no response, only the assurance that Owen had worked through his fears with Merritt and had finally found sleep.
Loralee rushed down the stairs as quickly as she could in the dark in her long nightgown, not wanting to be seen by Merritt as they crossed paths to their rooms. She stood in the darkened foyer, opening her eyes wider. What Merritt had said was true—there was light. It came from the tall windows where the glow from the streetlights fell inside in ribbons of white. Loralee could see the shapes of the furniture that had become dear and familiar to her already, recognized the wallpaper on the wall transferred from red and cream to shades of gray.
Her fingers itched to write down the words rushing to her head before she forgot them. Even in the blackest darkness, there is always light shining somewhere.
A sob rose in her throat, but she held it back. Someone was coming down the stairs, and she didn’t want anybody to see her crying. Not because she was embarrassed to cry—a good cry was healthy for everybody. It was just that she didn’t think Owen or Merritt was ready to see it.
She tiptoed to the kitchen, grateful for once that she wasn’t wearing her heels, then sat down at the table in the dark with her back to the door and began to cry softly into her hands.
The overhead light flickered on and Loralee glanced up in surprise, thinking just for a moment that the ancient wiring had finally gone haywire. Or that the ghosts she suspected lurked in the corners of the old house had decided to show themselves.
Instead she smelled the soft lemon scent of the hand lotion she’d given to Merritt when she’d noticed her cracked cuticles, and quickly rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“Are you all right?” Merritt asked.
“I’m fine. With all the time spent working in the garden, I think I’ve become sensitive to something out there. I can barely breathe, and my eyes and skin are so itchy that I couldn’t sleep. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Merritt moved into the kitchen and took a seat at the table opposite Loralee, giving her a full view of Loralee’s face. Merritt quickly hid her surprise as she took in Loralee’s puffy eyes and runny nose. “Those are some pretty bad allergies. Maybe you should take something before you head outside again.”
Loralee nodded as she reached for a tissue from a box on the table and carefully dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “I will, thank you.”
Merritt leaned back in her chair. “I suppose that was you I heard in the hallway upstairs while I was talking with Owen.”