From the Stickely-style foyer table under a print of Maxfield Parrish's Daybreak, I
grabbed a pair of wraparound sunglasses.
With my hand on the hammered-copper doorknob, I turned to Orson once more. "We'll
be all right."
In fact I didn't know quite how we could go on without my father. He was our link to
the world of light and to the people of the day.
More than that, he loved me as no one left on earth could love me, as only a parent
could love a damaged child. He understood me as perhaps no one would ever understand me
again.
"We'll be all right," I repeated.
The dog regarded me solemnly and chuffed once, almost pityingly, as if he knew I was
lying.
I opened the front door, and as I went outside, I put on the wraparound sunglasses. The
special lenses were totally UV-proof.
My eyes are my point of greatest vulnerability. I can take no risk whatsoever with
them.
Sasha's green Ford Explorer was in the driveway, with the engine running, and she was
behind the wheel.
I closed the house door and locked it. Orson had made no attempt to slip out at my
heels.
A breeze had sprung up from the west: an onshore flow with the faint, astringent scent
of the sea. The leaves of the oaks whispered as if transmitting secrets branch to branch.
My chest grew so tight that my lungs felt constricted, as was always the case when I
was required to venture outside in the daylight. This symptom was entirely psychological
but nonetheless affecting.
Going down the porch steps and along the flagstone walk to the driveway, I felt weighed
down. Perhaps this was how a deep-sea diver might feel in a pressure suit with a kingdom
of water overhead.
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