The Lighthouse Pact

The sands of time sometimes cause friends to drift apart. Yet in a chapel in Breakwater, Maine, four friends huddled together in a pew while dust floated through beams of light.

Sniffles rustled across the room, yet Clark Faircloth sat unmoved, stiff as stone. His black suit, two sizes too small, bunched at the shoulders and rode high above his ankles. Thick blonde hair clung to his forehead, damp from the walk through the rain.

His first funeral. His mother’s funeral.

“I would like to end this afternoon with a prayer,” the pastor said as he opened his Bible and began reading a passage. Everyone in the group rested their heads on their chests, except for Clark, whose head slowly turned, scanning each person.

“Julia Faircloth was a force to be reckoned with at the hospital. Not to be crude, but after I had my colonoscopy, she was there checking on me, teasing me, telling me not to fart,” the pastor chuckled as he adjusted his glasses and wiped his bald head clean of rainwater. “She was sweet when she wanted to be, but man, was she a firecracker. We will truly miss her. And may we all lift up her son, Clark, in our prayers.”

Murmurs of assent followed. A stranger patted Clark’s back. He flinched.

By the time umbrellas bloomed in the fog outside, Clark had heard “sorry” so many times he thought he might break. Alone in the pew, he replayed the memory he couldn’t escape.

Five days earlier, Clark had been wiping down a counter at the lobster shack when a uniformed officer approached. Though he had earned a degree, he couldn’t find a job with the overpriced piece of paper. Knowing that Breakwater would always accept him back, he went to work for a man he called an uncle but who was actually a long-time family friend. Nowadays, Breakwater is known for its tourist industry, nestled in Penobscot Bay, but across the world, Breakwater will always be known for its lobsters. The city’s harbors are full of crustaceans, and now the restaurants are full of tourists hoping to get a bite of a famous Maine lobster roll.

“Clark Faircloth?” The officer’s voice broke as he uttered the name.

“Yes, sir.”

The man hesitated. “It’s your mother. She’s at the park with a knife. She’s asking for you.”

The patrol car reeked of stale coffee. Clark’s chest tightened as the officer briefed him: she had been spotted swaying with a blade, crying, refusing to put it down. “She keeps repeating your name.”

Clark knew his mother had a history of depression, but he never thought she would go so far as to take her own life—especially in such a public place.

They arrived to flashing lights and whispers. Clark counted three officers forming a triangle around a woman in a cardigan, her dirty-blonde hair wild in the wind. Julia Faircloth: nurse, mother, friend to everyone. Her eyes locked on him, wide and pleading.

“Clark! Thank God you’re here.”

His throat tightened. He stepped past the officers, palms raised. “Mom, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

He stayed as calm as he could, but he still felt the adrenaline pumping in his veins. The woman in front of him shook with nerves, hadn’t been sleeping, and dealt with unspeakable demons—but still, she raised him, and he loved her just the same.

She clutched the knife to her chest. Her shoulders trembled.

He reached out, voice cracking. “M-Mom? Please. It’s going to be alright. I promise.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She smiled. “I know it will be, son. I’m sorry.”

And before he could move, she drew the blade across her throat.

He tried to scream, but it was as if she cut his vocal cords at the same time she tore through hers.

He caught her as she fell, pressing his hands against the wound. Clark’s scream ripped through the air, begging, “Help! Please!”

Paramedics rushed forward, but he felt her life slipping through his arms like water through cupped hands.

When the officer finally led him away, Clark saw onlookers snapping pictures. Rage surged, then collapsed into numbness.

A crime scene tech handed the officer a crumpled piece of paper. He passed it to Clark with shaking hands.

“It’s your mother’s note.”

Clark saw his name scrawled across the front. He folded it and shoved it into his pocket without opening it.

Clark shook off the fresh memory, smiling softly as he walked to the friends he thought he had lost.

Adeline Woodard, crimson-haired and steadfast since childhood, held the car keys. Claire, stylish in black, leaned against the Camry. Jimmy, ever the joker, shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Where we goin’?” Jimmy asked, trying to lighten the silence.

No one answered. He grinned. “Alright then. Breakwater Café it is.”

The little diner smelled of salt and fried crab cakes. Paintings of sea creatures lined the walls, and a tank labeled “Attack Lobster” bubbled in the corner.

“Now, I know it has been a while since the four of you have been in that booth!” Tina, the waitress, said in a thick Northeastern accent. “Let me guess—a lobster roll for Jimmy, a black coffee for Clark, a water and crab cake for Adeline, and chicken tenders and fries for Claire?”

The group chuckled to themselves and nodded.

“How are you doing, Tina?” Adeline smiled and stood up to hug the waitress.

“Well, I’m doing fine, girl—just trying to keep everything under control with all of these tourists coming in and out as quick as can be. You know me, I just miss the old Breakwater.”

Tina had missed the old Breakwater since it was the old Breakwater.

Almost immediately after Tina left the table, everyone except for Clark was on their phones. He felt a loneliness. He wanted to pull out his and start mindlessly scrolling, but he refrained, feeling the folded piece of paper in his pocket—the weight of it unbearable.

“So, how’s Portland?” he asked Jimmy, desperate to hear anything but his own thoughts.

Jimmy sighed. “Bigger than Orono, that’s for sure. I’m waiting tables while I try to get scripts noticed. You know, hoping for my big break.”

Claire squeezed his arm. “You’ll get there.”

She shared updates about her job at a mountain inn. Adeline spoke about the museum where she worked, still chasing her dream of opening a studio.

Clark listened, heart aching. They had grown up. They had drifted. And he had never felt more alone.

His eyes caught on the Polaroids framed on the wall of the café—sunsets, boats, the Breakwater Lighthouse. Memories rose to the pact they had made in college to visit every lighthouse on the East Coast. Nine down, eighteen to go.

He cleared his throat. “Do you guys… ever think about the pact?”

Adeline smiled softly. “Of course. I still have my pictures.”

Jimmy smirked. “I was counting on you to finish it, Clark. You’re the only one organized enough.”

Claire tilted her head. “Why?”

Clark pulled the folded note from his pocket, laying it flat on the table. He didn’t open it. His voice shook.

“My mom… she was loved. She was funny, strong. But she was hurting so bad… I didn’t even see it. I don’t want us to drift apart like that. Promise me we’ll keep showing up for each other.”

Adeline reached across the table and squeezed his hand. Claire and Jimmy followed. For the first time all week, Clark let himself cry.

Outside, fog rolled in from the harbor, wrapping the café in gray. But inside, at that little booth, a small circle of light held steady.

Clark exhaled and whispered, almost to himself, “We’ve still got eighteen lighthouses left. Don’t let me do it alone.”

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 Author’s Note

This story is a work of fiction, but the struggles it portrays are very real. Mental illness often hides behind smiles, hard work, and moments of laughter. Too many lives are cut short because of stigma, silence, or the belief that asking for help is weakness.

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, you are not alone. In the United States, you can dial 988 to connect immediately with the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Support is available 24/7.

Let’s continue to talk about mental health openly, support one another without judgment, and remember that connection can be a lifeline in the fog.