by Mila Gray
‘OK,’ I say.
I watch him walk away, wondering about what I’ve just done, but when I do a scan of what I’m feeling, there’s no regret.
I turn and run after Walker, catching him at the elevator, where he’s jabbing at every button repeatedly.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Hold up.’
He stops punching the buttons. For a moment we both stand there in awkward silence waiting for the elevator to arrive.
‘Don’t you want to go with him?’ Walker asks me suddenly.
I glance at him. ‘No. Why?’ I ask.
‘No reason,’ he mumbles.
The elevator doors slide open.
We both step inside without a word.
‘I thought you guys were . . . a couple,’ Walker suddenly blurts as the doors slide shut.
Oh. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Could that be why he’s acting so weird? The thought makes me break into a smile.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean, we were sort of seeing each other, but I just broke up with him.’
The scowl drops off Walker’s face and surprise takes over. He turns to look my way – or at least to face me. ‘You did?’
‘Yeah.’
He turns back to face the elevator doors. For five seconds we both just stand there, and when I glance at him I see he’s trying as hard as I am to hide a smile.
Walker
We walk along the hallway to my room, neither of us talking. I’m having to concentrate on remembering what obstacles are where so I can avoid them. I don’t want a white stick, but this groping around and having to hold on to the wall isn’t working so well. I must look like an idiot. Didi doesn’t say anything, though.
Is she looking at me? Can she see the smile I’m trying to hide? I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything that she broke up with Zac. But I can’t completely snuff out the spark of hope that’s ignited inside my chest. Hope for what, I’m not sure. Why this girl? Why now? What am I expecting? I have to keep asking these questions. I barely know Didi. I don’t even know what she looks like, but it’s there – undeniably there – some kind of connection. Even now, as we walk along in silence, I’m so aware of her that my nerve endings feel like they’re being stroked with a feather. I’m so finely tuned to her that I can hear her footsteps from twenty feet away. I can hear it in her voice when she’s smiling. I can sense it when she enters a room full of people. I can even pick up on the smallest variation in her mood. Right now I can tell she’s buzzing slightly, though whether she’s nervous or happy I can’t quite tell.
When we get to my room, I push the door open and stand aside to let her through. She brushes against me and I get a sense of her height – she comes up to my shoulder – as well as a hit of whatever perfume it is she’s wearing, the one that reminds me of long summer days spent out on the water. I hear her walk towards the windows and open one. The sounds of the party drift up and into the room.
‘Poor Dodds,’ Didi says under her breath.
I walk towards the sound of her voice. She must be looking down on the people below us. ‘Has Angela still got him cornered?’
‘Is that her name?’ Didi asks.
‘Yeah, it’s Valentina’s cousin. She was trying to set me up with her.’
‘She was? Oh.’ There’s a clear note of disappointment in her voice that fans my spark of hope into an ember.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘She’s not really my type, though.’
‘How do you know if she’s not your type?’ Didi asks. ‘She might look like a supermodel.’
I smile. ‘Even if she does look like a supermodel, I’m still not into her. And, just so you know, I’m not that superficial.’ I stop. Maybe that’s not true. Maybe I used to be. Maybe all sighted people are to a degree. ‘I never used to think I judged people on their looks,’ I say, shrugging, ‘but I think we all do, if we’re honest. One benefit of this – ’ I gesture at my eyes – ‘is that now I guess I’m learning to judge people by their actions and their words instead.’
Didi laughs under her breath. ‘Yeah, we should all do more of that.’
She walks away from the window. I stand there, unsure where to go or what to do, even where to ‘look’. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken words – at least on my part. I miss being near her and have to fight my inclination to follow her over to the bed, where I can hear she’s sat down.
I lean instead against the windowsill and cross my arms over my chest. I’m hot in my uniform and want to take off the jacket. I make do with taking off my hat. Self-conscious, I run my hand through my hair, which is getting almost as long as my beard.
‘You look very Officer and a Gentleman,’ Didi remarks.
‘Is that your favourite movie?’ I ask. She never did tell me what it was.
‘No,’ she says, and I hear the smile in her voice, the one that makes me strive that bit harder to say something funny.
She mumbles something.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It’s Avatar. Don’t laugh!,’ she warns, but she’s laughing herself so I join in.
‘Avatar? Seriously? The blue alien movie?’
‘Yes.’
‘The one that’s basically a didactic, cliché-ridden lesson in how humans are losing their connection to nature and destroying the planet?’
‘Yes, that would be the one.’
I shake my head.
‘So what is your favourite movie then?’ she asks me, laughing.
‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ I answer.
‘I’ve never seen it,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that the prison one?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You should watch it some time.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s about this guy who gets locked up for a crime he didn’t commit and after years and years he manages to escape. And then, at the end, you see him on the beach somewhere in Mexico. He made it. And he’s got a boat and he’s happy. And . . .’ I shrug. ‘He’s free.’
‘You just ruined the ending for me, thanks.’
‘Oh, sorry. Well, at least it has a happy ending. I bet you like those.’ I wince. That came out wrong. ‘Um,’ I say hastily, ‘I mean, I’m guessing you like your stories to have happy endings.’
Didi laughs. ‘You guessed right. Love Story just about killed me. And The Fault in our Stars. I cried so hard in both those movies I almost burst a blood vessel.’
‘Is therapy a good career move for you, then?’ I ask. ‘Are there ever any happy endings?’
‘Yes, of course there are. All the time,’ Didi says. ‘The patient has got to want it, though. And work with the therapist.’
I nod to myself. Touché.
‘And they’ve got to be positive about the future.’
I can’t stop the snort.
‘Don’t you ever think about the future?’ she asks.
‘Nope.’ What I don’t want to tell her is that it’s hard enough to get through each day without having to think about tomorrow as well. Isn’t there something to be said for living in the moment? Tomorrow might not even come. But I don’t think Didi would want to hear these kind of thoughts. I think she’s the kind of girl who likes to plan for old age.
‘So I finished that other book,’ I say, wanting to steer the conversation away from the direction it’s going in. ‘The sex and relationships one.’
‘Oh yeah?’ she says.
‘It was interesting. Your mom wrote it, right?’
‘Yeah,’ says Didi. ‘She’s a sexpert.’ She laughs, but I pick up on the slight tinge of embarrassment when she says it.
‘She’s smart. It was well written.’ I pause. ‘What was it she said? “Attraction plus obstacle in the way equals—”’
‘“The ultimate erotic encounter”,’ Didi finishes for me, and there’s an edge to her voice, a slight breathlessness that wasn’t there a moment ago.
‘Yeah. That’s it,’ I say.
It was a quote that stood out for me among all the others. Can’t think
why.
‘It’s what all good romance stories are built on,’ Didi jokes but there’s a jangle of nerves beneath her laughter.
‘Yeah,’ I say, then, ‘So, you like Justin Bieber, huh?’
‘Oh God, you found it.’ Her voice is muffled and I assume she’s buried her head in her hands.
I laugh. ‘Yeah. I was thinking that could be a problem.’
‘What kind of a problem?’ Didi asks, curious.
‘An obstacle to us . . .’ I pause, weighing my next words carefully. ‘Being friends.’ I put an inflection on friends.
‘Oh.’
Shit. I was hoping for more than an oh. I don’t know how to take that oh. Maybe I played my hand too soon. Maybe I misread the situation – the tension between us.
‘I . . .’ Didi stammers.
I shake my head, embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’
‘No,’ she interrupts, ‘I do totally want to be friends.’ Is that an emphasis on the word friends? ‘It’s just—’
I force a smile. ‘I get it. Don’t worry. It’s cool.’
I hear her get up from the bed and then suddenly she’s right beside me.
‘Walker. I do want to be friends,’ she says so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
I hold my breath.
‘I really, really want to be friends,’ she says, and now her voice really is a whisper and that really was an inflection. The back of her hand brushes mine, just the lightest of touches, but it sends an electric jolt through me.
Everything beyond us goes still. Even the noise outside the window fades. All I’m aware of is Didi and how close she is and what she’s just said and the feeling inside my chest – an easing of the metal bands that have been wrapped around my ribs for the last two months.
I let out the breath I’m holding. But then I register that there was something off about her tone. She didn’t sound happy. And she moves her hand and steps away from me.
‘But I can’t be friends with you, Walker.’
I shake my head, not sure I’ve understood. ‘Why?’ Is it because I’m blind? Because I’m a fucked-up disabled vet with no prospects?
‘Because I work here. There are rules around these things. You know, patient–doctor boundaries. It could damage my career. I could get thrown off my college course.’
‘Oh.’ Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve got to say I’m relieved it’s not for the reasons I thought, but that doesn’t make me feel much better. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble, turning away again so she can’t see the disappointment that must be flaring across my face.
‘Walker,’ she says, and the way she says my name feels so like a caress I close my eyes on reflex. ‘I wish it wasn’t the case.’
‘Didi, it’s fine,’ I say, and suddenly I find I have to put as much distance as I can between us because she’s standing so close I can’t concentrate. I take three or four steps until I get to the bed. My head is reeling, and now she’s not so near to me I wonder if I imagined the longing in her voice and the brush of her hand against mine. Was she implying that she wanted more than to be friends, or did I misread things? Either way it doesn’t sound like it makes much difference.
‘I get it,’ I say. ‘This is your life we’re talking about. You don’t want to screw it up. You’ve worked so hard to get this far.’ I can’t seem to make myself sound enthusiastic.
‘Yeah,’ Didi answers, and she doesn’t sound any more enthusiastic than me.
‘So,’ I say, sitting down on the bed. ‘Does this mean we don’t get to hang out any more?’
‘No,’ she says carefully. ‘We just have to agree to keep things professional.’
I consider her choice of words. That suggests that she thinks there’s a danger of not keeping things professional. I can’t stop a smile taking over my face.
‘Is that a problem?’ she asks.
I kill the smile and shake my head. ‘No.’ I hesitate. ‘We can keep things professional.’
‘Just until you’re out of here, and then . . .’ She stops.
‘Then?’ I ask.
‘Then, um . . . we can go on a date . . .’
‘Well, I’d better hurry up and get the hell better,’ I say, laughing, but inside I’m wondering how the hell that’s ever going to be possible. It’s not like I have a cold. How do I get better? Here she is thinking of the future and planning for it, and I’m struggling to get through every single goddamn second.
But Didi starts laughing too, and the sound fills me up with lightness and my vision seems to lighten around the edges as though someone’s lifted the edge of a blanket.
Didi
It’s an impossible line to walk, and I feel myself teetering every time I see him. I know he’s aware of me whenever I’m in the same room as him because straightaway his head snaps up and he looks over in my direction, his gaze always landing either on me or not far away from me. It’s a little unnerving, and at the same time it stirs a flutter in the pit of my belly that’s getting harder and harder to ignore.
We’ve fallen into a routine where I drop by every afternoon for an hour. We chat, him sitting on the bed, me in the chair, and it feels like there’s an electric fence between us and that with every minute that passes the voltage steadily increases. I stare at his mouth when he talks, imagining what it would be like to kiss him, and have to force the thought away over and over again.
I’m desperate for him to open up and talk about that day – the day of the explosion – but I haven’t pushed him. He steers away from the past and never mentions the future; in fact, all we seem to talk about is books, movies and current affairs. We don’t talk about our lives – that would be pushing it into friend territory.
He’s clearly trying to stick to the terms of our agreement to keep things above board, and something has shifted in his attitude – even my dad has remarked on it. He’s more focused, happier even. His scowl has vanished, and I have to stop myself from smiling when I think that I might be part of the reason. He’s working out with Sanchez for several hours a day, either in the pool or in the gym, and sometimes I’ll take a deliberate detour so I can look in through the windows and watch them, or rather watch Walker, and then I have to give myself an angry talking-to because I feel like a voyeur.
As I head down to the art therapy room before my hour with Walker, I notice the bounce in my step. I can’t stop smiling, either. The only thing that slightly takes the edge off is a worry that maybe the chemistry we have might disappear if he gets his sight back. But that’s blotted out by the bigger worry of what will happen if he doesn’t get his sight back.
An enormous crashing sound from the room I’m passing brings me to a sudden halt. It’s followed by an angry bellow and the sound of glass splintering. I push open the door to one of the therapy rooms and have to duck my head as a mug filled with paintbrushes soars past me and smashes into the doorframe.
I glance up and see that Dodds is the one doing the yelling. He’s in his wheelchair, his face ablaze with fury, and he’s grabbing anything in sight and throwing it. Paint splatters the walls. A torn-up canvas hangs off an easel. Jars of dirty paint water have been upended over the floor and now he’s reaching for the pots of paint and is throwing them like grenades at the art-therapy teacher – a woman in her sixties – who’s holding up her arms to shield herself. One of the auxiliary staff – a guy in scrubs – is trying to get close to Dodds, but he’s so angry, so filled with rage and lashing out so hard that it’s like trying to get close to a spewing volcano. The guy is now having to dodge oil-paint tubes that Dodds is chucking at him.
I’m completely frozen, not sure what to do or how to help, but then two orderlies rush past me and into the room. They approach Dodds from two sides as if he’s a rabid dog and I hear myself yell at them to stop, but too late. They’ve grabbed his arms and are restraining him, which only enrages him even further, and he starts thrashing wildly with his arms. I can see they’re trying to be as gentle as they can be – one is ta
lking calmly in Dodds’ ear, but Dodds is beyond listening. It’s as if he’s possessed. His neck muscles are as rigid as steel cables and his eyes are popping out of their sockets.
He jabs at one of the orderlies with his elbow and there’s a struggle which ends abruptly when his wheelchair overturns and he’s is thrown out of it, crashing face down on the ground.
I run into the room, my legs finally ungluing themselves, and throw myself down on the floor beside him. One of the orderlies is still standing and the other is bending down, reaching for Dodds, trying to help turn him over, and I push him off.
‘Leave him,’ I hiss.
He’s lying face down and I’m caught momentarily by the disorientating sight of his legless torso, his pant legs pinned up under him. He pushes himself up onto his hands and then collapses down onto one side as though the anger has drained from him and he’s entirely spent. He starts sobbing.
I put my hand on his arm. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It’s OK.’
He curls towards me, his arms coming up over his face, his sobbing getting louder. I don’t know what to do. I look up and the orderlies are watching me as if they’re waiting for me to give them an order.
I stroke Dodds’ hair, feeling the worm-like scar beneath his scalp. My heart aches for him. How can a person be so broken and ever be put back together again?
‘Shhh,’ I say, and slowly, slowly, the sobs wracking Dodds’ body start to ease.
He says something, hiccups it through his tears.
‘What?’ I say, bending closer.
‘I don’t want to do this any more,’ he whispers, his eyes screwed shut, his fists clenched.
My hand, stroking his hair, stills.
Behind me I can hear the orderlies talking in whispers and the door opening, and then my dad is suddenly beside me, crouched down by Dodds.
‘Hi there, Corporal,’ he says. ‘Let’s get you sitting up.’
The orderlies move to help my dad hoist Dodds to a sitting position and I back away, but not before my dad has caught my eye and nodded at me.
