Blindness

by Ginger Scott

  BLINDNESS

  A novel

  By Ginger Scott

  Text copyright © 2014 Ginger Scott (Ginger Eiden)

  Smashwords Edition

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Ginger Scott

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook my not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Jack.

  You set the bar really high.

  Contents:

  Prologue: I Just Got to Know You…

  Chapter 1: Trevor Appleton’s Girl

  Chapter 2: Timing Is Everything

  Chapter 3: Second Impressions

  Chapter 4: Home Sweet Home

  Chapter 5: Playing Fair

  Chapter 6: Mac and Me Time

  Chapter 7: The Mask I’m Wearing

  Chapter 8: Catch me if I fall

  Chapter 9: Sober

  Chapter 10: Hear Me

  Chapter 11: Rules of Engagement

  Chapter 12: Just…Friends

  Chapter 13: What’s Good for You

  Chapter 14: Reasons to Be Thankful

  Chapter 15: This Is Charlie

  Chapter 16: Abrupt and Sudden

  Chapter 17: Let’s Celebrate

  Chapter 18: Welcome to Louisville

  Chapter 19: Homeless

  Chapter 20: The Prettiest of Pictures

  Chapter 21: Twelve O’One

  Chapter 22: Jake’s

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Ginger Scott

  Prologue: I Just Got to Know You…

  People are thoughtless. Half of the stupid rituals they do are just by rote—rehearsed feigned attempts at human kindness done with their own best interests in mind.

  They show up to weddings to make sure they get credit for being there with the boss or with the rich-ass relative—or perhaps for the time when they invite the bride to their wedding. They donate their clothes to the needy just to write them off on their taxes. They write the big fat check just so they can see their name embossed in gold on the ornate charity gala program. And they volunteer at the soup kitchen so they can talk about how they really understand the poor, like they have any clue what it feels like to not be able to feed your family.

  My house is filled with thoughtless people.

  They won’t talk to me, but I can sense their fake sympathy by the half-smiles they shoot my way from across the living room. They hug me, even though my arms stay limp, dangling at my sides. Grown men and women—who I don’t even know—wipe tears from their own eyes and offer me tissues, expecting me to mirror their expressions. I don’t. I just stare them in the face, and recite my own rehearsed and feigned attempt at human kindness.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say. “It would mean a lot to him to know you came.”

  I say these words even though it wouldn’t. My father, Mac Hudson, didn’t like people. He didn’t trust them, and for good reason. Most of the humans he dealt with were the lowest form—drug dealers, gun smugglers, thieves, gang leaders—if I pulled together a slideshow of the people in my father’s life over the last 20 years, it would be filled with colorful characters, most of them doing hard time at the federal prison thanks to their connection with Mac Hudson.

  I was seven years old the first time I met my father. He didn’t really know I existed until then. Mom was a bit of a mess. Sabrina Ferris was bipolar, and when life was good, she liked to supplement it with a lot of meth. Problem was, her lows were just the opposite. I don’t remember much, just the constant scratching at her skin and pulling at her hair. She had these tics, where her entire body would jerk. I’m sure it wasn’t always that way—I know now her addiction ruined her mind and body. But as a small child, that was all I knew—all I ever saw.

  It was normal.

  She was never cruel or physically abusive, quite the opposite, actually. When she was on a high, she’d spend thousands of dollars buying me toys and candy, and anything else I wanted. Of course, she charged it all to credit cards and built mountains of debt, or committed identity theft. But I didn’t know about all that; I just enjoyed my toys, and played until midnight, my mom often encouraging me to stay up until morning.

  When she crashed, she would just disappear for days, either locking herself in her room, or leaving me with the neighbor while she ran away…somewhere. Those times left less of an impression. They were filled with emptiness. And my new toys didn’t feel the same when mom wasn’t there. Instead, they felt dirty.

  The day she pulled up in front of Mac Hudson’s house was one of her lowest. I can close my eyes and still see the sores on her arms and face. I hid behind her leg, clinging to the bottom of her T-shirt with both hands. Mac opened the door. I remember them talking, she told him I was his daughter, and they argued. Then I remember watching her run from the porch, sprinting to her car, and tossing my small backpack of clothing from her window while she sped away.

  Mac and I sat on that porch, several feet apart, while I cried for hours. He had no clue what to do with a seven-year-old girl, let alone one who had just experienced her first broken heart. When he finally stood up, he asked me if I wanted to come inside for a sandwich. I was alone in the world, so I did. And somewhere along the way, while I sat at the banged-up oak table in the middle of Mac’s kitchen, I stopped crying. And I never cried another tear for Sabrina Ferris.

  Life with Mac went on much like this for years. He fumbled his way through parenting, often calling on friends to watch me while he went to work. I knew most of the beat cops in Louisville by the time I was ten; they’d all taken turns babysitting me. When I got my period, Mac called on his partner, Missy, to teach me about tampons and take me shopping for pads and panty liners.

  By the time I started high school, Mac had become a detective, which meant his time at home was even less. We were more acquaintances than we were father and daughter. I did most of the grocery shopping, calling him once a week just to find out what he wanted me to put in the fridge. I ate my dinners at the table alone, then I would sit up in my room to finish my homework, until I heard Mac’s keys slide across the counter letting me know he was home. I’d pop my head out to say goodnight, and he’d promise not to make too much noise with the TV.

  I was in the art club, and we sometimes had gallery shows. Mac usually sent one of his colleagues while he was busy working a case. I can picture every face belonging to a badge sitting in the front row for one of my orchestra performances. I wasn’t on a sports team that really called for fans—I golfed—so I usually played my tournaments and just let Mac know how I did the next morning. He’d usually nod, and say something gruff, or simple, like “Good job.”

  Looking back, I suppose I missed out on a lot of father-daughter bonding. But I didn’t know that at the time. It was just life, the life I knew. And I existed, happily.

  But things changed when I turned 17. I had a boyfriend, my first, really. My few friends at school all had boyfriends, and I wanted one too. His name was
Wes. I didn’t really go on dates with him—honestly the thought of asking Mac if I could, of acknowledging to Mac any interest I had in boys, made my stomach sink. Wes would drive me home after school and make out with me in his car or in the halls after classes let out. I loved him. Or whatever-I-thought-love-was-ed him. Wes was cute and popular, and he made me feel beautiful. I liked the attention I got when I kissed him at school, the jealous stares from other girls. I liked the way my insides felt when he held my hand. And I liked kissing him. I liked kissing him a lot.

  Until I didn’t.

  The afternoon after it happened, I was propped up on my elbows, scribbling on my math worksheet, and wincing from the pain on my right cheek. My door was shut, my lamp was on, and I was powering through. It was just like a fight with my girlfriends when I was little. I worked through things on my own, here in my room, and then eventually we were friends again. I figured I’d just wait, and eventually I’d be Wes’s girlfriend again—or I wouldn’t. I was okay either way.

  I don’t know what made Mac open my door. In the ten years we’d lived together, I could count on one hand the number of times he stepped foot in my room. But something drew him in that night, and when his weathered eyes zeroed in on the purple puffiness, he changed.

  He asked who hurt me, and I said I fell. He asked again, and I got quiet. When he charged to me, lifted my chin with his giant hand, and stared me in the eyes, his nostrils flaring—I whimpered. Not from pain, but from a crack in my emotional armor. This wasn’t how these things worked out. Mac wasn’t a part of this, and he was never supposed to know.

  “Name,” he said, his breath heavy, but controlled. I shunned, and he asked again, louder, squeezing my chin with a little force now.

  “Name!” he yelled.

  The tear that ran over my bruised cheek burned as it slid, carving a hot and painful path to my top lip, which quivered as soon as it reached it.

  “Wes Nieves,” I croaked out.

  Mac was gone at my words. Every door between where I lay and his pickup were left open along his trail. He was gone for hours. I was in the kitchen after midnight, boiling water for pasta when I finally heard the rumble of his truck out front. I turned the burner on low, and walked to the edge of the kitchen facing the hall to the front door. I was nervous about what his reaction would be when he came in. I watched him close the door behind him and hang his jacket on the hook. I watched him slide his work boots from his feet and pull his wallet, keys and badge from his pockets, tossing them in the bowl by the front door. Then I watched him unfasten his holster and wrap his gun before he walked in the opposite direction to his bedroom.

  I went back to my pasta and was mixing in a can of sauce when Mac slid the chair out at the table. We didn’t speak. I pulled two bowls from the cupboard and poured equal parts of the noodles in each. I slid one bowl to Mac, and he just picked up his fork and started to eat. No eye contact. No words—only this strange, new kind of silence.

  I never spoke to Wes again, and he took the long route to classes just to avoid me. Mac and I never spoke about it, either. But he started showing up to things after that day. In fact, for the next year, there was hardly an event in my life that Mac Hudson wasn’t front and center for. I had gone from Charlotte Ferris, roommate—to Charlie Hudson, Mac Hudson’s daughter, all because some douchebag hit me. It was the most horrible and most amazing thing to ever have happened to me. I’d been abused, yes…but I came out the other end with a father—a real father.

  Mac joked with me, laughed with me, and filmed my stupid golf matches. He took me out for my 18th birthday, because no other boy was good enough. And before my prom, he was the one who helped me curl my golden brown hair into spirals (though it took him hours). He was my rock—my very unexpected but oh-so-treasured rock. He was suddenly the one person in life who wouldn’t let me down. And I think that’s why I miss him so goddamned much today.

  A funeral. A wake. In our house. And I’m alone. My best friend—my dad—six feet under, buried in dirt. And the fake assholes bringing me flowers, frozen meals, false promises that one day it would hurt less—I just want to throw them all out and let the door hit them on the way. Just like Mac would have wanted.

  But I don’t. I put on my mask, nod, say my line, and wait until the sun finally sets, and the moon takes over watch.

  Three Years Later…

  Chapter 1: Trevor Appleton’s Girl

  “I have to go to tutoring. If I don’t go, I’m going to fail. And I can’t fail,” I say, fighting to hold in my laughter, while Trevor pokes my side as we lay in bed.

  “Come on, baby, I’m going to be gone all week. Just stay a little longer,” he teases, pulling me back on top of him and nibbling at my ear. I want to stay. I always want to stay. His warm chest, deep gravely voice, and dark stubble on his chin that he scrapes along my jaw almost have me back. But I really am failing calculus. I need to pass to continue with my program studies. I fought too long and too hard to get into Western’s architectural program, and I spent most of Mac’s inheritance on my first three years. Thankfully, reason prevails, despite Trevor’s best efforts, and I make my way to my feet.

  “You are so tempting, you know that?” I say, smacking him playfully on the arm. “But I have to go.”

  Trevor puts on his best pout, which earns him a small kiss, but nothing more. I race into the bathroom at my apartment to shower and change.

  “Hey, I have that dinner next Sunday to meet with the chief of staff in Judge Sumner’s office. You’re still good with that, right?” Trevor asks through the door while I’m showering. Damn, I’d forgotten about dinner Sunday. I just promised Caroline yesterday that I’d come home next weekend for Mac’s ceremony. It’s been three years, and every anniversary they have a candlelight memorial at the front steps of Louisville PD headquarters. I’ve missed them all. I’ve always been busy, made myself busy.

  “Uh…” I’m hedging. I don’t want to let down Trevor, and truthfully, I don’t want to go relive my father’s death. But Caroline made me promise this year. My dad’s sister, my aunt, hasn’t been able to move on from it. She lives in it, literally. Mac left her his home—she never had one of her own. He always looked after her, giving her money and excuses for her emotional problems. He loved her—I know that’s why he couldn’t cut her loose. But she’s never fully been able to grow up because of it. I’d gotten a taste of it all for the three months I had to live with her before I left home to come to Western. I wasn’t going back—ever. Being there meant I ran the risk of becoming like her. And I knew being there wasn’t going to bring him back. Nothing would. So why bother.

  “You’re not backing out on me, are you?” Trevor asks, pulling the shower curtain open and surprising me. He has a tone in his voice—I can tell he’s disappointed. Trevor has a way of getting his way; he doesn’t come across needy, but he has this face that just makes me want to please him. It’s satisfying to see him happy.

  “No, I’ll be there. I just have to call Caroline. I forgot, I’m sorry. I told her I’d help her with something, but it can wait,” I lie. Trevor knows about my dad, and he’s met Caroline, so he knows how difficult she can be. But he doesn’t know all of the details—I always leave those out. They make me feel weak and pathetic, and I don’t want to feel his pity. Trevor is the one person who makes me feel strong, like I’m some power player in his world of lawyers and politicians—Cat Woman to his Bruce Wayne. And I like feeling that way.

  He slips his head in the shower and kisses me hard, grabbing both sides of my face and making my call to Caroline easier. I smile and flit my eyes at him as he backs away. “Good, you’re my lucky charm, you know?” he winks. “I gotta go. But I’ll call you later, when I get in from my flight, okay?”

  “Okay,” I smile and flick a little water at him as he leaves. He chuckles and shakes his head, walking out and shutting the door.

  Trevor is classically handsome—dark hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders—he’s the alter ego of some broo
ding movie star and a Hilfiger ad rolled into one. He was a swimmer at Western his first four years, and he’s still built like one. In December, he’ll be graduating with his law degree, and if Sunday’s dinner goes well, he may be the youngest student in the college’s history to clerk for a circuit court judge.

  We met at one of the Dean’s dinner parties last year. Trevor was my grad-student guide, and I was attracted to him instantly. He’s the only man I’ve ever slept with, which he always tells me he loves. I’m a little embarrassed by it, but honestly, before Trevor Appleton, there was never a guy who made me want to do more than kiss. I don’t know the exact moment when I fell in love with him, but I did.

  He’s older—24 to my 21—but we’re both in the same place. I’ve never been a partier, never had many girlfriends, never really wanted to date. Even in high school, I was focused, my only diversion the time I spent dating Wes, and that didn’t turn out so well. My life has been one long chain of events, means to an end.

  One of those ends is architecture. I’ve always had a keen eye, and I’d worked my way into an internship with one of the best firms in the Midwest. I had a feeling the job would be mine permanently when I graduated. Of course, Trevor had also been hinting about marriage lately, and if he ended up in Washington, I’d have to consider applying elsewhere. But first, I had to pass my calculus requirements.

  Keys, coffee, portfolio, and notebooks in hand, and I’m on my way to the library. I haven’t taken advantage of the free tutoring sessions yet, and I’m regretting that now. I might have been able to avoid the deep hole I’d dug from my failed quizzes…if I’d just shown up for these sessions a few weeks earlier.