The Blind

by A. F. Brady

  Lucas is reeling now, angry that I caught him. I’m contemplating my exit strategy when he suddenly pops up to his feet and offers me a hand to help me off the couch.

  “Why don’t we eat something? There’s all this Chinese food in the kitchen; let’s just have a bite to eat and forget this shit ever happened, okay?” He is clenching my wrist and pulling me into the kitchen. He takes two plates out of the cabinet above the sink and slaps them both down on the counter. He reaches into the First Wok bag and pulls out two white cardboard containers. Lucas drops my wrist and it falls to my side with a thud, and he begins unloading lo mein and sesame chicken onto the plates. I can see him getting angrier and angrier with each shake of the to-go containers; I start slowly backing out of the kitchen.

  “Where the fuck are you going? You asked me to come over and bring dinner, and here I am, preparing dinner for us. Don’t sneak out of here and pretend you didn’t ruin our evening together with your accusations and your detective work. Here—” he shoves a plate of cold Chinese at me “—eat this. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He leaves his plate on the kitchen counter and stalks toward me with his head bowed and his eyebrows clamped in rage. I’m holding my plate between us with both hands, backing up.

  “Thank you for bringing Chinese food, but I didn’t ruin our evening. You’re the one who came over hours late and coked up.” I keep backing up.

  “So, I ruined the evening?” he growls.

  “Look, the evening doesn’t have to be ruined at all—” I implore him, but as soon as he’s close enough, Lucas slaps the plate out of my hand, and sesame chicken and lo mein and broken shards of plate scatter on the floor around us. He pushes the mess out of his way with his foot and keeps lumbering closer to me. I hold my hands up against his chest and try to push him off me, but he is too big, and too angry, and already nearly on top of me.

  “Hit me,” he says calmly, with a twisted grin. “Hit me, since I fucked everything up. I ruined dinner, didn’t I? So hit me.” He starts yelling and chest bumps me, sending me stumbling back into the wall. “Hit me!” He points to his jaw and chest bumps me again, and now I’m pinned between him and the wall, and I can’t find the room to squirm out. I feel the handle to the closet door with my left hand, and I try to pull it open, but Lucas’s big arm is over my head, holding the closet door closed. “Hit me,” he says again as his other hand rises up and grips me by the throat. “Hit me!”

  NOVEMBER 16TH, 9:14 P.M.

  I’m at Nick’s talking to a friend, and although I’ve been told that he’s very sexy and charming, I haven’t noticed it until right this minute. He’s standing in front of me, and we’re flirting. Everyone else we know here is behind me, jammed in near the DJ booth. He’s looking at me with a pair of eyes that I have never seen in his head, and I feel like the universe is shifting and my stomach is flipping. He is devouring me and I don’t want him to stop.

  He’s a player—we all know it; I have always known it. I watched him hook up with a prepubescent neophyte yesterday and he has been picking the low-hanging fruit for years. I see every woman fall for him; I laugh at them and silently hope they remember to wrap it up, and I giggle at the girls who are mad at him for the fuck-and-run. I’ve always considered him a decent soul, and at the same time I don’t see any of this right now. All I see is man. Man who can take my whole world and turn it upside down, just by paying me the slightest bit of attention.

  Someone has taken out their camera phone, and of course this is a problem because everyone here knows Lucas, and I’m dating Lucas, and I should be thinking about Lucas, but I can’t even remember his name right now. I’m absentmindedly pulling my scarf up around my neck to keep the bruises from the other night obscured. We are all crammed together, taking pictures that someone will inevitably post on Instagram, and then all infidelity will be exposed and I’ll be the bad guy and Lucas will run from me and I will be alone and I can’t have that.

  So I pose and I smile and I pretend that all the feelings I have rushing through me—the fire, the heat that’s pulsing in my veins, in my stomach, in my pants—all of this is not happening. And of course, he comes to stand next to me for the pictures, and he is almost in front of me, and he is kissing my cheek for the photo.

  The group is closely huddled together, and without anyone else seeing, while we’re no more than a quarter inch from all our friends, he reaches his hand behind him, between us, and holds my breast. He’s killing me and he knows it and I love it and all I want to do is stay and take more pictures and have him keep his hands on me and all over me and take me away from here and make me something better and never, ever, ever leave me.

  Somehow it’s all over and in a whirlwind, I’m on the street walking home. When we said goodbye he kissed me on the lips, but we all kiss each other on the lips, so this didn’t mean anything to anyone witnessing it. But we had never kissed on the lips before and mine are burning with man all over them, and I am walking home toward Lucas and I want to turn back and run into the arms of man, but Lucas will leave me and I can’t have that. But I need to see this guy again. When will we be able to do this? This is a mission and I must accomplish it, and I will have him no matter what it takes. His name is AJ. I don’t even know what it stands for.

  NOVEMBER 18TH, 12:03 P.M.

  David and I are sitting in his office, avoiding the world, eating our lunches. He usually brings something in, and I end up stealing half of it, or we go to one of the sandwich shops down the street. There’s a halal truck on the corner, and today we both got chicken over rice. We usually eat when the patients get their lunch, whether we’re hungry or not—that way we’re less likely to have visitors or intruders.

  “Did you see Julie in the meeting this morning?” I ask, plastic fork between my teeth.

  “Yeah, I saw her. Why? What’d she do?”

  “She was doing her makeup in a Chanel compact at the fucking conference table.”

  “Is that a big deal?”

  “She works in a mental institution. Why does she care so much about how she looks? It’s pathetic.”

  David laughs at me. “You really hate her, huh?”

  “I don’t hate anybody. I just think she’s incredibly silly and she doesn’t belong here. She should be working at Bloomingdale’s.”

  “You ever sat in on any of her groups?”

  “No, have you?” David rarely engages in Julie shit-talking and gossip with me, because he’s mature and above it all, so I love when he descends to my level.

  “Yeah, I was at the one that your patient stormed out of. The new guy, big dude.”

  “Richard? The thing with the beets?”

  “Ha!” David opens his mouth to laugh and a single grain of rice flies past me and sticks to the window. “Yeah,” he says, wiping his lips, “she was trying to delicately explain that some foods can change the color or consistency of pee and poop, and he just bolted. I think she wanted to get the message across that people panic when their shit turns red, thinking it’s blood, so she was trying to preemptively quell the anxiety.”

  “Sure, which would make sense if anyone ever had beets here. What an idiot! Such a princess. I told you she shouldn’t be here.”

  “Yeah, Rachel asked me to keep an eye on her because she’s been racking up complaints.”

  “Really? How wonderful! Maybe Typhlos will give me an early Christmas present and fire her!” I joyfully scoop another forkful of chicken into my mouth.

  “Yeah, don’t hold your breath. How is the new guy, by the way? Last we talked you were getting nowhere.”

  “I’m still getting fucking nowhere. It’s confusing. He’s so high functioning, seems to be completely normal, so what is he doing here? Why is he in treatment?”

  “What’s his diagnosis?”

  “Oh, right. Like there’s a diagnosis in his chart. That would be too easy.”

  “Do you think he’s diagnosable?”

  “If I were to slap something on him, like for insuranc
e purposes, I’d say adjustment disorder. And that’s a stretch. There’s got to be something that I’m completely missing. It’s too weird for this guy to be admitted to a mental institution. Aside from being uncooperative and stubborn, he seems normal.”

  “You want me to meet with him? See if I can figure something out?” David is always incredibly helpful, always willing to go the extra mile for me.

  “No, thanks. But keep an eye out if you notice anything.” David smiles his sweet, protective smile at me and clumsily pats my knee with his free hand. I try to examine his thoughts as he turns toward the window; I’m looking for a place inside him where I could fit.

  NOVEMBER 22ND, 11:06 A.M.

  Although we haven’t made progress with his file, it seems that Richard is getting more comfortable with me. He may even be developing a foundation of trust. He’s speaking now, not about anything relevant to his mental health, but he’s saying words out loud. He tells me about books he’s read, or ones he’s heard of that he hasn’t had a chance to pick up yet. I tell him about what’s happened in the music industry, and he’s never happy to hear it. Today is another session with us just warming up to each other.

  “You have a cell phone?” he asks me. He hasn’t shaved this morning, and I can see the prickles of a pale beard poking out of his fat pores.

  “Yes, I have a personal phone. Why do you ask?” I’ve got my legs crossed and I’ve twisted my chair to face him. We usually sit this way, even if the sessions are uncommunicative. It’s a therapeutic technique. People are uncomfortable with silences, so often if a therapist faces a patient like they’re talking, the patient will feel obligated to fill the silence.

  “That was a shock to me. I was away when those things came out. Now even the homeless people have them.”

  “You were in prison when cell phones became popular?” This is the first time he has acknowledged his incarceration to me, and I want to draw more information out of him.

  “We didn’t even have personal computers. Now everyone has a supercomputer in their pocket.”

  “Did you have computers available to you in prison?”

  “Well, the phones are even more advanced than the computers now.” He’s not going to engage on this with me.

  “It’s true. They really do make communication much easier.” Hint.

  “Not just communication—everything. It’s got a camera now, the internet, the emails. You can read books on those things! It used to be you had to have a whole suitcase worth of stuff to have everything that these phones have now. And they’re this big.” He holds out his wide palm to indicate the size of today’s cell phones.

  “A miracle of technology.”

  Richard shakes his head in wonder and returns his attention to his newspapers. Maybe I can draw him further out of his shell if I tell him that I addressed the issue with Devon and his shit jacket.

  “Before you disengage completely, I wanted to let you know that I looked into the issues you were having with Devon.”

  “Oh?” He raises his eyebrows in anticipation.

  “I put in a request with his counselor to take up the issues that you conveyed to me, including the hygiene problem and the disruptive behavior in groups. It has since been addressed with Devon personally, and I hope you will show some patience and tolerance as he adjusts.”

  “Well. Thank you.”

  “Is that a commitment to give the guy a break?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s a thank-you. I haven’t said thank-you to anyone in a long time. I appreciate that you followed through.” Richard bows his head to me.

  “Maybe since I’ve shown you the respect of following through, you’ll show me the same, and we can work on completing your file.” Once last try for today.

  His eyes return to his papers and he brushes his cheek with the back of his hand, as if he’s brushing away my request.

  My chest tightens as I draw in another disappointed breath. It’s been almost a month now and all I have are his basics. I’m running out of ways to get through to him.

  NOVEMBER 23RD, 2:14 P.M.

  Julie is buzzing the intercom looking for me. Her shrill, piercing voice is making my eardrums explode, so I pick up the phone as quickly as I can and hold the receiver about a foot from my face.

  “Yes, Julie?” I grumble from a safe distance. “What do you need?”

  “Hi, Sam!” I can hear the syrupy ooze of her voice falling down the telephone line, threatening to come trickling onto my neck through the receiver. She pauses, waiting for me to return the cheerful greeting. I say nothing. “Um, I wonder if you have a moment to come to my office? I’m meeting with one of your patients right now; we had a little incident in group.” She says little incident like she’s talking about a kindergartner who wet her pants during nap time.

  “Which patient?”

  “I’m with Tashawndra.” She enunciates each syllable slowly, fearful that her inability to properly articulate Tashawndra’s name will indicate she’s racist, or out of touch, or not relatable.

  “Give me a minute.” I hang up the phone before she inundates me with more pleasantries, and begin the slow walk to Julie’s office.

  I knock loudly on her door and realize that though we’ve worked together for several years, I’ve never seen the inside of her office before. She pulls it open, and I see Tashawndra with a shamed expression on her face, sitting on a blue plastic group-room chair. Looks like there weren’t enough office chairs for Julie. She invites me in, and I take in my surroundings.

  She doesn’t have books or files or anything visible that would indicate this is a clinician’s office; instead she has a large stuffed bear wearing a green Ralph Lauren sweater sitting on her bookshelf. She has pictures of her family with quotes about sisters etched into the white wooden frames. As she closes her door, I hear the plink of bells, and I turn to see she has two coat hooks, one with her pale camel-colored coat with a pink plaid scarf over it, and the other with a stuffed fabric wreath with lacy edges and bells hanging off it. The final straw is a framed plaque of faux reclaimed wood with intentionally worn writing and painted flowers that reads Live, Laugh, Love. I can feel the bile and undigested lunch rising in my throat, and I hesitate to stop myself from projectile vomiting directly into her perfectly combed hair. The look of disgust on my face must be apparent because Julie reaches out to touch my arm and ask me if I’m okay.

  “Sam? You alright?” I yank my arm away from her and nudge her out of the way as I take a seat in Julie’s desk chair. There’s a scent diffuser somewhere in here, and it smells like baby powder.

  “Tashawndra?” She hangs her head, and I lower mine to catch her eyes. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

  “Can’t Miss Julie tell you?” She hides her face in her hands. Her hair is twisted in ropes and dreads of various lengths and rigidity, some poking straight up out of her scalp and others falling forward into her eyes. She twists them when she gets nervous, and when she’s feeling happy, she ties ribbons and strings to the ends. She’s pulling at one of the strings now, a yellow piece of yarn tied to a dread on the left side of her face.

  “I’d like to hear it from you, if you’re willing to tell me. I want to know what you think happened.” The yarn pops off between her fingers.

  Tashawndra releases a snort like a bull about to charge. “I was in Miss Julie’s group, minding my own business, and out of nowhere, I look over and I see that Barry is staring at Miss Julie, and his mind ain’t right, and I know what he’s thinking.”

  “What was he thinking?” I ask. Julie is hovering over us, blushing as her name is mentioned.

  “He was thinking he like to sink his teeth into those legs!” She gestures toward Julie’s panty-hosed legs, exposed beneath her admittedly work-appropriate skirt. Julie involuntarily bends and covers her knees with her hands.

  I can’t help smiling as I listen to this. “And then what did you do?”

&n
bsp; “I threw my coffee cup at him.” Tashawndra leans back and crosses her arms over her chest. She is braless as usual and her pendulous breasts fall into her armpits.

  “Was there coffee in your coffee cup?” I’m nearly laughing as I ask.

  “No! It was empty. I should have slapped his face.”

  “What’s going on between you and Barry?”

  “Well, nothing now! But before he decided to get all inappropriate with the counselor, we was seeing each other. Been a couple of weeks. He brung me flowers from the table in the lunchroom last week. And before that, he gave me the rest of his pack of cigarettes. He told me I was the most beautiful girl he ever saw, and we had lunch together and we smoked on the smoking balcony together, too. But all that over now!”

  “Anything else going on between the two of you?” Sexual contact between patients is strictly forbidden at Typhlos, although it’s nearly impossible to enforce. With the growing number of patients, it’s hard enough to keep track of where everyone is all the time, let alone try to figure out what everyone is doing. Patients have sex with their roommates at night, whether they’re gay or not, in the bathroom stalls, out on the smoking balcony in broad daylight. Sometimes right in the open in the hallways and group rooms. Tashawndra has lost privileges and been isolated because of sexual misconduct many times before, but Barry has never been her partner.

  “Nah. I know I’m not allowed to bang nobody while we doing treatment here.” She fiddles with the yellow string, and I believe her that they weren’t having sex. She seems to care about him, and she rarely has sex with people she cares about.

  “Good. I’m glad we’re making progress on that front. And you know you can’t throw anything at anyone, whether they’re looking at another girl or not, correct?”