by Hammond, T.
A motion-activated light turned on and drew my eyes to the raccoon shuffling across the fenced part of my backyard toward the man-made pond in my garden. Ha! Good luck with that. I moved the goldfish into the garage tubs last week in anticipation of the colder, winter weather. The raccoon—make that raccoons, I amended noting the addition of three juveniles in tow—were probably hoping for an easy breakfast. Predators were abundant in the form of 'coons, heron, and hawks so screens over ornamental ponds were necessary to discourage the more insistent wildlife from treating my water feature like a Vegas buffet.
For the winter, I left the small pond uncovered so wildlife could get to fresh water if needed. Sometimes portions of the river froze over and animals had a hard time getting to water without risk of falling through the irregular ice. Every winter there were stories about four-legged travelers, often moose, deer, and sometimes an unlucky dog, falling through the ice while crossing the lakes. Fortunately, some are saved, but it’s a huge risk to the people out on the ice throwing ropes or dodging antlers. Giving the critters a safe place to drink was rewarding, plus I had the added bonus of getting some great camera shots to post to my Facebook page.
Tugging the blanket tighter against my body, I stared out the window from my second-story perch. A faint smudge of light, barely discernible behind the silhouette of Mt. Spokane, let me know it would be dawn soon. I hated these crazy, restless nights when I woke up before the sun crested the mountains. In the distance, I could barely make out a flash of lightning from an incoming storm. Settling back against the tower of pillows, I closed my eyes, and strained to listen for the faint rumble of thunder.
The whirl of a coffee grinder startled me. I gasped and sat straight up, covers pooling at my waist, leaving my torso bare to the room’s chill. I was confused from waking up so abruptly. Still dark? I thought it was close to dawn. It took only a moment to remember my world is always dark now. A dream, I had been dreaming.
I was not in my window seat. I hadn't curled up there since I got back from the hospital over six months ago. Why bother if I can't look out over the view?
Deal with it, you whiner! Out of habit, I tapped the button on my bedside clock, which informed me in a very serious, mechanical voice it was Tuesday, July 8th, 6:42a.m. I flipped the covers back and swung my feet over the side of the bed, then slid my butt off the edge. Padding nude to the en-suite bathroom, I pulled a towel off the shelf. Time to start my morning.
After I brushed my hair and teeth, I braced my hands on the sink vanity, shifting my weight forward as if to view my close-up image in the mirror. After thirty years, it was easy to mentally picture my chocolate almond-shaped eyes, dark brown hair, and golden, blush-tinted skin. Each morning, I tried to semi-impose what I must look like now, with my scar-altered features. American Indian mixed with something vaguely Asian or Polynesian. Who knew? My adoptive parents didn’t have much information regarding my heritage. It was all guesswork. Janey seemed to think I looked “exotic” and beautiful. What does exotic mean anyway? I always thought I looked geeky and awkward. It didn’t really matter at this point.
Supposedly, the scarring wasn’t really bad, if you overlook the right eye. The familiar mantra, “I should never have looked back,” started to sneak its way into my brain. I firmly forced my mind to consider the projectiles from the tree could have struck my spine if I hadn't turned the angle of my body to glance over my shoulder.
There is a permanent slow motion reel running through my head. I stretch out that particular moment in time, less than three seconds in reality, into endless minutes of what-ifs.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda.
As it was, small daggers of wood damaged my eyes, and added some interesting scars to my face, while a larger branch had slammed into my shoulder, and knocked me senseless. Thankfully, Janey was far enough away to avoid being hurt, and she called emergency responders to the scene immediately. Janey has a good head on her shoulders and didn't panic. Her quick thinking saved my life.
I lay in the hospital recovering from the accident until shortly before Thanksgiving. At that point, I was transferred to a rehabilitation facility which helped me learn new skills for coping in a world without light or color. In the past few months, I’d noticed an increased awareness to scent and sound, but all things tactile were still beyond me. I didn't seem to have the sensitivity in my fingers to differentiate the little bumps and subtle nuances of braille. Stupid fingers!
Janey and I never mentioned the scars after the first time I asked her to give me an honest assessment of the damage. I waited until the third or fourth month to ask; by then the pain was a memory and the swelling finally gone. Tactile insensitivity aside, I could feel the fine, and not so fine, traceries of scar tissue. I suppose vanity demanded I hear someone tell me the facts so I could stop wondering. According to Janey, the damage was not as bad as it felt to me.
The loss of sight in both eyes was the most distressing aspect, but the scar slashing down over the right socket, from my eyebrow to the outer corner of my eye, took the longest to heal. The doctors thought I’d lose my eye, but somehow they managed to save it, so aesthetically my face was still whole.
There were five other facial scars; more like punctures really, which I'm told have healed to fine, almost invisible, lines. “Quit playing with them!” Janey scolded me all the time as my fingers were inexplicably drawn to the ridges and bumps.
The splinter that damaged my left eye completely missed the skin, embedding itself in the corner of my socket, to wreak its damage internally. My eyes look normal (if not a little freaky due to the big-ass scar bisecting the lid of the right one), and I'm told people can't necessarily tell I'm blind, as I’ve retained the habit of tracking sound with my eyes, and turns of the head, as though I can see.
There were other punctures to my shoulders and right arm from the large branch which knocked me out, but I don't think about them as much. Out of sight out of mind?
While doctors were busy debating how to save my right eye, Janey presented me with a selection of colorful, decorated eye patches she swears give me character, making me look dashing and mysterious. Of course, I think she's full of crap. She gifted me with twelve patches in all, taking time to describe each one in detail, and declaring which outfits they would match. Janey entertained me with outrageous stories, helping me hold onto the threads of sanity.
“Now this one,” she told me while placing a satin, embroidered patch in my hand, “is puke green. The same color as the sweater you like to wear all the time.”
“Hey! That's my favorite sweater! It is not puke green, it’s mint,” I corrected. “I get compliments every time I wear it.”
“Pity compliments,” she sighed, heavily. “It hurts my heart you can't tell when people are simply being kind,” she told me in exaggerated sympathy. In my mind, I could see her shaking her head and frowning at me in wonder. Did I mention Janey's favorite color is yellow? I mean really, who likes yellow? We have mercilessly teased each other about our favorite colors for over twenty-five years.
“Now this one,” she said, plucking away the demeaned green patch and replacing it with another, “is a lovely black and gold, which matches the swimsuit you bought last summer.”
I laughed, picturing myself in the gold, shimmery bikini etched in black lace, wearing a matching eye patch over the right lens of my sunglasses. “You're such a goof ball. And, where would you get a gold and black lace eye patch anyway?” I asked, running my fingers over the abrasive lace which would probably itch like heck if I wore it. “It’s really chartreuse isn't it? You're planning to get your secret kicks from parading me out in public dressed like a clown.”
“Mmm,” Janey feigned deep consideration, “while that idea does hold some appeal, I will be seen in public with you, and I’m not willing to sacrifice my personal dignity for a few laughs. You are safe from fashion ridicule.”
I appreciated Janey's pick-me-up assortment of patches, but luckily, subsequent good news fr
om the doctors meant they wouldn't take the eye. I could stick with my preferred sunglasses instead; I hadn’t been looking forward to all the scratchy lace.
The eye patches now adorn a cradle of teddy bears. Why? Janey and a couple of other (dubious) friends fashioned the child’s bed into a pirate ship and tore eye buttons off a dozen bears, replacing each eye hole with a patch from my collection. (Am I the only one who has noticed if you drop the 'R' your friends become fiends?) I now own a veritable booty of pirate bears.
With a sigh, I wrapped my long hair into a twist and shoved a pair of chopsticks into the bun. I pushed away from the mirror and felt my way to the dresser. Knowing the placement of everything in the room had yet to cure me of walking without feeling in front of myself, as if anticipating a huge ledge sprouted overnight. Grabbing a pair of panties from the top drawer, I stepped into them. I’d pulled out the next drawer, when my bedroom door opened. (See what I mean? I hadn’t closed my bedroom door, so if I’d left the room, I would have barreled right into the darn thing!)
“Eeeek, naked woman! I'm going to go blind!” screeched a dramatic falsetto voice.
“Oh, cut it out you moron,” I grinned toward the voice of my live-in assistant, Ken Weston. “If you go blind, it won't be from seeing my boobs.” My voice inferred other things would be the cause. “Are you the one who closed my door? What if I smashed into it?” I snatched up a bra, most likely the one I wore yesterday, and held it up, “Is this the beige one?”
“Yes it is, and if you spent more time studying your braille Ms. March you'd be able to tell the color by fingering the tag.” I had yet to understand why I suddenly became Ms. March, when HE was the one affecting a school teacher tone—it seemed kinda backward to me.
“As to your first and second questions, I was grinding beans and didn't want to wake you. I had hoped to rouse you gently with the aroma of freshly ground coffee. And, you wouldn't have smashed into the door because you insist on doing the zombie thing with your arms straight out whenever you're walking around the house. Furthermore, I was coming to open your door when I was visually assaulted.” Ken complained with an exaggeratedly, lispy cadence to his speech, which meant he was teasing. Ken was one of those gay guys you couldn't tell was gay unless he wanted you to know it. “Want me to grab you something from your closet?”
“Yeah, could you set out something which will go with jeans and the sage-green sunglasses?” Bra already tugged into place, I had finished fastening my jeans when Ken placed a soft cotton t-shirt in my hand. “The shirt is new. Argyle pattern in pastels and it has a nice sage splash right in the front. Damn, I'm good,” he said smugly, giving himself credit for matching the colors so well to my sunglass collection. His first job as my new assistant had been a shopping trip with my credit card and a minimum set of instructions. Janey was so jealous of his good taste and thrifty bargains she insisted he come shopping with her when it was time to update her wardrobe. Me? I was happy to leave the shopping to someone who enjoyed it. Shopping: Yuck!
My selection of sunglasses was on an orderly rack above the dresser. While I could usually tell which was which by a combination of shape and size, I was pretty good at keeping track of where each pair was on the hooks Ken added later.
Ken was my one extravagance. I had been hesitant to hire a male assistant due to the intimate nature of my needs. Actually, I had been hesitant to hire anyone, not understanding the benefit of having someone under foot while I tried to learn how to be independent again.
Ken had been up-front about his sexual orientation from the beginning. He hoped it would convince me that my 30-year-old female body wouldn't drive him into “uncontrollable lust” (direct quote). Ken's casual acceptance of my blindness, his wicked humor, and cheerful nature won me over in the first ten minutes of his interview. His thoughtful consideration cemented his place in my home a thousand times since then.
Ken’s complete lack of interest in me as a woman made it easier during the first couple times he'd inadvertently seen more than I was comfortable flashing. It was inevitable when two people shared a house, I suppose. I was so glad I took Janey's advice and gave him a try, although her opinion was suspect as she has referred to him, on more than one occasion, as “eye candy.”
Although he’s only twenty-four years old, Ken's a registered nurse. During his interview, he stressed his nursing experience in a rehab center and his familiarity with cranky, old, blind people (see above reference to humor). Janey tells me he's a good-looking blond, blue-eyed, surfer-dude type with a great smile and confident, direct gaze. She told me to imagine a sandy-haired Keanu Reeves, but with intelligence in his eyes. He's five or six inches taller than Janey, with a sculpted chest (her words), and a nice, tight rear. Is “fuck-a-licious” even a word? Anyway, Janey tells me it’s a loss for women everywhere that he's batting for the other team.
I was startled by a knock at the front door. Usually, I’d have heard a car drive up. “That will be Janey,” Ken informed me. “Come along old, decrepit one,” he snarked, placing my hand on his arm, tugging me insistently toward the stairs leading down to the living room.
I decided to ignore the snide comment—after all, he had been traumatized only moments ago. “I hadn't realized we were expecting company. Did you make enough coffee for all of us? I'm not giving up my portion!”
“Now you know why I was grinding extra beans. I know how crabby you get when you don't have least two mugs by breakfast. Last step,” Ken said absently, as we leveled out to the ground floor. I usually maneuvered the house by myself, but Ken knew when we talked and walked together, I didn't always concentrate on counting the number of paces, let alone stairs.
Ken detached my hand with casual practice, wrapping my fingers around the curved back of my dining room chair; the scent of coffee instantly had the silencing effect I'm sure he was hoping for. I pulled out my seat, as he answered the door, then cautiously swept my hand across the table to locate the mug my nose knew was waiting.
Janey's voice filtered in from the foyer as she called out a general hello to the room. I could hear her whisper with Ken, but I couldn't make out the distinct words. Ken made some mumbled reply as they both entered the dining area. The clock on the mantle announced seven o'clock with a tinkling wind chime tone telling me it was a.m. At noon, the chime would change to a deeper gong reverberation, alerting me it was p.m. I have no idea where Ken found the clock, but it was perfect.
“Hey, girlfriend.”
“Hey, back atcha,” I replied. “What's with all the furtive whispering? Ken told you he's getting his eyes checked because he saw a half-naked woman this morning?”
“There are some things that are simply impossible to bounce back from,” Ken said, gravely.
“She has no shame. Parading around bare-assed again, was she?” Janey's voice was equally serious. “Maybe it’s time we got her a man so she'll stop throwing herself at you.”
“Hey, you two. Sitting right here.” I waved my hands in front of me, not knowing or caring if they were even looking in my direction. I had my coffee. It is all about clear priorities. I took a sip and placed the mug carefully on the table. Finally, in my defense, I scoffed, “He walked in on me again, the pervert.”
“Well, I have a man for you anyway.” Janey stepped close enough to press something large against my chest; my hands came up automatically to grasp the large, furry, squirming bundle of puppy trying to climb my torso. “May I present Declan's Stormy Druid.”
“Oh-my-gosh! Dru! You kept him for me?” The pup lunged upward to lick my chin. “Geez, what are you feeding him? He weighs a ton!” I was laughing at his enthusiasm and trying to stay balanced on the edge of my seat. My right forearm, remembering priorities, slid along the table top gently nudging my precious coffee into a safer zone.
“He's a bit larger than average for an eight month old. I'd guess about fifty-five pounds or so, and still growing. He'll probably put on another thirty or thirty-five pounds before he's done. And, there was
never any question he would be yours. I've kept him at the kennel while we waited for you to be ready for him. He's even had some obedience schooling with a framed certificate.”
“So, you're telling me my dog with a pedigree has a PetDegree?” I teased, and Janey groaned at the bad pun. Cuddling the young dog I realized there was one scent which could rival coffee: puppy breath.
“I’ve spoken with a guide dog trainer friend of mine about getting him certified as a seeing-eye dog. Carley tells me there’s quite a bit of pre-training involved, about a year or more, just getting them socialized and familiar with traffic, enclosed spaces like elevators, and stuff like that.” I shook my head, as Janey yakked a mile a minute. I’ve never known anyone who can talk so fast, or so much, without gulping air. With barely a pause between thoughts, she continued, “I took Carley’s advice and we skipped the ‘heel’ command in obedience class, as he has to learn to pull a harness, not walk beside you. She says the normal guide dog training takes approximately four months, then dogs are matched to owners—so we’re kinda doing everything out of order. Of course, when you picked him he was supposed to be a pet, not a seeing-eye dog. I did get a service vest and guide dog training videos, so we can work with him. Carley says he listens amazingly well, and he’s been very adaptable when I’ve taken him places to familiarize him with new noises and locations.”
