“Why? Because I’m visually impaired?” She stares at me, aware of where my eyes are if nothing else.
“No, I mean… You didn’t say. I just thought—”
She waves a hand to stop me. “It’s a common misconception, that the blind walk around in the dark. Only a very small percentage of the visually impaired experience total blindness. I can see most color and light, a general impression of form. It gives me a sense of things. The details I have to discover another way or conjure with my imagination. But I wasn’t always like this, you know. Once, I had perfect vision. The things I remember, they inform my work a lot.”
“Oh.” I cup the mug, mulling over an appropriate way to respond.
“You want to know what happened,” she says, sipping her tea. “How I became legally blind?”
“Uhh—”
She smiles, pleased with herself. “It’s okay. Most people want to know but are afraid to ask. I wish I could tell you, but it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to my doctors.Conversion disorderthey call it now, but they used to refer to it ashysterical blindness.It’s trauma induced, but not from physical trauma. My trauma was psychological.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, unsure how to react.
“Don’t be,” she says. “I’m not. Happened a long time ago. They kept thinking my vision would come back. I tried a number of therapies—group, occupational, cognitive behavioral, hypnosis—but… well, at this age, no one’s counting on it. I can’t imagine life any other way now. It’s made me the person, theartist, I am today. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”
“You must be an inspiration to so many,” I tell her.
She laughs. “Mostly I just make people uncomfortable,” she says. “But that’s probably a lot more to do with my manner than my sight. Fortunately, it’s never stopped anyone from buying my work. So, you’re here for another painting?”
“Not exactly,” I respond. “I wanted to know more about this piece.”
She seems intrigued. “I’m not sure anyone’s ever turned up at my door before to ask about a painting they already bought. But Thalassa is special.”
“Why did you paint it?” I ask her.
She cocks her head to the side and stares at me. “Why?Why does an artist do anything, Miss…”
“Cole,” I tell her before I can think better of it. It’s the second time I’ve given a piece of my real name recently, as though I am flirting with a homecoming. But it won’t matter here.
“Miss Cole, an artist is either inspired or driven or mad. There can be no other reason.” She sets her mug down and takes a seat at her dining table, pulling out a pack of papers from her pocket and a bag of marijuana from a nearby ceramic vase. She begins casually rolling a joint in front of me, her fingers deftly working the materials.
“And which are you?” I ask as I sit down across from her. “Inspired or driven or mad?”
She grins. “All three.” Then she licks the paper and seals the joint, produces a lighter from God knows where and takes a hit.
I won’t argue with her own assessment of herself. “But can you tell me whyher?”
She coughs out a plume of smoke. “Who? Thalassa?”
I flinch at the name. “Yes. That.”
“Why not?” She eyes me curiously.
“Because she flooded my condo,” I say flatly.
At that, Anneli starts laughing and it takes a long time for her to stop.
“You believe me?” I ask after she gives one last chuckle.
“Of course,” she says, offering me the joint. I shake my head. “People have a bad habit of bringing things into their home without thinking, Miss Cole. But there is energy attached to everything. Especially to art. Especially to idols.”
I peer at her. Is she saying it’smyfault? “I don’t understand.”
“It’s like this,” she tells me. “Someone gets a big white dog at the pound, and they name him Loki. Then they come home a week later and whine because he’s eaten the couch.”
“Again, I don’t follow.”
