Page 12 of Sight Unseen

I laid the clothes on my bed and grappled my way over to the bedside chest of drawers to find underwear. I heard a noise behind me as I bent down to pick up a pair.

“Nate? The takeout’s arrived. I’ve set it out on the dining table. Are you ready to eat?”

I nodded. “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll be there.”

There was a murmured “Okay” before I was left alone. At least I thought I was from the way the room went quiet. I pulled on my clothes, made my stumbling way to the dressing table and ran a brush through my damp hair. I normally styled it a little with hair product so it didn’t stand out all over the place. Now, I wasn’t sure whether it was worth the effort.

After carefully navigating to the smell of food and from the memory I had of the layout of my home, I managed to get to the open plan dining room and kitchen.

Jon took my arm. “I’ve put your food over here. I got you the Chicken Pad Thai.” He steered me toward a chair. “I took the liberty of getting you a fork and a spoon because I didn’t think you’d want the chopsticks. The utensils are on the right of the food.”

I’d once been adept at eating with chopsticks. Perhaps I’d get there again. I nodded, swallowing back the regret at not being able to use them now. The cutlery had been a thoughtful gesture, though.

“Thanks.” I sat down, feeling around in front of me for the containers, one rice and one chicken, and finding the spoon, I tucked in. Across from me, a chair pulled out and something rustled as Jon began eating.

The meal was nothing like we’d had before. This dining experience was fraught with unanswered questions and heavy silence. In the past, our conversations would have held more animation despite the growing strain in our relationship well before the accident.

“So what happens now?” I asked as I set down my spoon. Sticky grains of rice clung to the underside of my forearm. I’d knocked the spoon once or twice against my lips when I’d missed my mouth. “I mean, we’ve both got to adapt to this new way of living. I’m not really sure what happens next.” The words choked me but they had to be said. “Marty told me someone would be appointed to help teach me about living skills and coping with being blind.”

“Yes, they’ve already been in touch.” There was the shuffle of paper. “They dropped some stuff through the mail.” More shuffling. “They’ve appointed a vision rehabilitation specialist to come in once a week and make sure you’re coping, integrating back into society, that sort of thing. I have a brochure, hold on.”

The reality of my situation hit home when Jon read out loud. With each word he uttered, my heart sank and I had to fight the despair rising inside.

“Daily Living Skills. Independent Living Skills Training. Provides all rehabilitation services in client’s home and community. Personal management, Braille, handwriting, listening skills, typing, home management, and remedial education. In-Home Services include in-home rehabilitation teaching and orientation and mobility instruction.”

Jon hesitated. “There are also various support groups you can go to, and groups for me too, to talk to people in similar circumstances.”

We both fell silent. I didn’t intend going to any support groups and I was damned sure Jon wouldn’t either. I’d been lucky so far; my medical bills had mostly been covered by various insurances. I also had a healthy bank balance from my art sales, plus I owned the house outright. It had been purchased with the inheritance I’d gotten from my uncle.

That legacy had enabled me to get through college and make my own way in life. I’d forever be grateful to my Uncle Tim, even though I deeply regretted his untimely death.

I pushed away my food, no longer hungry. “So when does that start? This person coming in to help, tell me if I need a cane, or a dog, or to learn Braille so I can read?”

Apparently, there was a lot I could do to make my life easier. Canes, Braille, special gadgets—I knew I’d do anything to make sure I was independent. In my darkest moments, I’d thought about telling my lover he had carte blanche to leave me if he wished. I’d understand, even if it made me miserable. But would it?

I wanted to sculpt again. I wanted to do what I loved. There were people out there who could help me. But Jon didn’t think it was possible, and that bothered me more than a little bit.

Jon cleared his throat. “The woman said she’d come around Friday to meet you. Her name’s Suzanne. It’ll be a regular thing.” He huffed. “I don’t think you’ll need a dog, Nate.”

Jon wasn’t fond of dogs. They shed hair, crapped and peed all over the place, and in his book that was anathema to living his lifestyle.

Our home was beautifully decorated, and it was Jon’s pride and joy. Not mine so much. That would be my messy, dirty and chaos-driven studio at the bottom of the backyard.

It was a solid white-boarded structure with picture windows that brought the light in, and it was the place where I felt most at home.

The memory of the sunlight flooding in, shining on the art spotted around the place, made me feel ill. I’d never enjoy seeing it again, highlighting the things I’d created.

I pushed away those thoughts before they drove me crazy.

Jon’s chair scraped as he got up and moved over to me. “Are you finished with your food?”

I nodded. He came around, gathered my plate and, from the sound of it, the cartons, then he moved into the kitchen. The bin lid flipped and the sound of scraping followed. There was the plunk of water as Jon threw the cutlery into what must have already been a sink full of the liquid.

I marvelled that I heard all these sounds so clearly now. I’d heard Marty debating this with others in the hospital. He’d had the opinion that blind people didn’t suddenly develop superpowers of hearing, taste and sensation. He said they’d always been there for each one of us and when one sense was taken away, we learned to adapt by using the others to the fullest.

I rather liked that premise. It made more sense to me than taking on superhero status and becoming Daredevil.

I stood and pushed my chair in. No way was I coming back here and falling over it. Using the sound of the water in the sink, I got my bearings to turn and face my way into the family room. I walked toward it, giving myself a mental pat on the back for getting this far. Until I fell over something. A sharp object sheared into my shin and I yelped, reaching out a hand and finding nothing but air as I tripped and landed, winded, on my ass on the carpet.