Things Not Seen Page 7

  She says, “Hello?…” And it strikes me that she’s easily the prettiest girl who’s said hello to me in at least two years.

  So I try to sound normal—as normal as a naked guy can sound—and I say, “Hi, I’m…I’m sorry to barge in, but I saw you, and…and I wanted to say hi.” Her head tilts a little to one side, and her hair falls away from one cheek. “You don’t really know me, but I’m the guy—”

  She nods, smiling a little. “The guy who ran into me down by the entrance on Tuesday, right? I remember your voice. You made a strong first impression.” Bigger smile now. A sense of humor.

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that…and that I had to run off too, but I was late for something.”

  She shrugs, still smiling. “No big deal. I’m usually the one who bumps into things. It was a nice change.”

  I don’t know what else to say, and neither does she. The tape recorder is still talking, like a third person trying to keep the conversation alive. I notice her hands, long fingers, sensitive, never completely still. As if she can tell I’m looking at her hands, she stirs, feels around a little, pushes a button, and the voice stops.

  In the quiet I say, “The Scarlet Letter, right? We read that first semester. How do you like it?”

  She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Too slow for me. I like books with more action.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  And we’re stuck again. I’m starting to wish I hadn’t opened her door. “So, do you come and study here a lot?”

  She nods. “I’ve got this room reserved four times a week. I live pretty close. A couple hours here is better than being stranded at home all the time.”

  “So you don’t really go to school, like not every day?”

  “Like never. I take correspondence courses. Independent study.”

  “Through the U of C? So you can use the library and stuff?”

  She shakes her head again. “I’ve got an ID because my dad teaches here. I take courses from a special school up on the North Shore.”

  “Your dad teaches here? So does my mom.” Something safe to talk about. Lame, but safe. “She’s into English literature. What’s your dad teach?”

  “Astronomy mostly, and some math.” She does the nose wrinkle again. “He’s pretty much of a nerd.”

  So we could also talk about our dads, try to figure out which one is nerdier. Except before I stop to think, I hear myself asking, “How long have you been blind?” Right away her smile freezes and she gets this half-confused look on her face, and she starts to turn red. I can’t tell if she’s mad or embarrassed. So I try to back off. “I mean, like I’m not trying to get personal, but I just wondered…because I really don’t know anyone who’s blind, and I was just—”

  “Curious?” she says, and her right eyebrow lifts up. “You were curious about the little blind girl?” There’s an edge to her voice. Not angry exactly. More like sarcastic and a little amused, like she can tell I’m embarrassed now, so she’s messing with me. “It’s all right,” she says. “I can talk about it. I’ve only been blind for about two years.”

  “Was it an accident or something?”

  “An accident? An accident, you mean, like as opposed to maybe I made myself blind on purpose, maybe by poking myself with a sharp pencil? Or, like a pot of acid blew up in science class—that kind of accident? Is that what you mean?” Definitely sarcastic now.

  I put my hands up like I’m backing off. Which is stupid twice—first, because I’m invisible, and second, because even if I wasn’t, she’s blind. But I put my hands up anyway and say, “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t want to talk, I’ll just go away. Really. Didn’t mean to bother, didn’t mean to take you away from your wonderful novel.” Sarcasm is a lot more fun to give than receive.

  Then I say, “So long,” and I turn and open the door, and I’m gone, pulling the door shut with a thump. Because who needs this? And besides, my feet aren’t cold anymore.

  I’m about five steps away when her door opens behind me, and she says, “Hey…can you come back?”

  Six or seven students turn to look, some sitting at terminals and some studying at tables by the windows. They’re trying to figure out who the girl’s talking to. I walk back quickly, and when I’m close, I use a library whisper and I say, “Okay.”

  She turns and sits down at the table again. I shut the door and take a look at our audience of students. They don’t have time to worry about some girl who calls out to no one and then closes her door again. Midterms are coming. They go back to work.

  I’d like to sit down, but I’m not sure I want to plant my bare bottom on some public piece of university property. I solve the problem by pulling out a chair, folding my right leg onto it, and then sitting on my leg.

  When she hears me sit down, she aims a sheepish smile my way and says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No,” I say, “really, it’s my fault. I didn’t mean to be nosy. You don’t even know me. I shouldn’t have asked that. I…I’ve been on my own a lot for the last couple of days, so I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to talk to people. So when I thought that question, I just kind of said it right out loud. I mean, like, a week ago, I probably wouldn’t have even said hi. So you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

  There are so many different kinds of smiles. This one she smiles at me is a new one. It’s warm, but there’s tons of other stuff behind it. Like sadness. And loneliness. A lot of loneliness, I think.

  And she says, “What do you mean, about being on your own a lot?”

  I start carefully. “You know on Tuesday, like, a couple of hours after I ran into you at the library? My parents got in a car wreck, and they’re going to be okay, but they’re still in the hospital.”

  She’s got a great face, the kind where what she’s feeling is right there. And it’s okay to just keep staring at her, because she can’t see me—I mean, like even if I could be seen. But it’s not like watching that guy on the street, because this girl knows I’m here. She knows I exist. And she must know I’m looking at her face. It’s a face worth memorizing.

  Her eyebrows come together. “And you’re staying at home by yourself? Your parents said that was okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s sort of complicated, but that’s the way it’s been.”

  “So you just take a bus to school?”

  “I’ve been at home.”

  “Sick?”

  “Not really, just not ready to face school right now.” I’m ready to stop talking about me. “So, do you like the correspondence course thing? Sounds pretty nice, I mean, not going to school and all.”

  She gives this funny little snort. “The only reason it sounds good is because you’re not locked into it. I don’t have any choice.” She pauses, then decides to keep talking. “I called you back because no one ever asks me about being blind or how it happened or anything. Most people just try to avoid me, especially other kids. It’s like they pretend not to notice. So when you asked that, it was a surprise. And it doesn’t take much to get me feeling sorry for myself—it happens in a second. And then I get mad.”

  “And don’t forget sarcastic.”

  She grins and almost laughs. “Right. And sarcastic.”

  A beeping sound fills the small room, coming from the laptop. Then this demented-sounding voice says, “Three-fifty-five P.M.”

  She smiles. “That’s Albert. He lives in my computer. I’ve got to be out of here in five minutes.” She pauses again, thoughts running across her face. Then, “Are you going home soon? Because I’ve got to head home, but if you’re going to leave soon, we could walk a little. It’s a pretty nice day outside.”

  So I say, “Sure, let’s go.”

  In two minutes her laptop and tape player are packed away. She puts on her coat and backpack and picks up her long white cane.

  And we’re on the move.

  chapter 11

  CLOSE CALLS

  First comes the
elevator test. We get on at the third floor of the library with two other people, and then four more students with enormous backpacks pile in at the second floor. It could get very bad—people crushing my feet, shoving me into the walls, discovering the alien in their midst, screaming, freaking out.

  But none of that happens. Everyone jams onto the far side of the elevator, and no one says a word. And I can see it’s because this girl’s long white cane is like a magic wand. She holds it in front of her, almost vertical to take up less room, her fingers on it like it’s a long pencil, and it comes up almost to her nose. No one wants to bump into the blind girl. So her cane is why I pass the elevator test so easily. Plus, it’s a short ride to the first floor.

  We go past security, and there’s Walt. He sees the girl and says, “Hey, Alicia. How’s it goin’?”

  She smiles and says, “Fine. See you tomorrow.” We don’t slow down. And now I know her name. Alicia.

  I feel awkward. I don’t know if I should offer to guide her or what. She holds her cane out ahead of her, sweeping it back and forth like radar. When it touches the door, she stops.

  Softly, I say, “I’ll get that,” and she waits while I push it open, and then she’s off again, out and down the steps to the pavement.

  I know she must have traveled this route a lot of times, but the way she steps ahead is still pretty amazing. So I say, “You get around by yourself really well.”

  She gives me a thin smile and says, “Yeah, and if I work extra hard for another ten years or so, I’ll be able to go places about as easily as your average six-year-old on crutches. So that’s something to look forward to, right?” Then her smile warms up. “Oops. More sarcasm.”

  We’re facing the street in front of the library entrance. She stops and brings the cane straight up in front of her. She points west and says, “I live about four blocks that way. How about you?” And she smiles. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think she’d like to keep talking.

  I start carefully. “I live south and east of here…but I could take a little detour. Four blocks isn’t so far.” Which isn’t exactly true. It’s at least five degrees colder now, and the breeze has shifted. It’s coming in off the lake. I’m cold, but I have shifted back to Greek warrior mode. What’s a little discomfort to one such as I?

  She says, “That’s great,” then she puts out her right hand toward me. “Here, let me hold on to your elbow. That way we can walk closer to your speed instead of mine. You can be my eyes for a few blocks, okay?”

  Okay? No. It’s not okay. You see, I’ve got no clothes on, and you’re a girl who wants to hold my arm and go for a stroll along Fifty-seventh Street.

  But I can’t say that. If I say “No, thanks,” then it’ll be like I think she’s a leper or something, and it’ll hurt her feelings—which seems easy to do.

  So I take half a step closer, and I stick out my elbow and bring it to her hand, which is not so easy when you can’t see your own arm. She takes hold lightly, and we start walking west. I have to shorten my stride because I’m taller.

  I’d like to just walk along and talk with her, but there are other people on the sidewalks, too much else to deal with. But when we get away from the library, there are fewer people, and there’s also traffic noise, so I’m not afraid to talk. Plus, she’s right about people avoiding her. No one walks near her, no one even looks at her for more than a second.

  “So I heard Walt call you Alicia back there. Nice name.”

  She says, “Thanks. What’s yours?”

  “Bobby. Bobby Phillips.”

  I stink at small talk. We walk along, just walking, and that’s fine because a guy and a girl come up right behind us, and then they split and go past on either side of us when we’re almost to Ellis Avenue. The guy is on my side, and I’m ready to dodge him if he starts to plow into my space, but he sees Alicia’s white cane and makes a wide arc to my right. Saved again by the magic wand.

  Then I say, “So, if you’re doing this walk alone, you’re listening to the traffic, right? To tell when the lights have changed?”

  She nods. “Yeah, and the sounds let me know how close I’m getting to the corner too. That helps if you have to be ready for a step down. But I know this route really well, and all the curbs have wheelchair cuts. Those are good for me too.”

  And then we’re at the corner, and the light has changed, and we’re halfway across the street.

  Then, trouble.

  Whipping up the opposite sidewalk from behind the parked cars, it’s a boy, and he’s kicking along on a little silver scooter. He’s about twelve, and he’s got some control problems with the thing, and he’s got his head down and he can’t see us because his helmet has a visor. And he’s really moving.

  I shout, “Hey!” and he looks up, but he’s not stopping, so I grab Alicia’s arm and pull her to the right just in time to keep her from getting nailed. And as I pull her out of the way, she lets go of my elbow and puts her hand out to catch herself.

  The kid shouts “‘Hey’ yourself, lady!” and flips us the bird as he zooms off along the sidewalk.

  So we make it to the other curb, and we’re not dead, and nobody’s too near, so I say, “Close call…sorry about that. Some kid on a scooter. You all right?”

  And I look at her face, and she’s not all right, not at all. There’s a look on her face, a little scared, partly confused, partly something else. Like disgusted. And I know why. Because when I yanked her off balance and she put her hand out, her open hand went right up against my rib cage, almost into my left armpit. And she knows what bare skin feels like.

  “You don’t have a shirt on?” It’s not a question. She takes a half step back and says, “I mean, I thought it was weird when I took your elbow and you didn’t have long sleeves or a jacket, but I just figured you were wearing a T-shirt or something because it was so warm earlier. But, like…like, even back in the library? How can you not have a shirt on in the library? And out here? It’s cold now! It’s February!”

  And I can’t deal with this. Not now. I can’t stand here on the street corner and tell her that as weird as she thinks it is, it’s actually ten times stranger than that, a hundred times stranger.

  “What’s going on? Talk to me. Are you there?”

  I gulp. “Yeah. I’m here. But look, can I try to explain this later? Like, could I call you at home? It’s not what you think.”

  Her face becomes fierce, a mask, almost primitive. “It’s not what I think? So now you know what I think, is that it? Believe me, you don’t. Because right now I think that for the last half hour I’ve been hanging out with some strange guy with no shirt on who’s probably covered with tattoos, and I bet you have some piercings and some terrific body jewelry, right? So just get away from me, Bobby Phillips—if that’s even your real name. You’re not the first creep to try to pick up a cute little blind girl, and I’m not stupid. I know exactly where I am. This is my neighborhood, and I am walking home now. Alone. And if you come near me, like if I even think you’re near me, I’ll scream. And every shop owner and everybody who lives along this street knows who I am, and they’ll be out here to bust you in a second. So go! Now! Go, and let me hear you yell good-bye from the other side of the avenue. Now!”

  I don’t say anything because a lady is walking past us, frightened of this blind girl who seems to be yelling at no one. If I were even a little bit guilty of anything, I’d just walk away. If I hadn’t told her my name, and that my mom works for the university, if she had no way to trace me, I’d just walk away. Which would be the smart thing to do. Even now. But now I’m mad too, because she has no right to yell at me. I haven’t done anything wrong, I haven’t lied to her. And I’m not going to. I’m not a creep, and I won’t let her think that about me for the rest of her life.

  So I say, “Go ahead. Go ahead and scream. Scream all you want. I’ll stand right over here. About ten feet away. And when you’re done screaming and everyone comes to help you, and they come and try to haul m
e away, and they can’t even find me—right on this corner—then maybe I’ll tell you what’s really going on. Because you don’t have a clue, not a clue. No one does. So go ahead and scream. Let’s see what happens.”

  That face of hers. It’s running through about ten emotions a second. But there’s one emotion taking charge. It’s the fear. Like me on that first night at home. Alicia’s alone in the dark, and she’s afraid. And it just keeps building. She sucks in this huge breath, and I think she’s really going to do it, just scream bloody murder. But she holds the breath for five seconds, ten seconds. Then she lets it hiss out slowly.

  Her voice is hard and flat. “So tell me. Tell me the truth. Tell me the big secret. Tell me how come you’re not some shirtless creep.” She’s gripping her white cane with both hands, ready to use it like a samurai sword.

  “Simple. Because I’m not just shirtless. I’m also pantsless and boxerless and sockless and shoeless. I’m not wearing any clothes at all. You wanted the truth, and I swear to God that’s what I’m telling you. And if I’m telling you the truth—that I’m naked—then how come there’s not a huge crowd standing around us right this minute? How come?”

  She’s really confused now, and even more afraid. So I say, “One possible reason a completely naked person is not drawing a crowd would be that everyone is as blind as you are. And the only other reason isn’t even possible: That would be that no one can see me. So which do you think it is, Alicia? Is everyone around us blind, or am I…invisible?”

  It’s like I’ve just slapped her across the mouth. She comes to a full stop. Then furious, she hisses, “Very funny. Oh, look, look,” she says, her voice dripping bitterness. She jerks her hand up and holds it in front of her face and acts like she’s opening her eyes extra wide. “Well, well, well—I’m invisible too.” Ice and granite and stainless steel. “Why don’t you just take your sick humor and go away…Bobby.” She practically spits the name into my face.