Family Secrets
A Maggie and Della Mystery
by Margaret Daniels
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to:
Rose Milholland
Dan Huhn
Who see with their hearts
And light the world around them
Thank you making me a writer again
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Author’s Note
Retinitis Pigmentosa (RP) is an inherited disease that attacks and destroys the cells of the retina, the part of the eye responsible for processing light and color. The disease is usually characterized by a gradual loss of peripheral vision, night and color blindness and what is generally referred to as “tunnel vision,” as the remaining field of vision becomes smaller and smaller. In some cases RP can lead to total blindness. In other cases some small amount of sight is retained. At present there is no cure.
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Prologue
May, 2007
In my dream I am hiding from a monster. I sit under a tent of bed covers and there are other children there. We sit in a small circle, protecting each other and playing a game of some kind. The monster is in the room. It seeks to find our hiding place. Occasionally I peek out from beneath the covers, terrified but unable to stop myself. The monster is horned and hideous with a deformed mouth and huge, gaping eyes. It is too horrible to look at for very long. Underneath the covers we feel safe and sit in a circle playing our silent game. Our shoulders touch, as if to give each other comfort. I peek out again. This time the monster is closer, nearly over the bed. I quickly return to the safety of the covers and the other children. I play with them for a moment. Then I feel a strange sensation behind me, like something opening, only I don’t know what. I turn to see a twisted mouth and huge, ringed eyes staring down. The monster has found me. He is there so suddenly I can barely catch my breath to scream.
Chapter 1
I opened my eyes, heart pounding. I had dreamed again and the monster was coming closer. Now he was standing over me. Two nights before he was a distant figure, pacing the far end of the room. I lay in the dark stillness for a moment, breathing in and out. Wan moonlight filtered in around window shades. My husband was still sleeping, his body a shapeless lump beneath the covers. I gave myself another moment to calm down, then sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. I blinked and vague shapes came into focus in the dark: drapes against shades, a clothes hamper, my dresser. A clock radio was a bright, red beacon of light in a colorless room. It was almost dawn.
Alex grunted and then slowly rolled over. In the dark I could see white strands streaking his beard. “Mmmmm,” he muttered in a voice that was deep with sleep. “You’re up early.” He propped his head up on one hand, looking at me. “Hot flash?”
I shook my head. “I had that dream again.”
“The monster dream?”
“Yep.”
Alex propped himself up in bed and looked over at the clock. “Almost time for me to get up,” he mused, then flung his covers off and walked to the window. “Mind?” he asked.
“Nope. I wouldn’t mind at this point.”
Alex pulled open the shade. Soft morning light gave form to my bedroom. He looked back at me and smiled through a carefully trimmed, graying beard. I folded my legs up and wrapped my arms around them, stretching my back. Alex’s smile faded slightly and he walked over to me, then sat down at my edge of the bed. “Did something happen recently?” he asked. “Did something frighten or upset you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea. I had that dream when I was a kid. Very vivid. I haven’t had it since. But now it’s back.”
“Well, that’s weird.”
“It’ll probably go away on its own.” I shrugged it off. and slipped out of bed. “Okay, Dr. Herman. I’ve got a living to earn and so do you.”
Alex still looked concerned. “You sure you’re going to be okay? Why don’t you talk to Alice about it? She might have some ideas.”
Alice DeChamps was an old friend of mine, a social worker and therapist. She and I had met at Harvard. I was the lowly research assistant and she the lowly graduate student. We hit if off immediately and had stayed in touch ever sense. I waved Alex away. “I’ll be fine. Probably something I watched on TV.”
He kissed me before heading off to get dressed. I walked over to the window and looked out. There was a van parked in the driveway of the white house across the street. A slender man with dark blonde hair was moving boxes from it to the front door. He reached into his pocket for a key, then opened the door and slipped inside.
I shook my head in puzzlement. It had to be something I’d seen on television. I didn’t watch that much. Maybe something had gotten through – some gangster getting shot after a chase, perhaps, or a monster movie I’d half seen before going to bed.
I returned to bed and lay there until I smelled coffee, then came downstairs and poured myself a cup. Alex sat across from me, scanning a newspaper and listening to the radio. He was a news junkie. He looked up and smiled. “Well, good morning, Maggie Szczep.” He pronounced it ‘shep.’ Everyone did. “You’re quite the early bird today. You having breakfast?”
I nodded, still hung over with sleep. In the background I heard a van door being slammed shut. A moment later an engine started up. Alex opened the fridge and pulled out eggs, onions, green peppers and a block of cheese. I fished in a nearby drawer for bread. Whatever the problem, food solved it. Until the last two weeks I dreamt of recipes, not monsters. Alex whipped eggs to a lemony froth. I sautéed vegetables and grated sharp, imported cheddar. He poured the whipped eggs into the pan, then scattered the cheese over it. I popped slices of bread into the toaster and refilled my coffee cup.
“This’ll help,” Alex said. He held a wooden spoon and quickly whipped eggs into soft curds before parceling them out onto two plates. I took out the toasted bread and quickly spread butter over it, watching as it melted into each slice. Yes, this would help.
We ate in companionable silence, until Alex got up to leave. He hugged and kissed me again before heading for the door. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Keep the TV off for a while. It’s bad enough with the hot flashes keeping you up all night, and now this.”
I smiled. “What, little middle-aged me?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. One minute you’re sleeping in my arms, the next minute you’re the towering inferno. Now you’re jumping up and down with nightmares. Cripes. I’m moving upstairs to the guest room. I’ll be banished but cool and well rested.”
I gave him a look. “I’m a hot babe these days. It happened the minute I turned 50.”
He gave me another look back. “Keep that up and my charred body will be on the next forensics show. Then you can watch me on TV and have nightmares to your heart’s content.”
I playfully punched his arm and started laughing. The things we female 50-somethings went through with our sweating and swinging moods. It was a wonder I was still married. All I needed to put up with was graying hair and a bald spot. Well, okay, snoring too. In return Alex got the Wicked Witch of the West, complete with facial hair. Now we were adding nightmares. I sighed as Alex headed to the door. “You going to your office today?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I have a potential client to meet.”
Alex bent over to re-tie a shoelace. “Well, say hi to Della for me.”
I suddenly felt very wicked. Perhaps it was the coffee, or just temptation staring me too straight in the face. I bent slightly forward and pinched his butt. Alex tensed and straightened, then turned around and stared at me in astonishment. “Wha…” he stuttered and turned red.
I smiled innocently, hands behind my back. “Della wanted me to let you know she says hi too.”
Alex turned around and backed away, carefully. He pointed a finger at my nose. “She’s going to get herself arrested one of these days,” he continued. “She’s got some kind of radar, the way she hones in on my ass.” Della had one busy pair of hands, particularly when it came to men. After their first encounter Alex made sure he backed away from her, too. “I can’t believe you actually bring in lunch for her everyday.”
“Well, she gets hungry. Don’t you? Besides, she doesn’t pinch my ass.”
“You’re the wrong gender. I’m not going anywhere near your office until she leaves for the day. Good bye, Ms. Szczep. Have a fine day with Ms. Peterson.” He pecked my cheek and continued backing through the door, then locked it behind him.
I smiled and walked back to the kitchen, then poured myself another cup of Alex’s robust coffee. I cleaned the dishes, then took a large pot from the fridge. I grabbed two containers and ladled rich lamb stew into each one. I sliced some crusty bread and added it to my preparations. What else? I thought for a moment, then reached for a container of black olives in an herbed, salty brine. Lunch for two. I put everything back into the fridge, then walked back to the front room. My laptop computer was on a nearby table. I flipped it open and checked for email before heading to my office.
A box popped up with a text message. It was Della, right on schedule. “And what are we having for lunch today?” It was our usual morning topic.
“Lamb,” I wrote back. “A nice loaf of French bread and some olives.”
“Are you going gourmet on me again?”
“Why not? Aren’t you tired of burgers and diet Coke?”
“No.”
“All that cholesterol? All those chemicals?”
“Mmmmmmmm.” There was a pause for a moment. I waited. She finally sent another message. “And what are we having for dessert?”
Dessert? “I’ll cut up some fruit and bring it along.”
“Fruit!?” I could almost hear her indignation. “For dessert? What’s wrong with chocolate cake? Don’t you like chocolate cake? How about some cookies? A brownie?”
“All I have is fruit.” In any event, it was all I was bringing in.
“Can you at least bring in more diet Coke?”
“Sure,” I wrote back, conceding on this one point.
“And some more cheese curls? I’m fresh out.”
“No!” I drew the line at diet Coke. Cheese curls were not food.
“Dang.”
“I’ll be there in about an hour,” I finished. “See you then.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Got to go. The computer guy is here for my upgrade. “
I wrote quickly: “Della, you keep your hands off of him!”
“You’re no fun. Well, I’ll just have to console myself with lamb and French bread. And diet Coke. But no cheese curls. Chocolate cake?”
“Alright, alright. I’ll bring chocolate cake.” She was making me hungry.
“Are you sure no cheese curls? How about one bag?”
“No cheese curls!” It was a test of wills and we both knew it.
She finally gave in. “Okay *sniff* no cheese curls.” It was amazing what she could do without a single smiley face or frowning man. “And I’ll stay away from the computer guy.”
“Good. See you later,” I wrote, then closed the connection. I checked messages, then heard the van drive in across the street once again. It was my new neighbor. No doubt he was carrying over small loads prior to the big move. I walked outside to say hello. He stopped and waved. “Howdy, Cal,” I called out. “How’s the move going?”
“Almost done,” he replied. Cal’s thin face was lined and on the craggy side. “A few more boxes and then the moving van can take the rest.” He had a number of flat parcels under his arm. He smiled and wished me a good day before heading into the house.
I went back inside to collect my lunch and pack up my computer. I worked as a freelance internet researcher and manager in a small office not far from Harvard. Most of my clients were Harvard types, met in the 15 years I’d been employed there. I suppose I was well suited to that type of work. My mother had been an office worker, too. She initiated “Bring Your Daughter To Work Day” long before the idea became popular. I remember coming into work with her on the weekends, helping her with this and that. I put paper clips away, arranged her drawers, organized her files and even make photocopies. Each copy came out on shiny, thick paper that curled as it was cut off a roll. I carried them back to my mother like magic scrolls from the court of King Arthur himself. My mom did the grown-up stuff: making phone calls, typing reports and deciding which tasks to give to me. When we were done, mom took me downstairs to the cafeteria for lunch. I usually had a grilled cheese sandwich with a glass of milk. I sat at the counter, swinging my feet and feeling like an adult. I’ve always been proud of my mother. She was so cool.
I never thought I’d be in office worker myself, though. I was going to be a writer, or a translator, or a doctor, or anything else except a secretary. Mom had been a secretary, but not forever. She took one look at the men in her office and decided she wanted to be with them. She wanted to have a secretary, not to be one. It was an uphill battle in those days, before the women’s movement. Mom did everything right, passed all the tests and certifications. Then she went to her boss and said “put me out there with the men.” He refused. Women didn’t do that kind of work. So, she left. By the time she retired, she was an Executive Vice President. So much for women’s work.
Now it was onto my work. I headed out to my car for the ride into Cambridge. I was going to be meeting with a potential new client, a Harvard professor who needed more assistance than a graduate student could give him. If I were lucky he’d be hiring me, albeit on his own dime.
I pulled into my parking space, in front of a large Victorian house that had been converted to offices. Mine was on the second floor. I walked up the carpeted steps, listening for Della. There was no sound coming from my office. I walked in and put lunch into the small fridge there. Della must have stepped out for a moment. I put my computer on my desk and looked around. No one was there. I always heard Della before I saw her, singing or joking in her low, strong voice. I opened the computer, turned it on and got ready to work
“Oh, damn!” Della’s head popped up from behind a computer desk in the adjoining office. She glared ahead of her and looked absolutely furious. “Della?” I asked.
She turned her head. “Is that you, Maggie?” she asked. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She stood up, an attractive and slender woman with thick glasses around a chain on her neck. She wore a forest-green sundress with dark blue accents that showed plenty of cleavage. That was Della for you. Sturdy Italian-leather sandals enclosed her feet. Most striking, though, was her white hair. It wasn’t silver. It wasn’t gray. It was white - as white as bleached cotton. It framed her face, Peter Pan style. Everyone who knew her thought it was gorgeous - everyone except Della, that is. She hated it, as much as I hated secretarial work. She said it made her feel old. “Try it on you,” she told everybody. I just shook my head, smiled, and said I liked it.
“Those idiots,” Della hissed, in an accent that still carried traces of her native Baltimore. “They did something to my computer. I can’t make out anything on the screen.”
I walked a bit further into her office. Della moved toward me, a cautious hand feeling the edges of her desk as she walked. “Let me have a look,” I said and held out my arm. Della found it and I guided her towards me. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, as if to clear away sand. Della kept her hand on my shoulder as I turned back to her computer. Yes, there were some problems: Della’s typical screen magnification was big enough to give me headaches. Now it was back to normal, looking tiny to my unaccustomed eyes. I wondered what else the technician had done. I went online and noticed that the web browser looked different: a bit blurry and with poorly contrasting colors. Della would never be able to see that. “This tech guy, he was from another blind software company?” I asked.
“Scroll View,” she replied, shaking her head.
I remembered them. They charged a fortune for bad software, then told everyone they were constantly improving a great product. It amazed me that they were still in business. I was an entrepreneur of sorts and liked to think I knew a thing or two about that. I pondered the situation. “Well, let’s see if we can get things back to normal and then go from there.” I was good with computers: I had to be. I didn’t have the money to pay someone else and, besides, they’d screw it up anyway.
Della was not mollified. “They better send a woman next time,” she raged. “I’ll send any guy home without his balls. Those sons of bitches, those…” She went into high gear, cursing a blue streak. As she stormed I removed new programs, set things back to normal and then began to re-install the new software.
“Hey, Della.” I interrupted the retributive actions she was loudly contemplating against the Scroll-View Company. By now she had every male technician there hanging upside down by certain, soon-to-be-removed, body parts. Della did have a wonderful way with words, especially when it came to computers and the men who fixed them.
She stopped. “Now, Maggie, I was just getting warmed up!” She laughed. “So, you fixed it?”
“I think so.” I started the computer and launched the Scroll-View program. It was a magnifier and screen reader, perfect for folks at Della’s stage of vision loss. The technician had installed it, then neglected to do anything else. He probably expected the typical user to figure it out. Very clever, those fellows. I stood up. “Take a seat and try it out now.”
Della’s hand found the chair. I stood nearby as she sat, making sure she got there safely. She put on glasses and peered closely at the enlarged screen. “Oooh, better,” she cooed. “I still think I’m going to cross them off the list, though.” Della tested adaptive software, playing the part of a typical user. She didn’t know anything about computers, but that was the point. If Della could figure it out, anybody could. Software companies either loved or hated her, depending on what she said about them. A bad review could get a company blacklisted for years, and for good reason. “This is the second time they’ve done this with their supposed upgrades. Let’s see if the reader works.” She listened as the computer talked through a series of desktop commands. She toggled on the reader. Moments later a mechanical voice began to recite her email. She stopped it, then began to type. The voice dutifully recited back each word. That’s how she’d sent text messages to me that morning, not using Scroll View, of course. I had a feeling that company was in for some bad days ahead.
I returned to my office. Della was smiling and tapping away at her keyboard. A set of earphones silenced the computer’s voice. Even though the two of us were relatively new neighbors, I felt as if I’d known Della for years. We’d met through an ad I’d placed six months before, to sublet my spacious and very expensive suite of offices. I didn’t know she was blind until I heard the tapping of a cane and saw dark glasses as she walked inside my door. She removed the glasses and looked at me with a pair of perfectly normal-looking eyes. “I’m Della Peterson,” she said briskly, “And I’m taking your office. Where’s the fridge?” Before I could pick my jaw off the ground she continued, “What, cat got your tongue?” She stuck out her hand, somewhat in my direction. “Yeah, and I’m blind as a bat. No, I’m blinder than a bat. I can’t see a thing at night. Don’t let the eyes fool ya.”
I finally took her hand and shook it, stuttering, “uh, I’m…”
“…really short, that’s what you are,” she finished. “If your hand was any lower I’d have to bend over to shake it. And how the hell do you pronounce your last name? I tried for hours. Anyway, glad to meet you. I’ve got a rent check.” She dropped an envelope onto my desk. “Oooh, hope I got that right and it’s not on the floor somewhere. Now, walk me to my office please.” She held out her arm and, stunned, I took it and walked her over. And there she’d stayed, my office mate – and my buddy – to this day.
I turned back to my computer. Della said she had something new going on this morning. The phone rang in her office as a new message popped up in my email inbox. An apologetic Harvard Business School professor begged to reschedule. I did so and now had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. Ah, the busy life of an entrepreneur. From the other room I heard a surprised shout of laughter, even through the closed door. “Tom!” Della roared. “You old son of a…oops. Sorry, Maggie!” Their conversation grew quiet.
I stood up for a moment, facing the window and staring at a tree in full, leafy bloom. It was an old Cambridge tree, looking as stately as the Georgian buildings in Harvard Yard. There were times when I missed Harvard. I looked out at the tree, its leaves rustling in a soft breeze. At the tree’s base was a small ornamental fence with flowers planted inside: yellow against blue, streaks of red, white and pink, strong purple hues against soft lavender, green stems. A red, bricked sidewalk stretched from the head to the foot of the street. The building was quiet, with only an occasional passing car outside to disrupt the stillness. In the background I heard the faint hum of a mower. Alex would be at the hospital by now, checking out the lab and settling in for the day. He drew a Harvard paycheck. I no longer did. I sat back down. Alex looked out of his window and saw concrete and unending traffic. I saw trees. I wondered how much longer I’d be able to afford the view.
“Maggie!” I turned away from the window. Della stood at the doorway to my office, an excited look on her face.
“Need something?” I asked.
“Your body!” Della walked towards my chair. I shot up like a rocket , arms at the ready. “Actually, all I need are your eyes. Did I ever tell you about a guy named Tom Moran, at the Allen Franklin Art Museum downtown? He and I worked together for years.” Della had been a painter and sculptor in the years before Retinitis Pigmentosa ended that career. I didn’t know she’d kept in touch with anyone from those days.
Della found the back of the chair without my help and continued. “Tom’s the head of exhibits at the museum now. They’re working on a new exhibit. You interested in helping out?” She sat without mishap and rubbed a thumb and forefinger. “There’s money.”
I had to love that woman. She brought in more jobs for me than I did. “A job at a museum? Some kind of research?”
“Nope. Tom said one part of the exhibit is almost ready but he needs some sighted guinea pigs. ” She smiled. “I figured those blinkers of yours would be just the thing.” Della’s grin was spreading from ear to ear. It made me wonder if there was something else up her sleeve.
“So,” I asked. “What is this exhibit?”
“I just know about one part,” she said. “For people who are blind and people who are sighted. That’s why Tom wanted to talk to me and that’s where you come in. You sighted folks get to learn about how blind folks interpret color and feel things rather than see them. The museum staff’s too involved in the project to test it. They’ve lost their objectivity. They also need someone who’s genuinely blind to make sure it’s an accurate representation. You in?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” I wasn’t exactly swimming in new projects and Alex wouldn’t be getting home tonight until fairly late.
Della returned to her office and emerged with a folded white cane. I locked the door to the office as she flipped it open. We started down the stairs. Della walked ahead of me, left hand holding the bannister and the right holding the cane above the tread of the stairway. When we reached the street she placed a hand on my shoulder. She held her cane out with her other hand as we walked, occasionally tapping the sidewalk. I let her set the pace. She had me well trained. All I needed was a biscuit and a pet on the head.
We reached the car and I helped Della get in. I vaguely knew the Allen Franklin, one of Boston’s grand old art museums. These days it was in a modern building, all glass, chrome and low, recessed lighting. Alex and I occasionally visited, although neither one of us had been there recently. I remembered tall ceilings and corridors that wandered off in every direction. Della had helped design exhibits there, up until about 10 years ago. I wondered if she missed that.
As we approached the museum, Della pulled a handicapped sticker from her purse and waved it. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.” She knew where my rear view mirror was and, after a moment’s seeking, hooked it on with the correct side facing out. Sometimes I almost forgot that she was blind. I had to give her credit. If it were me I’d be on the floor crying everytime I opened my eyes and saw so little.
I walked with Della through the glass-panelled entrance and up to the security desk. He called for Tom, who emerged a moment later from a nearby office. He was the biggest guy I’d ever seen in my life, with black curls that flew off in every direction. “Della!” he roared, laugh lines wrinkling near his mouth and eyes. He scooped her in his arms like a doll and spun her around. They laughed and hugged. Then he turned to me. “You must be Maggie,” he said, sticking out an enormous hand. I took his hand and he almost shook it off. “Glad to meet you!” he said. “Any friend of Della’s is a friend of mine.”
Della gave him a coy look. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls!” she intoned.
Tom’s eyes widened, then he smiled. “Oh honey, I don’t give any girl that look. I’m a married man.”
Della’s mouth dropped in surprised. “No kidding!” she exclaimed. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
I stopped in surprise. Oh, I got it.
“You remember Brian Vaughan?” Tom and Della seemed to forget I was there. “We tied the knot last year.”
Della had a firm grip on Tom as he led her further into the building. I tagged behind, listening. “Brian Vaughan?” she asked. “Oh, right! I remember.” Della waved her cane theatrically. “And here I thought I had a chance. Big guy, correspondingly big parts. Oh, my heart is broken. Why couldn’t I have been the first to take your virginity?” Tom was squeezing Della’s hand and responded with a comment that had me blushing from head to toe. Della turned her head back in my direction and waved a hand back and forth in front of her face. She had that right.
We came to another door. Tom stopped there, reached into his pocket for a swipe card and led us through. An exhibit was in the final stages of construction. Harried looking staff members moved tables and arranged objects around them. I looked up at a banner that read: “Perceptions: A World of the Senses.” So, vision. One of the senses and a way of perceiving the world. Okay, that made sense.
Tom led us to a long table and looked down at me, his sighted guinea pig. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s where you come in. You use your eyes to view the world.”
“No doubt,” I replied. I wondered how Della felt about that. I looked around but she was grinning ear to ear and nodding her head. She looked like she was ready to laugh.
“So,” Tom continued. “Let’s take that away.” He picked up a blindfold. “May I?”
I was suddenly afraid of what he’d do. “What’s that for?” I asked, cautious now.
“Don’t worry,” he reassured me. “It’s just a little test. This exhibit is called ‘Feeling Color.’ Imagine you’re a blind person who’s never seen color. You get curious and ask someone. How would they answer you? How could their answers make sense?”
Now I was curious. Tom tied the blindfold and told me to put out my hand. I decided to trust him and did so. I felt something warm and heavy, almost too hot for me to hold. It was hard, like a stone. I rolled it around in my hands before giving it back. “It’s a stone,” I said. “It’s a hot stone.” I didn’t get it.
I heard Della’s voice. “What color is the stone?”
“Brown or black,” I said, then realized that couldn’t be it. How would a blind person know that?
“Try it again,” said Della. “It’s a stone, it’s hot. It’s really hot, it’s…”
“Red hot!” I exclaimed. The stone is red. A blind person would be familiar with that term.” I could imagine red and hot together: a fire, the sun, molten metal, a volcano spewing lava. Hot red, dangerous if handled.
“Okay.” It was Tom’s voice. “Ready for the next object?”
“It won’t hurt, will it?”
“Not unless we want the museum to get sued,” Tom assured me again. “God, you’re a wimp!”
“No, she’s not,” Della interrupted. “She just can’t see. Go on, Maggie.”
Tom placed something cold in my hand, very cold. It was square and smooth. It was also wet. “Ice cube,” I said. “Uh, the color is…” But an ice cube had no color. It was frozen water. I made an arbitrary choice. “I’ll make this blue,” I said. The opposite of red. A cool color. A blind person would understand that reference, too.
“Okay, blue,” I heard Della say. “It could be blue. So, warm colors and cold colors. Kitchens are red and bedrooms are blue for that reason. But, don’t stay there Maggie. If you’re blind it’s up to you. Someone with sight can lead you, but you make the decision. How about green?”
“Grass?” I was still in the sighted world.
“How would you explain green?” Della prodded me.
Grass. I thought again, shut my eyes tight behind the blindfold. The feeling of grass underfoot: something tickling and uneven. Green was outside. It was a tickling sensation on my feet. Green was uneven: I had to be careful. I began to feel green rather than see it. I could bend down into green, feel the same tickling sensation with my hands. I could pick green, smell green on my fingers. Green had other things in it: bugs, stones, dirt. Green was a part of the outside world. I liked green.
What would white be?” I heard Della ask. “Don’t think of what you would see.”
White. The absense of color. Nothingness. White metamorphosed into space, open air. No obstructions, nothing I could touch or feel. White was the air. White smelled like laundry, any color laundry, that was hung out to dry. It was fresh and clean. White was open. I partially opened my eyes and saw the black of the blindfold. I suddenly felt closed and claustrophobic. I wondered if black were the color of blindness, or if it was white and open to the air?
“Maggie?” It was a different voice, but familiar. I took off the blindfold. My new neighbor, Cal, stood on the opposite side of the table. He looked surprised.
I put the blindfold down and excused myself for a moment. “Cal?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Exhibiting,” he said, still surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping out,” I replied and walked over to him. “You’re an artist?”
He nodded and pointed to a stucture in half shadow. “It’s not done yet, but come over and have a look.” He walked back and turned on a light. “Almost done. What do you think?”
I had followed Cal over to two large structures. To my left on the floor was a grainy surface, almost pebbled but not quite. A profusion of sticks with knobby ends were scattered over it in random patterns. There were small boxes arranged in wide rows and the surface dipped here and there. To my right were more boxes, arranged into an uneven wall of some kind. There was another wall in front, this one smooth but with an irregular pattern of some kind etched into it. In between the walls was a statue of a seated emaciated man, touching the front wall. His shirt was open, exposing a bony chest. There was an angry expression on his face. I found it disturbing. “What is it?” I asked. I was not good with modern art. It made no sense to me at all.
Cal smiled enigmatically. “This is an exhibit about perception,” he said, not answering the question. “I’m sure if anyone can figure it out, you can, though.”
“How would I know?” I asked, confused.
He smiled again. “I saw you at the other exhibit. I’ll bet you can figure this one out, too.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay,” I said. I looked again at the emaciated man, just sitting there touching the front wall with bony fingers. Boxes and sticks. No, I was not good at interpreting this kind of thing. I checked my watch: time to leave soon. I wanted to make something for dinner and enjoy a quiet evening with my husband. We got so little time together these days.
I walked back to Tom and Della, looked over at Tom. He nodded, “Got to go?” he said.
I nodded. “I’m giving Della a ride home, then I’ve got a husband to feed.”
Tom smiled, a happy looking man. “So do I,” he said. “Let’s wrap it up.” He turned to Della. “Hey, lady,” he said. “Time to close up shop for the night. You coming back tomorrow? Maggie, are you?”
Della touched the exhibit table, then felt her way to space and flipped open her cane. “Lead on,” she told me. “Tomorrow’s another day. I shall teach you to feel color, smell it, too.” She tapped an eyelid. “You sighted folks depend too much on these. There’s a whole other world.” She smiled and reached out her arm.
Chapter 2
This morning had started like the last, only this time I woke up screaming. The monster had reached down and grabbed my shoulder. I felt its clammy hand and couldn’t breath. I still couldn’t breathe when I woke up. I scared the hell out of Alex, who bolted out of bed crying “Maggie! What’s wrong?”
“I can’t breathe.” I tried to take a breath, but couldn’t couldn’t seem to open up my lungs.
He ran over to my side of the bed, flicking on lights and throwing the covers off. His eyes were wide with worry. “Maggie?” He put a hand on my shoulder. “God, your heart’s pounding. What the hell happened? Nightmare? Again?”
I nodded and finally began to take in lungfuls of air. “I’m okay,” I said.
“And you’re going to talk to Alice, or someone else now, right?”
I sat up in bed as Alex rubbed my back. “Yes, I think I will.”
“Damn right you will.”
And here I was. Alice and I sat over coffee at D’Amatos, a little café not far from my office. They had great prices and great food. We both loved cooking and regularly cleaned out the gourmet supermarket down the street. I rarely took advantage of Alice’s professional skills. I was doing so today, but not happily.
“How long have you been having these dreams?” she asked.
“A few weeks,” I replied. “They keep getting worse and worse.”
Alice pursed her lips thoughtfully. “How are things with you and Alex?” she started the rundown of possible suspects.
“Fine, as far as I know.”
“Anything distressing happen lately?”
I thought for a moment. “No,” I said. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“And your office mate, the blind woman?”
“Della,” I said.
“How are things with her?”
“She seems fine to me. She cracks jokes and won’t shut up for a minute. I can’t stay down around her.”
“No?” Alice was being very therapist-like. “She’s blind. That’s a pretty frightening thing for most folks to sit next to day in and day out. You had an anxiety attack this morning,” she reminded me. “You couldn’t breathe. Something provoked it. You say she took you to a museum exhibit? What was it about?”
“Being blind,” I said. “And trying to interpret the world without seeing.”
“Well,” she replied. “There’s your anxiety.” She sipped at coffee, then looked at me for a long moment. “You’re fond of Della, aren’t you?”
“Very,” I replied.
“She’s bringing you into a very frightening world,” Alice mused. “The closer you get, the more frightening it becomes.”
“I guess.” It was plausible, at least.
Alice was moving in now, a hound after a hare. “Does Alex like Della?” she asked.
“I think he’s a little afraid of her,” I said. Alice smiled at that. “Those roving hands. Her eyes haven’t stopped that. I’m sure she’s slowed down some, but she seems okay to me.”
“She’s had a long time to get used to it, “ Alice said. “She kind of lucky, actually. With some people it hits fast. A lot of people with her kind of RP are blind by 40. She’s, what, 55?”
“Somewhere around there,” I said. “She’s end-stage, though.” In my mind I saw retinal tissue breaking down, ripping out light and color. You started with sight. You ended without it. I suddenly felt pained.
“The end coming soon?”
“Yes. Or so she’s said.” Maybe Alice was right: Della was getting to me. I had to accept it as a possibility. “Well…” I started, starting to change the subject.
“Well,” Alice said, sensing our professional time was at an end. Now we were back to friends. “Dinner tomorrow at your place? Should we go shopping tonight? Is Della coming over?”
“Yes, yes and I’m not sure,” I said, glad to be over the interrogation. “Chicken Marsala? I’ve been dying to bake some bread.”
“Deal,” Alice said. “I’m going to pick up a few reds to go with it. “Want to do an antipasto?”
Done.” Alice was fun. We cooked and shopped together, then blew off steam over glasses of wine. She said she needed the outlet. Truth to tell, so did I. We hugged each other goodbye and I headed over to my office.
Della called out as I walked in the door. “Yo, ho! My partner in crime and meal ticket is here. She punched a talking wristwatch and listened. “You’re late. What, breakfast with the wonderful Ms. DeChamps this morning?”
“God, don’t you ever have a bad day?” I asked.
“Oh, no sleep last night. And, from the sounds of it, hot flashes and not hot husbands.”
“You got that right.” I didn’t mention the nightmares. I didn’t need to bring that up again. I didn’t sleep that well under the best of circumstances. I headed for the coffee pot. Della made it every morning, even though she never touched the stuff. I drank gallons of it. No wonder I didn’t sleep. I sat down at my desk and started in on the morning mail. “When are we going over to the museum?” I asked Della.
“As soon as I figure out out a way of killing the hoodlums that beat up old ladies going about their business. Did you read that stuff on the news?” Three rather wild young men had been arrested after breaking into a woman’s house and beating her senseless. They got away with $40 in her purse. “That could have been me. Thank God it wasn’t.”
I tried an experiment. “Yeah, good thing.” I said. “It would be even harder on you, being blind.”
“No one’s got it easy,” Della replied, not taking the bait. “I’m not in a hospital with broken bones and my leg in a cast.” She shrugged. “You deal. What else are you going to do? I can think of worse things.”
“Like?”
“Like not being able to laugh about it,” she said, smiling. “And hating sex. I really do need to have a talk with Alex about that.”
“Della!”
“Okay, okay.” She put up a hand. “Don’t ask for my help. Just be an old grouch. Do you know how much I spend on coffee every week? The minute you get lucky I’m going to be able to afford another house.”