The Eyes and Ears of Love (15 page)

“I just need to check us out and we will head to the airport,” her mother says.

Dorothy nods.

They take a taxi to the airport and her mom guides Dorothy inside. She helps her to sit.

“I’m going to get the luggage from the taxi now,” her mother says, patting Dorothy on the shoulder to indicate that she’s stepping away for a moment.

Dorothy waits patiently, hands folded in her lap.
It’s quiet for an airport
, she thinks.

From a distance she hears two people talking. “Is that the new resident?” one voice asks.

“Yes, her name is Dorothy,” the second voice replies.

Resident? Resident where?

Dorothy pats around her chair to feel there is no backing. She twists and spread her arms all the way out to presume she may be sitting on the edge of a bed not a chair.

Where am I? There wouldn’t be a bed in an airport.
She thinks, heart-pounding.

Someone enters the room breathing heavily. Dorothy recognizes her mother’s footsteps. “Where are we, mom?”

Her mom sighs. “We’re at a special facility.”

“What special facility?” she asks. She feels her chest tightening.

“It’s called the Garden. You’re going to get a lot of help here.”

“You tricked me. You said we were going to the airport?”

“I know,” her mother sighs again, “I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you the truth.”

“Well, are you staying with me here?”

“No, I fly back to Oregon this afternoon.” She continues, “But I thought I’d stick around this morning and show you around. They have so much cool stuff here.”

Dorothy stands and wobbles, reaching out to grab her mom’s arms. “Mom, don’t do this,” her voice quivers.

“You need help, and I can’t give you that help, honey.”

“Yes, you can!” she reassures her. “I promise I’ll be better at home. I’ll learn to fend for myself. I promise!” she begs. “I promise I won’t be mean to you anymore or say mean things.”

The bed squeaks as her mother uses it as crutch to kneel in front of Dorothy. She can feel her mother’s warm breath on her knees. Her mom rubs Dorothy’s arm.

“You have every right to be angry with me. You feel like I’m abandoning you. But I hope one day you realize I am doing this because I love you, unequivocally.”

Dorothy can hear the sniffling of her mom’s nose. Suddenly, Dorothy wonders if her mom’s tears are even real. This whole thing could be her master plan to be alone, to not have to deal with being a mom.

She’s trying to fool me.

She pushes her mom. “Leave then!” she screams. “I know you’re just abandoning me so you can sleep around. You’re sick of caring for me, I get it!”

Dorothy feels her mother’s wet kiss on her forehead. She gasps between sobs and covers her hand over her mouth. She then hears the door open and shut.

No. She wouldn’t leave like this.

“Mom?” she cries out, but there’s no answer. “Mom, are you still there?” No one replies. “Mom, I’m sorry! Come back! Please!” she screams, crying profusely.

She sits on the edge of the bed, trembling, afraid of this place, afraid of the future, her mind whirling. The room, it smells so clean and sanitized, it’s off-putting to her. It makes her feel like she’s in the hospital again. Her bed sheets at home smell of fresh cotton and these sheets smell like baking soda. Her eyes flood with rage-fueled tears. She is in an unfamiliar place, a place filled with strangers. Dorothy does the only thing she’s good at these days: she curls up in her new bed covering her shirt over her nose to mask the smell and allows time to pass.

Throughout the day, people knock on her door to bring her breakfast, invite her to recreational activities, lunch, therapy, company, dinner, and bathing. Dorothy rejects them one at a time.

In the evening, Dorothy’s door opens with no knock preceding it.

“Mom?” Dorothy asks, sitting up, anxiously waiting.

“No, I’m sorry, hun. I am your nurse, Lena. I’m the head residential nurse here at the Garden.”

Dorothy lies back down and turns away from her voice.

“You’ll be seeing a lot of me, you are one of five residents here.”

“Their families abandoned them too?”

“No, their families didn’t abandon them.” She continues, “This isn’t a nursing home, Dorothy. This is a place for deaf and blind people of all ages to come temporarily for support and rehabilitation. Eventually, they leave and return to the outside world.”

Dorothy rolls her eyes.

She continues, “A lot of individuals come here for therapy.”

“Oh! All five of them?”

“No. A lot of people reside elsewhere, but come to therapy weekly for whatever group they are a part of; blind or deaf,” she says. “Group therapy is very helpful and it can be a lot of fun! The director leads group therapy for both the deaf and the blind. But, if that’s not really your thing then you can have a licensed therapist council an individual session with you.”

“Neither.”

I just want to be left the hell alone.

Nurse Lena sighs. “I’ll make a deal with you. You go to group therapy tomorrow night and decide for yourself if you like it or not. If you don’t like it, then I’ll back off and I’ll only bug you to eat.”

“You promise you’ll leave me alone then?”

“I promise.”

“Fine,” she says as she shoos her away with her hand.

For the next two days, Dorothy lies in bed, only getting up to use the bathroom. It’s no different than being at home, except her mother isn’t there. Nurse Lena lied, she not only bugs Dorothy to eat, but she also bugs Dorothy about the unlimited phone calls from her mother. She refuses to talk to her mother.

Dorothy twiddles her thumbs while lying in bed, the day she is supposed to attend therapy. Boredom is beginning to settle in. At home, in Oregon, she could sleep hours on end, but at the facility she feels so uncomfortable. The bed is too hard, the smell is horrid, and the people are obviously fake with their over-the-top kindness.

“Knock, knock!” a voice Dorothy recognizes as Nurse Lena’s comes from the other side of her door.

Dorothy slaps her hands on the mattress. “What now?” she yells.

The door creaks. “Your mom’s on the phone.”

“Good God!” she shouts, sitting up. “I said no the first time she called and then I said no the second time she called and now you’re bothering me for the tenth time she’s calling? What do you think my response is?”

“I think you should just hear what she has to say.”

“Well, good thing your job isn’t to think, your job is to wipe resident’s asses and give sponge baths. Do not, and I repeat, do not bother me with my mother’s phone calls ever again.”

Nurse Lena sighs, “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way and it is your choice.”

“Yeah, it’s my choice. Now, leave.”

The door opens and slams shut. Dorothy returns to twiddling her thumbs.

***

Later that evening, group therapy for the blind was gathering in what residents called ‘the blue room’ because it’s a room of deep sea emotions.

Bentley walks straight for the room, when his legs quake. He holds onto the door frame outside the room to support himself up. He lays eyes on one of the attendants, who is sitting with a permanent frown, unresponsive. He stands still, eyes keen, gaping at her. He recognizes her, every inch of her.  It’s the same woman, but not exactly the same woman he remembers. Her once enormous, clear eyes are now concealed behind red, puffy eyelids. The confidence he remembers so well is now overthrown slumping. She is slumped over, endlessly tapping her foot against the scratched hardwood oak. But she is here, she is real, living and breathing in his facility. He had an instinct he was going to meet her again. And after all this time, it’s happening.

“Mr. Menichelli?” Nurse Lena waves from inside the room having spot him.

Bentley swallows and takes a deep breath. He focuses on his legs to control them from stumbling. “Nurse Lena?” he whispers to her. 

“Yes, Mr. Menichelli?”

“Who is that?” He discretely points to Dorothy.

“That is one of our new residents, Dorothy.”

Her name is Dorothy?
He thinks, studying her face. He never knew her name. He smiles.
She looks like a Dorothy.

Lena continues, “She’s permanently blind, remember? You met her mom just the other day.”

His heart begins to pound like it’s ripping out of his chest. “Right. I met her mother. How is she doing? Dorothy, I mean,” he says.

“Well, she hasn’t opened up to me or any other staff since she got here.” She sighs. “I hear her cry at night, before I go home.”

Bentley sighs, “I’m sorry to hear that… I really am.” Bentley announces to the group, “Hello everyone. Let’s begin,”

The attendants begin going around in a circle stating their names, how they incurred their disabilities, their fears, their obstacles, and anything else they wanted to share. From the moment therapy begins, he doesn’t take his eyes off of her. He focuses all his attention on her eyes. Despite the redness and bleakness of her gaze, her eyes are still the same radiant emerald as before. She keeps her eyes at one spot on the floor, with occasional eye rolls at stories of the other attendants.

An attendee next to Dorothy gives her a gentle nudge, signaling her turn to speak. Dorothy says “pass,” lowly, tapping her foot faster. The circle continues and returns to Bentley, whose eyes have still not left Dorothy.

“Would you mind, Mr. Menichelli?” Nurse Lena asks. “Mr. Menichelli?”

“Huh? What?” He stands, bringing himself back into awareness.

“Would you be so kind as to share the story of Emily and her life?”

He bats his eyes several times looking at Dorothy. He redirects his attention to the rest of therapy and smiles. “Well of course, I would love to. Most of you got a little background information on Emily, but for those who haven’t, she was my sister. She was born deaf.”

As he tells Emily’s story, Dorothy shakes her head continually. Bentley notices her body language. He scrunches his forehead and loses his train of thought.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” Bentley says, gently reaching out to touch Dorothy’s shoulder. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says.

She shakes him off aggressively. “You don’t need to know my name. I won’t be here long.”

“May I ask, why are you shaking your head?”

“You’re talking about an eleven year old child born deaf who developed lung cancer.”

“Yes.”

“Where was her fucking break?” she asks crossing her arms, shaking her head, and protruding her lips. The rest of the group gasps. “What about the rest of us, too? No one deserves this; no one deserves to have their hearing and vision taken from them. Some of us have bigger fucking problems to deal with and we don’t need a cherry like this on top of our already crappy lives.”

“You’re right,” he agrees.

Dorothy raises her eyebrows.

He continues, “It’s not fair. I mean an eleven year old, for God’s sake, is born without hearing, isn’t that cruel enough? But then to add on terminal lung cancer,” his voice trails off.

Bentley kneels down and puts his hands on the arms of her chair. She leans back against her chair away from him. She swallows. Her eyes are wide and they gaze into his. If he didn’t know she were blind, he would think that she was actually looking at him, actually listening to what he has to say. He pauses, starring into her eyes.

I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry. I wish I would have just talked to you back at the kitchen. I wish that you could see me and look at me the same way I look at you.
He thinks about what he wants to say to her.

Instead, he says, “But Emily was born deaf, it’s all she ever knew. She appreciated a lot of things like touch.” He trickles his finger down one of Dorothy’s hands.

She looks down and slowly moves her hand further up the arm of the chair to prevent him from touching her anymore.

He continues, “A sense that some people may not notice or take for granted. And then she fought through cancer harder than some patients in their adulthood would have. You are alive and well today, that’s your break. It’s your ultimate decision of what you are going to do with it.”

“Fuck you,” she says. “Dying would have been my break. You don’t know anything. You have your vision and your hearing, you’re a hypocrite to preach the way you do.”

Heat flushes through Bentley’s face. He looks at her eyes, recalling how they used to shine emerald green, but now they are dark and dangerous. He steps back from her and signals Nurse Lena to remove her from the group. She recoils at first from Lena’s gentle touch, but ultimately gives in and stands. Bentley continues his story of Emily while he watches Dorothy stomping down the hall, and dragging one hand along the wall.

After group therapy, Bentley waits until the room is cleared of people and the house is quiet. He stands in front of Dorothy’s door. He cups his hands, leaning against the door, hearing her sniffling and gasping. He reaches for the doorknob, but hesitates. She may be lonely, but perhaps she likes to be alone. He leans his back against the wall beside the door, leaning his head back.

I’m back right where I started, but now there’s no window to look through behind the closed door to see her.

Before, in the culinary classroom, he tried dodging his appearance from her seeing him in fear of her reaction. Now, she’s blind and he wants her to see him, desperately. He wishes he could go back to that moment when she dropped her pie.

I should have barged through the doors. I should have helped her clean it up. I should have introduced myself. I should have done a lot of things differently.

He hits his head against the wall several times.

Dorothy opens the door shifting her head left and right. “Is someone there?” she asks. Her nose is swollen and red and her eyes are creased with wetness.

Bentley places his hand over his mouth and crouches down to her eye level. Dorothy doesn’t know it, but she’s starring directly into his eyes. She drops her head. He desperately wants to lift her chin and comfort her. She steps back into her room and closes the door.

Bentley erects his posture and rubs his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

Over several weeks, Bentley sends a therapist to Dorothy’s room for private individual therapy sessions. She refuses to speak with the therapist. And soon after, Dorothy refuses to attend both individual and group therapy.

A month passes. Bentley stacks all the chairs after the late-night group therapy. He stares at the chair Dorothy should have been sitting in. He takes a break and sits in her chair.

What would get her out of her room?
He thinks.

He sets eyes on an unlit candle sitting on a desk across the room. He reads the “Apple Pie” label.

Baking. Baking would get her out of her room!
He smells the candle and smiles.
This is perfect!

He rummages through cabinets and rooms for the same smelling candles. He finds two more candles.

He lights the first candle in the kitchen and waits until the aroma supplants other scents. The smell of cinnamon and cardamom drifts through the air, warm and sweet.

He lights a second candle in the hallway, centered between the kitchen and Dorothy’s room. He places that candle on a bookshelf.

He paces back and forth in front of her door. He stomps one of his feet. “Just do it!” he demands of himself.

He lights the candle and cracks Dorothy’s door, its creaking amplified in the silence. It doesn’t wake her from sleep, though, as he can hear her lightly snoring. Tiptoeing to the desk, inside her room, he places the candle far enough away that there isn’t a risk of her burning herself. He sneaks back out.

He sits on one the swivel barstools in the kitchen starring at the candle’s burning wick turn the wax to liquid with each passing minute.

Finally, he slaps his hands on his knees and blows out the candle. She must be in a deep sleep; he feels silly for going through all of this trouble for nothing. When he turns, however, Dorothy is right there – creeping around the kitchen corner, holding onto the walls for balance and support. She flexes her nose, breathing in the mouthwatering aroma. 

“Finally,” he says aloud.

Dorothy jumps at the sound of his voice. “Who’s there?” she asks, her voice quaking.

“My name is Bentley, I’ve tried to introduce myself, but you didn’t care to listen.”

“Are you a resident?”

“No, I am the director.”

“The guy that led therapy?” she asks with curiosity while quickly tilting her head.

“Uh-huh.”

Her nose twitches again and she asks, “Are you baking an apple pie?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t say anything.

Without thinking, he asks, “Would you like some?”

“That would be great,” she says fiddling with her hands.

He shuts his eyes tightly—he hadn’t expected her to say yes.

“Well, this pie is for group therapy tomorrow night, so I guess you’ll have to wait until then.”

“So you’re bribing me?”

“No, I am just letting you know it’s for group therapy.”

“Whatever. So, first you taunt me by offering me some, and now you think I’ll just magically start coming to therapy again because you made a pie? I’m going back to my room now,” she huffs.

“I’d really like some company,” he says taking a step towards her.

“I’d really like a bullet in my skull right now, but unfortunately I don’t own a gun.”

Something overcomes him, and he chuckles, “we have some kitchen knives?”

“Funny.”

Her expression is still somber. He is amazed at her stubbornness. Finally, he says, “would it kill you to smile?”

She shows the top row of her teeth, and there is a faint curve to her lips, but there is no crease below the eyes, no movement of the cheeks.

“Not a grimace, a smile.”

She looks in his direction, with a vague fatigue across her face. “You haven’t earned my smile.” She turns to leave.

“Dorothy?” he tries to stop her from leaving.

She turns back around. “God you are persistent,” she snaps.

“Please stay.” He rummages through all the cabinets and pulls out a box of Twinkies. “I have another dessert we can eat! It’s way better than apple pie!”

She sighs heavily, “fine.” She feels for a place to sit.

“Would you like some help?”

“No, I got it.” It takes her several minutes to feel for the bar stool in front of the island. She sits and begins tapping her foot.

On the other side of the island, Bentley crinkles the wrapper, opening a Twinkie.

“Is that a wrapper I hear? We’re eating something that was in a wrapper?” she asks, a twinge of disgust in her voice

He looks down at the Twinkies. “No,” he hesitates, “it’s plastic cling wrap.”

“That doesn’t sound like plastic wrap.”

“Well, it is.”

He places the Twinkie on a plate in the center of the island. He penetrates it with his fork and holds the fork to her lips. She pulls away.

“Trust me,” he insists.

She reaches up to grab the neck of the fork and guide it into her mouth. Crème coats her lips.  She wrinkles her nose, raising her top lip.

“What
is
that?” she gasps.

“A Twinkie,” he confesses.

“That’s horrible!”

“You’ve never had a Twinkie before?” he asks, amused, while wondering what her childhood must have been like to be devoid of Twinkies. 

“No.”

“So I take it you don’t want any more?”

She frowns.

He pauses, studying her face, he grins. “You look a lot like your mom.”

“Stop,” she snaps.

“What? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. People tell me I look just like my mom all the time. It’s a compliment.”

“That’s not even close to a compliment, it’s an insult.”

“You’re pretty upset with your mom, huh?”

“It’s none of your god damn business.”

Bentley’s eyes narrow. “I’m just trying to be nice to you.”

“Why? You don’t owe me anything, not even kindness.”

“Everyone deserves kindness, Dorothy.”

“You just live in this little fantasy world, where everyone’s nice and everyone wants your help. But guess what? This is the real world and not everyone’s nice and not everyone wants your help.”

Bentley shakes his head and laughs with offense. “Why are you putting up a front with me?”

“You don’t know me,” she states, shaking her head briskly. “This is who I am.”

He steeples his fingers. “I’m not buying it,” he says

“You don’t have to, because you’ll never know me.”

“But, what if I want to know you?”

“Fuck off.”

Blood runs to his cheeks. “What the hell are you so angry about?” he asks with tension in his voice.

Dorothy leans back with wide eyes.

“Well?” he asks.

She looks towards him, “Everything,” she says right before she looks down.

“What specifically?”

Dorothy looks back up at him, “Back off,” she warns him.

“No,” he says sternly. “What makes you angry?” he asks again.

Her voice pitches louder, “You know what I’m not angry, I’m annoyed.”

“What are you annoyed about?” he pries.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What would I be kidding about?”

“You’re just trying to get under my skin.”

“I’m sorry Dorothy, but if I could be any serial killer, Hannibal Lector wouldn’t be my first choice!” he says attempting to make a joke.

She frowns.

I’m an absolute idiot.
He shuts his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose.

He changes the subject, “You have been here for a month and you have only said a few words. The Garden is supposed to be a place where everyone supports each other, but you don’t want to give or receive support.”

“You’re right. I’m here against my will.”

“We don’t keep anyone against their will. You can get your stuff and leave right now, if you want to.”

Bentley screams at himself internally.
You moron! Are you trying to push her away?

“Is that a joke?” she asks.

Bentley sighs and his voice softens. “You are in your twenties. You’re not a child. Legally, yes, you can do what you want. This isn’t some kind of old fashioned lockdown psych ward, and while we’re talking about it, I’m offended you would act like it is.”

“I’d leave if I could. Alright?” she yells, straightening her arms on the island and leaning toward Bentley.  

Bentley tilts his head and smirks, amused by her attitude. “Then try,” he volleys back. He leans closer to her over the counter. “If you want to get out of here all you have to do is try. I am sorry your sight was taken from you, it sucks, but sitting in your bedroom all day moping isn’t going to do anything for you out in the real world.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” She leans back and sits, crossing her arms.

“I wouldn’t, would I, since you haven’t given me a chance?” he says. “Dorothy, the only way you are going to get out of this dark place you are in is to talk about it. Get out and do activities. Build the support system you need to start over.”

She swallows, “I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want to do activities to support this disability, because then I would be accepting it.”

“I don’t mean to be harsh, Dorothy, but what choice do you have? One day you are going to have to realize by accepting it, you can start your life again. I know you want to sleep all day, but if you think about it, your eyes will experience darkness whether you are sleeping or awake. Wouldn’t you rather be awake doing something you love?”

She begins scratching her nail on the island counter. “I don’t
love
anymore. I don’t feel anything anymore.” She then scratches the counter with both hands. All ten fingers quietly claw at the surface. “You know you have food encrusted on the counter? You should really keep a kitchen clean,” she says offhandedly.