The Eyes and Ears of Love (16 page)

He places both of his hands on top of hers. “You will. That is one thing I can promise you.”

She quickly pulls her hands out from under his. “I will, what?”

              “You will love again, I mean. You will feel something much more than emptiness, I can promise that.”

She laughs. “Bentley, just stop. I hate my life.”

“I want to feel your anger, I want to understand.”

“You’ll never know. No one will ever understand how every breath I take hurts me.”

“Help me understand,” he says, standing. “Tell me. Or, better, show me.”

She stands from the stool. For a moment, she is motionless – the tapping in her foot has ceased, and her hands are pressed to the countertop. Bentley is about to speak, when suddenly she lets out a cry of despair. It rises to a full scream.

“Let it out,” he says, uncaring if everyone in the facility is awake, completely absorbed by Dorothy’s breakthrough.

“I’m angry that I was afraid of heights, but now I’m not, because heights aren’t scary when you can’t see.”

“Keep going!”

She grabs the plate with the Twinkie and throws it to the ground, shattering the porcelain.

“UGH! I’m angry that I will never be able to cook again.” Her voice gets softer and she sinks back into the stool. “I mean, actually cook something, something that isn’t from a box or the freezer. I’m afraid of struggling to make a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I’m afraid of not being able to trust someone because I can’t see them, look them in the eyes. I’m afraid of never dating or falling in love. I’m afraid of being an 80 year-old virgin.” She pauses and her voice lowers more, “And that’s if I live that long, because I’m afraid of taking my own life,” she admits, her voice trembling. 

His eyebrows furrow. He sighs, “The truth is, your anger is a reflection of what you are afraid of missing out on and its normal. You’re not alone. So many people in your position have gotten through this, and so many more will. I think you are stronger than you think you are, and I think you of all people, disabled or not, have nothing to be afraid of.”

Dorothy’s face softens. The tension she’s held in her face since he saw her at group therapy is finally beginning to cease.  She says, “I’m sorry about the plate.”

“Don’t worry about it. A plate is replaceable, but you know what isn’t replaceable?” She doesn’t respond. “Time,” he says, letting her reflect. “Tomorrow I’ll have Nurse Lena wake you up early. We have plans. We are not going to waste any more precious time in your life.”

One corner of her mouth twitches: it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s seen yet.

***

The next morning, Dorothy wakes from a deep sleep when a warm hand touches her shoulder.

“Who’s there?” She jumps.

“Nurse Lena.”

“What time is it?”

“About a quarter after five.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Well what the hell do you want?” she snips, straightening up in her bed.

Lena’s voice deepens with irk, “I personally don’t want anything from you, but I have orders from Mr. Menichelli to get you up.”

“Do you do everything you are told?”

“When it involves doing my job, yes.”

“I am not your damn job,” Dorothy says, flopping back down and rolling over on her side.

“Listen, little girl,” Lena says, her tone changing from sweet to firm. “You may have gotten away with talking to your mother like that, but with me it’s going to be a little different. I’ve let your attitude slide long enough. You’ve been here for over a month, it’s time to shape up. Now, get up.”

“No,” she says, wondering what Lena will do to make her.

“I know you’re not tough, Dorothy, and you don’t like treating me like this. I get that you just want to be left alone.”

“Well, you got the second part right.”

“Then you’re at the wrong place.” She pushes Dorothy to sit up.

Dorothy feels a tug on her nightgown and realizes Nurse Lena is trying to remove it.

“What the hell? Why are you undressing me?” She throws her hands up defensively.

“Look, I told you, I got orders.”

“To take advantage of me?”

“First of all, I have my own breasts to look at, I surely don’t care to look at yours. Secondly, I have something I was given to put on you.”

“I can do it myself. Is the door shut?”

“Of course it is.”

Nurse Lena hands some cloth to Dorothy. She feels it up and down, confused of what kind of attire it is.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Just put it on.”

“I don’t know how.”

“So now you’d like my help, then?” Lena replies grittily.

Dorothy sighs. “Help me.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t help people who talk to me with that tone of voice.”

“Please,” she says, barely masking the sass in her voice.

“You have to take off your bra and underwear first.”

“Why?”             

“Just take them off.”

Dorothy listens and covers her chest, nervously.

“Okay, why don’t you sit down? It’ll be easier,” Nurse Lena insists.

She sits on her bed and Nurse Lena pulls one of Dorothy’s legs after another in through the clothing. “Okay, stand up now.”

Dorothy stands while still clutching her chest tightly. Nurse Lena pulls the clothing over her bottom and stretches it over her stomach.

“Move your hands. There. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“What am I wearing?” Dorothy pulls the fabric from her stomach and lets it go snapping back onto her skin like spandex. “Am I wearing a bathing suit?”

“All right, we are late enough.” Nurse Lena ignores Dorothy’s question. She grabs her arm carefully, guiding her out her door and to the destination.

The overbearing smell of chlorine streams up Dorothy’s nose.

“Thank you, Nurse Lena. I’ll take it from here!” a male voice calls from a distance.

The pressure on her arm from Nurse Lena’s hand disappears.

“Congratulations, Dorothy! You’re the first resident up for the day!” She recognizes Bentley’s voice.

“Is this an indoor pool?” she asks, her voice echoing.

“Walk toward my voice. Very slowly.”

She listens and walks, trusting he won’t let her run into anything.

“Keep going,” he says.

After several steps, instead of feeling the floor she feels something cold and wet. She quickly pulls her foot away. “I don’t want to swim this early.” She takes a step backwards.

“It’s not just swimming. We use the pool as a tool for the blind and hearing impaired. It works as practice for balance.”

“No. I can’t.”

Bentley’s voice is coming from the water. She hears splashing as his voice moves closer and he touches her with a cold, wet hand.  “Dorothy I need you to trust me. Okay?”

She doesn’t respond, but after a moment of hesitation, her hand tightens around his. He slowly and gently guides her into the pool.

She feels the cold water on her toes and it sweeps up her entire leg as she steps in. She feels goosebumps rising all over her body. She lets go of Bentley’s hand and lets the water control her movement. She touches the bottom of the pool with her feet, with the water only reaching her chest. She feels her body being guided by the flow of the water, and for the first time in a year, she doesn’t feel the urge to hold on to something. A tear swivels down her cheek.

I’m walking! I’m actually walking, all on my own!

She continues to walk and explore her surroundings, moving from end to end of the pool.

She closes her eyes and kicks her feet out to stretch out on her back. Dorothy floats, listening to the water rush in and out of her ears. She feels calm and at ease. She takes a deep breath and drops herself under the water and stays under as long as she can, enjoying the adrenaline rush.

Someone grabs her arm roughly, startling her out of her peace. She is pulled up to the surface, coughing, as she tastes chlorine in the back of her throat.

“What were you doing?” Bentley asks, his voice high with tension.

“Get off me.” She rips her arm from his hand. “It’s not like I was trying to kill myself.”

She feels for the edge of the pool and tries to pull herself out, but she just isn’t strong enough and the weight of the water pulls her back in. Bentley swims over, pushing her bottom up and out of the pool.

“I got it,” Dorothy snaps, reacting to his touch. “Nurse Lena,” she yells.

She hears panting coming closer and closer.

“You’re done already?” Lena asks. She wraps a towel over Dorothy while she helps her back to her room.

***

The next morning, Bentley arrives at the door of Dorothy’s room bright and early. He sees a breakfast tray neglected in the hallway. He picks up the tray and knocks.

“WHAT?” she yells from inside.

Bentley peeks his head through the door. “Are you ready?”

He sees her lying in her bed tucked under the covers. She keeps her eyes shut.

“For what?” she snarls.

“Your second phase of therapy,” he says, placing the breakfast tray on her dresser.

“Yes, because yesterday went so well,” she says sarcastically.

“Exactly, which means we need to jump right back into it.”

She finally opens her eyes. “Look,” she says. “You don’t have to help me. Soon my mom’s guilty conscience will set in and she’ll be back for me. I’ll go home and it’ll be like nothing happened.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I’m in the same predicament I was before I came here: no better, no worse.”

“That sounds like a lot of wasted time.”

“Time! What is with you and time?”

“I…” He pauses. “I just know time is limited and it should never be wasted.”

Dorothy doesn’t respond.

“What if I told you, you didn’t have to do anything, but walk?”

“Like learning how to walk?”

“No, just walking.”

“Well, it depends. Where would we be walking?”

“Today is the grand opening of the Satellite Beach flea market, all kinds of people get up early to get first dibs on the antiques and bids.”

“The flea market?” she asks with furrowed eyebrows.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun!” he encourages her.

“I guess.”

“Well, you have to eat your breakfast first.”

“Why?”

“Because you are so thin and people are going to start thinking we don’t feed you.”

She rolls her eyes and sits up. “Well, maybe if you actually served good food, then I would eat more.”

“You think you could do better?” he asks.

Dorothy shrugs.

“Well, if you think you can then you should,” he says while spreading jam on a piece of toast. He places the tray on her lap.

She takes a bite from the toast.

After breakfast, Dorothy and Bentley get in his truck and drive several blocks to the flea market.

When they arrive, a seething mass of people surround them from every direction.

“The flea market can get hectic, so we have to be together at all times,” he advises.

He leans in to grab her hand, but she jerks away. “I’ll just hold onto your shirt,” she says.

“Look, the market can get really crowded. It wouldn’t be too difficult for us to get separated. I really think you should hold my hand.” He holds out his hand.

“No,” she says sternly, “I’ll hold on to your shirt, its fine.”

She pinches the back of his shirt as he guides her forward.

He guides her, deliberately dallying, following the current of other’s footwork. Some areas are dingy and reek of smoke.  

A man with a fruit cart lunges at Dorothy. “MISS! Miss! Buy some organic fruit!”

Dorothy jumps and clings tighter to Bentley’s back.

“Don’t let go,” he warns her, while grinning. 

Merged to the left is a husband and a wife selling handmade walking sticks. As they get closer, Bentley sees that the able-bodied husband is watching over his blind wife, keeping her close. His wife’s eye are cloudy and unnatural looking.

Bentley observes the dozen canes, all with different designs and made with different types of wood. He spots a unique cane that he thinks may interest Dorothy.

“I call that one the Free Living Bird,” the husband says, “It’s my favorite cane.”

Bentley strokes the smooth cherry oak finish and cups the brass bird handle.

“It’s a Hermit Thrush.”

“Huh?” Bentley asks, dubious.

“The bird handle,” the husband points. “It’s a Hermit Thrush.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know a lot about birds.”