I'll Be Seeing You

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “I’m on my way to physical therapy.” She was feeling guilty. Maybe Reba was right. Maybe she should tell him everything.

  “Can we talk more later?”

  “I don’t want you to get sick of me.”

  “It’s all right if I do. We’re in a hospital.”

  The gauze pads concealing his eyes made it difficult to know if he was teasing. “It’s a good thing I have a sense of humor,” she offered cautiously.

  He grinned. “I made a joke and you caught on to it. I’m getting better at this humor stuff, huh?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head, buster.” She said goodbye and went out into the hall, where an orderly took her down in a wheelchair for her PT appointment.

  Once her session was over, Carley returned to her floor and asked about Reba at the nurses’ station. “She came through with flying colors,” a nurse told her. “She’s down in Recovery, and we expect she’ll be sent up here by late afternoon. But no visitors except family today.”

  “No problem,” Carley said, feeling greatly relieved that Reba had done so well.

  “By the way,” the nurse said, “your lunch tray’s been delivered to Kyle Westin’s room. He told us you knew all about it.”

  She didn’t, but she faked it with the nurse and hobbled down the hall to Kyle’s room. He was sitting at the table, his tray in front of him. Another covered tray had been placed on the table facing an empty chair. “Are you eating your lunch and mine too?” she asked.

  “Carley! Come sit. I thought we could have lunch together. I had to make the nurse think you had preapproved the idea. Do you mind?”

  How could she mind eating lunch with a guy like Kyle? “Your company’s much better than that exercise lady on TV at noon.” She propped up her crutches and sat down. “What is this stuff?” she asked, lifting the lid. “It looks like roadkill.”

  “It tastes all right. Soup’s good.”

  She watched him encircle the soup bowl with one hand, pick up the spoon, keeping it low, lean far over the warm bowl, and ladle soup into his mouth. She felt grateful all over again that she had her eyesight. “Not bad,” she told him.

  “The soup or my table manners?” he asked.

  “The way you maneuver,” she explained. “The soup’s dreary.”

  He laughed. “I’ve been practicing hard at learning how to feed myself. Every meal, I spill less and less. You know I’m feeling brave if I got up the nerve to invite you to have lunch with me.”

  “You seem to have a knack for it. Feeding yourself, I mean.”

  “The therapist taught me to touch all the food first, position it on the tray so that I’d know exactly where everything was, and keep my hands low when I come at it. It works.”

  Fascinated, she watched him for another minute. She’d been taught that it wasn’t polite to stare, and she hated it when people stared at her, but Kyle couldn’t see her studying him, so she didn’t think she was being rude.

  “I’m still not very fast at eating, though,” he apologized. “It’s made me realize how quickly I scarfed down my food before.”

  “Don’t we all,” Carley said.

  “So how’s Reba doing?”

  “I hear she’s doing fine, but it’ll be another day before I check on her personally.”

  “What’re you doing tomorrow?”

  She stirred her fork through a gloppy mound of mashed potatoes. “Well, after I check out the Saturday morning cartoons, my parents are coming for a visit.”

  “They don’t come during the week?”

  “They would if I was in bad shape,” Carley explained. “They own a bookstore in Oak Ridge and they put a lot of time into running it. It’s hard for them to get away. But on Saturdays they have extra help.” Carley didn’t mention her sister to Kyle or that both of them worked there most weekends, Carley almost always in the back unpacking and pricing stock. She didn’t like working with the public because people stared and asked dumb questions. Once, a small child had seen her face and had screamed in fright.

  “What’s the name of the store?” Kyle asked. “I’ll drop in when all this is behind me.”

  She didn’t want him doing that. She had meant what she’d told Reba—once she was out of the hospital, she didn’t want to run into Kyle again—whether or not he could see. The hospital acted as a safe harbor, a place where they were on equal footing. Reluctantly she told him the name of the store, telling herself that if he should ever drop by, she could have family or employees tell him she wasn’t there. Soon he’d stop coming.

  “Is that why you have so many Books on Tape?” Kyle asked. “Which, by the way, are pretty cool. I’m partway through a murder mystery.”

  “I get the tapes from the store, but I’ve always loved to read, so it’s just another way to ‘read’ a book as far as I’m concerned.”

  “When I read, it’s chemistry and physics. Quantum theory. Stuff like that.”

  “That side of my brain doesn’t work,” Carley said with a laugh. “I’m a total waste when it comes to math and science, but I guess you have a reason for that.”

  He nodded. “I want to attend MIT—Massachusetts Institute of Technology—and take up engineering and maybe someday work for NASA. The one thing I’ve always wanted to do was learn how to fly a plane. I have an uncle who owns a small plane. He operates a business flying around real estate agents and advertising banners.”

  “I’ve seen those signs. They say Eat at Joe’s and stuff like that.”

  “He’s busy during football season flying over UT stadium with ad messages. He takes me up with him sometimes. He’s even let me man the controls.” Suddenly he grew quiet. “I want to be a pilot. At least I did. Until this happened.”

  He sounded so despondent that Carley was sorry she’d opened the door to the conversation. “I want to go to the Chicago Art Institute,” she inserted quickly, hoping to get his thoughts off his situation. “Who knows, maybe I’ll shake up the fashion industry with my ‘innovative designs.’ ” She emphasized the last to make it sound comical, like words from a TV commercial.

  “I’d ask to see your work, but …” Kyle said without humor.

  Carley regretted her remark. Trying to cheer him up had backfired. “It’s not much to see, really. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Why not? Talking seems like all I can do.”

  She stabbed her fork into a piece of chocolate cake on her food tray. “We could talk about dessert,” she said. “It’s chocolate and maybe older than both our combined ages.”

  He offered a half smile, but pushed his tray away. “I’m not hungry anymore. Everything’s cold by now anyway.”

  “It’s because I got you to talking instead of concentrating on lunch.”

  “It’s because I’m blind,” he blurted. “It isn’t fair!” He shoved the tray again, and Carley had to grab at it to keep it from skidding off the table.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said softly. He was breathing hard and she wasn’t sure if he might want to cry. “I know it isn’t fair, but sometimes we just have to live with what can’t be changed.”

  “How would you know? All you have is a broken leg. Bones heal.”

  Of course she couldn’t tell him how she knew. “I should be going,” she said, reaching for her crutches. “Time for my afternoon antibiotic hookup.”

  He said nothing.

  She headed for the door, the rubber tips of her crutches squeaking on the floor. She paused at the doorway and gazed back at him. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” he said without moving.

  Brilliant afternoon sunlight played across his golden brown hair and spilled across his gauze-bandaged eyes. But she knew that inside the bandages, he was alone in the dark. And there was nothing she could do about it. Not one single thing.

  Seven

  On Saturday morning Carley’s parents came to visit, laden with a bag of books and tapes. “Your doctor says you’ll probably be out of here early next week,” her father said aft
er kissing her on the forehead. “He says you’re responding well to the antibiotic, and according to your X rays, your leg looks to be knitting properly.”

  “Good. I’m ready to blow this place.” Carley joked, but she knew she’d miss Reba and Kyle. Most of all Kyle.

  “Of course, you’ll still have to come in for physical therapy,” her mother said. “But that can be as an outpatient.”

  “My therapist seems to think I can drive, so I can bring myself in for the sessions. No need for you or Dad to take off from work.”

  “Janelle can bring you.”

  “Sure—my sister’s going to cut into her social life to usher me to therapy three times a week.” Carley was thinking about Janelle’s red-hot romance with Jon.

  “She can just rearrange her priorities,” Carley’s mother said. “Your leg is more important than any of her extracurricular activities.”

  “Mom, it’s no big deal,” Carley insisted. “I can drive myself.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” her father said. “No use arguing about it now. Let’s get you out of the hospital and home first.”

  Carley shrugged. Her dad was right. Why argue now? There was plenty of time to argue later. “So, how are things at the store?”

  “Well, we’re gearing up for Valentine’s Day,” her mother said. “We rearranged our magazine racks to make room for a line of greeting cards. I figure they’ll sell really well. You know how business is: We start on back-to-school the first of August, fall merchandise in September, Christmas by October—”

  “Even earlier these days,” her father interjected.

  “Anyway,” her mother continued, “I’m redoing some displays with lots of red and white ribbons and lace and cute little Victorian-style cupids. And some of the romance publishers are putting out special Valentine titles, so we’ve got plenty of new displays with the holiday theme.”

  “My favorite holiday,” Carley muttered unkindly under her breath.

  “Valentine’s Day is a wonderful holiday,” her mother said, glancing at her husband, who gave her a wink.

  Sure, Carley thought. If you’re normal. Frankly she’d always thought some sadist invented it. Valentines and syrupy sentiments of love were a cruel joke. She’d learned early on that Valentine cards only went to pretty, popular girls. Janelle practically waded hip deep in them every year. “The best thing about Valentine’s Day is that boxes of chocolate are half price on the day after,” Carley said.

  Her father laughed. “I see you haven’t lost your wit.”

  “I don’t want to be witless,” she quipped, making him laugh again.

  Her parents stayed until late afternoon, then hugged her goodbye and left. Once they were gone, Carley felt blue. She liked her family and she considered herself fortunate to have such supportive parents. All during her ordeal with the cancerous tumor, they had been by her side, and when she’d been permanently disfigured, they’d sent her to counselors and did everything possible to help her adjust to her lifelong disfigurement and build up her self-esteem.

  She was deep in thought, when someone rapped on her door.

  “It’s open,” she called.

  Kyle entered her room, feeling his way cautiously along the wall as he went.

  She scrambled toward him, wincing in pain over the sudden movement, but fearful that he might bump into something. “Let me help,” she blurted.

  “I can manage,” he said. “Just tell me if anything’s in my path.”

  “My room’s exactly like yours,” Carley told him. “Just flip-flopped.” She watched him inch closer. “Does a nurse know you’re trying to navigate on your own?”

  “I didn’t think I needed a guide. Or a red-tipped cane just yet.”

  Eventually he made it to the small table near her window, where he groped for a chair. She itched to help him, but sat quietly, since she knew he wanted her to. When he was finally seated, she let out a deep breath. “You’re here,” she said.

  He grinned, his expression looking pleased. “Maybe I’m not so helpless after all.” He rubbed his shins. “A little black and blue maybe, but not helpless.”

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “I wanted to apologize for the way I acted yesterday.”

  “You were angry. I understood.”

  “I didn’t have to take it out on you.”

  “I didn’t take it personally … honest.”

  He shifted in his chair and leaned forward, holding out his hand in a gesture that asked her to take hold of it. Heart pounding, she slid her hand into his. “I—I think you’re a really nice person, Carley. I can’t imagine how I would have made it these past days without your help.”

  “That’s me. Carley the Helpful One. How do you suppose that translates in Chinese?” She was babbling, but couldn’t stop herself. She felt totally flustered by his sincerity. Absolutely unsettled by his attention.

  “Um—I’d really like to ask you something.”

  “You can ask.”

  “I don’t want you to think I’m weird or anything.”

  “This must be serious.” She tried to sound lighthearted, but her palms were sweating. She hoped her hand didn’t slip out of his.

  “Not too serious.” He tipped his head and his brown hair spilled over the gauze wrapped around his forehead. “I’ve just been wondering what you look like, that’s all. I mean, you know what I look like and I haven’t a clue as to what you look like.”

  Her heart wedged in her throat. How should she answer him? “I look like a girl,” she finally said. “Hair, arms, legs—the usual stuff.”

  He laughed, but she hadn’t meant it to be funny. She didn’t want to be discussing her looks with him. A sudden thought unnerved her. What if one of the nurses had alluded to the fact that she was less than perfect-looking? That something was wrong with her?

  “But tell me about yourself. Are you tall, short, athletic? What color’s your hair and your eyes? I’m not trying for your vital statistics, just a mental picture.”

  “Well.…” She drew out the word, stalling for time. “What do you think I look like?”

  “That’s not fair. No matter how I describe you, you can agree or disagree, whether it’s true or not.”

  “I won’t. Tell me, what’s your mental image of me?”

  He squirmed, and she knew she’d put him on the spot. But he’d put her on the spot too. “All I have to go on is your voice.”

  “How does my voice make me sound?”

  “Your voice makes you sound friendly. And nice.” He appeared more comfortable with this third-person approach—this pretense that her voice was a separate personality.

  “And what about the color of my hair? Can my voice give you a clue about that?”

  “Blond?”

  “Dark brown.”

  “Straight?”

  “Like a board.”

  “Long?”

  “Long,” she confirmed. “And what color does my voice say my eyes are?”

  “Um—blue.”

  “Brown.”

  “I like brown eyes. My favorite color.” He grinned gleefully, caught up in the game.

  “Oh, puh-lease …” she drawled dramatically.

  “You don’t believe me? It’s true. In the first grade I had a crush on a girl named Trianna Lopez. She had the most beautiful brown eyes.”

  “Fine. Sit there and talk about another girl in front of me.” Carley pretended to be miffed.

  She didn’t fool him. Kyle laughed and said, “She was only six!”

  “I forgive you.”

  “I’ll bet you’re tall.”

  “Only five foot three. I’d never make the basketball team.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve never had a thing for jocks.” He toyed with her fingers still nestled in his hand. “I’ll bet you’re thin too.”

  “Average.”

  “There’s nothing average about you, Carley.”

  She felt her fac
e blush crimson. If only he knew how unaverage she really was. “So now are you satisfied? Do you have a picture of me?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, here’s what I’ve learned about you, mister,” she said, poking him playfully with her forefinger. “You’re attracted to tall, willowy blondes with blue eyes and straight hair. I, on the other hand, am a not-so-tall brunette with brown eyes and straight hair.”

  “One out of four isn’t bad for a guy in my situation,” he insisted.

  For a second she thought he might get melancholy remembering that he was blind. Quickly she said, “All right, one out of four is good.”

  He sat still, his face turned fully toward her. For an eerie moment she thought he might be able to see through his bandages. “What now?” she asked.

  “There’s another way I could satisfy my curiousity a little bit. If you’re willing, that is.”

  “How?”

  “You could let me touch your face. You know, explore it with my fingers.”

  Eight

  Kyle wanted to touch her face. But if he did, he’d know for certain something was wrong. Carley got an instant picture of his fingers tracing along the caved-in area between her left eye and nose and recoiling in horror. He’d ask, “What’s wrong with you?” and she’d have to tell him that she was a freak. That just like Humpty Dumpty, all the plastic surgeons and medical geniuses couldn’t put Carley Mattea back together again.

  “I know you’re still here,” Kyle said, “because I’m still holding your hand. What’s wrong? Did I upset you?”

  “No,” she said, a little too quickly. “I had a shooting pain in my leg. I was gritting my teeth until it went away.”

  With those words Carley realized that she’d crossed a subtle barrier. Before, she’d simply avoided telling him the truth by not divulging certain details. Now she’d told him two outright lies. Truthfully she was upset, and there was no pain in her leg.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought maybe I’d offended you by asking to touch your face. I don’t know why I asked. Maybe because the woman from blind services encouraged me to explore the world with my sense of touch. She said it would help me ‘see’ things. Forget it.”