by Susan Wiggs
Margutti ignored her sarcasm. She had the gentle, sensitive hands of a concert violinist and the firm voice of an experienced lecturer. The tests were a case of déjà vu, as was the sinking feeling in the pit of Jessie’s stomach. Nose to nose with the doctor as Margutti evaluated Jessie’s almost nonexistent visual field, she braced herself for the electroretinogram—the numbing drops, the hour-long exam in the dark. The probes resting on her eyes felt like eyelashes.
“The response to the flash in your right eye is significantly diminished.”
“Yes.” Jessie wanted to despise the doctor for being unable to offer hope. Instead she maintained a neutral attitude as Margutti explained the things she already knew. But the moment of truth, though expected, came without warning.
“You’ll have to use an occluder to obscure the last of your vision during training. The sooner you start, the better. If you’d like, we can enroll you early at the Beacon.”
“No.” Jessie’s answer was swift, angry. Months ago, she had known this day was coming, yet the terror was as fresh as ever. She hated that this scared her so. She had scaled impossible mountains, sailed treacherous seas. She had dined with international criminals and traveled in the company of dangerous men. She had survived malaria, tsunamis, dysentery and body cavity searches. This was simply another thing that was happening to her, another thing to survive.
“Ordinarily a member of our staff makes a home visit,” said the doctor.
Jessie thought about bringing a stranger to Luz’s place to poke around, ask nosy questions, point out hazards and shortcomings. “At the moment, I don’t have a permanent residence. I’d like some help finding a place after I finish the program,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Jessie had coldly and dispassionately determined that the most important thing in her life was her independence, and had sought out the best way to reclaim it despite what was happening to her. One of the most successful programs in the world happened to be right here, at the Beacon. It was an eight-week program—the first four in residence, training with a guide dog, followed by four weeks of intensive independent living classes. Everything was all set to go.
Everything except Jessie.
“All right,” said Dr. Margutti. “You’ll want to take full advantage of your visit today. My receptionist will show you how to get to the working campus. You’ll have a tour of the facility and meet some very special people.”
Down the elevator, across a footbridge and into a shuttle bus for a short ride to a low-key residential campus. A sign designating it as the Beacon For The Blind, Est. 1982 flanked the main gates. She’d seen pictures of it, but she could never envision herself here. Who would ever imagine a stint at a place like this?
The compound was dominated by a large building which housed common areas, classrooms, laboratories and a student and instructor wing. Footpaths of brick and gravel and packed earth crisscrossed the area, some of them marked with orange cones and obstacles, and through it all wound a busy paved road. She felt the hard bite of angry resentment as she walked down the halls to meet her doom. Each splash of color, each movement on the grounds, with their stately pecan trees, manicured lawns and contoured hills, fed her rage.
Even though she had begun planning this months ago, Jessie balked at the door. I don’t belong here. This is a place for blind people. She bit back a scream of protest, passed through the foyer and entered a conference area that resembled a cozy living room furnished with an overstuffed sofa and chairs and an adjacent lounge and dining room. French doors framed a cedar deck.
A woman crossed the foyer. “Jessie? I’m Irene Haven.”
Jessie recognized her voice instantly from their many phone conversations. “So here I am…at last.”
They shook hands. Irene’s grip was as calm and strong as her voice. She had clear green eyes, abundant dark hair, olive-toned skin and a face that was both attractive and kind in a no-nonsense way. “Let’s go out on the deck. I told Sully we’d join him there. We’re having such beautiful sunshine today.”
Jessie had also met Malachai Sullivan, the assistant director, via phone and e-mail as well. When she and Irene stepped outside, they found him seated at a large round table draped with a bright red cloth and littered with paperwork.
He was good-looking in an older-guy-in-shades-and-Levi’s way. “So you made it, little lady,” he said, greeting Jessie with a genial smile. He seemed to be a classic Texas gent, with a lazy drawl and engaging manner, and an intent way of focusing on Jessie as she took a seat across the table from him and Irene.
“I made it,” Jessie said. “I can’t believe I’m here.” She was awash in uncertainty and fear. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. She didn’t belong here, with blind people stumbling around, stripped of dignity and purpose. Except that she didn’t see anyone stumbling around. In the distance, two people walked along together, crossing the street, but they didn’t appear to be blind. Somewhere, the sound of barking dogs erupted, but she didn’t see the herds of noble, hardworking, harnessed beasts she’d expected.
“I know you’re familiar with our program,” said Irene, “but this is your first visit, so Sully will give you the VIP tour, as we do all our prospective clients.” She poured three glasses of iced tea. “Jessie, Sully, here you go. Welcome to the Beacon.”
Jessie took a sip of her tea, and Sully drank his practically in one gulp. “All right,” Jessie said. “Now what?” She laughed at the nervousness she heard in her own voice. “My God. I haven’t felt like this since rush week at UT.”
Consulting a thick file of notes about Jessie’s case, Irene said, “You’ve been through a lot, but you have strong advocates in Dr. Hadden and Dr. Tso. Both of them supported your application vigorously, Margutti signed off on you, so you’re good to go.”
“You mean you actually reject people?” Jessie was incredulous.
“Absolutely. The success of the program depends on effective use of our time and resources, and it simply doesn’t work for some people. So. Here are the essentials. The goal is to provide you with strategies for independent living.”
“Independent. How can I be independent if I can’t even fucking drive?” Jessie snapped, her anger spilling out.
“For one thing, you’ll redefine independence for yourself,” Irene said calmly. “What’s driving, anyway? It gets you from point A to point B. Sitting behind the wheel of a car isn’t the only way to do that. You’ll learn to look for other options. With your instructor and our staff, you’ll cover every aspect of living, from the moment you get up in the morning to the moment you go to bed. After four weeks on campus, you’re launched.”
“You can always come back here for support and retraining,” Sully pointed out. “This will be your home base, your resource center.”
“Great,” said Jessie, hating herself for her attitude, but hating even more the fact that she was here at all. “Hold the phone while I count my blessings.”
Sully refilled his tea glass. For all his charming ways, he was a bit of a slob, hooking an index finger over the rim of the glass as he poured. “You can’t stop this from happening. You can decide what you’re going to do about it. But I think we’ll skip the lecture on how blind people live productive lives and find meaning and fulfillment in their new situation.”
“Thank you. I don’t think I could stand that.”
Irene patted him on the arm. “Sounds like you can take it from here, partner. Take care, Jessie. See you at enrollment.”
See you. Jessie shuddered as Irene went inside.
Malachai Sullivan folded his hands on the table and gave her his complete attention. It was gratifying, the way he focused on her. For a moment, she flashed on the idea that her father, had he lived, might look something like Sully, with his neat salt-and-pepper hair, a face lined by experience and a fine mouth that managed to be pleasant even without smiling.
“It’s a rough transition for anyone,” he sai
d. “It’s hard on families as well, but you’ll need their support at this crucial time.”
“Not me,” she said swiftly, appalled. “In the first place, I don’t—” Even she couldn’t finish that part of the lie. “Look, my relatives are not going to be a part of this. I’m coming here alone, and things are going to stay that way.”
“Is that how things were before you became blind?”
“Actually, yes.”
“And is that the way you want things to be?”
She thought of Luz, Lila, the boys. Dusty and Amber. Her heart nearly burst with yearning. It took all her strength to say, “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“Maybe, maybe not. To be brutally honest, sometimes the most loving family members or spouses actually hinder the blind. They try too hard to help, and do too many of the things you’re perfectly capable of doing for yourself. Eventually you lose your skills and motivation to succeed. So a too-helpful relative can be harmful.”
The exact profile of Luz, Jessie realized, always doing for everyone else. She knew then that when she left, she wouldn’t tell Luz where she was going. She’d spare Luz the heartbreak and frustration. “I want to make it through the program on my own,” she told Sully. Then she stood. “So is this where I get my tour? I always wondered where they put the blind. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Very funny.”
Sully got up from the table and carefully, deliberately, pushed in his chair. Reaching down, he grabbed something from under the table, and Jessie was astonished to see that it was a short leash attached to the U-shaped harness of a large German shepherd, which hastened to its feet and snapped to attention.
Though Jessie made no sound, she must have betrayed her surprise somehow.
“This is Fred,” Sully said. At the sound of his name, the dog swished his bushy tail.
“Oh. I—um— I didn’t realize—” Flustered, she broke off.
“That I was blind?” He gave the dog a hearty pat, and Fred went around to Sully’s left side. “There are times when it hardly matters, like when I’m drinking a glass of iced tea or talking to a friend on the phone. Other times, it’s a major consideration, like when I’m crossing the street or playing shuffleboard.”
“Playing—” She looked up and down the shady quadrangle, seeing a network of footpaths and gardens.
“I really suck at shuffleboard.” He murmured a command, made a nearly imperceptible motion with his wrist and Fred forged to the edge of the walkway. “But I’m a remarkably good bowler.”
The campus of the Beacon was tauntingly close to the University of Texas main campus. Jessie remembered the traffic warning signs along the street: Blind Pedestrian Crossing. Years ago, she’d roared through that intersection without a second thought.
Sully gave her a tour of the facility, which was set up to address a blind person’s day-to-day routine, from organizing the bathroom to avoid brushing teeth with hair cream to labeling stove knobs and spices with Braille strips.
“You mean I’m going to cook blind?” Jessie whispered, watching an instructor help an old woman make an omelet.
“Sure.”
“Pretty amazing. I never could before.”
There was a bewildering and ingenious array of devices in what was known as the library, though it was damned noisy for a library. The new technology was incredible—talking books, narrated movies for the blind, computers that took live and recorded dictation and read text aloud.
“Some work better than others,” Sully explained about the movies.
“I can imagine.”
“This is generally everyone’s favorite part of the tour,” he said, leading the way to a gymnasium furnished with obstacles. They stopped in the doorway. A sign labeled the facility as Orientation And Mobility.
An instructor worked with a young, eager golden retriever named Flossie and a woman called Margaret, training the client every bit as intensively as she trained the dog. They went through the routine again and again, with the dog being persuaded, praised and corrected every step of the way. When it worked well, the two moved in a perfect unit; other times, the woman wandered, the dog hesitated and she nearly tripped over a rubber cone or smacked her head on a hanging object. The dog focused and concentrated with an intensity that seemed almost human. No, better than human. The dog seemed to have no motive beyond assisting the woman.
“You liked that,” Sully said when they left the area.
“Everybody likes pets.”
“Fred’s not a pet. No guide dog ever is. That’s one of the first things you’ll learn.” He led the way to an apartment and held open the door, letting Fred out of his harness. Instantly Fred became a typical dog, leaping on a much-chewed toy and dancing around the apartment.
“He’s as much a part of me as my ears or my hands,” Sully explained, his gentle self-assurance changing to solemn sincerity. “He’s more than a set of eyes, too. He thinks and judges for himself. He makes mistakes and gets things right.”
Jessie smiled. She liked Sully, liked him for his honesty, and for embodying the idea that being blind was not the unspeakable personal tragedy she’d been dreading. She liked the dog, too. “Is it okay to pet him?”
“Sure.”
She stroked the coarse-haired black-and-tan head, earning a canine groan of pleasure. “You must really love him.”
“What I feel for him goes so far beyond love that there’s really no word for it.” He spoke without false sentimentality. Reaching down, he held up two pillows from the couch. Each had been imprinted with a photograph of a child’s face. “My grandkids,” he explained. “I love them. They’re precious to me. But they aren’t my blood and bone like Fred is.”
“Do you see them often? I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Yes, I see plenty of them. They live over on Shoal Creek, and my daughter brings them to visit a couple of times a week.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Have you ever actually seen them?”
“No. I’ve been blind since 1972.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Sure, I’d like to see their faces. But I’ve held them. Kissed their cheeks, smelled their skin.” Grinning, he touched the strings of a guitar on a stand in the corner. “I’ve sung them to sleep, read them stories, even written original songs for them.”
“You write songs?”
He picked up the guitar, strummed a chord and sang, “Paul Murray Manufactured Homes…”
“Hey. I’ve heard that on the radio.”
“I write jingles. Not exactly great art, but fun enough. What do you do for a living?” Sully asked.
“I’m a photographer.”
His smile vanished. “I guess that’ll change, then.”
Jessie fought a scream, and tried to sound optimistic. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
CHAPTER 25
Luz had supper with the boys, because Ian had called to say he’d be late bringing Lila and Jessie home from the city. She was used to his missing dinner; that was the price they paid for living so far out in the country. Besides, she didn’t mind. There was something oddly comforting in preparing the coveted stovetop macaroni and cheese, and in the uncomplicated chatter of her sons as they consumed impossible quantities of chicken strips smothered in ketchup. Beaver sat at attention, watching the food go from plate to mouth like a spectator at a tennis match.
Although Luz would barely admit it to herself, she felt an easing of tension in Lila’s absence. It was a good move, she told herself, letting Jessie take charge of Lila for the day. Luz had to start getting used to the idea that Lila was growing up, seeking other mentors. Now if only she could get used to the idea of explaining Lila’s adoption to her.
She’d spent the day with Nell Bridger at her side, taking pictures of other people’s children. Once Nell explained the purpose of the article, it was exactly as Blair had predicted— people didn’t mind being photographed, even when they were showing raw emotion. In fact, some of them crowded
in, craving the validation of being photographed. Luz had faltered at first, then realized that this was little different from photographing her own children. You simply stepped out of the way and recorded their pain, relief, confusion, anger. She wondered why she’d stayed away from this for so long. The work was so gratifying that she’d nearly lost track of the time, and had to rush to pick up Scottie by carpool time. Perhaps the most surprising thing of all was that she actually had a shot at finishing the assignment, provided the parents and teachers proved to be as startlingly cooperative as the students were. She’d arranged meetings with several of them already. She felt a keen sense of their trust. They expected her to portray them with dignity; they wanted her pictures to show the depth and magnificence of their grief. And Luz felt confident in the work she’d done so far. She was good at this, even with unfamiliar equipment and a novice’s point of view.
“Some guy came and talked to our class today,” Wyatt said.
Owen made loud chugging noises as he inched a Hot Wheels Mustang along the edge of the table.
“What kind of guy?” Luz asked Wyatt.
“Some police guy.”
“I want to see the police guy,” Scottie said.
“What did he talk to your class about?” Luz asked, pushing preternaturally bright macaroni and cheese around on her plate.
“Safety and stuff.”
Owen’s Hot Wheels spun out and crashed off the edge of the table. “Aaaagh,” he said. “A hill-hopping tragedy.”
“Aaaagh,” echoed Scottie. “A hill-hopping tragelly.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Luz scowled at her middle son. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Owen Earl Benning. Why on earth would you say such a thing?”