Dashing Through the Snow

by M. Leighton

  “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be nervous? This is my opening after all.”

  Just saying the words out loud causes my insides to dance and fidget. This is my opening, for my work. Holy shit!

  “Oh, God!” I exclaim, my fingers tightening over the back of her hand. “I may hurl.”

  That snaps her out of it.

  “Stop that! Stop that right this minute! You’re going to pull yourself together and go out there and charm the pants off of every person in that room. It’s what you do. It’s who you are. Now let’s do this.”

  Cherelyn is the type of person who can’t be calmed by anyone when she gets in a snit. However, if she feels like she has to be strong for someone else—me, for instance—she’ll puke and rally (hopefully without the puking). It’s like she kicks into best friend mode. Shamefully, I sort of use that when I need to calm her. Kind of like reverse psychology. I let her come to my rescue. Even though I wasn’t entirely exaggerating about the throwing up part. I genuinely feel queasy.

  Regardless, I continue with my role. “Okay, okay, okay. Go introduce me then. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

  She doesn’t budge, but after a short pause, she gives me a request that has become something of a game between us. “Tell me about the blonde first.”

  I smile.

  We’ve done this since I started to get back out into the social world my junior year of college. I make up stories about the people I can’t see. It used to ease my tension and lighten my mood, make me feel less nervous and self-conscious, but it didn’t take long for either of us to realize that it worked just as well for Cherelyn.

  “The blonde with the big mouth? That one?”

  “Yeah, her.”

  I lower my voice like I’m telling State secrets. “She says her name is Petunia, but I heard through the grapevine that her stage name was Pussy Aplenty. You know, sorta like that Bond girl. Anyway, she’s an ex-porn star who took out a second mortgage to pay for her triple F boobs and then got a job as a fluffer for John Holmes. Rumor has it that he broke her gag reflex and she became a star overnight. She can swallow anything without barfing. You should probably keep all the men away from her.”

  Cherelyn giggle-snorts, and I can feel some of her tension melt away as she relaxes, leaning against my side to rest her head against mine. “You should write stories.”

  “I do. I just don’t use words.”

  “You use paint. And you’re damn good at it, too. Maybe you should paint Porn Star Petunia one of these days.”

  “I’d need the side of a building to do those boobs justice. Not my style. Sorry.”

  “Eh, a girl can hope.”

  Suddenly, I’m pulled into a tight embrace and kissed on the cheek. “You’re gonna be a star, Evie. A bona fide star.”

  “I’d settle for enough money to pay my bills and not have to do the classes.”

  “But you love teaching those classes.”

  “I do, but I hate taking money for it. I do it because I want to help those kids. It seems…dirty to get paid for it. I’d rather be able to do them for free. I’d feel much better about it.”

  “You get paid because the companies that donate to Healing Art need a tax write-off. You shouldn’t feel bad for taking their money. Those rich assholes can afford it and they undoubtedly need some good karma. Look at it as a service to the kids and the tyrants.”

  “You’re not bitter at all,” I assert dryly.

  “You forget. I know how those people work. I grew up in it. Lived around that corporate bullshit for half my life and was engaged to one for way too long. It’s an ugly, ugly business. Rich people can be so cruel, so ruthless. Unscrupulous. I mean, look at what happened to you!”

  I close my unseeing eyes. I hate going back down that road. I’ve spent a lot of years letting it go, refusing to spend one more minute of my life dwelling on something I can’t change. Cherelyn is still furious about it, but I’m tired of wasting my energy. I’d much rather just move on and find a way to be happy without becoming consumed with the person who wrecked my life.

  “I think I’ve done a pretty good job of making lemonade from those lemons, don’t you think?”

  There’s a long, thoughtful pause as Cherelyn takes the hint and abandons that sore subject. “You’re the best maker of lemonade that I know.”

  “Then how’s about going out there and introducing me so they don’t think I’m a no-show?”

  She takes a deep breath. She’s bolstering herself. I can imagine her squaring her shoulders almost as clearly as I heard her suck in a gulp of courage. “I’ll make you proud.”

  “You always do. But don’t make me sound like a superhero this time. That gets a little awkward.”

  “What? You didn’t like my Dare Devil reference when we pitched to that new company who wanted to donate to Healing Art last week?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Hell no! I thought they loved it. I mean, they donated enough to keep it going for, like, three years. In fact, I considered dressing you in red leather tonight just for effect.”

  “Note to self: Never let Cherelyn pick out my clothes again.”

  “Like I’d be able to pull that over on you anyway. You’re too damn smart and…sensey. I can’t even get you to wear a sheer blouse because you can feel the difference in the way the air flows over your skin. Weirdo.”

  I shrug, unconcerned. “Comes with the territory. Lose your sight and everything else starts working overtime.” I pretend glance down at a watch I’m not wearing and couldn’t see even if I were. “Speaking of time…”

  “Shit! Right. I’m going, I’m going.”

  I grin as she takes off like a shot. I hear the light click of her hurried steps as she walks briskly across the gallery floor. Seconds later, I hear the delicate clink of metal against glass as she taps her champagne flute to get the attention of the crowd. Her voice rises above the ambient noise, and she gives a blissfully short introduction.

  “Now, the woman of the hour. Please welcome Evian de Champlain.”

  I inhale, memorizing the scent of this moment, the taste and texture of it. I lock it away in a room all its own. It deserves its own space since it’s the first of my dreams to come true. I’ll revisit these details hundreds of times before I die. Maybe paint something to give it life outside my head.

  Hesitantly, I start out across the gallery. The light tap tap, tap tap of my cane’s tip grazing the floor is enough to quiet the audience. Silence falls around me like dusk, and I imagine that all eyes turn to watch me enter.

  I squeeze the grip of my cane, the fingers of my free hand trembling at my side. My lips wobble as I attempt to keep my smile in place.

  I count each step, having rehearsed this entrance a dozen times in the last week. There are forty-eight of them from the back doorway to the center of the room. I’m on twenty-three.

  Twenty-four.

  Twenty-five.

  Twenty-six.

  So far, so good.

  I hear hushed murmurs and the soft slap of skin meeting skin as someone begins to clap. Others join in, and a subdued applause welcomes me to one of my biggest goals in life.

  The moment is magical. Exquisite. Surreal. I’m so caught up in the splendor of it that the sound of something dropping and rolling across the floor barely registers in my mind. I only feel the rush of accomplishment. I only hear the heavy beat of my own heart. I only smell victory.

  That is, until my foot skids over something and sends me tumbling backward. Then I hear nothing but my own gasp, one of surprise and humiliation.

  It happens in slow motion, my blunder. Or at least it feels like it does. One foot flips out from under me, causing me to lose my balance. My other foot wavers unsteadily on my three-inch heel. My fingers open reflexively, and my cane goes flying out…somewhere. My arms flail as I reach out for stability and find nothing but air. And my face… I hate to even imagine what my expression is like.


  I’m going to fall.

  In an art gallery.

  On opening night.

  On my opening night.

  In front of an assortment of rich and powerful people.

  And just like that, my confidence, my moment, my dream comes crashing down around me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact. I know I’m racing toward the hard ground and can’t do a damn thing about it.

  But that impact never comes.

  Instead, I’m caught by a strong arm and jerked up against a warm body. A chest, I imagine. A wide one that’s as solid as a brick wall and as welcome as a feather mattress.

  It takes me a second to realize I’m safe, but the instant I do, I turn my face into the expensive material of my savior’s jacket and hide. It’s the only thing I can do, because facing all these people is obviously out of the question. At least for a few more seconds. A few more heartbeats.

  It’s during those few heartbeats of reprieve that some part of my humiliated brain notices two things, two very specific details, and tucks them away in an empty corner of my mind, to be taken out and looked at—and likely enjoyed—again later.

  Much later.

  Scent. The scent of the man holding me is curved as tightly and protectively around me as his arms. It’s a dark, manly aroma, equal parts high speed car chase and hot wax dripping onto bare skin. Inanely, I think to myself that this must be what heaven smells like. This man.

  The second thing I notice is that where my breathing is erratic and shallow, his is deep and even. Measured. He is the calm in my storm, solid and steady and…comforting in an odd sort of way, like he has me and I don’t need to worry.

  But that’s only one small part.

  The rest of my brain? It’s in a tizzy.

  As I’m nearly hyperventilating into this random guy’s tuxedo, I become aware that my fingers have a death grip on his lapels, and I’m holding on like white clinging to rice, even though I can feel how strong he is and that there’s probably zero chance of him dropping me. Still, I’m not letting go until I absolutely have to. Held against him is a very nice place to wither and die if one must.

  As my flustered mind begins to clear, I listen to the utter silence around me. That’s when the tears, a bitter mixture of humiliation and gratitude, begin to prickle at the backs of my eyes.

  I know everyone else is feeling as uncomfortable as I am. They don’t know what to do or what to say, so they do and say nothing. They just watch as the poor blind girl struggles to get her bearings.

  Moments tick by, moments long enough to die a thousand deaths within. They’re painful and tense and never-ending.

  Finally, the man who caught me begins to straighten, slowly settling me on my feet. For one panicked second, I consider asking him not to let go. His hold on me feels so good. So strong. So…right somehow. It’s been years since I’ve been held this way. So many I’ve lost count. However, I know I will need to move eventually.

  Two big hands come to my upper arms to steady me. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a low, deep whisper.

  My chin trembles embarrassingly, but I manage to nod and attempt a smile.

  “Can I help you to the front?”

  I nod again, forcing my fingers to relax their hold on him. When they do, he slides his grasp down my arms and entwines the fingers of his right hand with my left, then gently turns me toward what I assume is the front of the room. My spill caused me to lose my orientation in space, and I have no idea which way I’m supposed to go.

  I let him guide me until he slows to a stop and nudges me to turn again, presumably to face the attendees. I blink against the brightness of the overhead lights as I look out, unseeing, into the crowd. I’m glad for once that light and dark are the only things I can perceive. It hurts to even imagine the pity in their expressions.

  I clear my throat. This will be my first speech. Given to patrons who came to see my work on opening night. My first ever opening night. This is one of the most important nights of my entire life and…the words won’t come out.

  After long, strained seconds, some finally do, but they’re nothing like the ones I prepared. At this point, however, I just want to welcome everyone and excuse myself to go shrivel up and blow away in peace.

  I swallow once.

  Then I swallow again, willing the lump in my throat to go away.

  “Thank you all for coming. Everything you’ll find on these walls tonight represents something that inspired me when I could see. These images stuck with me, and now they’re all I can see. I hope you find something here that inspires you as well.” After a short pause, I add, “And be careful. The floors are booby-trapped.”

  I hear a few hesitant laughs, so I smile, I nod, and then I turn to the man at my side and say, “Would you mind escorting me to the ladies’ room?”

  “No, of course not,” he replies, his words nearly drowned out by a second, louder round of applause.

  With one hand at my lower back, the other still holding the tips of my fingers, my rescuer guides me away from the electric buzz of people, away toward the quiet. I can hear the way it sounds as we approach, the silence. It has this empty, flat quality about it that can’t be duplicated. Like it swallows up sound, and that sound is never to be heard from again. And, right now, I crave that emptiness, that swallowing like I crave air and sight.

  The instant we step into the back room, the coolness of the dark envelops me. In here, there is no hum of florescent lights, there is no humidity from dozens of other bodies, there is no soft murmuring about what just happened. There is only the echo of my own sigh as it bounces off the walls and returns to me in a whisper.

  I reach out until I feel something solid, and I sag against it. I take a deep, steadying breath and exhale slowly.

  “You can go now. Thank you very much for your help. I’m sure my friend will bring my cane shortly,” I tell the man who’s been kind enough to assist me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be completely and utterly alone in my mortification.

  “I don’t mind staying until you’re ready to go back out there.”

  “I won’t need any more help, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “It would make me feel better.”

  I release another breath, half-cry, half-groan, and let my head fall back against the wall. “Please. Just go. It makes it worse to be treated like a frail blind woman.”

  “Am I treating you like a frail blind woman?”

  “A little, yes.”

  “I didn’t intend to. I don’t see you as frail, but… you are blind.”

  “No shit,” I snap.

  I regret it immediately.

  “Sorry. I…I just...I just hate being treated differently.”

  “People who treat you with compassion don’t mean it to be insulting, I’m sure.”

  “I know, but I still don’t want to be treated differently. I get so tired of it—the stuttering and stammering. I get so tired of being tiptoed around. For once, just once, I want to be treated like every other woman on the planet.”

  There is a short pause before he responds, a response I was far from expecting. “Would it make you feel any better if I hit on you?”

  Stunned, I raise my head, and my mouth drops open.

  “Out of pity? Seriously?” Now I am insulted. “No. I’m pretty sure that would just send me on a mission to find the necessary materials for making a noose.”

  “You know how to make a noose?” he asks incredulously.

  “Beside the point,” I growl.

  “Right. But what if I meant it? What if I wanted to hit on you? What if I’m intrigued by a woman who knows how to make a noose?”

  I sigh.

  I give up. I’m too exhausted for this.

  “I’d say you should wait until she’s had time to recover her wits and piece her pride back together.”

  “Is that going to take a while?”

  “Depends on how long you stand here arguing with me.”
/>   “Are we arguing?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Already?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Wow. I’ve never argued with a woman before I’ve kissed her.”

  “Your kissing induces arguments? Maybe you should work on that.”

  His voice drops to a quiet, sensual rumble. “Is that an offer to help me with my kissing?”

  “If I say yes, will it make you go away?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then yes, it’s an offer to help you with your kissing.”

  “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Later, of course. After you’ve recovered your wits and pieced your pride back together.”

  I feel the corners of my mouth threatening to curl up into a reluctant smile. “Fine, but this is a limited time offer. You have to leave now and let me mourn in solitude or the deal is off.”

  I hear him draw closer. His body, which must be big and dense, blots out more of the noise coming from the next room. It narrows the sounds to only the ones we’re creating—the rush of breath between us, the thud of my heart, the shift of his expensive tux on his skin. It makes it seem like we’re more alone than we are.

  His voice is a mere vibration that resonates in my chest. “There’s nothing to mourn. All those people are here to meet the brilliant artist behind these beautiful paintings. That hasn’t changed.”

  I feel his closeness, too. It leaves me breathless with a strange anticipation. The heat from him radiates toward me, causing chills to break out down my arms and, if I’m being honest, it scrambles what’s left of my brain. That’s why I say the first thing that pops into my head.

  “You…you smell like the woods after it rains at night.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. Like sweet moss and musk and midnight.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No. It’s not a bad thing. It’s…soothing.”

  He says nothing for a long while, not until I both feel and hear him step back. “I’ll take soothing. For now. See you out there, Ms. de Champlain.”

  I make no move to respond as I listen to the heavy thump of his footsteps get farther and farther away.