by M. Leighton
“The bayou? Like New Orleans’ bayous?”
“Yep. Pretty flashy, huh?”
“I would’ve thought you’d already been. Are you not originally from Louisiana then?”
“No. Pennsylvania.”
“With a last name like de Champlain?”
“My father was born in Louisiana, but we never visited. Family issues. Harsh words, hard feelings. You know how that goes.”
“Yeah. I know how that goes.” All too well. “So, then how did you end up here?”
The melancholy deepens with her answer. “My parents are the tough love kind. Cold fish. When I lost my sight, they only let me leave school for one semester. They didn’t want me to come home and be ‘babied.’ Once I went back to college, it was hard to go home very often. The logistics of a blind girl traveling by herself is harder than you think, so I stayed in New York for the most part. It began to feel like home, the people there like my family. Even after I graduated, I stayed. I had my friends and my painting. A few years later, my best friend, Cherelyn, got an opportunity down here as an event planner. She’d been in a terrible breakup, one she still hasn’t recovered from by the way, and she needed a roommate. I needed a fresh start, and I’d always wanted to visit Louisiana, but Dad would never come so… Here I am.”
I nod, but then stop myself, remembering that she can’t see it. “So, why the bayou?”
“Are you always so nosey?” Her question is direct, but her expression is light.
“Yes. Always.” I don’t tell her that it seems I’m only this nosey where she is concerned. For some extremely perplexing reason, I want to know everything about her—what makes her tick, how she sees the world, what she wants out of life. How to keep her talking and laughing and edging her way closer to me, even though she doesn’t seem aware of doing it.
Her grin is wry, but at least she’s grinning. “When I was younger, I used to watch all the movies and read all the books I could about Louisiana. I always hoped Dad would take me, but…he never did. As I got older, the artist in me wanted to photograph it. It seemed like such an interesting place. The culture, the landscape. The environment—it’s all very unique. Lots of unusual things in this state, especially down around New Orleans.”
“So, then why haven’t you been yet?”
There is a long, telling pause. It looks like there are some questions she isn’t as comfortable answering as others.
“A lot of reasons.”
I decide not to push it and simply say, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.” As I watch, she abandons the moment of sadness, and I actually see her pull herself together. She straightens her spine, takes a deep breath, and smiles. Her guard is back up, optimism firmly in place. “But I have my painting.”
“And it’s seriously amazing. It’s still hard to believe you can do it without being able to see it. How do you do that?”
Evie moves the rest of the way to me, never missing a beat, and loops her arm through mine, saying, “Feed me and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Done. Where are we going?”
“I know a place. Come on.”
She leads me out of the building as though she has no trouble seeing where she’s going, then turns us onto the sidewalk.
Neither of us says anything as we walk. Oddly enough, it’s a comfortable silence. She seems to be enjoying the walk, and I’m enjoying her enjoying the walk.
It’s a warm autumn day and there’s a little bit of a breeze, just enough to ruffle Evie’s hair. She turns her face up to the sun often, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she remembering what it looks like? Can she see anything at all? The brightness of it, shapes, anything? Is she feeling, smelling, hearing things I’m not aware of? Or is she just feeling me, like I’m feeling her?
When we’re seated at a small table for two on the patio of a quaint bistro, Evie takes off her sunglasses and pins me with a stare that’s eerily seeing, even though it’s not.
“So ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“All the things you want to ask.”
She pops a piece of the fluffy bread the waitress set on the table into her mouth, her lips curved into a sexy half-smile as she chews.
“Okay, well… How do you do it? How do you paint like that? How do you remember the details of things so clearly?”
Her answer is immediate and deadpan. “Witchcraft.”
I eye her dubiously, forgetting again that she can’t see me doing it. “Are you ever serious?”
“Is that a real question? Because that was a real answer. Sort of. I’ve actually been accused of that before—witchcraft. People start getting all kinds of weird when they find out I’m blind and paint the way I do.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Not even a little.”
“Well, that’s some bullshit.”
“That’s what I say. With a smile, of course.” She demonstrates just such a smile, and I find myself answering it.
“Maybe you are a witch,” I muse quietly, more to myself than to her. Her hearing is far too sensitive to hide mutterings from her, though, and she grins in response. “So really, how?”
She shrugs, tearing off another piece of bread and laying it on her tongue like it’s the best kind of cotton candy. I’ve never seen someone savor food this way. Of course, I’ve never eaten with a blind person either.
I could watch her eat for hours.
“When I lost my sight, my whole life had been centered on my vision. If I wasn’t taking pictures, I was looking at everything as though I was viewing it through the lens of my camera. Everywhere I went, I analyzed color and shape and texture and shadow. Details most people never notice. So when I could no longer see those things, I had to dredge them up from memory. That’s when I began to relate everything to something I remembered seeing. The texture of burlap, the sheen of silk, the glow of moonlight. Colors, too. I imagine everything as it relates to something I’ve seen. Grass green, clown nose red, Prince purple, denim blue. There are thousands and thousands of pictures in my mind, all with subtle variations of color and texture. And all so vivid, like I saw them only yesterday. So when I began to paint, I would think about them in that way, like how much Hello Kitty pink I’d need to add to taxi cab yellow to get sunset orange. See what I mean?”
I nod slowly, even more fascinated by her now. By her talent and her tenacity. By what she’s made of her life, herself, her talent. Now I see what she meant about lemonade, see how she turned her life around.
I have to agree with Evie. She’s a damn good maker of lemonade.
“So, you can’t see anything at all?”
“Bright light gives me a headache, so I can see that if you want to call it ‘seeing’. I can…perceive brightness. And darkness. Some very vague shapes if they’re backlit.”
“That’s why the sunglasses sometimes then.”
She nods. “That’s why the sunglasses. Like the classroom. It’s so bright with natural light, it can sometimes give me a headache if it’s sunny. But more than that, I try to be considerate of others. Looking into eyes that don’t look back makes some people uncomfortable. I especially don’t want the kids to feel anything but at ease around me.”
“So, what you’re saying is you don’t care how I feel?” I tease.
She laughs. “Not in the slightest.”
“Well, just so you know, it doesn’t bother me at all. I love your eyes. Whether you can see with them or not, they’re beautiful.”
She merely smiles, making no comment.
“You’re not like other women,” I contemplate aloud.
“Gee, thanks,” she replies dryly, still savoring her bread.
“I mean that as the highest form of a compliment.”
“In that case… Gee, thanks,” she repeats. There’s amusement in her voice, though. And in her expression.
“You’re easy and relaxed. Natural. Fun. You make me feel that way, too.”
She pau
ses, her hand midway to her mouth with another pinch of bread. “Did you just call me easy?”
I laugh. “God, you’re impossible. That’s not what I meant at all. I mean that you’ve just got this way about you. Maybe it’s because you’re blind, because you’ve had to adjust and not take life and people too seriously. I don’t know, but…it’s a good thing. A very good thing.”
“My only other choice is to let this make me bitter and depressed and unhappy. And that’s not really a choice at all, is it?”
She doesn’t know it, but that statement just validated exactly what I was trying to say.
“Okay, enough of the compliments. I don’t want to give you a big head.”
“God forbid we make the blind woman feel good about herself,” she exclaims acerbically with a roll of her eyes. Her laugh lets me know she’s joking, though. Seems like most everything with her is lighthearted.
Most everything.
“So tell me about your life.”
“You know too much about me already. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”
“Compared to yours, my life is boring.”
“How so?”
“I’m in shipping. My days are mostly spent either on docks or in an office or traveling between the two.”
“Where do you ship from?”
“East coast. New York, Charleston, New Orleans.”
“That doesn’t sound boring.”
“Oh, it is. Trust me. Same old dingy scenery. Same old office view. They’re basically interchangeable.”
“Except when you come to an art show.”
“Yes. The highlight of my week.”
“What brings you to Shreveport then?”
“Business. Always business.”
“And how long are you staying?”
“Six days.”
“Do you have friends here?”
“I have friends all over. Some from college, some through business. Some I’ve met along the way in between.”
“And your date last night?”
She lowers her chin when she asks, trying to be casual. The gesture is proof the question is not casual at all.
I grin.
“Our fathers know each other. We dated for a while in college. On-again, off-again.”
“Was last night on-again?”
I know what she’s getting at. I know I should probably lie to ease her mind, but I can’t. After all that’s happened to her, she deserves better than lies if I can at all avoid them.
“It might’ve been had I not met you.”
“And how did she feel about that?”
“She’ll get over it,” I reply noncommittally. Julianne is nothing if not pragmatic. She’s cold in all her dealings, personal and otherwise. She’s probably already forgotten her spat of jealousy.
“You’re wasting your time, you know.”
My eyes dart up to hers, which are still cast down, away from me. Her voice is low and somehow hollow.
“Wasting my time with what?”
“Me. I can tell you exactly how this will go. It’ll be fun and different for a few days, and then you’ll realize that dating a blind girl is work, work you didn’t necessarily sign up for. And it won’t be me. It’ll be you. And there won’t be any hard feelings, at least not on your part. And you never meant to hurt me, but it just isn’t working out.”
I’m silent for a few seconds as I digest what she’s saying, where it’s coming from. She must’ve heard it all before. More than once.
“You’re even more amazing than I originally thought. I didn’t realize you could see the future, or that you knew my mind better than I do.”
She lifts one shoulder and lightly shakes her head. “I’ve been here before. Several times. You haven’t. I’m just telling you upfront.”
“Then why are you here? If that’s where you think this will go, if that’s the kind of man you think I am, why are you here?”
She raises her face and her sightless eyes to my level again, and smiles a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Because I’m hungry?”
“Are you even going to give me a chance? Give this a chance?”
“Not if I’m smart.”
“So, there’s no changing your mind?”
“I didn’t say that. You could very easily change my mind. I just doubt that you will.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “How many dates are we talking about here? What’s the cut-off?”
“You’re only in town for six days. Does it matter?”
“Answer the question.”
“Four. Max.”
“Four? Pffff, I’ve got this in the bag.”
“Not four casual lunches. I’m talking four real dates, where things start to get complicated. Four occasions when you realize that you can’t take me to the movies or to an art show or to the ballet. Four times that you have to rethink your habits and preferences because the woman you’re seeing is blind. The fourth time is when you’ll really start to notice that I cramp your style.”
“And if I make it past four, will you at least agree to give me a real chance?”
“I told you it would be easy for you to change my mind. It just won’t be easy for you.”
“But on these four dates, you’ll hold up your end of the bargain and go along with me? Be willing to try what I suggest?”
“Depends on what you suggest. Are you asking me if I’ll have sex with you?”
“No, I’m not talking sex. Unless you insist. I mean, what kind of man would I be to deny you something if you’re really dead set on it?” I wish she could see my grin.
“You really do have a big imagination.”
At that, I laugh.
“So, deal? You go along with all my nonsexual suggestions?”
She hesitates, but not too long. “Deal.”
“Great. Game on!”
She’s shaking her head again, murmuring, “Another one bites the dust.”
“Four dates and I’m gonna have you singing ‘I Want It All’.”
“A Queen fan, are you?”
“Who’s not?”
“Your favorite song isn’t ‘Fat Bottom Girls’, is it?”
An ass reference. I love it.
“Can I plead the fifth?”
She shakes her head again, but at least this time her smile is back.
CHAPTER 7
EVIE
WHEN LEVI found out (during the course of our long, long lunch) that I used to run, he made me promise to meet him outside the building where my Healing Art class is at ten AM, wearing tennis shoes and the shortest shorts I own. I told him I’d do no such thing, but I think he knew I would (at least the meeting him part), so here I am, standing on the curb outside the Boyd Center, waiting.
“Those aren’t nearly as short as I was hoping they’d be,” comes his deep and familiar voice from behind me. It sends shivers of delight skittering through me like miniature bolts of lightning. Zing, zing, zing.
“The only thing I own that’s shorter than these is a bathing suit. Did you want me to show my entire ass?”
“Is that a trick question?”
I roll my eyes.
“Fine. Those will do. Probably better, in fact. This way I don’t have to fight off every man in the city.”
“Every man in the city? Where, exactly, are we going?”
“On a run.”
I become immediately nervous and uncomfortable. “A run? Uhhh, did you forget that I’m blind?”
“Nope. Did you forget that you agreed to do what I suggest, as long as it’s not sexual?”
Shit, I did agree to that.
“Activities that put my life, my bones, or my front teeth in peril were excluded in Clause 42161-A of our agreement.”
“You’re a very specific liar.”
“I told you I pay attention to details.”
“Then you won’t have any trouble with this.”
“Running? On actual ground, not a treadmill?”
“I Googled it. It can be done.”
“Because everything you read on the internet is true, right?”
“Of course,” he answers without missing a beat. “We’ll go slow. I promise you will lose neither life nor tooth today. Trust me.”
It’s not lost on me that he makes no mention of my bones. And possibly breaking some of them.
“Where are you taking me?”
He describes a running trail that he swears is flat and smooth, and snakes along the river. It begins just a short distance from where we are right now.
Part of me is reluctant, but another part of me is excited by the idea, by the prospect of feeling such an unusual level of freedom. I’m left feeling more than a little conflicted. “How did I let you talk me into this?”
“I caught you at a weak moment? I’m too charming to resist? You wanted to see my world-class legs? Oh, scratch that one.”
I would love to see his world-class legs!
I sigh. “Well, let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”
“The only bad part of this outing will be that I can’t run behind you. That view… It’s a travesty to miss it, but I’m willing to forego it for you.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“God, I hope so.”
I imagine him winking at me. A gesture like that seems to fit his personality. And this conversation.
When he offers me his arm to hold as we walk across the street, I have to ask. “Did you just wink at me?”
He stops walking. His answer is slow. Suspicious. “Maybe. Why?”
“Stop being so paranoid. I didn’t see it. It just seemed to fit.”
“Perceptive. I like that in a woman.”
“That and short shorts.”
“Of course. I’m not an animal.”
I chuckle, letting him lead me over the pavement in the bright fall sun. It warms my face almost as much as the man at my side is warming my heart.
I direct my attention to the fingers of my left hand that are looped through the bend of his elbow. I can just feel the swell of his bulging bicep above them, and it’s all I can do to keep from running my hand up over it, testing the solid strength of him.