by M. Leighton
********
Morning number four brings another delivery. I’m already awake when the bell rings.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery for Ms. de Champlain.”
I grin, wondering if this is going to be an every day type thing and what he’ll send each time.
I swing open the door, and a small box is thrust into my arms.
“Have a nice day.”
“Oh, you, too,” I rush to say, the delivery person’s footsteps already receding.
I take the box back inside and pull off the top. I reach inside, and my fingers meet a cloud of what feels like the stuffing that my mother used to put inside my Easter basket when I was a kid. It’s dry and light, sort of like dead grass. I take a moment to sniff, to note any fragrance that might explain the substance, but there is none.
“What the hell?” I mutter, searching through the pile for what might be buried within it. But, as far as I can tell, the box is empty but for the fluffy packing.
Luckily, I hear Cherelyn’s door open, and she makes her way right to me where I stand in the living room. She stops just shy of my right shoulder, and I imagine her bending down to look into the box.
“Is that a box of Spanish moss?”
“Ahhhh Spanish moss,” I say, comprehension dawning on me. My lips curve into a lopsided smile. “Yes, I imagine that it is.”
“Why would he send you a box of Spanish moss?”
“So I’d know what it feels like.”
“Weirdo,” my roommate mutters as she walks off toward the kitchen. I don’t follow her. Instead, I put my hand back inside the box and let the thin strings of moss tangle around my fingers.
“No, not weird,” I whisper. “Not weird at all.”
********
On morning number five, I’m up and racing to the door before the bell can sound a second time. Like Pavlov’s dogs, I’m quickly becoming conditioned to receiving deliveries first thing in the morning.
I streak through the apartment, squealing when Cherelyn rounds the corner and runs into me. We both giggle.
“These aren’t even for me and I’m excited,” she declares, delight evident in her tone.
“Who is it?” I call.
“Delivery for Evian de Champlain,” a young male voice recites.
“Wonder what it will be today,” I muse.
I hear Cherelyn click open the little brass covering to the peephole and then let it fall back shut.
“I don’t know, but it looks like a bike messenger.”
“Delivering? Or is that the present?”
“If you had a boyfriend that sent you another man as a present, I’d fight you for him.”
“The boyfriend or the other man?”
In her pause, I can almost hear her shrugging. “Hell, I’d take either one.”
I nudge her toward the knob and locks. “Well, open it, woman. I need to know!”
She flips the first lock and then pauses again. “You know, maybe I should be collecting these and throwing them right in the trash. I mean, if you know you can’t forgive the guy, what’s the point in accepting his gifts?”
It’s my turn to pause as I mull over her question. When I can’t come to a conclusion that would satisfy either of us, I push her out of the way. “Move it! I’m answering the door.”
I feel for the remaining locks, flicking them open and twisting the knob.
“Evian de Champlain?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Delivery for you, ma’am. Can you sign here?”
Cherelyn pushes in beside me, ostensibly intercepting the clipboard. “You can give her the package, and I’ll sign that. She’s blind.”
“Oh, sorry,” comes the guy’s uncomfortable response.
I hate that. I always have. The way it makes people so uncomfortable to learn that I’m blind, like they’ve somehow done something wrong or something to offend me. It makes me feel bad that I make them feel bad, even though it’s not purposeful. That’s just the way this works. I feel bad, they feel bad. Everybody feels bad. There’s no changing it, but sometimes humor helps to ease the tension.
“Don’t apologize. I don’t wear a sign, although maybe I should,” I tease.
I’m greeted with an uneasy, obligatory laugh and I imagine that the delivery kid can’t get out of here fast enough.
I know the moment Cherelyn finishes signing. The guy mumbles a garbled, “Thank you. Have a nice day,” and then practically runs away.
“Scared off another one. You’re getting really good at this,” Cherelyn says as she shuts the door behind us.
“All in a morning’s work.”
“Well, open it up. Let’s see what he sent today.”
Pleasure is rippling through me as I break the thin bands of tape that secure all four sides of a flat, rectangular box. When I pull off the top, I feel tissue paper covering something soft, like a bundle of material.
I push the folds of paper aside, and scent curls up toward my nose in long, lazy invisible wisps. I smell Levi. Heady yet subtle, his musk unmistakable. But it’s not just Levi I smell. I also smell paint, an aroma that’s as familiar to me as coffee and chocolate and smoke. It’s a unique combination, one that evokes a barrage of imagery.
My chest tightens painfully.
I know what I’ll find in the box before I even touch the rich linen fabric. It’s Levi’s shirt. The one he wore back from New Orleans. The one he wanted me to wear while I painted him. The one he took with him when he left.
I curl both hands into the soft material and hold it to my nose, burying my face in the front along the buttons. Tears sting my eyes. It’s almost like Levi is here in the room with me, saying what I long to hear, holding me close.
Only he’s not.
Before I can get sucked into a black hole of despair, Cherelyn pulls me back.
“There’s a card,” my friend announces quietly. She doesn’t wait for me to feel for it or open it. I hear the shifting of paper on paper as she opens the envelope and takes out the treasure inside.
When she opens the card, it triggers a recording, and Levi’s voice fills the room.
Painfully, like a car with a bad engine struggling to run, fighting to keep going, my heart lurches.
“This shirt is one of the two most valuable things I own. The other is my heart. Now you have both. I…I hope you can forgive me. One day.”
Silence fills the room when his voice fades. I feel that Cherelyn has left as well, leaving me alone with one unbearable thought.
I miss him! Oh, God, oh God! I miss him so much!
I fold over at the waist, covering my face, my nose, my mouth with his shirt, inhaling to pull his scent into me, exhaling on a sob that’s drowned within the folds of the fabric.
What am I going to do?
CHAPTER 28
LEVI
I THOUGHT Evie might call me after I sent the shirt.
But she didn’t.
I still haven’t heard from her.
I should probably just leave her alone. I should probably give up.
I wish it were that simple. That I was that strong.
But it’s not. I’m not.
I can’t give up. I can’t. Not yet.
Not until she tells me she never wants to see me or hear from me again. Anything short of that is just not good enough. And even then, I’m not sure I would be able to walk away. She owns too much of me now.
That’s why I find myself at the door to her classroom again. I’m late, so I creep in, holding up my finger to my lips to shush the kids when they spot me walking in.
I look to the front of the class to see if Evie noticed. She paused briefly, but resumed whatever she was saying right away.
I take a seat near the back. A little boy has claimed my seat beside Alana, which is probably a good thing. She tends to want to chat, and her whispers are anything but quiet.
I ease into a chair, careful not to shift and make it creak, and then I turn all m
y attention to Evie.
She looks amazing today. She’s wearing a red tank top with white and yellow paint splatters on the front, jeans with a hole in the knee and paint on one leg, and her same paint-splattered shoes. Her hair is up in a messy twist, and I’m pretty sure a more gorgeous person has never crossed my path. Ever.
“So that’s why we won’t have class next week. I don’t really know what to expect, but we can meet the following week. By then I’ll know how the surgery went.”
“You might can see us when you come back, Ms. Evie?”
Alana. I could hug her for asking that question, inadvertently catching me up with the conversation.
“Maybe.”
Evie’s voice sounds hopeful, but also…wary. And the way she’s rubbing her palms on her jeans looks an awful lot like she’s nervous.
“Are you scared?”
“A little, but I’m going to be brave and do this anyway. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Y’all aren’t getting rid of me that easily,” she says with a smile. She clears her throat before she changes the subject, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “So, what are we painting today?”
I see Alana turn in her chair to look at me. I shrug, holding my hands palm up, and she grins.
When the seconds tick by and no one answers, Evie laces her fingers together and looks at me so directly, I wonder if there’s any way she could be looking me in the eye from behind her glasses. “Can I speak with you in private?”
There’s no doubt she’s speaking to me. Every kid in the class who can see turns to look in my direction.
“Of course,” I reply sheepishly. It’s hard as hell to put something over on Evie. She’s blind for God’s sake and she’s still more perceptive than ninety percent of the people I know.
I get up and weave between the chairs and easels, making my way to the front of the room. When I’m within a couple of feet of her, the light scent of sweet oranges teases my nose. I take a breath and gulp it down, breathe her in. Jesus, I’ve missed that.
“Don’t,” she mutters before she turns and walks cautiously out the door she always comes in through.
I follow her into a small teacher’s room of sorts. The thing I notice most is that it smells like her. Her unique fragrance is even stronger here, I guess because her things are lying across the back of a chair that’s pushed up to an old desk.
She stops and turns to face me, her eyes obscured by her sunglasses.
“You can’t be here.”
I swallow my sigh of exasperation.
This is the only way I can see her, and it kills me to think of her taking that away. Because she could. I love her enough to honor her wishes. If she asks me to stay away from her class, I will. I’ll hate it. But I’ll do it.
“Why?”
“Because this isn’t a place for you to come and plead your case. It’s—”
“I didn’t come to plead my case. I swear.”
“Then why did you?”
“To see you.”
“To see me. Not to talk to me? Or to try to convince me that I’m wrong to shut you out?”
“No. Just to see you. If you hadn’t acknowledged me today, I wouldn’t have said a word. I know better than to try to convince you that you’re wrong.”
“You do? And why is that?”
“Because you’re not wrong,” I say quietly. “You have every right to want me out of your life. If it were me, I’d hate me. I’d probably never forgive me.”
“Then why are you here?”
I reach up to stroke her cheek, the urge to touch her so strong it physically burns in my fingertips, but I stop myself. I don’t think she’d want that, so I let my hand drop to my side. “Because I’m hoping you aren’t like me. I’m hoping that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Punish me some other way. Call the cops. Tell the world what my father did. Tell the world what I did. Just please, please, please don’t hate me. I…I couldn’t live with that.”
I see her brow wrinkle. I see the way her lips move like she’s going to say something, but then doesn’t. I hold my breath until she speaks.
“I…I don’t hate you.”
Those words… I slowly exhale. I want to ask her to say them again, to say them over and over and over. Because they mean there’s hope.
“That’s more than I should ask for. More than I deserve. I know that, but…”
“But?”
“But there’s something else.”
Her expression is wary. “What is it?”
“I’m also hoping…really hoping…that you’ll give me the chance to prove myself to you.”
“I gave you that chance already. Four dates, remember?”
“Yes, you did, but I didn’t get all my dates.”
“And that’s my fault?” She goes from wary to incensed, and I can’t help smiling at her rosy cheeks and fiery expression.
“Hell, no! I did that to myself. I’m just saying, asking, begging you to give me another chance. Just one more chance before you say goodbye. Before it’s forever.”
Her chin begins to tremble, and I feel like shit for bringing on the tears that I see snake their way down her smooth cheek.
“Why can’t I just hate you? It would be so much easier,” she moans softly.
“Please don’t cry, Evie.”
“I-I-I can’t help it.”
“I have never wanted to make you cry, even though it looks like that’s all I’m ever able to do.”
She sniffles a few times and then admits, “No, it’s not. Things were good, and I was happy, for a little while.”
“Before,” I say on a sigh.
“Yes. Before.”
“Would you please let me stay today? Please. I won’t make a sound. I just want to…I just want to watch you paint. See you smile. Hear you laugh. Please.”
She sniffs and wipes her face with the back of her hand. “I don’t know Levi. I… This is so hard for me and…” She trails off, and my hope is bolstered even more. She’s wavering and that means I have a chance. Whether she knows it or not, whether she’ll admit it or not, there’s a chance. And as long as there’s a chance, I’m not giving up.
“Please, Evie. Please.”
I don’t know what facts, what details she’s turning over in her head, but I can see the indecision. Unfortunately, I can also see when she finds her resolve.
And it does not go in my favor.
She stands up a little taller, raises her chin a little higher. She’s trying to be strong, strong against someone she thinks will hurt her again. She thinks I’m that guy—the one who hurt her twice already and is sure to do it again. But I’m not. I’m not that guy. I just don’t know how to make her see that. “I’m sorry, Levi, but no. I need you to leave.”
Even though I knew it was coming, her words are like a punch to the gut.
“Evie, I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing without you. I don’t know how to make you see what you’ve done to me, what you’ve been to me, what you’ve become to me. You’re…everything and I—”
“Levi, please, just go,” she says, her voice a water color portrait of sad blues and hurt oranges.
I tamp down the urge to argue, to plead. She’s not ready for this, even though I am, and I will respect that. No matter how much it hurts.
“Can I at least come to see you in the hospital?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Her words sound so…final. They feel like a door slamming—and locking—right in my face.
I close my eyes, drop my head. “Jesus, Evie, please. Please don’t do this.”
“I’m not doing anything, Levi. You did it all by yourself.”
I jerk up at that. I watch as Evie squares her shoulders, turns around, and walks back out the door without another word. I’m standing by myself, looking at the empty space where she stood, wondering what the hell to do now. I can’t do this again—watch her walk away. I can’t watch her w
alk out of my life. I can’t let her push me away for good.
I can’t.
I have to keep trying.
I have to.
CHAPTER 29
EVIE
MY LIFE, my heart, my whole existence has come down to this: An endless string of questions in the night, questions that have no concrete answers.
I should be sleeping right now. My surgery will take place in less than six hours. In less than five hours, I’ll be getting up to shower so Cherelyn can drive me to the hospital. In less than twelve hours, I’ll be wheeled into a room. And in less than a week, I’ll be taking off the bandages that cover eyes that may work again.
So I should be resting, charging my batteries for the battle ahead.
But I’m not.
Instead, I’m lying awake, in my perpetual state of darkness, thinking.
Thinking, thinking, thinking.
Worrying, worrying, worrying.
I’m not afraid to have the procedure done per se. Not for the reasons one might think. I mean, worst-case scenario, I could lose my sight.
Oh, wait. Been there, done that. Not too concerned.
I guess in the absence of that, my worst-case scenario is not regaining my sight. At all. Not even a little bit. That doesn’t worry me nearly as much as it should. I hope that’s not what happens. I hope the surgery is a success, but I’ve learned to adjust to life without sight. I suppose it won’t be the end of the world if I don’t ever see again.
In six hours, either everything will change or nothing will. My future has never been more uncertain. That might be the worst part of all of this—the uncertainty. The waiting. The wondering. Not knowing what my tomorrows will hold.
What if I do regain my sight? Will it change me? I don’t see how it couldn’t. Will I become someone else entirely? What if it changes the very core of me into someone I don’t even recognize?
And will it change my work? What if I can’t paint with eyes that see? Can I just blindfold myself for the rest of my life? And will people even want those paintings anymore?
What if everything I’ve worked for, the person I’ve become, will cease to exist the moment I regain my vision? Would it be worth it to see again? Is it psychotic that I’d even question it?