His Eyes

by Renee Carter

  “Oh, that’s fine.” Her smile wavered and she gestured toward the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat?” I did and she continued, “I spoke with Tristan. He can be very stubborn. He’s set against you, I’m afraid. He was the same with everything else, the specialists and books and all....”

  I frowned. There was no way I was losing my chance at Evanston over some brat! “Wait. You mean, he’s been blind two months and he hasn’t learned how to adapt at all? He’s just been moping around here?”

  Mrs. Edmund shifted uncomfortably. “Well, he is an adult....”

  “Then he shouldn’t be allowed to weasel out of things like a child!” I said a little too enthusiastically. Checking myself, I spoke firmly, “Just this once, don’t listen to Tristan. You hired me for a job; let me do it.”

  “You want to baby-sit my brother? What’s wrong with you?” Chris asked, leaning into the den from the hall.

  I shot eye-daggers in his direction.

  “Christopher John, this doesn’t involve you!” snapped Mrs. Edmund. Once the little imp had moved from view, she said slowly, “I think you have a point. Even if you just sit with him, he won’t be alone....”

  “Great!” I jumped to my feet before she had a chance to change her mind. “Where is he? In the closet again?”

  “No,” grumbled Chris, who stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, “he’s in his room ‘cause he thought you wouldn’t come back.”

  I followed him while he headed toward the stairs and mused, “So, the closet stunt was because of me?”

  I could feel the boy rolling his eyes. “No. He does that whenever he’s mad or depressed—which is a lot.”

  This kid knew quite a bit. As I climbed the stairs, I wondered how else he could help me with Tristan. Chris and I passed the infamous closet door, which was once again closed, but still gave my stomach the nauseous feeling. We turned the corner where I’d seen Tristan disappear. Chris stopped at a doorway down the hall and waved his hands frantically, as if I wouldn’t realize whose room it was.

  Suddenly feeling like I was intruding, I tiptoed up to the doorway. Glancing down at Chris, I pointed inside and mouthed, “Are you going in?”

  The boy’s face split into a malicious grin and he swept his head back and forth in a resounding “No way!”

  I glared at him and, still trying to keep silent, peered into the room. Tristan’s bedroom was easily three times the size of mine. Leaning solemnly against the wall to my right was a white cane—the long, skinny kind that I’d never before thought of belonging to someone my age. There was something barren about this room. The glaringly-white walls didn’t have a single picture—who doesn’t have any decorations on their walls?

  His bed was a king-sized black monster whose head rested against the left wall and whose feet protruded into the room. I was so overcome by its size that I didn’t initially realize that there was a body lying on it: Tristan’s body. In one moment, my breath caught—he must have seen me staring!—and, in the next, I nearly laughed at the impossibility. Then I felt guilty for thinking such a rude thing.

  Tristan was lying on top of the comforter with his back propped up by pillows. He was breathing steadily, so I deluded myself into thinking that he was asleep. With this belief, I calmly slid into the room and observed him more clearly than from my previous on-the-floor vantage. He was dressed nicely enough, with a black t-shirt and expensive-looking jeans. He was like a statue of an Abercrombie & Fitch model...not that I was ever one to lose it over a guy’s looks.

  For no reason at all, I wondered if he smelled good. Then the statue seethed, “It’s you, isn’t it?” and the innocent thought was smashed hard and ground into the floor until it was nothing more than a smudge. I jumped, literally jumped, about three feet into the air. His head turned with horror-movie slowness in my direction and I did the first thing that popped into my head: I waved. I waved at him, a blind person—I waved at a blind person! And what happened? Nothing. Of course, nothing.

  I moved onto plan-B, talking. “Actually, my name is Amy.”

  The head returned to its forward-facing direction and made no reply.

  I swallowed and looked around the room for something to spark a conversation. Facing me was a large desk, which only held a small stack of books and CDs. They appeared untouched and the topmost book read BRAILLE in large, bold letters. I asked, “So, you’re learning Braille?”

  Silence.

  “Well, yeah....” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty. I’m going to get something to drink, all right?”

  Predictably, he didn’t reply as I made my quick, awkward retreat from the room. Chris stood in the hallway, bent over in a fit of silent laughter at my plight. I clamped my fingers onto his shoulder and pulled him toward the stairs, hissing, “We have to talk. I’m assuming you know where the kitchen is?”

  Chris led me through the foyer which opened into the kitchen. The kitchen was beautiful and immense...of course. It had a wall of cedar cabinetry, a large marble topped counter to the left, and state-of-the-art appliances in brushed silver to the right. Without noticing any of this, Chris wrenched from my grip and, while making a futile attempt to keep the grin off of his face, asked, “What do you want?”

  “I want—Do you have any pop?” I gestured toward the refrigerator and he nodded. “I want you to tell me about Tristan. I mean, as appealing as sitting in silence all day may be, there must be something he’ll want to talk about... I take it he’s not in school anymore?”

  “No.” Chris handed me a Coke. “Mom let him stay out. I think the doctor gave him a note or something.”

  I took a sip from the can and cocked my head to the side. “Hey, what’s inside of the closet?”

  “Oh, all of Tristan’s old stuff: posters, books, music, computer... Mom put it all in there after the accident.”

  That explained the emptiness of his room. I swallowed hard and shuddered. How terrible! He was sitting in that closet all alone, with his stuff around him, collecting dust. I recovered awkwardly, “Well, um, can you think of anything for me to talk about with him?”

  “Horses.” The tiny voice came suddenly from behind me. I turned to see the wide-eyed figure of Marly. She was staring intently up at me and repeated, “Horses,” before popping her thumb into her mouth.

  “Horses, okay.” I turned back to Chris. “Your mom said Tristan went blind from a horse riding accident?”

  The boy nodded. “Yeah, he used to ride all the time. There’s a place near here. It’s called, um...Legacy Stables. Aeris is still there.”

  “Aeris? He owns a horse?” I gasped.

  “Yup, but Trist hasn’t ridden since—you know.” Chris shook his head and said, “And I wouldn’t try to get him to ride.”

  “Okay, but maybe I could just bring him there to, I don’t know, hang out?” I raised my eyebrows at Chris, who shrugged skeptically at the idea. “Don’t suppose you know how to get there?”

  “Get where?” Mrs. Edmund walked out from the living room, a magazine tucked under her arm.

  “Legacy Stables. I thought Tristan and I could go there—someplace familiar.”

  She frowned, but nodded slowly. “If you think so, dear. The accident happened out of the state, so there shouldn’t be any bad memories...but just getting him out of this house would be a miracle.”

  “A miracle?” I laughed. “Well, I’ll try my best.”

  “All right. Now, just let me find a pen....”

  Chris, seeing his mother busy opening and shutting drawers, gave me a sneaky look and dashed toward the stairs.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” I shouted, but he didn’t look back.

  Mrs. Edmund fished a pen out of a drawer and began to hurriedly scrawl directions onto a small notepad. She sighed. “After everything that’s happened, Chris has been working extra hard to get Tristan’s attention. I’m sure gossip about you is doing the trick.”

  Weird, I never was the girl who ever
yone gossiped about. I didn’t usually attract that much attention, positive or negative, and I couldn’t help but wonder what Chris was saying about me. Taking the directions from Mrs. Edmund, I sprinted up the stairs and down the second floor hallway. When I turned the corner, I faintly heard a male voice. Realizing that Tristan was talking in his room, I pressed myself against the wall and crept up to the doorway.

  The voice stopped and was replaced by Chris’s higher tone. “I dunno. She looks okay for a girl, I guess.” I rolled my eyes at the comment and leaned closer. “Her hair’s kinda long, longer than her shoulders, and it’s curly at the bottom. It’s the color of, um, caramel.”

  Caramel? That was a new one. I’d never really liked my hair. It was neither red nor brown and it also couldn’t decide whether to be curly or straight. One thing was for sure: my hair never ever wanted to cooperate. For years I fought against it using the strongest sprays and the hottest irons. The result? I’d surrendered and basically let it do whatever it wants.

  “What about her eyes?” Tristan asked in a calm voice he hadn’t used with me.

  “I dunno, Tristan!” Chris whined.

  “She’s ‘okay’? You’ve got to give me something better to go on than that!” he growled.

  I smirked. That was more like it.

  “Fine. I’ll go look,” the boy grumbled. “She’s probably up here, anyway.”

  “No! Wait!” Tristan yelled.

  As I greatly doubted Chris’s ability to listen to anyone, I charged back down the hall, scrambled around the corner, and quickly positioned myself on the stairs as if I’d just made it up. In the next moment, my suspicion was confirmed when Chris found me panting, with a death grip on the railing. He gave me a look like he thought I was crazy and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

  I gulped air and snapped, “Nothing!”

  Chris raised his eyebrows, “Okay,” and squinted to get a good look at my eyes. He then disappeared down the hall to report to his brother the dark blue color he’d seen.

  I slowly made my way back to Tristan’s room, so that Chris was leaving before I reached it. The kid had the nerve to whistle casually while he walked past me, but I resisted the urge to throw my shoe at him. I found Tristan lying calmly on his bed as if he hadn’t done a thing since I’d left. Taking two bounding steps into his room, I landed, with a bounce, in a sitting position on the edge of his bed.

  Entrances are important.

  Startled, Tristan gasped and his head snapped to face me. “What the?”

  I said with fake enthusiasm, “Your mom’s downstairs, so I guess we could fool around...” It was Tristan’s turn to look at me like I was crazy, but at least I knew he was listening. “...or we could go somewhere.”

  He gave a short, humorless laugh and said sarcastically, “Sounds great.”

  Why couldn’t he just play along? I folded my arms and said, “You know, Tristan, this is just pathetic. When was the last time you left your house?”

  His face hardened at my words and he spat, “I’m pathetic. Yeah, thanks for the morale booster. I can tell why my mother’s paying you as much as her shrink.”

  I felt a familiar cold shower of embarrassment, but I shook it off and replied, “Well, if she’s going to get her money’s worth, we’d better hit the road.” I stood up and watched him. I wished that I could see him without his glasses, so I could tell what he was thinking.

  There was a long, long moment of awkward silence. I nearly passed out from holding my breath. Then Tristan abruptly climbed off of the bed and stood. I hesitated, wondering if he would let me lead him, but he began walking on his own, with one hand outstretched. I moved out of the way and followed him while he progressed down the hall. When he came close to the landing, I asked, “So, you’re okay with stairs?” Lots and lots of stairs winding in a circle?!

  “I’ve gone down these stairs a million times,” Tristan said sullenly and began his descent. He gripped the railing tightly and tested the distance of each stair with his foot, but he made his own way down. He scared me nearly to death, but he made it. If it was me? If I was blind...man, I wouldn’t have been a pretty sight on those stairs.

  Once Tristan and I were in front of my Camry, I smiled proudly at my little car and proclaimed, as much to it as to him, “We’re here!” before opening the passenger door.

  Feeling along the doorframe, Tristan was able to slide inside. I shut the door and hurried around to my side. I turned the ignition and Sting’s voice immediately flowed from the speakers.

  “What are you listening to?” Tristan yelled over the music.

  I grinned wickedly. One dose of music education coming right up!

  Chapter 3

  “This is Sting, when he was in the band The Police, back in the 70s. You know, Roxanne, Every Breath You Take? And then he went solo in the 80s....” I looked over to see if Tristan was listening, but his hands were busy inspecting my car. He stopped, probably realizing its truly sad state, at the foam-deep tear in his seat. It was a war wound from the post of a scarecrow my mom had impulsively wished to liberate. Really.

  As my Camry flew over a bump, Tristan braced against the door.

  I laughed, “Come on, you’ve ridden in a car before.”

  “This isn’t a car,” he grumbled. “This is how a Hotwheels feels when Chris rolls it down the stairs.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, what kind of car do you have?”

  Eh, probably not a good question, I realized after the words had left my mouth.

  “Great therapist,” he said sarcastically. I saw how his face tightened and I wondered if I’d pushed too much. Expecting no further response, I looked back at the road and startled when he said in a low voice, “Mercedes-Benz Cabriolet.”

  I had no idea what that was, other than it sounded expensive. I fumbled, “It must be nice.”

  He shook his head and scoffed, “You don’t even know.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to—” I began, but Tristan turned toward the window.

  Feeling uncomfortable with the music, I hushed Sting and we rode in an awkward silence. None too soon, I saw a large sign looming over a hill. In large, curling letters it proclaimed: Legacy Stables. The road was lined with trees and they gave way to acres of lush green. The grass was blocked off by white wooden fences and surrounded by woodchip paths. Beyond all of this, the pale blue stables were silhouetted against the sky.

  I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. While I removed my seatbelt, I felt Tristan’s attention on me. I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear as he asked, “Where are we?”

  I hesitated and then blurted, “Legacy Stables.”

  He turned toward me and I swore he was glaring. He said coldly, “No.”

  I looked around the parking lot. There were only two other cars. I crossed my fingers and lied, “Listen, there’s no one here. We can just pretend it’s a park and sit on the grass or something.”

  Tristan frowned, disbelieving. “No one? On a Sunday?”

  I winced, but how would he know the difference?

  “Nope.”

  While he climbed out of my car, I hurried around it and I stood in front of him. “Wait.” Hearing my voice, Tristan adjusted his steps so he wouldn’t walk into me. Again, I moved in front of him and now I pressed a hand against his chest. He jumped at the contact and stopped, like I hoped he would. I said, “Listen, we have to figure this out. I mean, it’s practical for you to use me; I can see and you can’t.”

  Catching my drift, Tristan folded his arms. “I’m not holding your hand.”

  I rolled my eyes. I wanted to yell “Yeah, well, I’m not attracted to you either!” Instead, I snapped, “Can you handle holding my arm?”

  I thought I saw a smirk briefly on his lips. “All right.”

  I made my arm into an L-shape and caught his outstretched hand. His hand felt warm as his fingers wrapped around my left bicep, slightly above my elbow. Thankful that he couldn’t see my red face, I took a step forwar
d. There was an awkward moment when his arm jerked at my movement; then we matched each other’s pace. But, oh did I feel weird. What kind of girl has a guy holding onto her arm? Honestly.

  We walked across the parking lot and onto the grass. I veered away from the sidewalk that led toward the stables and walked parallel to a white fence, heading up a gentle slope. I stopped at the top of the little hill, which overlooked a broad pasture. Tristan removed his hand from my arm and I plopped onto the soft grass. He hesitated before lowering himself next to me.

  I lay on my back and sighed as I looked up into the blue sky. The sun had decided to come out, after all. “This is nice.”

  Tristan propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s better than my room, I admit.”

  I rolled onto my side, facing him. Encouraged by his relaxed tone, I said, “You know, I heard your brother describing me. He didn’t do a very good job.”

  He gave a short laugh. “So, describe yourself.”

  There was nothing I hated worse than talking about myself. “Ugh, no.”

  “Well, some people can’t.” Tristan nodded smugly.

  I glowered. “Okay, I’ll describe myself: I’m a girl. There. Your turn.”

  “Let’s see... I was a champion show-jumper. I had the life everyone wanted. But I lost it all, piece by piece, and now even my old ‘friends’ won’t call me because I’m a loser.”

  Maybe that was a bad question.

  “Oh. Um, your family seems nice,” I said. “Well, I haven’t met your dad.”

  Tristan pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and said simply, “Maybe that’s ‘cause he died last fall.”

  Me: 0 for 2.

  My mind blanked and I curled my fingers into the grass. “I-I’m sorry.”

  Silence, my arch nemesis, returned. He danced around, making mocking faces at me, until I felt completely uncomfortable. Suddenly, I heard sounds of approaching hoof beats and my heart began to pound along with them. I saw Tristan’s face go pale with realization. He turned to me, his voice taut. “You have to hide me!”