Blindness (41 page)

We head to the front office and finish the
lease agreement before lunch. Another perk to my new apartment is
the proximity to three great restaurants. Jessie and I are trying
out the deli today, but tonight Gabe’s coming over to help move a
few things in that were left in my storage facility, and then we’ll
splurge on the fancy Italian place.

I blow on my soup and sip at it slowly,
keeping my gaze settled on my bowl. I know Jessie can tell I’m
avoiding her—avoiding asking about
him.
I haven’t asked
about him once in the last week, and she’s tried to talk to me
about him every night. I always shut her down, but she’s got the
advantage here—we’re in public, and my mouth is full of hot soup
when she strikes.

“So he’s a fucking mess, you know?” she
starts. She throws it out there—tempting bait—because she knows
I’ll worry. She knows if I don’t ask now, it will gnaw away at me,
and eventually I’ll come begging for details.

I’ve practiced this, prepared for this
moment. This is where I pretend I don’t care, that I am unaffected
and over him—or that I never loved him at all. Funny how the
reality plays out so differently, though, because this tiny insight
into Cody and what he’s feeling has my heart burning a hole through
my chest, it hurts so badly.

I fold my hands in my lap and just stare down
at my thumbs. I hate that he’s hurting. I hate that I’m not there
to help him with it. And I hate that I still love him after what he
said.

“How bad?” I say, my eyes still staring into
the steam rising from my bowl.

Jessie leans back in her seat and wipes her
lips with her napkin, pushing her plate forward and folding her
arms. She’s been waiting for this moment—an
in.

“At his worst, and then worse than that,” she
says, forcing my eyes up to hers. I’m expecting to see a hardened
face—the angry one that comes to Cody’s defense. But I don’t.
Instead, she looks worried, and she looks genuinely sorry for
me.

“Where is he?” I ask, biting hard on my lower
lip as I wait for her answer. I lie awake every night wondering if
Cody’s near by, wondering if we’re listening to the same whistles
of the train.

“He’s in Cleveland, staying with a friend of
ours. His name’s Danny; we knew him from the tour,” she says,
holding her breath, holding back more.

“Oh,” I say, moving my gaze back to my lap
and reaching for my spoon.

“He knows you’re with us. That’s why…” she
starts, but then she looks out the window, literally biting her
tongue.

“Why what?” I ask, my voice a little louder
now.

“That’s why he doesn’t come over. He’s afraid
to see you,” she shrugs, then reaches for her pack of crackers and
rips them open, crumbling them on the plate in front of her and
picking at the pieces.

“Afraid to see me?” I say, my voice now
drawing the attention of the older women sitting behind Jessie. I
ignore their stares and whispers, and press on. “He says I didn’t
give him a choice, Jessie, but he made his choice pretty fucking
clear that night in Jake’s shop, and it’s obvious he blames me for
everything that happened!”

Jessie stands up from our booth and throws
twenty bucks down on the table, grabs her purse, and heads for the
door, jerking her head forward and urging me to follow. Once we’re
outside, she stops and props her foot up on a bike rack, tying a
loose lace.

“I don’t know how long you’re going to go on
believing that he meant any of that,” she half mumbles. This is the
Jessie I expected—the one that would be on
his
side no
matter what.

I’ve never been an aggressive girl, but
something in me clicks when she speaks, and I push her off balance,
knocking her to the ground.

“He said he would have chosen the shop,
Jessie! He had a choice—me or the shop! And he chose that goddamned
garage!” I yell at the top of my lungs, my jaw clenched, and my
teeth tight together.

Jessie finally stands back to her feet and
brushes the dirt from the back of her jeans, a faint laugh coming
out by the end.

“What?” I shoot back, folding my arms and
stomping my feet like a child—my version of a tantrum.

Jessie shakes her head and looks down. “Come
with me,” she says, walking along the sidewalk to her car.

I follow along, my arms still folded the
entire way. When I get to her car, I refuse to get in at first, but
Jessie just sits in the car and honks, repeatedly, with the engine
running, until I give in from embarrassment.

“That was really fucking mean,” I say,
looking out my window.

“Yeah, well…you’re being a child,” she
says.

And I actually “hmmmph” in response.

I know where we’re going the moment we get on
the highway, and I think seriously about flicking the lock and
rolling out of the car. We’re going to the shop—and I never want to
see that place again. It’s now my number two, right beneath
Louisville.

“Jessie, you know I don’t want to go there.
Please…just stop, turn around, and take me home,” I say, my throat
starting to close up with panic, and the beating of my heart
filling my stomach.

“It’s different now. You need to see it. I
think…no, I
know
you’ll understand when you do,” she says,
and I roll my eyes at her, pretending not to believe her,
pretending not to care about Cody or his stupid dreams. But I do
care—I care because I know what it means to have something material
tied up with your best memories, and I hate that he’s lost it.

Nothing would have prepared me for what I see
when we exit the highway, however. If I hadn’t memorized the
way—every turn and street that led to Jake’s old garage—I never
would have been able to find this corner. There’s a Dumpster filled
with brick, wood, and glass. The ground is nearly leveled, chunks
of concrete all that’s left along the land—the foundation barely a
sketch of what stood there less than seven days ago.

“It’s…gone,” I breathe, my stomach sinking as
we open our doors, and I get out to walk the property.
“Oh…Jessie.”

She was right. I understand. And I’m
heartbroken.

There’s a sign posted on the ground for the
development firm, along with a phone number to call for details on
the new plan. I look at Jessie, knowing she sees it, too.

“Yeah, I already called it. It’s just a
recording advertising the new condos coming next year,” she says,
kicking a chunk of concrete loose on the ground into the metal of
the bin. I pick one up in my hand and throw it at the metal next,
wanting to punish the debris left behind, I guess.

I keep walking to the remains that are piled,
ready to be hauled away. It looks like scraps from a building
site—nothing even recognizable. I lift myself up, so I can look
into the bin, and I reach forward when I notice the green trim of
one of the windows. It’s the one from the office, and seeing it
fills my eyes with tears.

Without even realizing it, I begin pulling at
it frantically, trying to dislodge it from the boards and shards
that are cutting into the paint.

“Help me, Jessie! Help me get this out!” I
say, desperate to see it, to see if it’s survived.

Jessie doesn’t question, she only stands next
to me, propped up on a carton, and helps me pull, until we have the
window on the ground in front of us. For some reason, seeing it
whole sends a bolt of adrenaline through my body. I leap up again,
looking for more remnants—things I can save.

We clear out dozens of bricks, and both of
our hands are bleeding by the time we reach the bottom of the bin.
But I’m glad we powered through, never quitting until we saw
everything left inside. The neon needs some repair, but the name is
whole—
Jake’s
the sign reads.

Jessie calls Gabe without even asking, and he
joins us early with his truck. We get the pieces—two whole windows
and the sign—into the back of his truck and take them to my storage
room. We tuck them in the back, safe, and out of the way, and then
move my few furnishings into the truck in their place.

By the time we have everything moved in, the
only place open to eat is the deli, so we end up there again. I
didn’t taste my soup earlier, and I can barely stomach it now, so I
end up getting the rest to go and carry it up to my new
apartment.

“You sure you’re okay staying here tonight,
by yourself?” Jessie asks, lingering at my doorway.

“I’m good,” I say, holding on at the frame,
and kicking my toe against her boot.

“She’s just upset you’re leaving and is gonna
miss you, that’s all,” Gabe says, wrapping his arm around Jessie
and pulling her in for a hug.

“Yeah, so what,” Jessie says, trying to keep
up her tough persona.

“So…what are you going to do with those
windows…and the sign?” she asks.

“I’m not sure, but I just feel like I need to
do something. He needs
something,
” I say, my focus fading
and looking away from my two friends.

“What he needs is you,” Gabe says, just
barely audible, but enough that I hear it when they walk away.

I lock the door behind them and slide down to
the floor to sit with my feet facing my empty kitchen. I have very
few belongings, and my small apartment looks more like the home of
a squatter than an actual renter.

The lighting is dim from my one small lamp,
but it’s enough for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pick up another lamp or
two and maybe a table from the Goodwill down the road. I take a
fast shower, thanks to the cold water, and unbox the old quilt and
bed sheets to dress the mattress that’s directly on the floor.

My body is exhausted, but my mind doesn’t
seem to be able to slow. There’s no view from my window, only the
bare branches of the giant tree that’s covering it. So without
anything else to distract me, I pull out my sketchbook and spread
my drawings around me in bed.

The more I move the renderings around, the
more the story starts to make sense—old row homes with front steps,
front porches, and gardens mixed along with specialty shops and
businesses of a by-gone era. It’s my Louisville—the one I grew up
in—only the way Mac always painted it in my mind. He talked about
his plans, the things he was going to do to his house, and how it
would inspire others to do the same.

Mac never got a chance, but maybe I could.
Not his home—not his neighborhood—but another one. The adrenaline
is instant, and I begin sketching manically. I pull my art box up
on the bed and rip and tear at the pages of my book, at least twice
heading out to my trunk to pull out the larger pages for drawing.
The sun is rising before I know it, and I am surrounded by dozens
of drawings—each part of the puzzle that is my own version of
perfect.

I’m not due in for my internship until this
afternoon, but I’m too excited to wait. Exhaustion was hours ago,
and now I’m moving on powerful fumes. I’m racing on potential—on
hope. I pull everything together into my portfolio book and dress
quickly in the best outfit I have clean. I
have
to sell this
idea—it could change
everything.

The front desk girl looks at me with a
confused expression as I rush by, but I don’t stop to talk or
explain. I just keep walking—quickly—all the way to my mentor’s
office. His name is Jeff, and he’s the one who liked my original
drawings. He’s always been supportive of my work, but we haven’t
really had many one-on-ones. He was ready to sell my original
sketches to senior management a few weeks ago, at least as worthy
enough for me to keep on as the intern, so I’m hoping what I have
in my bag is just enough to win him over completely today. The door
is closed, but I can tell through the open blinds on his office
window that he’s alone, so I take a deep breath and knock.

“Come on in,” Jeff says, his head buried in
piles of paper on his desk as I enter.

“Hey, Jeff…I’m a little early today. I hope
you don’t mind?” I say, clearing my throat as I speak, trying to
dispel my nerves.

“Charlotte, hey! Yeah, no problem. Just give
me a sec to clear out my desk, and we’ll see what’s on tap today,”
he starts, but I keep moving toward his desk until I’m sitting
right in front of him.

“Okay, that’s fine…but before I get to work,
I…uh…” I say, fidgeting with the snap on the top of my portfolio
case. My fingers are trembling, I’m so nervous, and Jeff can tell.
He closes the folder on a set of plans he was about to review and
pushes them out of the way to give me his complete attention.

“Oh, are you done with the renderings I saw
before? I’d love to see them,” he says, clearing more space for me,
his voice encouraging.

I swallow hard and pull in one last deep
breath, shutting my eyes for a quick, second-long inner pep talk.
Showtime.

“Yes, though…I made some changes. I really
like…no…I
love
how it all came out. I hope you do, too,” I
say, standing tall with my best posture and meeting his eyes.

“All right, then. Well…let’s give it a look,”
he says, his face a little wary, but curious.

The first drawing I lay before him is the
series of row homes—each a version of the originals I drew based on
Mac’s. Jeff scratches at his chin, covering his mouth, but he
doesn’t say a word. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or scowling, so I
slide the picture over and pull out three more—each a different
perspective of the same set.

The more drawings I line up on his desk, the
more he’s scratching at his chin, but he’s slowly starting to nod.
He hasn’t said a word, minus the, “Ah,” that escapes his lips when
I pull out the first of my series of storefronts. I hit him first
with the cafes with awnings and patio dining. Next are the studio
spaces, with large windows showing artists working on their craft.
Then there’s the grocer, barber, and office space—the neighborhood
is almost complete. There’s only one drawing left.