Blindness (5 page)

So far, life at Trevor’s parents’ house
hasn’t been nearly as stressful as I thought it would be. Jim left
the same day Trevor did, for a long trip to Chicago. And Shelly
spends most of her day watching soap operas in the living room, or
hiding in her room. The one thing I find that I miss in Trevor’s
room is my desk. He just doesn’t have a great drafting space, and
maybe I’m just stuck in my ways, but I like the way everything fit
on my old desk. Everything had its place, and I knew how to work
around the dents.

I’ve measured the trunk of my Honda about 40
different ways, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to fit the desk
in the back without breaking it in half. I’m about to give up, when
I see the back of an old pickup truck hanging halfway out of the
Appletons’ garage. It’s a complete mismatch from the rest of the
house and the other vehicles that usually line their driveway. I
know its Cody’s. I don’t even have to ask. And that’s what’s
keeping me in my place.

I lean back, sitting on my bumper, and
consider how this might go. I want—no I
need—
to borrow a
truck. And Cody’s the only person I know with one. I’m chewing on
my fingernails when I hear the rumble of his engine and see his
truck start to back out of the garage. I’m blatantly staring, still
considering my approach, as he loops around the circle driveway and
stops in front of me. I try to turn away and measure my trunk once
more, hoping maybe he’ll ask what I’m doing and give me the opening
I need, when I accidentally drop the tape measure under my car.

“You measuring that for a body?” he asks
through his window, the growl of his motor slowing down as he idles
next to me. I purse my lips in response.

“A desk, not a body,” I say, short again. Why
am I so rude to him? “Of course, I’m not measuring anything now
that I’ve dropped the tape under my car.”

I bend down and reach under the trunk to see
if I can grab it, but in my flustered state, my arm rubs along the
exhaust pipe. “
Shit
! Damn, shit, shit, shit!” I’m screaming,
and my eyes are tearing up from the searing pain. I’m spinning
around, holding my arm, but afraid to look at it, when suddenly I
stop in Cody’s arms.

“Slow down!” he’s shouting at me. Why is he
yelling? “Hold still, damn it. You’re burned; let me see it for a
sec.”

It’s not his words that stop me, but rather
his touch. I won’t admit it to him, but the pain—that seconds ago
was killing me—is gone. All I can feel now is the grip of his hands
along my arm and the beat of his heart near my shoulder. His breath
is hot, his mouth close to my neck.

He’s tugging at my arm now, leading me, and
I’m following as if I’m in a trance. He pushes me down on a folding
chair in his garage, and finally lets go of my arm. The pain
instantly starts to crawl back, and I’m now looking at the
four-inch line of puffy redness and blistering along my
forearm.

“Got it. Okay, now this is gonna hurt,” he
says, kneeling in front of me and reaching for my arm, more gently
this time. He looks up into my eyes, which are wide with worry and
still in shock. “Charlie, I need you to do me a favor, okay? I’m
going to fix this up for you. But I need to put some stuff on here
that’s going to hurt like hell. I want you to focus on my face,
though; don’t look at your arm, okay? Just look at me, and hold
onto my shoulder with your other hand. You squeeze it as hard as
you need to.”

“Don’t call me Charlie,” I say, my face flat
and my tone direct. I can’t believe that’s what I say, but it
is.

Cody sighs heavily, and looks down at my arm
before looking back up to me. “
Charlotte,”
he sounds so
pissed off as he says it, “just look here, and hold here,
okay?”

I nod and turn my focus briefly to my other
hand on his bare shoulder. He’s wearing a tank top, and his arms
are covered in intricate patterns that seem to dive under his shirt
and carry on to his chest and back. I’m trying to register
everything, take the full picture in. There is one set of numbers,
a date I think? Then I notice the name
Jacob
, followed by
the words
I promise
. The words come in swirls and are
surrounded by shaded figures that look sort of like angels. The
picture is so beautiful, and so very sad. Realizing I’ve been
staring at nothing but his arm, and digging my nails into his
shoulder from the pain in my other arm, I dart my eyes back to
his.

He’s still looking at me. I don’t think he
ever stopped. I swallow hard, and I know he notices. Those damn
blue eyes—they can’t lie.

He’s wrapping gauze around my arm, and I want
to record everywhere he touches me so I can study it, memorize it,
and know what our bodies look like together. For a moment, I’m lost
in him.

“Now, why were you measuring your trunk?” he
asks, ripping the final piece of tape for the gauze with his teeth,
the noise bringing me back from somewhere I shouldn’t have
been.

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s stupid,” I say,
suddenly shy and embarrassed, too ashamed to ask for his help now
after I’ve forced him to become my own personal medic. He stands
and drops the tape back into his toolbox, and I look down at my
wrapped arm.

“Here, take two of these,” he says, holding a
bottle of Ibuprofen out for me.” I grab the bottle and twist it
open, dropping two pills in my hand. I look around for something to
drink. I’ve never been good at swallowing pills. Mac would always
let me chew them, and chase the foul taste with chocolate milk.
I’ve learned to power through now as an adult. Cody must sense what
I’m looking for, because he bends forward to reach into a small
mini fridge and hands me a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” I say, holding the bottle up as if
to say
cheers
! I fill my mouth with water, and drop the
pills in and feel them float against my teeth. I swallow once, but
they don’t go down. I drink more water, and they still swirl in my
mouth, dissolving but not following the water down. I’m guzzling
now, mortified that Cody is seeing this, and finally feel the pills
rush down my throat. I put the cap on, and hand it back to him.
He’s just shaking his head and staring in disbelief.

“Do you…not know how to take medicine?” he
laughs, holding his hand up to the side of his face.

“I have a fear of choking,” I say, seriously.
I do—I cut my steak into the tiniest of bites. “Don’t laugh. It’s
not funny.”

The more I protest and beg, the more Cody
fights his laughter, until finally he’s cackling out loud, and the
sound of him is echoing throughout the garage. Done with being a
joke, I stand up and walk quickly back out to the driveway. “Thanks
for the help,” I say sarcastically, over my shoulder.

I’m almost back to my car when Cody catches
up to me. “Charlie, come on. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he
says, his voice sounds genuine. His hand touches my shoulder, and
I’m instantly apt to forgive. I don’t even comment on my name this
time, I’m too wrapped up in his chase.

“It’s okay, I get it. It’s funny,” I say,
shrugging as I look at him. “I just never learned, really. My dad…”
I pause bringing up Mac. I don’t talk about him much with anyone,
yet, strangely, I can’t wait to share bits and pieces of him with
Cody. “My dad was a single dad. He didn’t really know what he was
doing with the whole parenting thing. I mean…don’t get me wrong…he
was amazing. He just didn’t really go the typical route, and
there’s a lot I never learned.”

Cody’s silence makes me feel foolish and
uncomfortable. I apologize again and turn to kneel behind my car to
see how far the tape measure rolled. It’s in the center, so I’m
better off pulling forward. I’m about to stand and reach for my
keys when I see Cody’s back, his body low to the ground and his
chest dragging along the concrete as he reaches under for my
tape.

“Here,” he says, handing it to me as he
brushes the dirt from his front. “Now, seriously, why are you
measuring your trunk?”

“I need to get my desk,” I say. I’m beyond
asking for help at this point, and Cody’s earned my blunt honesty.
“It won’t fit.”

I look directly at his truck, still rumbling
behind him, and then back into his eyes.

“Come on, where’s this desk?” he says, urging
me to hop in on the passenger side as he rounds the front and gets
in the driver’s seat.

My smile is huge. I don’t know what I’m
smiling for—my desk coming home, or the fact that I’m now in Cody’s
truck. My mind is screaming
Trevor
!—but I keep pushing that
away, convincing myself I’m being innocent. And I am.

The storage facility isn’t far, which is
good, as our ride is mostly silent. I hand Cody the key card, and
he scans it at the front gate. We drive to the back row of storage
lockers until we get to mine. It’s not very large, but it is
air-conditioned.

It takes me a while to remember exactly what
key is right—I still have my keys to Mac’s house along with our old
mailbox key on my ring. I finally turn the latch and roll the door
up. My desk is up front, thankfully, and since we just moved my
items in a few short weeks ago, nothing’s had a chance to get too
dusty. I slide my hand along the top of the wood, and instantly, I
feel home.

“You’re smiling,” Cody says, and I nod
looking up at him and then back down at my desk. “You don’t do that
much.”

His remark catches me off guard, but I do
well masking it. Do I really not smile much? I’m generally happy.
What a statement to make. I’m starting to build with anger over it
when Cody’s hand brushes against mine slightly. He’s rubbing the
wood, tracing the initials carved on top.

“It’s a beautiful piece. How long have you
had it?” he smiles at me through his words.

“I’m not sure, really. Years, I guess?” I
say, trying to remember when Mac moved it from his room to mine.
“It was my dad’s. MJH.”

I’m staring at his initials, and watching
Cody feel them with his hands—the carved letters almost looking
like an extension of the artwork and scrolls of text on his skin.
“MJH? What’s it stand for?” he asks.

“Maxwell Jacob Hudson, but we all called him
Mac,” I say, a pinch stinging my eyes for the first time in months.
I clear my throat a little, and turn to look away. But Cody doesn’t
stop there.

“Your dad…he died?” he asks, still looking
down at the initials.

“Yeah, he did,” I say, praying he’ll let it
go, that he won’t push any further. He doesn’t, but I’m still
surprised by what he says next.

“My dad’s name was Jacob. We all called him
Jake,” he says, turning now so we’re face-to-face. I don’t know
what to say to him, so I don’t speak at all. The silence is
palpable, but it’s not uneasy. I don’t know what makes me do it,
but I lean forward and brush my hand down Cody’s chest, stopping at
his heart. I flash to his face when reality hits me, and I notice
that he’s staring at my hand…flat on his chest. I’m about to pull
it away when he places his hand over mine, and continues to stare
at it for a few seconds. “Yeah, it still hurts,” he says, avoiding
my eyes and taking in a deep, stuttered breath. I can tell he’s
fighting tears.

We back away from each other suddenly and
simultaneously. I can hear the sound of wood sliding along the
floor, and I realize Cody is trying to lift the desk without me. I
put my hands under the other end, and we nudge it forward until
it’s outside the storage room. I slide the door shut again and turn
to see Cody climbing into the back of his truck.

His movements are so laborious. Everything
seems so hard, only one leg strong enough to carry his body weight,
and
barely
at that. I want to ask about it, but I bite my
tongue. I’ve been bold enough today.

We get the desk loaded in the back and tied
down with some twine. We’re on our way back to the Appleton’s when
I see Cody’s wallet sitting on the dashboard. Feeling curious, and
admittedly a little flirtatious and playful, I reach for it and
flip it open. “Hey, nice driver’s license picture,” I tease.

“Oh, hey man, that’s not cool. I help you
with your desk, and you snag my DMV photo? That’s dirty, Charlie,”
he says, and I wince at my name. I let it go. Things are going
well, and for some reason, I need them to.

After I take in his photo, which, truthfully,
was not
that
bad, I start to read all of his details to him.
“You’re a donor? Wow, how very chivalrous of you,” I say, honestly
impressed, but still in my teasing mode.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a giver. Come on, give it
back,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my arm. I jerk away, but
not before making a mental snapshot of our latest touch.

“You weigh 170? Hmmmm, I’m not seeing it,” I
tease, and he just rolls his eyes before moving his arm to the side
and flexing a little for me. I feel tingles travel down my spine
when he does. “Hair, brown? Yep, check. Eyes, blue? Yep, check.
You’re 23? Hmmm, you seem so much younger,” I joke, but the truth
is he seems so much older, like he’s lived—hard.

“Name, Cody Carmichael?” I stall after
reading his name. “Carmichael?”

“Yeah, I sure as hell am not an Appleton,” he
says, his voice suddenly irritated.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I just…it’s strange.
I swear, I know your name,” I say, searching my mind for a reason,
but also making a mental note of his disdain for the Appletons. Why
would I know his name?

“X games,” he says, and I squint my eye and
look at him sideways.

“What games?” I say, not quite following.

“X games, I was in the X games. For about
three years,” he says, looking over at me to see if I’m following.
I’m not. “I rode motocross. Freestyle. You know, the guys that flip
and shit with their motorcycles in the air?”

Then it hits me. Mac loved that stuff—and
that’s why I recognize his name. “That’s it!” I slap at his
shoulder as I shout, and he jolts in his seat with surprise. “My
dad—he
loved
watching you! I remember your name. You were
good.”