Authors: George D. Shuman
Her alarm went off far too soon the next morning. Sherry saw bags under her eyes in the mirror and wondered how many mornings of her life they had been there. They checked out at nine and headed out to the diner for breakfast.
“I’m having company for dinner tonight,” Sherry told Brigham, sliding into a booth.
“Who?” he asked, unconcerned.
“A guy,” she said, watching him.
“What guy?” he asked, now suspicious.
“Just a guy,” Sherry said.
Brigham just looked at her. “What do you mean, just a guy?”
“You know, a guy.”
“I know you’re seeing Brian Metcalf. Since when is there just another guy in your life?”
Something was going on with her, Brigham thought. She was waging a war within herself. She was trying to hide from her own future. Trying to hide from the results of gamma ray tests that might show radioactivity in her bone marrow or lungs next week. Trying to hide from not knowing—or knowing—whether she would develop cancer, whether she would retain her sight.
It was rationalizing, in a way. Rationalizing that her life was at best uncertain, and what the hell, she’d make new friends,
find new ways to forget about the future—except that Sherry understood the difference between right and wrong.
“He’s nobody. Someone I bumped into. It’s nothing, really, nothing at all.”
“It’s something if you’re inviting him to dinner.”
“What? Can’t I have friends now?”
“What about Brian?”
“What about him?” Sherry said defensively.
“Does he know about your new friend? I thought you two had something going on.”
“I only met him six months ago.”
“And you went to meet his family three weeks ago.”
“Coffee?” A young woman stood in front of the table with two pots, stifling any response.
“Please,” Sherry said, and he pushed his cup forward as well.
Brigham continued to watch her face intently. “You haven’t even told him yet, have you? Brian doesn’t even know you can see.”
“There hasn’t been a good time.”
“So you’ve talked,” he said.
“He called,” she said guiltily.
“And you’ve talked?” He didn’t try to hide his concern.
“He left messages.”
“Why didn’t you answer them? Why didn’t you tell him your sight came back?”
“I’m not ready,” she said emphatically.
“Ready for what?”
“To talk about it. It’s too early.”
Sherry looked down at the table and turned the cup around on the saucer. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to getting grilled by you.”
“And I’m not used to strangers waltzing into your life.”
“You worry too much about me.”
He nodded. “And there you are probably right, young lady.”
The waitress brought ice water and menus. “Need a minute?” she asked, and Sherry shook her head. “Pancakes for me.”
He ordered an omelet and the waitress left them alone.
“It’s none of my business, I suppose.”
Sherry remained silent.
“Still, you should tell Brian. And if you’re going to see someone else, maybe you should tell him that too,” he said gruffly.
“It’s none of your business, remember?”
“What does this guy do?”
“He’s a scientist.”
“A scientist,” Brigham said dully.
“Case and Kimble.”
Brigham nodded. “Big company.”
“Huge,” Sherry retorted.
“I’ll be home all night.”
“As in, you’ll be home if I need you?” Sherry laughed.
He shrugged.
“I’ll be perfectly all right, Mr. Brigham. Would you like me to call you when he’s gone? You could come over afterward and we’ll go over the journal again. You could read so I wouldn’t have to use my machine.”
“Not if it’s after ten.”
“I’ll be in bed myself at ten. He’s coming for dinner and then he’s out the door. I’ll call you the moment he leaves.” She stopped suddenly and tried to focus as the room began to blur.
“You okay?”
She nodded, taking deep breaths. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s the Prussian blue. It makes me nauseous.”
“One more week, Sherry,” he said. “Just one more week. You should remember that.”
“Let’s not rush it,” she said. “This week at least I still have the luxury of not knowing what the test will show.”
“Can we do two more entries?” Brigham asked.
Sherry nodded, trying to get herself together. “Two more,” she said, “then I’ve got to shower.”
Brigham flipped open the journal and pushed on his reading glasses.
October 27th, 1950
Something is wrong. One of the guys, Henry Wade, left last week. He was supposed to have been sent home. He was in C-lab where they take the radiation shots. The captain told us he completed his trials, but Sandy found his wristwatch last night. It was under his bunk and we all know he wouldn’t have left it because his fiancée bought it for him before he shipped out to Korea. He was getting pretty sick, like he had the flu real bad. Sandy was in his group, three of them had it, but Henry was starting to lose his hair as well.
We don’t know what to think. Tim Pollock—he’s on tri
als in the R-lab with me—wanted to give the watch to the commanding officer here.
I told them to give it to one of the doctors when they came back, but Sandy said we should keep it as evidence in case something happened to Henry.
We aren’t supposed to talk to each other about what we’re doing here, but that seems kind of silly now. Sandy’s been bleeding in the toilet and the doctor gave him something to stop it, but he should be in a hospital.
I don’t think that anyone will ever get to read this. They’ll likely search us when we’re discharged in sixty days. We’ve decided to meet near Baltimore after we get out. Baltimore is between where Tim and I live. We want to find out if Henry is all right before we come home. Don’t worry about me. Tim and I were told to do some pretty weird things here, but at least we don’t have to take the shots yet. Seems like an easy way out of the war, listening to voices in our heads, but the doctor here says its important work. Who are we to say it’s not?
November 2, 1950
Sandy was taken to the hospital yesterday. He won’t be coming back they say. The captain came by and picked up all his stuff. I don’t know why he thought he’d have to wear gloves. It isn’t like the rest of us are protected in any way.
Anyhow the Captain said that he contacted Henry and that Henry was home safe with his parents. Henry said that he’d left his watch behind and asked that we keep it for him. We don’t know if it’s true or not or if they can somehow overhear us talking.
It’s confusing here. You can’t tell by their expressions if they want you to do well on their tests or not. Sometimes they seem happy when you do and sometimes not.
All I know is fifty-some days and I’m coming home. We
were told they sent letters to all of you telling you we were all right. We’ll be able to write our own letters home the week before we leave as well. I’m going to ask you for a special favor this year. I want you to hold Christmas when I get home. I know that’s a bit selfish, but Sam and Sophie are old enough to wait for their presents. Anyhow, if you can’t wait I’ll understand. Just save me some giblets and gravy.
Brigham returned the journal and Sherry walked him to the door. He was upset, she could tell. Upset about what he was reading. Upset about her relationship with Brian Metcalf. Upset with her, for all she knew. He had really wanted Sherry and Brian to work out.
She turned the lock when he was out.
Well, she also had wanted it. That was life, wasn’t it? If she lost her sight again tomorrow, well, that would be a shame too. If all her hair started to fall out like the boy’s in the letter, what would Brigham and Brian have to say about that?
They weren’t children anymore. Life came with tough choices and right now she intended to do what was best for all of them. There was no future. There was only today.
She looked at the second wine bottle and grinned, seeing that it was empty. Sherry had never opened a second bottle of wine in her life. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to drink. She just didn’t like wine all that much. Maybe that was part of her newfound boldness. Maybe she’d gone a little heavy on the wine since she’d been thinking the entire afternoon how wonderful it would be to forget about Brigham and Brian and Monahan and secret weapons and gamma rays. How wonderful it would be to try something entirely new, to get comfortably drunk.
Sherry knew it was almost midnight and the remains of dinner were piled high in the kitchen sink. She had never done
that before either. Never dared to prepare a candlelight dinner for a man. Not that there was anything complicated about making steaks on a countertop grill and vegetables in the microwave, but the idea, the accomplishment was out of character.
She was taking on a new role these days. She was acting out a fantasy she’d always imagined the rest of the world was playing. As long as she could see, she would decide what was worth having and taking. The world wasn’t as complicated as she’d made it out to be when she was blind. There was just today and everyone knew you were supposed to live in the moment, live for today.
She considered that idea for a moment, wishing she had more confidence in it. Wishing she was relieved by her newfound liberation.
It felt uncomfortable, unsuitable to her, making her think it was dangerous right now to take chances, but that might go away with time. She could ease back into life a little bit at a time.
“I really should get to bed,” she said.
“What, you don’t like the company?” Troy pretended to be offended.
“The company is just fine,” she said smoothly. He was sitting on the couch and she was lying on her back, head on his lap.
She reached up to touch his hair, brushed it aside on his forehead. “You know I’m not looking for a relationship.” She slurred the words badly.
He nodded. “That’s okay,” he said.
“Really okay?”
“I’d be flattered if you thought otherwise, but no, it’s really okay.”
She nodded. “Good, I think that’s best.”
The only light in the room came from the dinner candles. She had CDs in the Bose, and the empty wine bottle was listing badly in a bucket of melting ice.
He leaned down and kissed her again, this time pulling her
shirt from the waist of her skirt and putting his hand on her stomach.
“Your hand is hot.”
“Your body is cold.”
“Better leave me dressed then,” she whispered softly.
He removed his hand and traced her lips with his finger.
“You are truly beautiful,” he said. “More beautiful than any woman I’ve ever met.”
“Silly,” she managed to say, but her head was spinning, and his hand felt good.
“Are you sure the front door is locked?”
“I checked it twice,” he said. “Who are you expecting?”
“No one.” She glanced guiltily at the clock, reaching up to undo the buttons of his shirt.
“I missed you yesterday,” he said. “I called you at the house, before I tried your cell phone.”
“I went back to Stockton.” Sherry tugged his shirt out of his pants and pulled it open and just stared at his chest.
“Another reading,” he teased.
“Yeah, another reading,” she said, staring at his skin. It was the first bare chest she had seen in thirty-two years. “A journal, I’m reading a very, very old journal,” she said sleepily.
He put a hand on her thigh and lifted her skirt a few inches. “Come on, we had a deal. You were supposed to tell me about the readings you do.”
“Now?” She smiled wickedly, heady from the wine.
“Deal’s a deal.”
She shook her head like a stubborn child.
“I’ve had too much wine,” she said.
“All right, then tell me about your journal.”
“It’s not my journal”—she made a face—“it’s a soldier’s journal.” She turned her head and yawned. “He’s dead. He died in an asylum.”
“Is it a good journal?”
Sherry shook her head. “It’s a sad journal.”
“Why would someone want to read a sad journal?” Weir lifted her skirt another two inches, rubbing his thumb across her thigh. “There’s too much sadness in the world already.”
“There is.” She nodded slowly.
“So you are interested in it from a historical perspective.”
“History,” Sherry whispered hoarsely.
“Where did you get it?”
“Friend,” she said.
“Old friend?” he asked.
“Nah, I just met her once. Just last week, when I called you and told you I was out of town. She gave me the diary I told you about. It was her late husband’s.”
“How did you come to meet her?”
“Friend of a friend, as they say. I knew someone from up there and it was just some local people being nice to me.”
“Did your first friend read the diary too?”
“Huh-uh, she just glanced at it.”
“May I see it?” Weir asked softly, carefully.
“Brigham’s,” she said, opening her eyes and straining to look toward the door. She shook her head no, as if remembering something. “No, it’s at my neighbor’s,” she said, starting to rise and feeling very drunk and wondering if Brigham was waiting for her guest to leave.
She looked at the door. He was, she thought. He’d be watching from his window. Looking to see if Weir’s car was still in the driveway. And it was long, long past ten.
“I’ve got to clean up and get to bed,” she said, sitting up and suddenly reeling. She buried her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes. Her hair was piled all around the sides of her face.
“It’s very late,” she said.
“All right.” He rubbed his palms together and started buttoning his shirt. “Then I’ll help you clean up.”
“No, go, it’s late. Maybe I’ll just leave it all till morning.”
“As you wish,” Weir said.
Sherry stood and walked to the door and unlocked it.
“I still owe you a tour of my office and the museum.” He slipped his arm around her and pulled her into a kiss. Then he undid his pants to tuck his shirt in.
Sherry turned the knob.
“Call me,” she said, and pulled the door open to see Brian Metcalf.
“Brian…” she said, leaning with all her weight against the door frame to keep from swaying. “Brian, this is Troy, he’s a…”
Troy was slowly zipping his pants and then he buckled his belt with a smile.
Metcalf turned and walked away.