Soon (12 page)

With his heightened hearing, Paul found the ringing phones, the clatter of food trays in the hall, and the visitor chatter tormenting. He was so close to the nurses’ station that his ears throbbed with the gossiping, arguing, and questions. He longed to pull his pillow over his head, but his ears were too tender. He could do nothing but lie there and stew.

One voice grew distinct from the rest: a deep, rich, baritone singing, humming, musing, and greeting staff as it wended its way down the hall. Paul wasn’t up to what sounded like an energetic visitor, and he tensed when the voice seemed to hover outside his door. Then Paul heard a cart roll in and rattle to a stop. He fought the urge to turn toward the sound, hoping whoever it was would assume he was asleep.

“Are you awake, sir?” asked the baritone voice. “Might I trouble you for a moment?”

“Well, I don’t have much choice now, do I?”

The man approached. “Where might I touch you in greeting, sir, if I have your permission?”

“You don’t. What do you want?”

Paul felt a light squeeze on his shoulder from an extremely large hand and wrenched away, but that didn’t seem to deter the man. “The name’s Stuart Rathe. Stuart with a
ua
and the last name spelled R-A-T-H-E. The nickname’s Straight, and you may feel free to use it. I saw your name and title on the sign outside. How might I address you?”

“Rip van Winkle.”

“They tell me you should be sleeping at night and up most of the day. Paul, is it? May I sit?”

“Stop asking if you’re just going to ignore the answer.”

Straight dragged a chair next to the bed. “So you’re the blind man.”

“You caught that, did you?”

“Well, I hope it’s temporary. Meantime, I would like to offer you my services. Anytime you’ve had enough of me, simply say so and I will be on my way without the slightest offense.”

“I’m saying so.”

“The nurses sent me. I am here to help in your recovery, not to tire you out. May I continue?”

“No.”

“I, sir, am fifty-nine years old and an African-American. I am six-foot-four and weigh 225 pounds. I lost a foot in a car wreck with a drunk driver eight years ago, but more importantly, I lost my family too. Fortunately there were no other vehicles involved, but unfortunately that makes
me
the drunk driver. You can imagine, sir, how such an experience sobers a man. My life has never been the same. I retired as a professor of history at the University of Chicago, and now I volunteer here every day.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever patients want. I talk to them. I read to them. Sometimes I play the sax for them. I play games with them. My cart is filled with games. Checkers. Scrabble. Parcheesi.”

“I don’t imagine chess.”

“It’s one of my favorites. I play in clubs and tournaments. Is it your game too, Paul?”

“A long time ago.”

“Well, I have a game that will work for you. Nice big pieces you’ll recognize easily by touch. If that interests you at all, I am here every day.”

“So am I.”

Straight laughed. “My time is almost up, but let’s make a date for a game tomorrow.”

“Can’t guarantee I’ll feel like it.”

“Just let me know. What’s that you’re listening to?”

Paul started. He hoped the title wasn’t showing. Only family and coworkers would understand. “Ancient texts,” he said. “Trying to understand the motivations of people who would risk their lives to promulgate fiction.”

“A worthy task, friend. I’ll be interested to hear what you make of it.”

12

VIOLENT MOOD SWINGS
became Paul’s routine. He awoke daily to realize afresh his blindness. He’d had his bed moved close to the window so he could reach the curtain, and he’d instructed that his blinds never be shut. He loved the warmth of the sun magnified through the window, but it also reminded him that he enjoyed zero visual sensation of the light.

The bandages on his eyes were now thin discs of gauze, held in place by one layer of a mesh strip secured at the back of his head. His hair had begun to grow back. The patches were situated so he could open and shut his eyes, which he was encouraged to do as much as possible.

Though Paul had been urged not to let direct sunlight linger on the worst of his burns, he began each day by turning his face directly toward the warmth. Try as he might, he couldn’t sense the difference in brightness from facing the window versus facing the door. Every day he hoped some tiny ray of light would sneak through the bandages to herald the return of his sight. But no.

Shortly after breakfast, he faced what he called the torture chamber, where the burned mask on his face and ears was frozen and debrided with a laser to prepare for the grafts of synthetic tissue. No matter how Paul psyched himself up and how much medication they gave him, this was by far the worst part of his day. It didn’t help when the personnel who inflicted the torture reminded him that most other severely burned patients had much larger areas to treat and that such treatments used to be done by hand and had been many times more excruciating.

The physical pain, worse than anything he had ever experienced, was the least of it. He burned with rage, convinced he was the only patient in the unit who had to face the ordeal with an unsupportive family.

It galled him that though Jae visited the hospital every day, she came mostly in the evening, after dinner, with the kids. They’d stay for an hour or so, and then it would be bedtime and she’d take them home. So all day he’d sit there, miserable and bored, alone. Why wasn’t she here? She had to chauffeur the kids to and from school, but what else did she have to do all day? What was so precious about her daily routine? Paul wasn’t about to beg her to spend her days with him, but he deeply resented her absence.

True, he wasn’t very good company. Often he was harsh with Jae and the kids. He had been furious when Brie and Connor were still afraid of him by their fourth visit, and he yelled at them, making Connor cry. He had fought with Jae about that—he was still convinced they were picking up on
her
fears—and it seemed to make a difference. Now they came all the way into the room and even close to his bed or chair, so he could touch them before they ran to play in the hall. But his whole family still seemed to tiptoe around him, wary of his temper. He was sick of feeling guilty for his anger. What did they expect? Some kind of phony good-boy, model-patient cheer?
Of course I’m angry. Who wouldn’t be?

Night and day, Paul was haunted by the same dream. Jae and the kids were running down the hall to him while he squatted, waiting. But just as one of them jumped into his arms, he was jolted awake and found himself still blind.

Bob Koontz visited about once a week, and while he always reiterated that Paul had a place on his team, Paul couldn’t conceive of it and Bob couldn’t describe it.

The main thing that kept Paul going was his daily afternoon visit from Stuart Rathe. Straight’s rich voice and easy laugh gradually lifted Paul’s spirits and gave him something to look forward to. Straight talked and listened, walked him around the wards, and set up the chessboard in different lounges so they could play several games a day. Though he had been a club and tournament player in grad school, it had been years since Paul had devoted much time to the game. Playing with Straight engaged Paul’s mind and reminded him how much fun chess could be. Paul was surprised how he could visualize the entire board and the locations of each of the pieces by just brushing them with his fingers between plays. If anything, his blindness helped him focus on strategy. But Straight was good. Paul was able to beat him only about one in five games.

One day Straight noticed two bowls on Paul’s bedside table, one full of paper clips and the other holding only a few. “What’s this about?”

“I’m trying to count,” Paul said. “This ancient text I’m listening to mentions blindness so often that I started wondering how many times I heard it. The nurse set me up with this system. I start with one bowl empty, and then I put a paper clip in it each time I hear a reference to blindness.”

“So, how many times?”

“So far, forty-nine in just the first four sections.”

“And what does it say about being blind?”

“Well,” Paul said, “most of it is about blind people being healed. But there are also several references to figurative blindness, like ‘the blind leading the blind.’ And there’s one passage where a man is arguing with self-righteous religious leaders, and he calls them blind guides who strain at a gnat but swallow a camel.”

“Wonder what that means.”

“I think he’s saying they’re worrying about details and missing the big picture.”

“And what’s the big picture?” Straight said.

“I’m still figuring that out.”

“Well, keep listening. Sounds like it’s helping you cope.”

As their routine got established, Paul grew comfortable enough to ask Straight for a favor.

“Would you write a note for me?” he said one afternoon. “It’s a business thing that I didn’t get squared away before I got hurt. You’ll have to look up the work address, if you don’t mind, because I left the card in my office.”

“No problem. Fire away.”

Paul dictated:

Angela wrote back immediately. Paul eagerly handed over the letter as soon as Straight walked in the door and asked him to read it aloud.