Walker
Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s a surprise,” Didi answers.
She leads me out of the building. I think we might be heading to our bench or to the lake, perhaps, but she takes us left down the path toward the parking lot. I’m holding on to her elbow. In spite of the fact that most of the center seems to know about Didi and me, when we’re with people we put up a front of propriety. Behind closed doors, however . . . well, I’m not holding on to her elbow.
During this last week, pretty much every afternoon José has turned a blind eye as we shut the door to my room and undertake what Didi has termed a “physical exam.” I’m happy to submit to this kind of physical exam. It beats the one I get from my orthopedic surgeon.
Things have stayed aboveboard—to a degree. We’ve kissed. A lot. And I know every curve and contour of her body . . . through her clothes. We’ve agreed that we’ll take things slowly until I’m out of the hospital. If she’s trying to dangle a carrot, it’s working. I’ve been hitting the gym every day for four or five hours, mainly because I need to find an outlet for all the pent-up energy in my body, and partly because I’m trying to convince the docs to sign me off. I figure that if they see me getting fit in my body, they might not focus so much on what’s going on in my head.
What I’m not telling anyone is that the nightmares are still happening. Only José knows. I think I’m even managing to convince Doctor Monroe that I’m recovering because he hasn’t spoken again about going back over the event or recording a diary. However, he’s pushing me to attend art therapy classes. I hear they’re starting to work for Dodds, who spends a lot of his time down there in the art studio, but it’s just not my thing. The only therapy I need is Didi, though if I’m completely honest there’s a part of me—a small, hissing voice in my head—that whispers to me in the darkness, questioning the justness of what I’m doing. It’s the same voice that questions the fairness of me being happy every time I think of Didi and feel an answering fluttering in my chest. What right do I have? I try to quiet the voice, but it’s refusing to go away. Then there are the possible ramifications for Didi and her career.
“Here,” Didi says, stopping.
I hear the sound of a car door opening.
“We’re going off the base?” I ask her, surprised.
“Yes,” she answers. “I got permission, don’t worry.”
I get into the car and she shuts the door behind me and gets in on the driver’s side.
I’m not used to being a passenger. Miranda never drove; I drove her. My dad used to joke that I was her chauffeur. The roles are constantly flipping with Didi, and I find I quite like it. To a degree. I still hate the feeling of helplessness that comes from being blind, but Didi never makes me feel helpless, and when we’re making out I’m able to flip the tables a lot, something she seems to enjoy too.
I wind down the windows as Didi drives, breathing in the ocean. God, I’ve missed this, missed the feeling of freedom that being in a car brings. I hope we’re in for a long drive.
Didi puts the radio on, and for a moment, with my eyes closed and my head turned toward the sun, it feels as if we’re a normal couple heading to the beach and I’m not a patient on day release from a mental hospital.
I wonder for the millionth time whether I should tell Didi about the theory that my blindness is psychosomatic, but I’ve left it so long now I wonder if she’ll consider it a lie. I’m scared, too, of her reaction. I don’t want to ruin today. But then again, the voice in my head pipes up, maybe it’s only fair if I do have my day ruined. And I don’t want to live with the lie any longer. Before I can stop myself, I open my mouth.
“Didi,” I say.
She turns down the radio. “Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
She doesn’t say anything. Shit. I think about making something up, but I have to tell her. I can’t back down now. “The whole blindness thing. It’s, um . . . it’s not physical,” I say. “It’s in my head.”
She doesn’t speak, but I feel the car start to slow as if she’s taken her foot off the accelerator. “I know,” she finally says.
I turn to face her. She what?
“My dad told me.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. He thought it would help for me to know. Don’t be mad.”
I don’t know what to think, but I do know that I feel relieved, not mad. If anything, she should be mad at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“It’s okay. I understand,” she says, putting her hand on my thigh.
I press my head back into the headrest and let the knowledge that she knew, and didn’t think worse of me for it, settle.
“You’re going to get your sight back,” she tells me, and the certainty in her voice buoys me for a moment. Until she lifts her hand away. I don’t know how to tell her that it’s never going to happen.