9 posts tagged “fiction”
Damn. I just heard that one of the Maggie-Della Mystery draft contributors suffered an ocular stroke and is now blind in one eye. That makes three of the writers/readers for the series blind in one way or another. Granted, the stories focus on blindness and its relationship to truth, although that's only one theme among many. Still, I wasn't expecting to hear from this person to say that she was now "visually impaired."
This person is an extremely dedicated, Southern-style, writer. She's skilled at her craft and I always enjoy reading her stories, even though my style is quite different from hers. She had some wonderful insights of her own to offer regarding my writing. I met her on a site for writers called EditRed. A lot of my stories are there, too.
This makes a second strike for the Maggie-Della clan this week. Another contributor lost a friend and co-worker to an unexpected heart attack. This person had just given birth to a baby and died shortly afterwards. This contributor works in a hospital (she's the inspiration for the character Kay Miller in the second novel, still being written). She'd worked with the recently deceased woman for 7 or 8 years there. She was devastated by it.
All I've had to deal with this week is a slight head cold. It kept me out of work today, although I was well enough to get some work done from home. So, not bad overall. But, then this happens to two other people in the same writing "community." Sometimes life rears up and kicks you on the head. Then, on other occasions it'll rear up and kick a friend's head. In both cases, it hurts.
Here's a question for all you writers: what's your technique when it comes to creating a character and making that character come to life in your readers' eyes? Are your characters based on real people? How do you create their personalities?
To get this query started off, here are some things I do:
1. Start with a real person. Incorporate their personalities into the fictionalized character.
2. Start living vicariously through them. I end up fantasizing about their adventures, or misadventures, shortly after I create them. The more I think about my characters and talk about them with others, the more real they become in my mind.
3. Get a photo. If it's a character based on a real person (like Della), then get a photo of them that best represents their alter ego's personality. If it's a totally made-up character, I browse photos after I've established a sense of identity. This technique helps me better imagine the character. Here are some examples of what I mean:
Meet a co-writer of mine, one of many. He's the blind fellow being walked by the dog and his name is Dan Huhn, originally from Texas and now living in Missouri. Take a look at how he walks, the swagger, the nonchalant cigarette at his lips. Then there are the tinted aviator glasses, necessary in his case since (like Rosie/Della), Dan has RP. This makes eyes painfully sensitive to light. Look at the way he holds the dog's harness, with fingers partially wrapped around. He's a confident man, firmly in the middle, with a wife behind him and a dog ahead of him. He's part of a community and he makes community where he goes. He's easy-going, yet there's an intensity to him that draws you in.
His counterpart will be Dan Sexton, the blind head of computer systems at Boston City Hall in the Maggie-Della mysteries. He's a high ranking official who likes to set his own pace. He's quick witted and confident and has adjusted to his disabilities in ways that Della has yet to. Dan will have a lot to teach Della.
See what I mean? This dude's ALIVE. And don't you just love that dog? Maggie immediately wants to pet him.
4. Incorporate a little bit of myself into each character. In some way or another, even with co-writers, all of the characters are extensions of me. I can externalize my fears, my hopes, my deals, my anger. They all become people and I can let myself go through them, at the same time maintaining the "neutral narrator" persona of Maggie.
So, what do you all do??? Let me know!
Of course, you all know I'm a writer and I certainly hope you've had the chance to check out some of my stories, particularly the ones I've worked on with Rosie. The most enduring of these little series, of course, are the Maggie-Della mysteries and I'm hard at work on the second novel.
I got a wonderful call from my sister-in-law, who ordered a copy of Family Secrets (the first novel) for herself and finally sat down to read it during our recent snow storm. She called to let me know how much she liked it and, in particular, how taken she was by Della. My sis-in-law is also disabled, due to earlier brain surgery that left her weak on one side of her body. She and I spent a long time talking about the relationship of Maggie to Della, and how well the first book was able to explain Della's world, in all its happy and sad moments, to sighted readers. She was really fascinated by it, and could very strongly relate to a lot of Della's frustrations, since so many of them were also her own.
At the same time my husband and I had begun our holiday shopping in Arlington, choosing to patronize local business here rather than send our money on its way out of state, or even out of country. We ended up in a charming little gift shop a stone's throw from my house and dropped a few bills there on Hanukkah and Christmas presents. The owner, also a fellow Arlington Chamber of Commerce member as am I - thanked me for my business and chatted a bit. Later I put in an email to the the Chamber, talking about my decision to patronize local business this year for a lot of our holiday shopping. My little scribe ended up in the Chamber newsletter, with my friend's business featured in bold-face, along with other places Aram and I had visited. A few days later I was checking my business email when in popped a thank you from the gift store business owner. I was really touched by it. It felt really sincere and personal.
So, where is this all leading? Well, I don't normally write Christmas stories but I had some time to kill on Sunday as it howled outside of my door. Somehow, my conversations with my sister-in-law and the small business owner in Arlington converged and I ended up spending the day writing a story and incorporating Della. I keep fictional blogs on the Maggie-Della website, so I put it up there for visitors to read. But, somehow, the themes that came out in the story seemed appropriate for this blog as well. What do we take for granted when it comes to our senses, what do we cherish, and why?
I really enjoyed writing this story and I hope you have as much fun reading it:
http://maggie-della.com/maggiesblog/
By the way, the blog and the site in general are as accessible as I can make them. You can hear the story, as well as read it.
Let me know what you think!
I've been out of the loop on Vox, but at least have been keeping up with the other blogs. Among other things, I've been working temporary full-time as a tech contractor and that's taken up a lot of time and energy. I've also published my first book (!) on LuLu.com, Family Secrets:
This is my first shot at a full length, serious treatment of the Maggie and Della characters. There's an excerpt and other links, along with two regularly-updated blogs, one by Maggie and one by Della.
Actually, I'm working on another short story now. In mid-November I ended up flying down to Baltimore to help my friend Rosie get a functioning computer. We went to Micro-Center (there's also one in the Boston area) and they actually built one for her. Rosie was ready to kill me for coming down to Baltimore like that, but it was something I felt I had to do. My husband was 100% behind me all the way. Got to love that guy!
Anyway, I fictionalized it and hope to have it up here soon!
Happy holidays, too.
There is a real-life Della. Her name is Rose Milholland and she lives in Baltimore. We chat by webcam all the time - fortunately she has enough sight remaining to see me on camera. Otherwise, she's blind from retinitis pigmentosa, the same disability suffered by Della.
Rosie's a total whack job and a great lady. She's probably the funniest person I know. Overall, she's a great model for Della. Della Isabella, by the way, is the name she gave to her computer (a Dell computer).
And Maggie? Well, c'est moi!
So now you've met us both!
Here's another Maggie-Della story, part of which is based on an actual occurrence (not the surgery!). Della's real life counterpart was recently selected to be one of six people who would receive stem cell implants as part of a study to see if these cells could regenerate damaged retinal tissue. I was extremely happy to hear this and suddenly the story below popped into my head.
After she read it, Della's real life counterpart just rolled her eyes and wondered how safe it was for her to tell me anything anymore!
It was a miracle. Years and years of painstaking research and work: clinical trials, playing politics and appeasing multiple constituencies. Then, finally, a breakthrough. They were ready to begin the testing phase, but only a select few were chosen for this important, groundbreaking work. Six people would be chosen for stem cell research studies, only six out of a blind population of millions. And, the miracle part, I knew one of the lucky few: my friend Della.
They were just in time as far as I was concerned. In her early 60s by now, Della had been totally blind for about a year and was really getting crabby. Alex and I had long since removed any breakables from her immediate vicinity, particularly after I spent one afternoon in the Emergency Room being sutured. Della apologized, of course, but my flowers never quite recovered from their unplanned trip across the room. No, by the time they were ready for the study to begin I would have driven 2,000 miles in the back of a pickup truck to get her to the hospital. Fortunately, Boston was a medical hub and a short subway ride was the only transportation necessary.
The surgery went smoothly and Della was up and about in no time. They removed her bandages about a week later and we all waited for the magic to unfold. At first, nothing. Then, slowly, Della began to notice a tightness in her eyes, followed by small visual disturbances. Good: we were making progress. Della was hopeful, almost happy. As time went by her field of vision began to expand. She wiggled her fingers beneath her eyes and could see them. She laughed and then she cried. We all cried together, patted Della on the back and raised countess toasts in her honor. I never had so many hangovers in my life, We even poured little shot glasses of Diet Coke for Della. She burped up a storm.
”Well,” her eye doctor said to me one day as we made casual conversation. “Our Della is doing quite well. I’ll bet she must enjoy seeing her reflection in the mirror after all these years!” He was an old-fashioned guy. Of course the first thing a woman would want to see was her reflection in the mirror. Forget the finger wiggling: that was kid stuff. I mentioned that I didn’t think Della had any full length mirrors and wasn’t sure she’d thought to look in them. Perhaps she didn’t want to. After all, who wants to see themselves 10 or more years older? “Nonsense!” The doctor announced and called Della into his office. He wanted to be the first to see the look on Della’s face as she beheld her own image once again. I wasn’t so sure of this strategy, what with no emotional preparation on Della’s part. But, the doctor would have no truck with that and happily marched Della to his full length mirror and then told her to open her eyes in front of it.
Della raised her eye lids slowly and looked. Her mouth dropped open and she just said, “wow!” She looked at her face and rubbed her hand over her hair. She looked at her eyes, sparkling and bright and started to smile. “Wow!” she said again.
Then she looked down.
I think that doctor may still regret his decision. Maybe that’s why he left the country so shortly afterwards, but we’ll never know for sure. In any event, we’re not saying. Della’s gaze went down to her chest and the next thing we heard was her screeching “Oh my God! Oh my God! Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”
Alex and I were on the other side of the office and the doctor had just sat at his desk. In a split second we converged on Della, thinking that something had gone horribly wrong. Had she suddenly gone blind again? Had something else frightened her? Was she alright? “Della!” We cried out in unison. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
Della’s answer to this was another ear-piercing “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh! Noooooooooooo!” She stood at the mirror with a look of horror on her face.
I was the first to reach her and I grabbed her arm as she nearly dropped to the floor. She was groaning and clutching her chest in agony. Heart attack? “Della, Della!” I exclaimed. “What’s wrong, sweetie? What’s wrong?”
”Oh God!” she shuddered. “Can’t you see it?”
”See what, sweetheart? See what?”
Then Della told us what was wrong. “My BOOBS!” she screamed.
Huh? I looked over at her in total bafflement. “What? Your what?”
”What happened to them?” she wailed, then started to cry. “And I’m FAT!”
Of course. It finally hit me. Della hadn’t seen herself in years. Not in the mirror and not in any other way, either. She wasn’t 20, or even 40 anymore. She was 62. Our bodies change and the poor woman had been given no chance to prepare herself. “Della, Della,” I tried to calm her down. “Sweetie, it’s okay. You’re not fat! You’re just not 30 years old any more. You’re fine, you’re fine! And your boobs...uh...” That might be a bit more difficult. That woman had a pair on her.
”Oh my God!” she said again. “What the hell happened? How the hell did I get these things? And why are they way down there?” She pointed to her stomach.
I glared at the doctor, now staring sheepishly at the floor and turning various hues of red. “Oh Della, don’t worry about that. It just...happens to some people. You know, breasts sag a bit as we get older.”
”Sag?” Della screeched into my ear. “Sag? For Christ’s sake I look like someone grafted a pair of dachshunds to my chest! When did this happen, Maggie?”
I’d never known Della to be any smaller, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention that. She could see well enough to aim and I was the closest person at hand. I avoided the question and patted her arm. “Now, Della. It’ll be fine, really!” I really hoped the novelty of seeing her reflection would shortly overcome the shock. I took another look at Della’s face - mouth hanging open in surprise - and rather doubted it. “I mean, you can get them reduced if you want.”
“Hmmmmm.” Della looked down at her chest again, then over at the doctor. “Might do that. And after that I might attach the leftovers to somebody else here. Good God, doc, you could have given me an advance warning before moving me over to the mirror! The last time I saw this I had brown hair. I was a size 6, for cryin’ out loud!” She held a breast in each hand. The doctor looked discreetly away. “And these puppies were perky.” She let them fall. “So help me God someone’s walking home bowl-legged tonight and it ain’t Alex.”
“Well, uh, I can recommend a good plastic surgeon,” the eye doctor continued. “Good man. Colleague of mine.”
Della pinned him with another look. “Alex,” she said. “Get on the phone with your buddies at Mass General and find me a plastic surgeon. Make sure it’s no one my eye doctor knows.”
Alex grinned like a pumpkin. “And I know just the person!”
Alex was right. A week later Della and I sat in the office of one Dr. Eleanor Fitzgerald, who looked Della over and just shook her head. “My, my, I’m surprised you don’t tip over when you walk,” she observed. “Actually, I started my career with the same surgery I’ll recommend for you.” Then she looked over at me. “I can schedule you for an enlargement at the same time if you’d like.”
I looked up at the doctor, eyes narrowing as a suspicion crossed my mind. “Did Alex put you up to this?” I asked.
“Oh, no!” she said, too quickly.
Right. Alex was going to be camping out in the back yard for the next week. “Just concentrate on Della. I have other ways of making my husband happy.”
Dr. Fitzgerald opened her mouth to speak. “Not another word,” warned Della. “Or I’ll tie these around your neck.”
The doctor smiled and scheduled Della without delay. “I do very good work,” she said. “Heavens knows, I certainly understand what’s it feels like. The backaches, not being able to sleep on your stomach. It’s really terrible. So,” she said after a moment. “Are we ready?”
Della nodded resolutely and we were off. The surgery went smoothly and Della was up and about in no time. Dr. Fitzgerald had done a good job. Unfortunately, our happy recovery scene was marred by the unexpected visit of Della’s eye doctor, who looked her over disapprovingly. “Hmmmmm,” he observed. “I must say I don’t approve of this kind of thing. Takes the curves right out of a woman.” Della and I both stared at him, wondering which one of us was going to kill him first. Me, probably, since Della was still in bed and recovering her eye sight. I didn’t want her to miss, even if she was taller. “Now, my wife,” he explained. “Could fit a TV dinner tray on her chest. In fact, she often does. Do I think it’s ugly? No. It’s beautiful. It’s the way nature intended. And, nature is doing her job. We have three lovely children and I owe it all to that real estate.” Then he looked over at me and shook his head sadly.”I suppose you’re trying to emulate your short friend here. Now look, friendship should only go so far. If I were you I’d contact your plastic surgeon and reverse the process – maybe even add in some. Believe me, it’s the best thing to do.”
Della glared up at him from her bed, arms comfortably down at her sides for the first time in years. “Oh?” she said. “And you’re the expert on this because…?”
The good doctor smiled and gave us both a patronizing glance. “Now you may think I’m an old fashioned guy, but nature is nature. I don’t have to be an expert. I just have to see how the two genders were created. Really, what could be more obvious?”
I really had enough at that point and ushered the gentleman out of Della’s hospital room. She was scheduled to return home that day so I helped get her to my car. She was fuming and steaming all the way, finally exploding by the time we arrived at her townhouse on Beacon Hill. “I’ll kill that bastard!” she roared. “My God, for the first time in longer than I can remember I’m comfortable. I can see my feet and it’s not just because of the eyesight. I feel normal! What the hell is wrong with that?” She raised her arms menacingly. “Let me get my hands on that son of a bitch. I don’t care what they do to me afterwards.” She exhaled and plopped down loudly on the couch.
“Relax, Della,” wishing there was something I could do. Why did men still think this way? Every girlie magazine I passed showed women with breasts practically off of the magazine cover. We were supposed to enjoy this? What gave? “It’ll be fine.” I gave her a hug, carefully, since she was still a bit tender.
Della looked increasingly upset. She had her pride and the fool had hurt it. I thought for a minute, then an evil thought crossed my mind, warming me to the cockles of my belly. “Oh, yea!” I said, half to myself. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!”
“What?” Della asked.
“Never you mind, my dear,” I said and flipped open my cell phone.
I refused to say anything more about the matter. “Della,” I told her instead, “We need to make up for some lost time. You and I are going on a sightseeing tour and we’re starting right now.”
Della screwed up her face and gave me a familiar look, one that said ‘if I didn’t know better I’d say you were nuts.’ Then she crossed her arms over her greatly reduced frontage and waited. “Yes?” she inquired.
“Never you mind,” I said again. “Just pack.”
We started in Maine, at Acadia National Park. Della’s not a walker or lover of nature per se, but there was something there I wanted her to see. We spent the day browsing shops in Bar Harbor, then stopped at a trendy restaurant for lobster. Then I piled her into the car and drove, only getting out about a half hour later. I reached my arm in and helped her to her feet. She scratched her head. “Maggie,” she said. “What in the name of God are we doing here out in the middle of nowhere?”
I smiled. “Look up,” I said.
The inky sky was filled with stars, so many overhead that I almost felt dizzy. Thousands and thousands of stars blinked in the night, twinkling against the backdrop of evening sky. You couldn’t see this in the city. There were too many lights. You had to go out, away from anybody and a national park was the best way to do it without serious travel to other parts of the world. Della’s mouth dropped open as she looked and then her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, Maggie,” she said. “I had no idea.”
It was an amazing sight, even for me. I felt naked underneath them, so many thousands of stars. I had to look down at the ground before I lost my footing and fell.
We stayed in Maine for a few days, taking in views of the Atlantic as it crashed into the New England coastline. From there we went to New York and caught a few shows. Then we took trip to DC to visit the Smithsonian Museums – more for my sake than for Della’s. Since we were in the neighborhood we spent some time in Baltimore, too. Della wanted to see everything: every crack in the sidewalk, every blade of grass, every shop window, every museum exhibit. As her sight improved so too did her desire to drink in every texture, color and reflection all the rest of us took for granted. Everybody except Della, that is.
We got back a few weeks later. Della thanked me for a wonderful trip, but I said that she wasn’t finished yet. Ed Sheppard had been waiting for her and wanted to take her away for two weeks, just the two of them. He didn’t say where, just winked and got Della onto the back of his Harley. I watched them speed away.
Meanwhile, my plot continued to hatch with my co-conspirator. We had all the pieces in place and our confederates joined in with an unexpected zeal. Things were going exactly as planned. All we needed to do now was to wait for Della and Ed to come back home.
That happened about two weeks later. Della and Ed were tanned and happy looking. “Hey!” Della exclaimed as we sat together at my house after dinner. “Damn, my night vision’s getting good. I couldn’t see a thing before, but now…”
Ed raised his hand, expecting the worse and he got it. “Now, Della…” he started.
“Hot damn! I really like this being able to see who I’m f…”
“Now I’m sure these folks..” Ed stammered but Della was way out in front of him.
“And, you know what? It looked EXACTLY the way I thought it would, just based on the feel you know. And then when I moved down there and started…”
Ed buried his head in his hands. Alex took the opportunity to start coffee and dragged a red-faced Ed into the kitchen with him. “We’ll be right back!” he announced. “Somebody shove an éclair into that woman’s mouth, will ya?”
I shook my head. Men brought out the worst in Della. I wondered how often she and Ed actually made it out of bed. Must have been an interesting two weeks. Alex and Ed returned shortly afterwards and I suggested that Della might want to find another topic of conversation. “Besides,” I told her. “We’re going to have a guest tonight.”
“Oh?” she said, then noticed the look on my face. She gave me another one of those looks. “And you’re not going to tell me, right?”
I grinned and nodded. At that moment, the doorbell rang and a very satisfied Dr. Ellen Fitzgerald waltzed into our living room. She carried something under her arm, wrapped in plastic. “Victory!” she declared.
Alex had a puzzled look on his face. “Excuse me?” he said.
“It worked!” she declared.
“What worked?”
Dr. Fitzgerald took a nearby seat. “A little medical experiment,” she explained. Then she looked over at me. “Actually, it wasn’t even my idea.” She winked and I grinned, ear to ear.
“So, it really worked?” I said.
“What worked?” Alex asked, totally flustered by now.
“Our final present for Della!” Ellen Fitzgerald announced. “And I have to say I’m quite proud of myself.” She took the parcel from underneath her arm, a publication of some kind, and dropped it onto the coffee table.
“Hmmm,” Alex mused. “And you got it published already in the New England Journal of Medicine?”
Dr. Fitzgerald waved her hand dismissively. “No, no!” she exclaimed. “Someplace much better. The National Enquirer!”
We all peered at the article lying face-up on the table: “He’s Got A Pair!” The article blared. Underneath the headline was a picture of Della’s eye doctor, looking extremely nonplussed. “Man boobs extroardinaire!” the caption beneath the picture read. And, yes, there they were: two large protrusions from his chest, barely held in check by a shirt with straining buttons. “They said it couldn’t be done!” The article started, “But this man proved them wrong.”
Della’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding!” she screeched. “How the hell did you do that?”
“Sneaked female hormones into his morning coffee,” she said. “His entire practice went along with it. They thought he was some kind of dick head anyway. Well, now he’s got more than that. All his doctors – who also happen to be my colleagues, and all of whom owe me favors – told him there was nothing they could do. He’s stuck with them.”
Della’s mouth went to her hands. “No!” she exclaimed. “Oh lordy! How long will he have them?”
“Until he learns what it feels like. I even asked a few male friends of mine to give them a squeeze from time to time.”
Alex and Ed took one look at each other and hurriedly left the room. I had a feeling they’d be camping out for a while – and not drinking coffee anytime soon.
Della picked up the paper and gave it another look. “Well, well. You didn’t by any chance figure out how to make a man pregnant, have you?”
“Still working on that. I’ll let you know if there are any breakthroughs on that front.”
“You know, though, Della,” I observed. “You may never see Ed again. For that matter, I may never see my husband again either. They’ll probably both go on diets and start working out at the gym.”
Della nodded and shrugged. “Well,” she said. “We’ll just have to say we lost them both to science.”
“Works for me,” I said. “Anybody want coffee?”
Here's another story, this time featuring a real life Rosie, the inspiration for the fictionalized Della. This story came out of a conversation we had about God. Rosie's a believer; I'm not. At one point she wrote a story about meeting the devil in hell and besting him. Rosie can be a tough broad. Then I thought, what if she meets up with her maker, the big Man himself? A few days later Rosie had one of her not-infrequent migraines and this story was born!
"Rosie. Roooooosieeeeee..."
Rosie cracked one eye open. The other one felt like a pile of bricks had just fallen on top of it. "Urgh.." she said."Rosie..." the voice continued.
"Uhhh?" She was laying in bed nursing another migraine from Hell. One side of her face was numb, thankfully, although she was increasingly nauseated. She wondered how long she had before she had to make a trip to the bathroom. Not to pee, either.
"Rosie. I need to talk to you."
Rosie was not in the mood for a chat. She made a very impolite suggestion to that effect.
"Now, come on Rosie. I'm telling you, we need to chat."
Rosie tried to remember where she'd put the telephone receiver and started feeling around for it on the bed. Then she remembered that she hadn't answered any phone call. The voice was in her head.
"Rosie..."
Rosie rolled over onto her back and tried to ignore the gurgling sensation in her stomach. "Is this who I think it is?"
"Uh huh."
"In that case," Rosie said and sat up, slowly and painfully. "Drop me a couple of Fiorinal and let me go back to sleep."
"Now, Rosie," the voice chided. "You know that's not how you should talk to me."
"Now Archibald," Rosie started. She knew he hated being called that and the thought filled her with delight. "Turn down that fucking halo and vamoose. You've caused me enough trouble today. Leave the Fiorinal." Rosie heard a 'tsk, tsk' coming from on high. "I swear to God...uh, I swear to You, I'll puke all over you if you don't leave me alone."
Archibald materialized in front of her. If she could have, Rosie would have rolled her eyes in exasperation. As it was, she didn't want to roll anything - ever again. Her head thump, thump, thumped. "Now, Rosie," he said. "Is that any way to talk to your creator?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I certainly shouldn't talk to you that way. Let me try this: ($*%&&*($)%($&^$#@#$*%)^)*&$^%%&^(&@#." She certainly hoped he got the message. Really, this was not a good time for a chat with her maker.
Archibald was not letting up and Rosie began to wonder how his severed balls would feel in her hands. Probably cold, given the climate where he lived. Then again, he might not be able to create anything ever again. Serve him right. Couldn't she have a migraine in peace? Christ. No, wait, that was the Kid.
"Rosie, you're not going to believe this, but I'm here to ask your help," Archibald continued.
"You're shitting me." Rosie thought about that comment again. "No, wait, let's not go there. I mean, you're kidding me, right?"
"Well, for a while you had me tempted. Ha ha ha!" Archibald didn't have anything resembling a sense of humor. Rosie figured his arch-nemesis must have created her. It certainly couldn’t have been Archibald. As soon as she was dead she'd take Satan’s tail and wrap it around his neck. Smart ass. Invent RP on her, huh? He'd find out who was more evil.
"So, Arch, you're asking me for a favor?"
Archibald looked a bit embarassed. "Well, yea, if you don't mind."
"Oh, hey," Rosie was sitting up now. "No problem. You've been such a great guy. What a wonderful life you've given me. Oh, sure, yea. Let me just feel my way over to you and I'll give you my answer. I wonder how far down your head I can shove that halo? And don't I just love these migraines. Oh, yea, Arch. Let me return the favor - as soon as you do one for me. Until then..." She laid down and rolled over. "Don't let the door slam your ass on the way out. Bye."
"Aww, come on. Can't we let bygones by bygones?"
"Arch, if you don't scram I'm gonna puke all over your sandals."
Archibald shook his head sadly. "Now, now, Rosie. That's enough of that, young lady."
With an effort, Rosie rose from the bed. Then she tossed her cookies all over Archie's sandaled feet. "Aaaahhhhhh," she said afterwards, making sure she exhaled in his face. "I feel better already. Well, if you don't mind, I've got to pee now." She walked out of the room. "I wonder if I've got any aspirin left? Thanks, Arch. I feel better than I have all day. Give my regards to Satan. Tell him he's gonna wish he was still alive once I get down there."
Archibald sighed and cleaned himself up with a snap of his fingers. "Oh, okay," he said. "Here's one for you." He snapped his fingers again.
Rosie's migraine stopped. No more throbbing, no more nausea. "Well," she said. That's more like it!" She turned back towards the bedroom. Archie was still wiping off his feet and frowning. "Now, what's up?"
Archie scratched at his shinging, bald head and then readjusted his halo. It had taken a dive off his head as soon as Rosie upchucked on his feet. He shined it against a sleeve before putting it back on. "Like I said, I need a favor. And, good Me, woman, your breath's enough to knock a horse dead."
"It's the migraines, they do it every time. Now, if you were to miraculously cure them...well, no more problems."
"I'll think about it."
"So, what do you need?"
"I need you to contact somebody on my behalf."
"Why can't you do it yourself?"
"She doesn't believe in me."
"Now there's a smart woman. I'm beginning to think you might be an hallucination. I think I'll just ignore you the next time and say you're not really there."
"Oh you are vexing, young lady."
Rosie grinned, showing off her bright white teeth. "Ain't I, though? Bitch of a person to deal with."
"My, my, very nice teeth," Archie commented.
"Yes, yes, two days of pain. Do you know I couldn't eat anything but mashed potatoes and room temperature water for two days? I couldn't have a little help there, eh Arch?"
"Oh ha ha ha ha ha ha! We were laying bets on whether or not you'd break down over the cherries and stain them right back up again. Ha ha ha ha ha ha! I can't wait for when your painters get here."
Rosie glared and Archibald shut up. "Uh, I mean, I'll make sure they do a good job." He smiled, unconvincingly.
"One problem and I'll heave right on those sandals again."
"Okay, okay. Now, listen, I need somebody that's good with computers."
"Don't you have people up there for that?" Rosie asked.
"Well, yes, but he's not available at the moment. I figured, you spend a lot of time with computers, maybe you'd be able to convince this person to help me?"
"Someone I know?" Rosie had an uncomfortable feeling. She only knew one atheist who was good with computers.
"Yes. She won't listen to me. She doesn't think I exist - no wisecracks please! - but she'll listen to you."
"And, if I convince her...somehow, what's in it for me?" Rosie asked.
"You?"
"Yea, you know? The woman who's not puking at the moment?"
"Well, what do you want?"
"Hmmmmm. How about...my sight back?"
"Uh," Arichbald pondered. "Sorry, can't do that."
"But you're God!" Rosie protested.
"Just because I can doesn't mean I should. I mean, what about all the stories you have for people? All the help you've given other blind people? How about the Maggie Della stories? You woudn't be able to write them if you could see."
"Oh, you're just saving me up, aren't you?" Rosie took another look at Archibald's sandals and wondered if she could bring the headache back, or at least the nausea.
"Oh no!" Archibald exclaimed. "No more spews, please. The missus will kill me if I ruin another pair of these."
"Okay, so if I can't have my sight back...how about..." Rosie thought for a minute. "My hearing?"
Archibald sighed. "No can do. Character building. You know."
"You're sure?" Rosie queried. "Because I guarantee I won't hear you scream when I rake your balls."
"Now, Rosie..."
"Yea, yea," Rosie sighed. At least the headache was gone.
"Can I have dark hair again?"
Archibald looked taken aback. "I like your hair!" he exclaimed.
Rosie was about to tell him to try it on himself, then realized it WAS on himself. His hair was more white than hers was. Oh well, another great idea funneled down the drain.
"Can you move me somewhere else?"
"And upset all the plans you have for Carroll Lutheran? What will they think? You'll leave them stranded!"
"Okay, how about you knock off about 40 or 50 pounds? What harm will that do anyone else?"
"What harm?!!" Archibald looked absolutely mortified. His halo almost fell off again, too. "All of a sudden you lose that much weight? What will Bob and Marilyn think? They'll think that you're sick and going to die! And Marilyn with Parkinson's, no less. Oh Myself, no! We can't certainly do that to such good friends!"
"A boy toy?"
"In YOUR neighborhood? What color do you think he'd be?"
Rosie was sorely tempted to kick, but held herself back at the last minute. "So, I can't have my vision back?"
"No."
"I can't have my hearing back?"
"No."
"I can't change my hair color?"
"No, and how could you think of such a thing!"
"I can't move somewhere nicer?"
"No"
"I can't drop the extra weight?"
"No, sorry."
"No hunk in the sack?"
"That's up to you."
"Then what DO I get for all this?"
"Uh?" Archibald smiled sheepishly. "The good feeling from realizing that you've helped me out?"
"Oh, hey, that works. NOT." Rosie crossed her arms and stood her ground. "No deal, God dude. Sorry, I'm being selfish."
"Now, Rosie." They were back to that again. Rosie suddenly felt like shoving Archibald's halo up his nose and calling it a day. So what if the headache came back? "Remember we're trying to be selfless here."
"Oh yea, selfless."
"Of course..."
"Yes, Archibald? Of course?"
"You could be selfless by giving a little God-like gift to someone else."
Rosie sighed. This was as far as she was going to get with Archibald. "Okay," she said.
"But nothing huge," Archibald warned.
"You're the boss."
"Well, it's about time you figured that out!"
"At least until I get there. I hope you have a retirement home somewhere." Rosie called Archibald over and whispered her gift idea into his ear.
Archibald smiled. "Done!" he exclaimed.
A few hours later Margy was sitting in her kitchen, sipping at a glass of fizzing seltzer water. It was hot out and she was tired, as usual. Suddenly, the Skype phone on her computer in the other room began to ring loudly. She jumped up and spilled water on the floor, then slipped on it with her flip flops. She regained her balance and ran towards the living room, just in time to hear the ringing stop. She slowed to a walk, then the Skype phone began to ring again. She began to run again, just as the noon horn blared into the house. "Aaaaaghhhhh!" she screeched in surprise, then tripped over the computer cord and landed face down on the couch. "Right there..." she muttered. The ringing stopped again. She quickly grabbed the webcam from the table and plugged it in, then fiddled with the sound adjustments before calling Rosie back. "Uh, hello, sweetie!" she panted.
"Hiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!" Rosie waved at the camera. "I'm sorry, were you in the middle of something?"
"Oh, no, no!" Margy said. "How ya doin', hon?"
"Okay, you know. Nothing much. Just this and that. Uh, could I ask you a favor?"
"Sure," Margy said.
"Could you help God with a computer problem?"
Margy's eyes bugged out so far even Rosie could see them. "You want me to help who with a what?"
"God. With a computer problem." This sounded weird, even to Rosie. Margy probably thought she'd gone crazy. No, wait, Rosie realized. Margy already thought she was crazy. "I mean, maybe it's not God. But it's somebody I know. Would you mind helping?"
Margy scratched her head and wondered what was in that seltzer water. "Well, sure," she said. "What's the problem."
"I'm not sure. He wrote it down, though. I'll send it to you in an email. Is that okay?"
Margy shrugged. What a wacky dream this was. "Fine," she said.
"Oh, and you'll get a reward," Rosie promised.
"Great," Margy said. "But I'm happy to help a friend of yours out. You know that, sweetie."
"Well, do this favor for me," Rosie said. "And I can guarantee you one thing."
"Yea?"
"You'll sleep like a baby tonight. Promise."
Rosie's ending - ha ahahahahahahahahaha!
That night margy fell asleep quickly and soundly. Then she woke up a few hours later feeling REALLY hungry. All she wanted was milk. She drank a glass and headed back to bed. Within a few seconds was sound asleep. She woke up again when she peed in her pants.
Yep, she slept just like a baby.
The next morning there was a major eclipse of the sun, following by baby laughter originating from somewhere in Boston.
Author's Note: I wrote this story round-robin with my friend Rosie. She and I created two fictionalized characters based on ourselves. Mostly we write mysteries, but occasionally we'll just play around with whatever ideas pop into our heads.
Rosie is blind, due to a condition called retinitis pigmentosa. She has less than 3% of her normal field of vision remaining. Her character, Della, is also blind. My character, Maggie, is a Polish-American web worker who teams up with Della to solve mysteries and deal with life's challenges.
In this story, Della helps a newly-blinded person deal with his new and unwelcome disability. Della has to be tough, but she's also very, very funny. It was based on an idea for another story that Rosie had. I suggested we try the idea out on Maggie and Della and this is what came out of it:
Drill Sergeant
“Della!” Skye’s face blossomed into a wide smile. “Come in, come in!” She walked from behind her desk to where Della stood at the entrance to her office. After a hug hello, she helped her to a nearby seat.
“Another soul in need?” Della asked, smiling.
“And you’re just the person for the job,” Skye continued, squeezing Della’s arm as she spoke. “Freak accident. A game of touch football a few months ago. He was running for the ball when he tripped and fell…” Skye stopped for a moment.
“Yes?” Della asked. “Please continue.”
“Unfortunately, he landed on his face, in a pile of brush and discarded tree limbs. One of those limbs was sticking straight out. One eye’s completely gone and the other’s barely usable. He has some sight, but not enough to make a difference.”
Della nodded. “Like me,” she observed.
“Like you,” Skye continued. “He’s been home ever since he got back from the hospital. He won’t do anything to help himself. His wife does everything for him - bathing, feeding, everything. He won’t deal with his condition at all. He won’t even walk upstairs to his own bedroom on his own. Spends all day in the living room. Won’t talk much. Major depression, which he won’t do anything about either.”
Della nodded. “I can understand. He lost it all at once. I had time to prepare myself. He didn’t. One minute he was fine, the next minute he’s blind. That’s hard, Skye.”
“You’re telling me,” Skye agreed. “I get patients like that all the time. Eventually, though, they come around, even if it’s just a little. They learn to cope. This one? I don’t have a good feeling.”
“And I’ll bet his wife is an enabler to boot,” Della added. “Why should he do anything if she does it all? He’s made himself helpless and she’s made herself indispensable.”
“Only she’s getting tired of it,” Skye said. “She’s been calling me all week asking me if there’s something I could do to get him off his, er…”
“Ass,” Della finished. “As in ‘pain in the…’”
Skye laughed. “You said it, Della!”
Della rubbed her hand over a snowy white head. She hated her hair, despite what everyone said. It made her feel old. Try it on you, she told them all. “Sounds like some tough love might be in order,” she said finally. “Shock treatment, like Eastern Europe got in the 90s.”
“Hopefully with faster results,” Skye added.
“Yes,” Della added. “Hopefully.” She shifted in her chair and appeared thoughtful for a moment. “Has the house been modified to accommodate his disability?” she asked.
“Oh yes. No problems there.”
“And he won’t leave at all?”
“Only to come visit me. Maybe he thinks I’ll be able to do something.” Skye sighed. “I can’t do eye transplants yet. I don’t think he’s quite got it through his head that I’ve done everything I can for him.”
“Hey, doctors are miracle workers. Don’t you know that?” Della chuckled.
Skye snorted. “They think I can pull a cure out of my hat. New eyes.”
Della smiled. “I’ll take a pair as soon as you have some.”
“Deal.”
“Until then, we cope.”
“Yes, we all cope.”
“Except for this clown.” Della stood up and flipped open her cane. “Doesn’t he care what he’s doing to his wife? No,” she stopped herself. “Of course not. He’s all about him now. His problems, his needs, his condition. That’s got to stop. He’ll drive his wife away and then where’ll he be?”
“Up the creek.”
“Without a paddle,” Della finished, then turned towards the door. “No, no, don’t get up. I can find my way out.”
“What are you going to do, Della?” Skye asked.
“Go home,” she said. “And then you’re going to call the wife and have her call me. We need a plan of action here and her cooperation will be necessary. It’s going to hurt her to do what she’ll need to do, but it’ll be for their own good - his and hers.”
Skye came over to Della and put her arms around her. “Lady, if they come out with eye transplants you’re going first. Thank you so much.”
“I’d say it’s my pleasure, but it won’t be.” Della grimaced, then hugged Skye back. They held each other for a moment before Della walked through the door.
A week later Della sat in Skye’s office and was introduced to Jean Penney, wife of the recently blinded Jerry. She was still young, although the stress of the recent few months had taken a noticeable toll. Skye could see it in the permanent frown and in the lines that crossed her forehead. Della could hear it in her voice: something strained and frayed, like old rope.
Skye completed the tense introductions and gave the floor to Della who sat with crossed arms. “You say Jerry was in rehab already?” She deliberately kept a neutral expression on her face.
“Yes, for a month” Jean replied.
“Has he participated in any mobility trainings, cane techniques, anything like that?”
“No, but…”
Della continued, cutting off the other woman. “And your rehab person came in with the necessary accommodations: brighter lights, timers, three-dimensional paint for appliances?”
“Yes,” Jean replied and left it at that.
“He’s still home. What does he do around the house?”
“Well…” Jean seemed at a loss for words. “He’s still getting over it and…”
“Jean,” Della cut her off again. “You’ll find that I really don’t pussyfoot around, I don’t have the time or the energy. From what I can see you’re nothing more than an enabler, letting him sit around and do nothing for himself.”
“But…”
“You’re responsible for him, but he’s responsible for you, too. Why are you letting him get away with this?”
Jean struggled for words. “I…I thought he just needed time to heal and become adjusted to the situation. Also, he’s been depressed and...he thinks people will pity him. It was the wrong thing to do.” She acknowledged it, finally. That was a good sign. “I know that now. I want to get him help. We need to get on with our lives. My job isn’t going to allow me to keep this up much longer. Both of us can’t be out of work at the same time.” She started to cry, then brought herself under control.
“Finished?” Della kept her tone cold. “Sorry, but after a while it gets old. Self-pity goes both ways. Sky told me what you do for a living and said you have family that you can stay with.” Jean nodded, dry-eyed now. “Good,” Della continued, “because now you are going to go home and tell your husband that you will have to leave on business for a month. You will let your husband know that you will not be able to call him during that time - period. He will have to learn to fend for himself or starve.”
Della could hear the panic and the exasperation in Jean’s voice. “How is he going to do that? I can’t even get him out of the house except for here. He refuses to do anything.”
“I’m moving in as his ‘assistant,’” Della explained. “He will either learn to cope and move on or starve. Trust me, his survival instincts will kick in. He’s going fight me every step of the way, but in the end he’ll be better for it.” Jean looked at Sky with a frightened expression. Della continued, voice softening for the first time. “Hey I know it sounds tough and mean, but it has to be done - really. Hopefully when you get home, your husband will be back to work and pulling most of his weight in the family. I’m glad you don’t have kids yet. It would be a lot harder on you right now. So pack your bags.” Della stood up and prepared to go. “Remember: no, no, no contact for at least a month.”
“Can I say goodbye to him?” Jean asked. “And I need to call my mom and tell her I’ll be staying with her for a while. Goodness you move fast! I need some time to call my boss and...”
Della raised her hand, stopping Jean in mid-sentence. “Get it all done by tomorrow morning at seven. I’ll be over with my bags. I’ll take a cab over and you’ll meet me at the door. Have a guest room ready for me. Okay?” Jean nodded. Della turned her head. “Sorry, I didn’t hear your answer. A blind person can’t see what you are saying.”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, I’ll have a room ready. Is there anything special you need? Most of my guests are normal....” She stopped herself in embarrassment. “Oh, Ms. Peterson, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Damn it, this is just too much!” She began to cry again.
“Jean, that has to stop too. You’re picking up on his depression. You need to get away from that. Go to mom and get some pampering for you. But, don’t get too used to it. You still have to come home at the end of the month. I’m not in the adoption business. I’ve already had one husband. I don’t want another one. And I’m not interested in raising children, so are we on the same page here?”
Jean nodded and Della cupped her hand to her ear. “Oh! I’m sorry. I did it again. Yes!” she shouted.
Della rubbed her ear. “Great to hear it. And by the way, I’m blind not deaf. A normal voice will be fine. Sky, why do people do that?” They all laughed.
Della arrived on schedule, at 7:00 am the next morning. Jean answered it, rubbing at eyes dark with lost sleep. “Hello, she said. Come in.” She swung the door open for Della. “We were up all night arguing about this,” she confided. “He didn’t believe me when I said it was for work. He thought I was leaving him for another man because he was a ‘cripple.’” She curled her fingers into quote marks before realizing that Della wouldn’t be able to see her. “Quote-quote cripple,” she said quietly as Della walked through the door. She turned back to Jerry. “Honey, this is Ms. Della Petersen. She’s the woman who will be staying with you while I’m gone. Jerry said nothing, but turned and headed back towards the sofa. Della heard him bumping into things as he walked.
“So, where’s my room?” Della put a lift into her voice and they headed up the steps. Once they were upstairs Della put her suitcase on the bed and looked in Jean’s direction. “He’s been back a month or more? He should know this house by now. He’s a tough nut to crack, isn’t he?” Jean nodded. “Hey!” Della suddenly exclaimed “I heard that!” She laughed quietly and put out her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s okay. Time for you to go. I’ll find my way around. Go quietly and quickly.” Jean hesitated for a moment. “Jean, it’ll be okay. Just go downstairs and tell him you love him. Then get out the door without crying. Got it?” Again Della heard nothing. “And blow your nose.” She gave Jean’s arm a squeeze.
Jean did as she was told, giving Jerry a quick kiss and an “I love you, sweetie.” Then she closed the front door behind her and was gone.
Della came down the stairs quietly and headed to the kitchen. “Did you need something, Jerry?” Della got no answer. A moment later she heard Jerry knocking into things as he returned to his place on the sofa. “I’m going to the kitchen to see what’s in there. Then I can call for the stuff I like.”
Still nothing. Della began to familiarize herself with the kitchen, feeling contours, identifying cabinets and handling canned goods. She found and then opened the refrigerator. Good, everything was set up as it should be. She began to hum to herself. “Hmmm,” she mused. “Got to get some cheese curls and Diet Coke el pronto. Thank heavens I got my own stash.”
“I’m hungry,” Della heard from the living room.
“Then come out and fix yourself something. It’s not even nine yet. Didn’t you get breakfast?” Again, Della got no answer. She turned back to her work in the kitchen.
“I said I’m hungry,” Jerry’s voice growled.
“And I said come out and fix yourself something, “ Della replied, loudly this time. "Good heavens, I didn’t know you were deaf, too!" She snickered softly. A moment later she heard Jerry bumping into furniture. “Good God!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you even know your own house?”
“Why are you yelling? “
“Because you didn’t answer me before so I figured you’re deaf as well as dumb. Dumb as a hammer, if you ask me.”
“I am not dumb.” Jerry did not sound amused with this line of conversation.
“Then why can’t you fix yourself something to eat?”
“Because if you can’t see, I happen to be blind.”
“Oh, horrors!” Della’s hand went to her heart in a mock gesture. “Whoopie do and a bottle of glue. And guess what? I’m blind, too, but you don’t hear me bumping into furniture and whining because I’m hungry, do ya? This isn’t my house but I’ve already found the peanut butter and jelly, along with the bread. So what else do you want? Service? Ya ain’t got a maid so get up and deal with it, buddy.”
Jerry sputtered. “Just who the hell are you? This is my house, by the way. My wife hired you to take care of me, not the other way around. So if you don’t mind, I’d like something to eat.”
“If you want something, make it yourself. And your wife did not hire me. Skylar Lloyd did. I’m here for one reason: to get you off your skinny ass and back out in the world. Or the other choice is for you to jump off a bridge - providing you can figure out where one is.” Della popped open a Diet Coke, drank some and burped. “Damn those bubbles.”
“What the hell?” Jerry sounded flustered and confused. “What are you doing in there?”
“Diet Coke. I love it but I burp every damn time.” She belched, loudly. “Oh, pardon me. Stuff does it all the time. So, figured out what you want to eat yet?”
“Why do you keep saying that? I can’t do it! What part of that don’t you get?”
“None of it.” Della took another sip of her Diet Coke and chewed on a sandwich. “Sandwich is good,” she said. You got ham, baloney, cheese. Lots of good stuff.” She held the sandwich aloft, approvingly. “And nice, soft white bread, not that horse-chow whole grain stuff. God, yuck. My office mate makes me tuna sandwiches on whole wheat. Now the tuna’s fine, but the bread? Puleease!”
“What?”
“I’m telling you, this whole wheat crap’s for the birds. They’ll probably find out it gives you cancer in another 10 years. Maggie’ll kill me for saying this, but I’ve got to tell you there’s something downright homey about junk food, don’t you think?”
“Look, I don’t know who you are but I don’t want you in this house. Please leave.”
Della put down the sandwich on a plate she’d located in the pantry. “Can’t do that,” she said. “We’ve got a date for the next 30 days. You’ll just have to deal with it – and me.”
Della could hear the outrage in his voice. “You crazy…”
“Uh uh,” she warned. “I’ll hide your bed sheets.”
“Bitch!”
“Better believe it, buddy. Man, and they say women are emotional. You’ll probably leave the toilet seat up just to get me. Well, now that we’ve cleared the air gender-wise, shall we get down to business?”
“Fuck off.”
“What, you don’t want anything to eat?”
“I said, fuck off!”
“Nice ham sandwich? Or you still want breakfast? You could cook some eggs in the microwave. What’dya say?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Nope. I’m gonna be all over you like glue. Poor helpless baby.” She heard Jerry sputtering and cursing. There were no other sounds. She decided to make her way to the living room, feeling the walls carefully as she walked. She stood at the hallway entrance, listening and imagining Jerry seated on a couch scowling and drenching himself in pity. “You missed a good sandwich!” she announced. A second later she heard Jerry’s intake of breath and something that sounded like a object dropping to the floor. She cackled. “What’s the matter, scare you?”
“What do you want?”
“For you to get up off your ass and make yourself some breakfast – or lunch, at this rate. I assume at some point you’ll need a shower, too. The bathroom didn’t get up and walk away while you were in the hospital. It’s right where you left it. Kitchen too.” There was no sound. She sighed. “Up to you. You’re going to get pretty smelly and hungry, though.” Nothing. Della tried another angle. “So,” she asked. “What did you do before your accident?”
She heard Jerry breathe, hard. Then, silence.
“No, come on, really. Did you work in an office? Did you work outside? What? I’m curious.”
“Accountant.”
“Say again?”
“So, what, you’re deaf now? I said I was an accountant.”
“Where you work?”
“Downtown.”
“Where downtown?”
“Boylston Street,” he replied. “For a publishing company. I was a bookkeeper.”
“Correction,” Della said.
“What?”
“Are a bookkeeper. There’s nothing that says you can’t go back to that.”
“Nothing except the fact that I have no eyes.” Bitterness washed over his voice like a sour tonic. “Nothing except the fact that I’m a fucking cripple.”
“You’re blind,” Della corrected him. “You’re not a cripple.”
“Yea, right.”
“You can make a sandwich, you can go back to work.”
“Don’t give me that Helen Keller bullshit pep talk. I heard enough of that. Just go back to where you came from and leave me alone.”
Della leaned against the hallway entrance and folded her arms. “Helen Keller was both blind and deaf. I’m sorry but you have nothing to complain about here. Keep wallowing in that self-pity of yours and you’ll disappear into the couch by the time Jean gets back.”
“Fine, then I’ll disappear.”
“Man, you are one sorry case,” Della said. “Thank God you’re not in my family. I wouldn’t put up with you in a minute. Wait, before you say anything let me get the violins playing.”
She heard a low chuckle from Jerry. “Funny lady.”
“Gets me through the day.”
“So what happened to you?”
“Beg pardon?”
“You said you were blind. What happened?”
“Oh that.” Della walked into the living room and found a chair. “I have a degenerative eye disease called Retinitis Pigmentosa, or RP. Basically, the retina breaks down. You start by losing your peripheral vision, then the central. I’m down to less than 3% of my normal field of vision. My doctors tell me that at some point it’ll go completely.”
“I’m sorry,” Jerry said, and sounded like he meant it.
“It’s not your fault,” Della answered.
“How long has this been going on?”
“All my life, basically. It’s getting worse these days. Can’t see in a mirror anymore, it’s just a white blur. My left eye’s pretty much had it. I’m getting by on what’s left. And what about you? I heard you had an accident, fell on a tree branch?”
Jerry snorted. “Smart move. We were playing touch football and I grabbed the ball and ran like mad. Everybody was after me. I was so busy concentrating on them I didn’t see what was ahead of me. I suddenly lost my footing and landed face first in an old brush pile…” He stopped suddenly.
“Keep going,” Della commanded.
“I don’t remember much after that,” he admitted. “I remember intense pain, worse than I’ve ever felt. I was screaming. I could feel blood but I couldn’t open my eyes. I kept wondering why I couldn’t open my eyes. Then I remember being in the hospital. There were bandages on my face. Jean was there. She was crying. I told her it was okay, I’d be out of there soon. Then that son of a bitching doctor told me what happened.” Jerry’s voice trailed away. Della heard him clear his throat, then start up again, slowly. “He said the tree branch gouged one eye and badly scratched the cornea on the other. I might see something, I might not. They think it’ll mostly be a light colored blur, that’s all that’ll be left.”
“I’m sorry,” Della said.
“In 10 minutes I went from being normal to being blind. Now I’m a fucking cripple.”
“Let’s get this straight.” Della stood up and her voice was cold as ice. “You are normal. You’re blind. For you, that’s normal. You are not a cripple. If I hear that one more time I’m going to find your head and smack you right across the nose with my cane. I’m normal, you’re normal.” She turned and reached ahead of her until her hand encountered the banister. “Now I’m going upstairs to unpack. If you want to sit there, fine. I’m surprised you don’t have bed sores at this point. Or at least butt sores. I’ve had my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and my coke. I brought a laptop computer with me and I need to get to work. By the way, you’d be amazed at what you can do on a computer these days without having to look at anything.” She walked upstairs.
“Ms. Peterson?” She heard Jerry from the living room.
“My name is Della,” she said. “What would you like, Jerry?”
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“And?”
“It’s not going to work. My life ended a month and a half ago. There’s nothing left but for me to die.”
Della continued up the stairs. “I just love optimists,” she said and sighed. She headed up to the guest room and began to wonder just how successful she was going to be. Jean said there was a computer outlet in the room, so she set up and put on a pair of headphones. There was a text message from Maggie in her inbox. Smiling, she clicked open her messenger box and listened.
Yo, girl! Della’s brain added the tone and inflection, both of which were lacking in her screen reader.
Yo yourself! Della typed in, listening to the playback before sending it on its way. How’s Cambridge without me?
Lonely, came the reply. I don’t know how I’m going to last a month without you. All the work I’m getting done instead of listening to you cracking jokes all day. And my food bill – my God, we’ll be able to afford that new car at this rate.
Smart alec, Della shot back.
Hey, I learned from the best. So, how goes the assignment? Any luck moving the mountain?
Nope. He’s still on the couch downstairs. Grumpy as a bear. Bitter and angry.
Sounds like you sometimes. It can’t be easy for him.
No, it’s not. But this guy’s got a family, a job, a life. He’s young. He’s given up.
But you won’t let him do that.
Hell, no! I’ll find that ass of his and kick it from one end of the house to the other.
If anyone can, it’s you. I’ve never seen anybody find a male butt as fast as you. Just as long as you don’t pinch it first, he’ll get the message.
Della started laughing and shot off a reply before starting her work for the day.
Jerry could hear her laughing from his seat on the couch downstairs. What the hell was so funny? Damn, she pissed him off. He was hungry and wanted a sandwich, but made no attempt to get up. He knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do anything, except want Jean back. Several hours later Della came down to make herself some lunch. She deliberately walked through the living room as loudly as she could. Jerry yelped in surprise, heart racing. "Where the hell did you come from?” he barked.
"Baltimore."
"What?"
"You asked me where I came from. But if that’s the wrong answer, uh, Mom and Dad?"
"You are a smart ass aren’t you?"
"Yeah...don’t ya love it? It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. You?"