The Eyes and Ears of Love (12 page)

“Okay,” he says quietly, seeming uneasy.

“I am being told that I wasn’t the driver, when I clearly remember I was driving or dreamt I was. I’m just trying to remember exactly how that night played out, since the things people are saying don’t match what I remember, or at least, what I think I remember.” Dorothy raises her head. Before she speaks, she feels her brows furrowing. “Were you and my sister having sex?”

He pauses, just barely, just enough. He starts to speak but Dorothy cuts him off. “Don’t lie to me,” she demands. “It’s torture waking up to a world that doesn’t make sense.”

“Dorothy that was just a dream, a dream I would desperately like you to keep to yourself. If that spread as a rumor, it would ruin my career. It would devastate my wife. I’m so sorry about what you’re going through. I wish I could help make things clearer for you. I promise, though, nothing happened between me and your sister.”

Dorothy can’t see his face to dictate a lie, she has to trust what she hears to be true.

Suddenly he rests his hand onto hers, “I know Donna must have been a special person, because well, you were her sister! And I think you’re pretty special too.” He begins rubbing circles. “But, as special as she may have been, I love my wife and I love my son. I would never do anything to hurt either of them,” his voice softens.

The blood rushes to Dorothy’s face and she deeply exhales, “of course you do.”

You idiot! You just accused your favorite professor of having an affair. Mr. Bloomington is a good man. He’s nothing like mom; he wouldn’t betray his family like she had.

“And,” Adam continues, “Do you really think your sister would do what you think you saw?”

She shakes her head. “Donna knew how hard it was growing up in a broken family, she would have never participated in the same act,” she says aloud, but she’s actually talking to herself.

As if I couldn’t feel any worse. I accused my favorite professor of having an affair, but I accused my own sister of being the adulterer. What is wrong with me?

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy cries. “I, I’m on a lot of pain killers, this delusion must be a side effect of the drugs,” she explains. 

“Dorothy, I need you to promise me you won’t say any more about this to anyone. I’m not trying to be harsh, especially with what you’re going through right now, I just…this is a really delicate thing,” he urges.

“I promise,” she insists.

“Well, I wanted to drop off some flowers and express my condolences before my morning class.”

“That was nice of you, thank you.”

“I hope you come back to the university and continue your culinary degree. You have a very special gift Dorothy,” he says with relief and hurry in his voice. He leaves abruptly.

A special gift,
she thinks to herself, feeling a new wave of disappointment come over her. Now that she is blind, how will she bake or cook again? Cooking is the only thing that makes her happy, the only thing she knows she can do to pull herself out of depression. When she is cooking, it is the only time she can feel serene, peaceful.  But now? The reality hits her like a bullet to the chest. She will need help with even the simplest tasks, like making cereal or getting dressed. She begins to bawl. She is going to end up back in Otis, Oregon living under her mother’s roof.

“Don’t cry,” a crackled voice demands, startling her back to the moment.

“Janessa? Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” She settles into Dorothy’s hospital bed, giving her a long, sustained hug. “You look so good,” she says, her voice continuing to crack as if she’s holding back tears. “I’m so sorry Dorothy. When I heard the news, I couldn’t believe it.”

“I should have stayed in our dorm,” she says while wrapping loose thread from her hospital bed sheet around her finger.

“Now, you listen, there was no way you could have known this was going to happen and even if you stayed in the dorm, it would have only reversed your fate, not anyone else’s.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You weren’t driving, you were just a passenger.”

“That’s what they keep telling me.”

“Well, it’s true. Firefighters pulled you from the back seat.” Dorothy doesn’t say anything. “Are you coming back? To school, that is?”

“How can I?”

“You won’t be alone, Dorothy. There are professionals who can help you find a way to stay. And I know you, too. You work so hard. I know you’re able to do anything, once you decide to do it.”

“Janessa,” Dorothy sighs. “That’s nice, but—” Dorothy feels the tears welling in her throat and pushing to get out.  “Everything is too much, right now.”

“Alright, Dorothy, you need your rest,” her mom insists abruptly, tightening Dorothy’s sheets around her and muttering something inaudible to Janessa.

“No, mom, please. I want to talk to Janessa,” Dorothy says, her voice rising.

“No, your mom is right. I have to go to class. But, I have your number and you have mine; we’ll keep contact no matter what you decide to do.”

Dorothy nods.

“I love you, Dorothy.”

Dorothy makes herself breathe, and responds, “I love you too.” She rips the thread off the sheet.

After two weeks of lying in the dark at the hospital, Dorothy is discharged. Her mother has packed Dorothy’s and Donna’s dorms and shipped it all back to Oregon. After the coroner examined Donna’s body, her mom made arrangements to ship her back to Oregon so she can lie to rest next to her father.

More than two hundred people attended Donna’s funeral, containing all her high school friends and even numerous people from college drove and flew down to Oregon just to grieve. Dorothy, however, doesn’t attend.

She lies in the darkness of her room; only having her imagination to envision the world.
She can feel the sun beaming through her bedroom window onto her face causing the sweat to trickle down her forehead. It’s frustrating to be able to feel the effects of the sun, but unable to see it. She prefers to keep her curtains shut, but her mom continues to open them every morning.

She can smell her greasy hair. She hasn’t showered in days.  The last few weeks she has only showered once a week because she hates getting out of bed. The hospital sent her home with a walker because her insurance paid for it. She understands the walker keeps her from bumping into things, but she feels old and weak, the two times she’s tried using it.

The next morning she can feel the sun beaming on her face again, and it sets her off. She rolls over and stomps out of bed, stretching out her arms to yank the curtains shut. She surprises herself, pausing for a moment as she stands in the void between her window and bed. This is the first time she has gotten out of bed for something other than taking a shower or using the restroom. She climbs back under her covers and closes her eyes.

“Dorothy, sweetie,” her mom whispers from a distance.

“What? What? I’m sleeping. What do you want?” she snaps.

“I made you some soup. The last time you ate was yesterday morning. Please, eat.”

“I’m not sick, I don’t need soup.”

“It’s your favorite soup though, clam chowder.”

Dorothy takes a moment to try and compose herself. She grinds her teeth. “That’s Donna’s favorite soup. Mine is tomato.”

            “Oh,” she says softly. “Well, I—”.

“Please leave.”

“I’ll make you some tomato soup.”

Dorothy pulls the covers over her head. “No. I’m tired.”

Dorothy hears her mom set the tray down on Dorothy’s desk. “Okay. I’ll check on you later. Do you want me to turn on the TV?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I, I just thought you might want some noise, I mean,” she stutters.

“Then offer to turn on the damn radio. Get out,” she shouts.

She grabs the pill bottle on her nightstand and dry swallows a pill. She falls back asleep quickly
.
She sleeps a lot because she has the help of her prescribed pain medication she’s been abusing since returning home. But she can’t help it; the only way she can sleep is with the help of a narcotic. When she’s sleeping, her brain shuts down and she is unable to think, to which she prefers it that way.

The next day the sun is beaming on her face again. She grinds her teeth: it’s her only form of stress release now, but she can still feel her anger escalating. Instead of closing them, she stays in bed, fearing she’ll break something if she gets up. She begins to cry for the first time since returning to her house in Oregon.

She stops sobbing momentarily, wanting to take a shower, but she can’t ask her mom to help her, not after she opened the curtains again.  Dorothy wants to strangle her with those curtains. She gets out of bed, hands outstretched. Even though her mother moved her vanity and couch into another room, Dorothy is still wary of running into something and hurting herself.

She feels for her dresser and opens the top drawer finding a pair of underwear. She lets the walls guide her; she can feel down the hallway leading to the bathroom. She undresses herself and twists the shower knob, feeling for the right temperature.

She gets in, feeling the hot water cleansing the filth off her body; she feels proud and relieved to have made it into the shower by herself without the help of her mother or a walker. She pours shampoo into her hand, realizing immediately it’s the conditioner because of its lotion texture. She rinses off the conditioner and grabs the bottle next to it; rubbing it into her hair. It smells of coconut. There is a burning sensation in her eyes and she panics from the pain. She feels for the towel hanging over the shower rod but it’s not there. She rips open the shower curtain, trying to find something to rub her eyes with. She steps out and slips, tearing the shower curtain off the rod and onto her. Her back hits the tub sending a jolt of pain up her spine. She begins to cry profusely.

The door swings open
.

“Honey. Oh baby! Are you okay?” Her mom cries.

“Where is my damn towel?  It’s supposed to be here every time!”

“I’m washing it. You should have told me you wanted to take a shower, baby.”

Her mom wraps her arms around Dorothy and rocks her back and forth. Dorothy can feel her mom’s tears drop on her shoulder like cold rain. She doesn’t want to be comforted, but she is in too much pain to move.

Her mom helps her back into bed, not bothering to wash the shampoo out of her hair. Dorothy falls asleep with fresh tears still in her eyes.

“HELP ME!” she screams out into the dark night, but no one answers. Dorothy spins around frantically trying to comprehend the accident she just witnessed. It is completely silent; which explains why when the cars hit, it sounded like a nuclear bomb had gone off in her ears.

The car was completely rolled over and the driver’s hand is sticking out of the crushed window. It twitches. Dorothy rushes to help the person. She kneels down and pulls the driver out through the window. It’s a woman. She isn’t breathing. There are shards of broken glass crusted in her closed eyes. Her hair is damp and red.

“Someone please help me!” she yells out once more, but still no one answers. She looks back down at the woman, and now her eyes are open. She screams and backs up: the woman is Dorothy.

She feels tapping on her shoulder and she quickly turns around, relieved that help has come. “Donna?” Her sister stands in front of her, erect in a pool of her own blood. Her eyes are not the sky blue that Dorothy remembers but black and the whites of her eyes are bloodshot red. Her face is pale and her lips are purple and blue.

“Donna, you’re alive!” Dorothy cries, leaning in to capture a hug. Immediately Dorothy knows something is wrong, because her sister’s skin is cold and moist. She does not return the hug. Dorothy pulls back to look at her, not understanding.

“The only way I can forgive you is if you forgive me,” Donna says with no emotion.

“What do you mean?”

“The only way I can forgive you is if you forgive me,” she says once more.

“Forgive you for what?”

Suddenly a loud exhale comes from behind her. She looks and she watches her own body in the car seize back to life like some kind of miracle. She turns to look back at Donna and she’s vanished. She begins to cry and runs hysterically looking for her sister.

“Donna!” she yells over and over again.

Her body feels like it is being shaken viciously and she can hear a familiar voice calling her name.

“
Dorothy, wake up!
”

She wakes, breathing heavily and sweating uncontrollably.

“Honey, you were having a nightmare. Drink some water,” her mother says, placing a glass into Dorothy’s shaking hands.

Dorothy guzzles the water down. “I saw Donna mom, she’s alive!”

Her mom grabs her hand and squeezes it gently.  “No baby, she’s not.” She pauses. “It was just a dream.”

Dorothy shakes her head in disbelief. “No, she’s alive! I talked to her!”

              “Then you should cherish that dream honey, cherish that you got to see her—”