Here goes..
046: Hands
Picture number 4.
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Walking up stairs is one of the things I do best. One step at a time, I climb them, always certain that another will follow. Stairs are simple; of course there is the occasional miscalculation of the number of steps, the split second of uncertainty when the foot falls through the air, but other than that, stairs are easily figured out. Lots of other things aren’t. For me, at least, most things are overly complicated.
I am walking up the stairs to my apartment, enjoying my minute of simplicity. As I reach my door I fiddle with the keys, running my fingers over each one in my pocket. I recognize the uneven surface of the one that will open my front door and place it in the lock. It opens with a click.
Entering my apartment, I accidentally knock over the vase in the hallway. I sigh; you’d think I would have learned by now. Getting on my knees, I let my fingers run over the smooth floor until they reach the – somehow still intact – vase. I pick it up and replace it on the table, knowing it will probably be broken within days.
As I walk by the hallway mirror I turn toward it and smile at myself, speaking a personal inside joke aloud.
“Looking good, Mr. Morgan,” I say, then shake my head at myself.
I can’t see my own reflection. I can’t even see the mirror. You see, I am blind. However, I choose to think that this is not my most significant characteristic. I like to think that I am nice, intelligent, interesting even. But my blindness always seems to be the most important part to other people.
I have a cane but I don’t like to use it. I wear sunglasses to hide my hazy eyes. I am allergic to dogs, which pretty much rules out the opportunity for a seeing-eye-dog. My hands have become a substitute for my eyes.
“Stop staring at my face,” my mother will say when I stroke her cheeks. She always makes my blindness a laughing matter, but I used to hear her crying at night, when she thought I was asleep. I was nine at the time, my vision worsening day by day.
I always knew I was going blind, so when I woke up one morning to realise my thick glasses no longer did me any good, I wasn’t exactly surprised.
My mother never seemed to forgive herself, as if she had given me bad genes on purpose. I always felt guilty about my weak sight; my family had enough trouble as it was. But in spite of my broken eyes, I was lucky. At least I didn’t have to face my father’s rage the way my brother did. Sometimes at night, when I heard the whip of my father’s belt snap across my brother’s back, I wondered why I was never punished. I was always my father’s favourite, but he left us when I was eleven. My brother never quite forgave me for the lack of scars on my back.
I sit down on my couch and put my earplugs in. I turn up the volume on my MP3-player as loud as it will go and practice my skills on the air-guitar. When the song ends, I am surprised by the loud sound of someone knocking on the door.
“Anyone here?” a female voice calls out. I pull out the earplugs and walk to the door as quickly as I can manage. I open it, confused. I rarely get visitors, and it is quite frustrating not to be able to see who is standing outside.
“Hello?” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Hi. I’m Veronica, I live downstairs. This was in my mail today, it looks kind of important.” the woman says. She sounds young, but I can’t be sure that she is.
“What was?” I ask, still utterly confused. Then something brushes against my arm and I automatically put out my hands to look at it. When I realise that it is an envelope, I am confused. Mail isn’t something I usually have to deal with. Those who know about my blindness naturally don’t send me any letters, and my bills are sent to my mother, who takes care of them for me.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to figure out what it could be.
“No problem.” She says and I hear the click of her heels as she walks away. I am still holding on to the letter. The fact that I have now received something important, as the stranger put it, triggers my curiosity. It occurs to me that it will be a while before I’ll be able to know what’s inside the envelope.
“Wait,” I say, hesitantly. “Could you.. Would you read it to me?” I ask, sure to get a no.
“Why, are you dyslexic or something?” she asks. I don’t feel like explaining further so I just nod.
“Something like that.”
Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she agrees.
“All right.”
I give her back the letter and lead her into the apartment, then sit down in a chair, trying to look as normal as possible. I can imagine her looking around my apartment. My mother always tells me how hideous the place looks. I couldn’t care less; when shopping for furniture, I only judge by comfort. Aesthetics have little value when you’re blind.
My visitor rips the envelope open.
“Dear Ben,” she reads, “I have been waiting for too long to write this. I hope you find a way to read it, since I didn’t have the courage to call or face you. Not when it has been so long. Nine years, Benjamin; that’s too long to hold a grudge. I am so sorry, Ben, I hope you’ll believe me. I let you and mom down, even though it wasn’t your fault. It’s just that I’ve been so angry, and being around you made it so much harder to get past it. But I do believe that I am able to let go of it all now. I found love, Ben, an angel came into my life, and I am getting married. I’ll tell you more when you call me, if you want to do that. Please forgive me, Ben. I love you. Your brother, Stephen.”
There is a long moment of silence. I can’t come up with a single thing to say. She breaks the silence first.
“I.. I’ll just leave this here for you.. And, then.. I think I’m going to go.” She says, sounding uncomfortable, and I can hear her getting up and walking toward the door.
“Thanks,” I say. I hear the door close after her.
My fingers search the table for the letter. I find it, and let my hands run over the paper again and again. I can see how much honesty he put into this; I see how hard it was for him to write me. And I forgive him, the way he has apparently forgiven me. Even though the crime we both committed was simply doing nothing, forgiveness is necessary. Things will be better now, I think, smiling. Finally, my hands are clean.
