His Eyes (2 page)

My brain slowly registered that I must have merely injured his pride because he was breathing steadily. He didn’t speak, but his hand reached out and patted along the floor. Seeing that his glasses had fallen nearby, I picked them up and pushed them against his hand. He snatched them from me and, rising, turned his head away while he pushed them back on. He growled, “Get away from me.”

I made a fumbling attempt to catch his hand and offered, “Let me help you to your room.”

Feeling my movement, he leaned away from me and sneered, “Do you even know
where
my room is?”

I stood, dumbfounded, while he walked slowly down the hall. He braced his hand tightly against the wall and paused at the corner, grasping onto the point. Then he was gone. A moment later, I heard a door slam shut. I continued to stand still, feeling completely humiliated. Why had I taken this job, again?

Sensing my thoughts, or perhaps because of the door-slam, Mrs. Edmund appeared. She tried to smile. “Oh, Tristan will come around. I’ll talk to him tonight. Why don’t you come back in the morning?”

My expression blank, I nodded in reply. Sure, everything would be better in the morning. This wouldn’t be such a bad job. The first day is always the worst. Of course, this wasn’t a day...it was barely even ten minutes. I pulled my fingers through my hair and sighed at the thought.

As I exited the home, a strong wind smacked me in the face. But who believes in omens, anyway?

* * *

After turning off my car, I sat for a minute and stared at my family’s home. It stood in all of its chipped-siding, ranch-style glory. Compared to the Edmunds’, our house was like a little box. Funny—I hadn’t noticed before. I shrugged, grabbing my purse and my crinkled letter from the passenger seat. As I walked up to the front door, I could already smell patchouli incense burning.

“Amy! Is that you?”

Who else would know that our house would be unlocked in the middle of the afternoon? I laughed as my mom skipped from the kitchen, a paintbrush in one hand and drips of yellow down her arms. Her dashiki dress was coated in an array of colors already dried and flaking off of the cotton like rainbow snow. Her hair was in a loose braid that she’d tossed over one shoulder. Quickly stuffing my letter into my purse, I asked, “You redecorating?”

“Of course.” She kissed me and I could feel wet paint smearing onto my cheek. “Next Friday is the anniversary, so I’m adding a sun to the wall in the living room. The house has to look nice for your brother.”

Charlie. My older brother who’d left home right before his high school graduation and had never settled down. Supposedly that was his big act of rebellion. I knew from the letters he secretly sent me that he was okay, but he wasn’t ever coming back to Grayfield. No way. No matter how many times Mom set a place for him at dinner. But she didn’t want to believe it.

“Sure,” I said and offered her a smile.

“How’d your interview go?”

I winced and tried to slide past her, toward my bedroom. “Oh, good... Uh, I got the job and....” Every way I thought of describing what I’d agreed to sounded awkward, but I plowed ahead anyway. “He’s blind and my age.”

She cocked her head to the side. “The boy you’ll be sitting?”

“Tristan. Yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll be taking him places, hanging out with him, that kind of thing.”

Without a moment of hesitation, my mom smiled. “Oh, a new boyfriend. How wonderful, Amy!”

I clenched my teeth. “That’s not what I—”

“Do you think this yellow is too daffodil for a sun?” Mom was already distracted, frowning at the tip of her paintbrush.

With a hand on my purse, I said gently, “Let me put this in my room and then I’ll help you paint,” before slipping past her. I love my mom to death—I really do—but she’s always had this ability to live one step away from reality. One step away where she can believe in the romantic dream that Charlie will come home and rave about her newest mural. If I could bottle that kind of optimism, I’d be set for life.

Chapter 2

Buzzing along in my Camry the next morning, I could see the sun lazily poking its head out from behind a puffy gray cloud. I squinted at the sky and willed the day to be bright. My moccasins—I’d indefinitely grounded my Chucks to my room—pressed on the gas. It was nearing 11:00 a.m., so I still considered it morning, but I hoped my new employers would agree. Just as I pulled up to Edmunds’ gate, it swung open. I found this pretty alarming and I fairly flew from my car to the front door.

Chris stood in the doorway and said too nonchalantly, “Mom’s waiting in the den.”

“Thanks, kid.” I brushed a hand over his invitingly-fluffy head when I passed. I heard him stomp his foot and whine, “
Hey
,” but I was already plastering a large smile on my face as I met an anxious Mrs. Edmund. I began, “I’m sorry. I should’ve come soon—”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Her smile wavered and she gestured toward the couch. “Why don’t you have a seat?” I did and she continued, “I spoke with Tristan. He can be very stubborn. He’s set against you, I’m afraid. He was the same with everything else, the specialists and books and all....”

I frowned. There was no way I was losing my chance at Evanston over some brat! “Wait. You mean, he’s been blind two months and he hasn’t learned how to adapt at all? He’s just been moping around here?”

Mrs. Edmund shifted uncomfortably. “Well, he
is
an adult....”

“Then he shouldn’t be allowed to weasel out of things like a child!” I said a little too enthusiastically. Checking myself, I spoke firmly, “Just this once, don’t listen to Tristan. You hired me for a job; let me do it.”

“You
want
to baby-sit my brother? What’s wrong with you?” Chris asked, leaning into the den from the hall.

I shot eye-daggers in his direction.

“Christopher John, this doesn’t involve you!” snapped Mrs. Edmund. Once the little imp had moved from view, she said slowly, “I think you have a point. Even if you just sit with him, he won’t be alone....”

“Great!” I jumped to my feet before she had a chance to change her mind. “Where is he? In the closet again?”

“No,” grumbled Chris, who stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, “he’s in his room ‘cause he thought you wouldn’t come back.”

I followed him while he headed toward the stairs and mused, “So, the closet stunt was because of me?”

I could feel the boy rolling his eyes. “
No
. He does that whenever he’s mad or depressed—which is a lot.”

This kid knew quite a bit. As I climbed the stairs, I wondered how else he could help me with Tristan. Chris and I passed the infamous closet door, which was once again closed, but still gave my stomach the nauseous feeling. We turned the corner where I’d seen Tristan disappear. Chris stopped at a doorway down the hall and waved his hands frantically, as if I wouldn’t realize whose room it was.

Suddenly feeling like I was intruding, I tiptoed up to the doorway. Glancing down at Chris, I pointed inside and mouthed, “Are you going in?”

The boy’s face split into a malicious grin and he swept his head back and forth in a resounding “No way!”

I glared at him and, still trying to keep silent, peered into the room. Tristan’s bedroom was easily three times the size of mine. Leaning solemnly against the wall to my right was a white cane—the long, skinny kind that I’d never before thought of belonging to someone my age. There was something barren about this room. The glaringly-white walls didn’t have a single picture—who doesn’t have any decorations on their walls?

His bed was a king-sized black monster whose head rested against the left wall and whose feet protruded into the room. I was so overcome by its size that I didn’t initially realize that there was a body lying on it: Tristan’s body. In one moment, my breath caught—he must have seen me staring!—and, in the next, I nearly laughed at the impossibility. Then I felt guilty for thinking such a rude thing.

Tristan was lying on top of the comforter with his back propped up by pillows. He was breathing steadily, so I deluded myself into thinking that he was asleep. With this belief, I calmly slid into the room and observed him more clearly than from my previous on-the-floor vantage. He was dressed nicely enough, with a black t-shirt and expensive-looking jeans. He was like a statue of an Abercrombie & Fitch model...not that I was ever one to lose it over a guy’s looks.

For no reason at all, I wondered if he smelled good. Then the statue seethed, “It’s
you
, isn’t it?” and the innocent thought was smashed
hard
and ground into the floor until it was nothing more than a smudge. I jumped, literally jumped, about three feet into the air. His head turned with horror-movie slowness in my direction and I did the first thing that popped into my head: I waved. I waved at him, a blind person—I
waved
at a
blind person
! And what happened? Nothing. Of course, nothing.

I moved onto plan-B, talking. “Actually, my name is Amy.”

The head returned to its forward-facing direction and made no reply.

I swallowed and looked around the room for something to spark a conversation. Facing me was a large desk, which only held a small stack of books and CDs. They appeared untouched and the topmost book read BRAILLE in large, bold letters. I asked, “So, you’re learning Braille?”

Silence.

“Well, yeah....” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Are you thirsty? I’m thirsty. I’m going to get something to drink, all right?”

Predictably, he didn’t reply as I made my quick, awkward retreat from the room. Chris stood in the hallway, bent over in a fit of silent laughter at my plight. I clamped my fingers onto his shoulder and pulled him toward the stairs, hissing, “
We have to talk
. I’m assuming you know where the kitchen is?”

Chris led me through the foyer which opened into the kitchen. The kitchen was beautiful and immense...of course. It had a wall of cedar cabinetry, a large marble topped counter to the left, and state-of-the-art appliances in brushed silver to the right. Without noticing any of this, Chris wrenched from my grip and, while making a futile attempt to keep the grin off of his face, asked, “What do you want?”

“I want—Do you have any pop?” I gestured toward the refrigerator and he nodded. “I want you to tell me about Tristan. I mean, as appealing as sitting in silence all day may be, there must be something he’ll want to talk about... I take it he’s not in school anymore?”

“No.” Chris handed me a Coke. “Mom let him stay out. I think the doctor gave him a note or something.”

I took a sip from the can and cocked my head to the side. “Hey, what’s inside of the closet?”

“Oh, all of Tristan’s old stuff: posters, books, music, computer... Mom put it all in there after the accident.”

That explained the emptiness of his room. I swallowed hard and shuddered. How terrible! He was sitting in that closet all alone, with his stuff around him, collecting dust. I recovered awkwardly, “Well, um, can you think of anything for me to talk about with him?”

“Horses.” The tiny voice came suddenly from behind me. I turned to see the wide-eyed figure of Marly. She was staring intently up at me and repeated, “Horses,” before popping her thumb into her mouth.

“Horses, okay.” I turned back to Chris. “Your mom said Tristan went blind from a horse riding accident?”

The boy nodded. “Yeah, he used to ride all the time. There’s a place near here. It’s called, um...Legacy Stables. Aeris is still there.”

“Aeris? He owns a horse?” I gasped.

“Yup, but Trist hasn’t ridden since—you know.” Chris shook his head and said, “And
I
wouldn’t try to get him to ride.”

“Okay, but maybe I could just bring him there to, I don’t know, hang out?” I raised my eyebrows at Chris, who shrugged skeptically at the idea. “Don’t suppose you know how to get there?”

“Get where?” Mrs. Edmund walked out from the living room, a magazine tucked under her arm.

“Legacy Stables. I thought Tristan and I could go there—someplace familiar.”

She frowned, but nodded slowly. “If you think so, dear. The accident happened out of the state, so there shouldn’t be any bad memories...but just getting him out of this house would be a miracle.”

“A miracle?” I laughed. “Well, I’ll try my best.”

“All right. Now, just let me find a pen....”

Chris, seeing his mother busy opening and shutting drawers, gave me a sneaky look and dashed toward the stairs.

“Hey! Where are you going?” I shouted, but he didn’t look back.

Mrs. Edmund fished a pen out of a drawer and began to hurriedly scrawl directions onto a small notepad. She sighed. “After everything that’s happened, Chris has been working extra hard to get Tristan’s attention. I’m sure gossip about you is doing the trick.”

Weird, I never was the girl who everyone gossiped about. I didn’t usually attract that much attention, positive or negative, and I couldn’t help but wonder what Chris was saying about me. Taking the directions from Mrs. Edmund, I sprinted up the stairs and down the second floor hallway. When I turned the corner, I faintly heard a male voice. Realizing that Tristan was talking in his room, I pressed myself against the wall and crept up to the doorway.

The voice stopped and was replaced by Chris’s higher tone. “I dunno. She looks okay for a girl, I guess.” I rolled my eyes at the comment and leaned closer. “Her hair’s kinda long, longer than her shoulders, and it’s curly at the bottom. It’s the color of, um, caramel.”

Caramel? That was a new one. I’d never really liked my hair. It was neither red nor brown and it also couldn’t decide whether to be curly or straight. One thing was for sure: my hair never
ever
wanted to cooperate. For years I fought against it using the strongest sprays and the hottest irons. The result? I’d surrendered and basically let it do whatever it wants.

“What about her eyes?” Tristan asked in a calm voice he hadn’t used with me.

“I dunno, Tristan!” Chris whined.

“She’s ‘okay’? You’ve got to give me something better to go on than that!” he growled.