The Blind. A.F. Brady

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СКАЧАТЬ this is because he is using his scary face or if he has sensitive eyes. They are light blue, much lighter than mine.

      He is unfurling his hands now, and I see his fingernails are well maintained. This is notable only in the fact that it is completely opposite from every other patient. Even the women who spend their last dime on a fancy manicure will allow it to get gnarly and grow out so far that they have a quarter inch of real nail visible beneath the green, sparkly talons of a month ago.

      But he remains silent. I can’t tell if this is because I have stumped him or he is about to rip my face off for talking to him like that. I know no one else has said as much as this to him, and right now I can’t imagine what gave me the balls to do it.

      “Let’s start with something light.” I put on my glasses and I reach for a pen. “Name?”

      I want to hear him pronounce his last name, because I am afraid he will be offended if I say it incorrectly. McHugh. I don’t know if you’re supposed to say the h or if it’s silent or what. I’ve got him talking, and I don’t want to compromise my progress.

      “Richard McHugh.” Sounds like mah-Q. Okay, now we have that settled. “Am I supposed to call you Doctor, or what?

      “You can call me Dr. James, but I prefer Sam.”

      “Why do you prefer Sam?”

      “Well, Richard, to be honest with you, I prefer Sam because it’s easier to yell down the hallway. Why do you use your full name? Richard has so many appealing nicknames.” Am I being obnoxious? Flippant? Nonchalant? I feel exhausted, like I can’t conjure the energy I need to be a professional here, or to fake it anymore. I feel like there is a miscommunication happening in my brain and I am accidentally betraying my real feelings in a session and not putting on the appropriate mask.

      “I like Richard. No one’s calling me Dick.”

      “Okay, sir.”

      “No, I didn’t ask you to call me sir; I said Richard.”

      “Okay, Richard.” I’ve never seen a reaction like that. Who doesn’t like to be called sir? “Moving on— Date of birth?”

      “July fourteenth, 1960. It was a Thursday.”

      “Really?” Now I’m interested. “How do you know that?”

      “My mother told me. She said it was the worst day of her life and that’s why she always hated Thursdays.” I can’t believe we’re getting somewhere. I am afraid of reacting incorrectly and shoving the turtle back into its shell.

      “Well, I love Thursdays.” Benign response, please don’t shut down. Please open up to me. “Whole weekend in front of me. And where were you born, Richard?”

      “Queens.”

      “Ah, right here in New York, huh? Siblings?”

      “No.” Back to one-word answers.

      “Family history…”

      “No.”

      “It’s not a question; we are moving to a section regarding your family history, your backgr—”

      “No. I’m not answering any questions about family.” He cuts me off again.

      “Okay, well, I understand completely if you’re not comfortable, but it’s vital for your treatment, and—”

      “No. I said no. I’m not saying anything else.” It’s over; the turtle is back in his shell.

      “Okay, you don’t have to do this now; we can come back to it another ti—” He stops me before I can appease him.

      “Are we done? I want to leave.” Before he even finishes his request to leave, he is out the door and halfway down the hall. I am facing the bookcase instead of the desk because he brushed my chair and spun it off balance. What just happened? What did I say? How did I lose him?

NOVEMBER 2ND, 10:53 P.M.

      I’m going to meet Lucas for drinks. We don’t live together, but we spend enough time at each other’s places that sometimes I wear his clothes instead of doing my laundry. Dating Lucas is like dating two people, and I can’t take one of them out in public. The scabs on my scalp are itchy and raised, but I still go to him, and I still tolerate this treatment.

      Ninety percent of the time we go to the same bar and meet up with the same people. Some are friends; some are just other bar regulars who have become friends; sometimes David from work comes to the bar. But tonight Lucas and I are going somewhere different because he said he doesn’t have the energy to party tonight.

      Somewhere different turns out to be Flatiron Lounge on Nineteenth Street. The drinks are really interesting and expensive, and it’s dark and none of the seats are actually comfortable, and the waitresses are hot enough to make me feel insecure, but Lucas looks really nice in candlelight, so I try not to worry that he might have brought me here to break up with me.

      “You look great tonight, honey.” Lucas. His voice sounds a little bit like what I would imagine a diesel engine covered in melted butter would sound like.

      “Well, thank you, my dear. I have been sober for a shocking number of hours, and I’m sure that’s a good look.” I have trouble being serious when I’m nervous. Even though Lucas is a project, it’s not part of my plan for him to break up with me, and it’s not part of the plan for the relationship to end now, so I hope this is about something else. Inevitably, this forces me to remind myself of why I’m with Lucas to begin with and why I continue to put up with this.

      “I just didn’t have the energy for all the guys tonight, you know? It can be so exhausting going to Nick’s Bar every night.” He really does look like he has it all together.

      “Yeah, I hear you.” I lie. On the inside I really want to be at Nick’s because everyone there knows me only just enough to think that I am fabulous and attractive, and they have no idea that I am actually a mess. That’s the kind of crowd I need to be around. When someone else believes this show, when a whole group thinks this act is real, when scores of intelligent human beings look at Lucas and me together and they see us as stable, rational, healthy adults in a stable, rational, healthy adult relationship, then I can believe it. I need to believe it. This fancy show we put on, this ruse, this bullshit we sling, I need it. I need to make people believe that I am alright, because if they think I am, then maybe I can think I am, too. And that’s why I tolerate it.

      Right now, as I’m looking at all these leggy Europeans, I am starting to feel smaller and uglier and more and more in need of alcoholic sustenance, but I am drinking something made with frothy egg white and it isn’t going to cut it.

      “Also, I have to admit, that’s not the only reason I wanted to go somewhere quiet tonight.” He is looking at me with what I would describe on someone else as sexy eyes, but on him I just find it comical. He is very handsome, but I’m nervous and I think he looks like a cartoon.

      “Oh, yeah? Whassat?” I can feel the sweat starting to bead between my boobs.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ