Love Beneath His Fingertips

Part 1 – A Necessary New Lifestyle

It happens again. From a pleasant series of dreams – fishing deep blue waters, body surfing white fringed blue green rolling waves of energy, taking long walks through sun sprinkled woods – he awakes to discover that it is still dark. Not shades of grey. No hint of light. Not even blurred vision to at least give him a clue as to whether it is day or night.  Just eternal blackness.

It is always dark these days. He is always confused when he wakes up. Strange bed. Strange room. Why have all his bright adventures been restricted to these precious moments between sleep and awake – the time of dreams.
He stops himself from reaching for the bedside lamp. There is no bedside lamp. It wouldn't help if there was. The darkness is his and no manner of domestic lighting will dispel it. It takes a few moments to orient himself. When he does, he wishes he hadn't.  He would rather stay in the land of green foamy surf and sun sprinkled woods.
Whenever his sister visits, if she ever visits at all, she says he has become bitter. He doesn't think she’s right, but if her nasty attitude toward him keeps her away from him, she can think what she wants. The thought produces an ironic smile that doesn't quite make it to his lips.

He learns new things every day; things he’d never thought he’d ever need to think about again, like tying his shoes. His sister kept saying that he ought to get slip-ons. He hates slip-ons – and probably her too. Always has – the slip-ons not the sister. So, he learns to tie his shoes in the perma-dark. It’s easy. You don’t need to look at your shoes when you tie them – but we do out of habit.  Deleting the need to look is the victory. Looking, like second guessing, isn’t always the best way to do things.

He fumbles for the electric control that has escaped the clutches of the Velcro strap and fallen beside his bed, finds it caught between the mattress and the baby crib rail (they call it a “safety rail” but who falls out of bed anyway – Hell, you are blind when you are asleep, so what’s the dam’ point), and cranks his hospital bed to the sitting position.  Another accomplishment – the first for today.  Small victories are all he has. He’ll take them.
Sitting up and waking up, pretty much in that order, he tunes into the sounds around him – like checking the morning paper to see what’s going on. His hearing has taken the lead as his main source of information, so he sits quietly and listens.

The doctors say he is making remarkable progress. The caveat “for a blind man” is never said but he always hears it in his head. Remarkable progress “for a blind man.”  “Pretty good, for a blind man.” If he hears that chipper “Wow, you’re doing great, Mr. Sandringham,” one more time there will be one less nurse in the world.
Sandringham? Who’s that?

It is almost seven AM – he knows because he can hear the nurses changing shifts. One of them asks, “What time is it?” another answers 6:58.  Yes! Three victories in as many minutes. Not bad, “for a blind man.”  Hmmph!
The guy down the hall is complaining about the pain, again. Everyone is ignoring him, again. The pain is in a leg the patient no longer has. The pain will go away eventually, once the guy heals some more and is resigned to his fortune. He heaves a deep, silent sigh, wondering where that thought had come from. He didn't remember ever before using phrases like “change of fortune.” With a shrug he dismisses his thoughts about his thoughts, swings his feet over the edge of his bed and stands. He wavers a bit.  You wouldn't expect sight to have much to do with balance, but it sure seems to. 

Standing is a prerequisite, however, to relief. Nature isn't just calling. She is singing – in three part harmony. No time to find his white (so they tell him) stick with the red (so they tell him) tip.  He knows the confines of this room by now so he can find the bathroom without the cane – and he doesn't need it in there! Certain things don’t need searching for. All the parts of his body are where they've always been – and everything works just fine – except his eyes.

The doctors can’t figure out why they have failed him. The orbs and optic nerves are fine. There has been no apparent brain damage that hadn't healed once the swelling went down. Banging ones head around the confines of a tumbling automobile is bound to cause problems and there have been a few of those; but they are all fading now. All except one – seeing where he is going.

The resident psychiatrist has gone on and on about psychological trauma – all he has to do is accept his situation, understand the source of the problem, and work his way through it. That voice in his head assures him, gently, that he’ll solve it or get used to it, eventually. “Yeah, right. Whatever.”
 
He sighs, and moves in the general direction of the small bathroom. Like the living dead, he moves forward clumsily his hands sweeping the air before him.  He’s learned this the hard way. A careless orderly had once moved a chair to get to a wall-plug, then forgotten to move the chair back to where it belongs.

That orderly was transferred – banished – to the morgue where such carelessness is inconsequential.
“Derek,” he says to himself, standing over the porcelain throne. “The orderly’s name is Derek?” He hm’s low in his throat; a mixture of pride in hearing his stream hit the water in the bowl dead center, and actually remembering the orderly’s name.

“And you?” the voice asks, as he hits the flush mechanism. “What’s your name, Sailor?”

Turning in the general direction of the mirror he strikes what he thinks might be a jaunty pose. “Sandringham,” he enunciates clearly. “Paul Michael Sandringham, if it’s any of your concern.” He likes his name – he is pleased at the way the syllables flow. He is especially pleased that he can remember it. When he first woke up after the accident he didn’t know his name. Then, when he did remember, he couldn’t pronounce it – at least not the last name.

His sister suggested that he change his name to “Smith.” For a moment, he thought it might be a good idea because she would no longer be recognized as his sister – but his stubbornness prevailed, and paid off. He cleared his throat, deepened his tone, stuck his nose in the air and enunciated, “Paul Michael Sandringham.”
Once he was old enough to understand what it meant, it had always tickled him that his initials were PMS.

This time a chuckle makes it past his lips. It feels good. He reaches for the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. He sleeps in his skin and remembers that, at home, he walks around that way. He has the build of an agricultural slave and now the scars of one.  The scars are fading, though, they tell him. There won’t be much left to show his grandchildren, they tell him.

There are nurses running about. Though they are used to seeing everything, for the sake of simple modesty, attire’s required. Tying the robe loosely around his waist, he steps back into the main room thinking to himself. “Grandchildren? What grandchildren?” The Voice remains quiet. It doesn’t always have an answer to everything.

“Good morning, Paul,” his day nurse is always cheerful. Too cheerful. She isn’t one whose days are numbered. He’s quite sure she’s cute, so she can be just as irritating as she wants.

“Good morning, Florence.” Her name is Barbara Wolf, but he always calls her “Florence,” as in Florence Nightingale. He once told her, “The doctors saved my life, but you saved my sanity.” She thinks it’s cute.

“What are you so happy about this morning?” she asks him as she records his vital signs information.

“Being able to say my name without stuttering.” He braces himself as she says “ear” and takes his temperature. He still isn’t quite sure why it bothers him to have something stuck in his ears. He’ll have to remember to ask the psychiatrist. Anything to get the man to stop talking about “psychological trauma.”

“Well, all your numbers are textbook perfect so it doesn't surprise me that your speech has returned to normal. The vision, we just don’t understand.” There is a slight hesitation as she replaces the instruments. “What do you think? How soon will you feel ready to go home?”

“When you’re willing to come with me.” He smiles when he says it, but he isn't fooling her. She knows how worried he is at the thought of being on his own. He isn't quite prepared to walk around in perpetual darkness. Nothing in his thirty two years of living has prepared him for that.

He tried marriage once but it hadn't stuck. He now lives alone.  Not even a dog. His only companion is that voice in his head and he isn't certain that who or what belonged to that voice that talks to him in the still moments will be much help when it involves walls or stray chairs.

“Oh, Paul, such a sad smile!” Barb observes sweetly as she pulls up the tray table and swings it across the bed. They both hear the approaching breakfast cart.

“I was just thinking about… Well, about Charlene.” His voice is wistful, then he sits up straighter. “She would never have been able to deal with this. She was wrapped too tightly around her own ego. I have money enough for a day-nurse but she’d be too busy taking care of Charlene to spend much time with me.” He shakes his head, listening to Barb arrange the breakfast tray.

“Well, enjoy your breakfast and think about where you’re going rather than where you've been. That seems to work better.” She is suddenly all business. It would never do to allow herself to feel anything for this handsome, sandy-haired man with the wry smile. In a few days he’ll be gone. Then there will be someone else lying here, needing her help and life will move on. She starts to move away, but freezes when his hand wraps itself around her wrist.

“I almost got it right this time,” he smiles in her direction, as he adjusts his grip so they are holding hands. “I just want to say thank you. I know you’re just doing your job.” He pauses as she draws in a sharp breath.

“Yes you are, Barbara, you can’t deny it. It isn't your fault if I’m just a little in love with you. I suppose you think that’s a natural reaction when one is feeling such gratitude toward someone. Maybe it is – a patient nurse thing. Probably happens all the time. Right?” 

“No, it doesn't. What I usually get is resentment – irritation. Most men don’t like to feel dependent – even for a short time.” She indulges herself, placing her free hand over their joined fingers. “Most of the women start making plans almost as soon as they wake up. The men, especially the young ones have to be brought out of the dumps first.”

“Was I so bad?”

She laughs. “No, you were too confused to be resentful. You can’t resent loosing what you can’t remember having. Once you figured out what had happened you slipped right past regret and denial and went headlong into resignation. Then you started to heal.”

“My sister says I’m bitter.” Breakfast is getting cold, but this is more important. “Your sister is an idiot. She just sees what she would see. She isn't you.”

She pulls away gently. “I've got to see to my other patients. I’ll see you later. Eat your breakfast.”

He lets go of her hand. There’s a lot to let go of.

“Yes, Ma’am”.

He listens to her leave, then eats his breakfast.

…

The breakfast tray has been cleared away. He lies back, listening to the clicks, clanks, wheezes, buzzes… A hospital isn't the quietest place in the world. He is having a conversation with the voice in his head about getting dressed and going for a walk when he hears footsteps approach. It isn't a nurse; they don’t wear hard soled shoes. This is someone new. He remains quiet, making up little stories about who this might be and who he is coming to visit. Paul can’t explain why he knows it is a man. The knock on his door startles him.

“Paul Sandringham?” It is a cultured voice, a smooth baritone that puts him in mind of Barry White and James Earl Jones.

“Yes?” He holds out his hand in the direction of the voice. How will this stranger react? The hand that grips his is strong, firm but not as if the visitor has anything to prove.

“I am Taylor Bennington. I’ll be your Braille instructor.”

“My what?” Here’s another reality Paul hasn't considered.  He is so surprised that he forgets to release his grip.
“Excuse me?” Is all he can think to say.

His visitor laughs a good, easy laugh. “I get that a lot.”

“I have been asked to help you learn Braille. I understand that you are a prolific reader. You want to keep reading?”
Something solid and heavy plops on the bed. The instructor turns Paul’s hand palm up and runs his hands over Paul’s.

“What do you notice?”

“One of your fingers has a ring on it.” Paul concentrates. “Your hands are smooth. The fingertips are a bit rough, though. You play guitar? You diabetic? You are also left handed. And maybe do something like… I don’t know.”

“Yes?”

Well, your fingers are rough on the tips and your watch is on your right arm and it’s turned inward. Means you do something… You’re wearing a gold watch.”

“Yes. How can you tell?” Taylor asks him.

“Gold has a different feel to it than chrome or silver.”

“Good. What else?”

“You just nodded, didn't you? And you are grinning.”

“Yes. How?”

“I can hear the smile and the nod – I can feel the nod too. Now you are laughing to yourself.”

“Excellent. Excellent.” Taylor exclaims, unable to contain himself. “You are going to be an excellent student. We don’t even have to do the ‘face thing’ unless you’re curious.”

“Later,” Paul pulls his hands back, folds his arms, and leans back.

“You’re confused, aren't you? Too much, too quickly, I expect. May I sit?”

Paul nods. The chair scoots closer to the bedside.

“Paul, have you ever heard of Perkins School for The Blind?”

“Yes, it’s in Massachusetts, isn't it?”

“Yes, that’s right. We have an agreement with a great many hospitals around the country – they let us know when they have patients with vision issues. That’s how we got your name. I've come to do an assessment and to work with you, if you’re interested.”

Paul doesn't know what to say. He’s been thinking about his future, wondering what he was going to do about the fact that he won't be much of an engineer anymore. The computer programming, the blue print work, the plans designing that had all paid him so well had seemed beyond his reach. Was this man offering him a new hope?
“Yes.” he whispers hesitantly, hopefully.

“Paul?” Taylor can’t keep the concern out of his voice.

“Sorry, uh, Taylor. I was thinking this morning that I had no idea what I’d be able to do with the rest of my life. I’d have to learn all new skills. Now here you are. Hope springs eternal, I suppose.”

“So,” Paul takes a deep breath. “Where do we start?”

“We go back to the beginning. You’re going to learn to read the alphabet with your fingertips.” There is a dual click – the latches of an attaché case being opened.

“May I ask a question?” He can’t hold back any longer.

“Certainly.” Taylor is doing something Paul can’t quite identify.

“What was all that business with the hands?”

Taylor laughs again. “Sorry, I should have explained. We have to test the prospective student’s sense of touch. I've had some whose fingers were not sensitive enough to read Braille. They have a different path to follow. Your fingers are sensitive and obviously well attached to your brain. You have great powers of observation. That is significant. Here, take this.”

Paul holds out his hands, not quite ready for the weight that Taylor places in them. “What is this?” he asks, running his fingers over the surface.

“You tell me,” is the response.

Paul hefts the object, getting a better grip on it. Then he runs his hands over it enumerating his findings out loud. “It’s a book of some sort; a bit over-sized, I’d say. Ah, a binder; three-ringed. Hmmm. It’s written in Braille. No surprise there. Seems to be a very large number of pages for just the alphabet, though.” He pauses, listening to Taylor’s sounds of encouragement, as he tries to puzzle out what he is holding in his hands.

“Some raised letters here; Arabic, not Braille. Hmmmm. Oh!” He nearly drops the binder. “It’s my name! I can feel the letters – P A U L. It’s here, my full name.” His voice trails off.

“It just marks this as your book.” Taylor’s voice is hushed as well, overcome at the other man’s depth of feeling. “To anyone who comes across it, your name and address are there, so it can be returned to you when you've left it on the bus or in the cab.”

Paul nods. “You've thought of everything.”

“Yes, well, we've been at this a long time. What else can you tell me?”

Paul continues his explorations. “It appears to be a three-inch binder, about half empty.” Pages turn. “I would say there is one letter per page, some other writing, and every other page is blank.”

“Those blank pages are for you to fill in, if you choose to.”

“Fill in with what – how? What do you mean?”

“You know you can talk to your computer these days, and have it talk back to you, right? Sometimes, though, a person just wants to jot down his or her feelings. Braille writers aren't as prevalent as they used to be but we can help you get one. Toward that end we've provided blank paper for you to use. To help you get started.”

Paul sits with the book in his lap. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything, except, perhaps, how soon you’d like to begin.” Paul can hear Taylor’s smile.

“Would yesterday be too soon?” Paul grins. “How does this work?”

“I will get you started, then return every day and see how you’re doing. How does that sound?” Taylor snaps shut the latches on his attaché case.

“Sounds great.” Paul starts to go back to the binder, his fingers poised. “By the way, where are you staying?”

“At the Marriott, just up the street.”

“That’s fine, as long as I’m in here.” Paul hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “Look, why don’t you come stay with me. I've got plenty of room. We could work together more easily. Save you the hotel bill.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Taylor begins.

“Don’t tell me it’s not allowed.” Paul is trying not to sound desperate.

“No. No. That’s not the problem.” For the first time since he’d arrived, Taylor sounds uncertain.

“Then what? There’s plenty of space, you can have your own room.”

“Paul. Stop. Let me explain.” Taylor lays his hand on Paul’s arm. “I understand that you’re squeamish about going home alone. You’re not alone. We've all been through it.”

“What are you saying? WE'VE all been through it?” Paul’s frown clears as the truth dawns on him. “You’re blind, too?”

“Not completely. Enough that I’m not sure I’m the one to help you learn how to get around your home.”

Paul leans back against the pillows, shaking his head. Then he begins to laugh. It is infectious. Paul recovers first. “Taylor, come stay with me. It will be the blind leading the blind, true, but it will be fun. Please?”

“All right, Paul. I’ll have to let the college know. I can’t imagine they will balk at the thought of the money they won’t have to spend. For now, let’s get started.”

Paul expected the book to be taken from him. Instead he gets verbal instructions. Each page does indeed have one letter of the alphabet, near the top margin, centered on the page. It is a positioning that works for all types of hand styles, as Taylor explains it. Braille letters are formed of raised dots arranged in a cell of six. The position of the dots determines which letter one is reading. The first step in the process is to learn the positioning to figure out the letter. This is primarily memorization. The groupings across the middle of the page are words, examples of the letter just learned. The first row has the text letter in the first position; three subsequent rows move that letter around. But each word has at least one example of the subject letter cell.

“We don’t expect you to be able to read the words until you've learned the letters, of course. We just include them to save space. Braille is not the most compact of languages.” Paul laughs at the tone in Taylor’s voice.

“I remember seeing the Braille on signs at drive-up windows,” Paul chuckles. “I always wondered how vision impaired people passed their driving tests. Do they teach the service dogs to drive and read?” The two men dissolve in laughter.

“Okay, okay,” Paul manages to gasp out. “I promise I won’t drag out every ‘blind joke’ I've ever heard.”

“You just had to get that one out, though, didn't you?” Taylor’s laugh is a rumble, as deep as his speaking voice. “Ah well, everybody is entitled to one.” 

The weight that Paul now knows to be the attaché case is lifted off the bed. “You’re leaving?”

“I've got to go make a report. Besides, I don’t need to sit here and watch you learn your ABCs, do I?” Taylor lays a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine and I’ll be back tomorrow. Just take your time. You've got a good head, I expect great things from you!” he gives a gentle squeeze, then drops his hand. “Have a good night, Paul. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks, Taylor. It was a pleasure to meet you, also.” Paul listens to Taylor's steps fade away. Then he makes himself more comfortable and begins the next step of his new life.

…

Paul is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged, the book open on his lap, his face turned up as if he were studying the corner where the two walls and the ceiling come together. That’s how Taylor finds him the next day. So intent is Paul’s concentration that he doesn't sense the other man and is a bit taken aback by Taylor’s knock.

“Sorry to have startled you, Paul. What were you staring at so intensely?”

“I was running over the alphabet. I figured out the trick last night.” Paul sounds very pleased with himself. It didn't occur to him to want to puzzle out how Taylor could see what he had been doing.

“Trick? Tell me about the trick.” Taylor tries to sound surprised though it is obvious that he has an idea what is coming.

“The letters are arranged in groups by rows,” Paul sounds as if he is standing in front of his first grade class again. “The 10 letters in the first row use only the top four dots of the cells. The 10 letters in the second row all use the bottom left cell position and the remaining six letters use primarily the bottom two cell positions, except for the letter W. Personally they should have switched the W and the X, as the X looks more like a double U, than the W does.”

“That’s very good!” Taylor is impressed and doesn't attempt to hide it. "I knew you'd be a quick learner."

“Wait! I've got more!” Paul gives up trying to keep a straight face. “If there is a single dot on the lower right, then the next letter is capitalized. And if there are three dots on the right and one on the lower left, the next letter is actually a number: using ‘a’ through ‘j’ as one through zero. There are some stray marks I haven’t figured out, yet, though I suppose they are punctuation marks.”

“I thought you’d be a good student, but I was wrong!” Taylor laughs at Paul’s crestfallen expression. “You are an exceptional student! Well done!”

“Well, I've been a computer programmer and mechanical engineer since college,” Paul explains. “I discovered that I learn best by visualizing whatever I was asked to do. I did the same thing here.”

“Good, good, good. Okay then. One thing I neglected to tell you yesterday is that the cell positions are numbered, of course. One through six, upper left and down, upper right and down. So, the dot for capitalization is in position six. The dot for the letter ‘a’ is in position one. The number sign uses positions three through six. This isn't all that important unless you are teaching. In a social setting, being able to speak to positioning makes you sound less like a rookie. Do you have any questions for me before we go on?”

“I’m curious about what your superiors thought of my housing suggestion.” If it were possible to verbally cross ones fingers, Paul has just done it.

“As you surmised yesterday they were pleased, though I suspect their first consideration was the cost savings. They did go so far as to allow me to offer you a small remuneration.” Taylor stops as Paul waves his hand in dismissal.

“I’ll let you buy the pizza!” With that out of the way, they get back to work.

…

Paul is released from the hospital the next day. Apparently the doctors are more comfortable about his going home now that he’s to have a companion. He never mentions the voice that seems to have taken up residence in his head. He wants to go home. His home. Not the asylum. Paul and Taylor take a cab to the hotel to gather up Taylor’s things.

“Do you want to wait or come up with me?” Taylor asks.

“I think I’d like to go, if you promise not to drop me down the elevator shaft!” Paul is excited. This will be his first chance to use Braille in the real world.

Taylor laughs as he waits for Paul to instruct the cab to wait and then slides out. Taylor offers his arm, then pauses, making that strange sound which Paul has now identified as Taylor snapping his cane open. Paul has a cane of his own, but for this short trip, he’ll let Taylor lead. Besides he needs his hand free to read the signs. They walk into the hotel lobby, stopping by the desk to retrieve the key.

“It’s a good idea to leave your key at the front desk when you travel,” Taylor explains. “Less chance of losing it that way. Plus as the hotel staff gets to know your face, hopefully they’ll remember you in the event of an emergency. Okay, ready?”

Paul nods his head, then realizes that Taylor probably can’t see since he is standing just behind Taylor’s right shoulder. “Yes, I’m ready,” he says. They walk over to the bank of elevators.

“I’m surprised you don’t stay in a smaller place,” Paul remarks. “Seems to me that it would be easier that way.”

“Perhaps it would. I like this better, however, because there is less chance of smoked-filled lobbies or serenading drunkards.” They stop. “Stretch out your hand.”

Paul reaches forward carefully. It wouldn't do to smash his knuckles on the wall. He finds the panel and is pleased that he could distinguish the markings. He pushes the ‘up’ button. When the doors open he can tell that several people get on with them. He hears Taylor say “Let him do it. It’s his first time.”

Paul smiles and calls out, “what floors, please?” There are a few uneasy laughs that turn into murmurs of surprise when he gets all the correct buttons pushed. He and Taylor get off on the 5th floor to the muted applause of those who have farther to go. They turn to the right, Taylor reciting the room numbers as they pass. A question begins to form in Paul’s mind. He decides to let it go until they get to his house. Ten minutes later they are back in the cab.
“It’s going to take you a while to figure out money,” Taylor tells him as the driver maneuvers through the afternoon traffic. “There is an ‘approved’ method, though everyone pretty much does it his own way.”

“I've already got the coins memorized,” Paul remarks. “Although I never really thought I’d need that particular skill.”
His voice trails off, his face turned toward the window. Taylor holds his peace. Paul has already figured out that Taylor is very good at knowing when nothing needs to be said. The silence lasts for the rest of the trip.

Paul’s house is a modest one: two storey, three bedrooms, two baths, amazingly uncluttered for a bachelor pad. There are three steps leading up to the front door, to accommodate the space that is listed as a basement but which Paul refers to as a large crawl space. They paid off the cab and are now standing on the small front porch as Paul tries to figure out how to open the door.

“Why don’t you let me do that?” Taylor asks gently. Baffled, Paul hands him the keys.

“There should be a large gold one,” Paul tells him. “That’s for the deadbolt lock. The smaller silver one is for the back door.”

Taylor opens the door, remarking that they will devise a plan to mark the keys for easy identification. Then he stands aside to let Paul precede him in. “Do you remember the layout?” he asks, as he hands back the keys.

“Well, let’s see”. Paul takes the keys and with a snap of his wrist, drops them on the small table just inside the door. He smiles when he hears them hit the wooden surface. “So far, so good. At least I’ll know where they are!” The two men laugh.

“Okay: living room on the left, hallway goes straight to the back entrance. The dining room and kitchen open off the hall to the left. Stairway on the right goes up to a landing. Turn left and the bedrooms are arranged front to back along the upper hall with the master bedroom and bath across the back. The second bathroom is on the right, sharing a wall with the landing. You’ll have to take the front bedroom as I've turned the middle one into an office of sorts.”

…

It doesn't take long for the two men to fall into a routine. Protestations to the contrary Taylor settles in almost immediately. Paul asks him about it as they sit over pizza, tossed salad and beer.

“I am legally blind, though I’m not sightless,” Taylor tells him. “Do you remember those old, old, movies that flicker because there aren't enough frames per second for a smooth picture?”

“Yep, that was the first thing they had to work out in order to make moving pictures viable.”

“Well, my vision is like that. I don’t see a smooth movement. I see freeze frames which is why I can’t drive. It’s worse in crowded situations as I can’t keep track of any one person for very long. I’m looking at where they were rather than where they've gone to.”

“It must be really annoying when you drop something.” Paul had stopped eating. What he is hearing is more interesting than food.

“It depends on what it is. Usually I can get my hand under it because I know where it’s going. Rather than follow it down, I just look at where it’s going to wind up. Then I get my hand there first.” Taylor chuckles. “Of course, if it’s something sharp I just let it go. I’d rather have to pick it up and wash it off then end up needing stitches!”

“So helping me learn my way around this place has been easier for you than I thought.” Paul takes a bite of pizza and chews thoughtfully. “Don’t strange places make you a bit crazy?”

“Not really. Once I get my own stuff comfortably ordered, it becomes a matter of discovering where everything else is. Helping you organize around here has been very restful for me.”

“You have a very strange idea of restfulness.” The two men laugh. Paul’s house has not proven that difficult to arrange as he doesn't have an overabundance of things lying around. As expected, the worst room has been the kitchen. They work out a system designed to keep Paul from slicing a finger open each time he needed a knife.

“Looks like I’ll be eating a lot more fresh fruits and vegetables from now on.” Paul had quipped as he’d emptied the dishwasher after their first breakfast together. “What are you doing?”

“Come see,” had been the mysterious answer. Paul had walked over to the table in the breakfast nook from which the curious sounds had come. He’d reached out and touched what felt like a pile of scraps. Then, as his fingers had brushed over them, he’d felt the writing. He concentrated. The strip of plastic he was holding had read “Glasses”. He’d set it down and picked up another which read “Plates”.

“Labels. You’re making labels!”

“Once you become familiar with where everything is you won’t even notice them anymore. But it’s always nice to be able to find stuff when you need to.” Taylor had sounded as if this were something he did every day. And maybe it was.

Thinking about it now made Paul smile.

“What’s that smile for?” Taylor asks.

“I was thinking about my reaction when you started labeling everything. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that.”

“You thank me every time I see you find something without having to ask directions.” Taylor’s response is almost negligent, though he understands what Paul is saying. “You've been a great student. You made it easy. All I had to do was help you figure out where you’d put your stuff.” They fall silent, each man concentrating on his own supper.

Paul knows what is coming. It has been an amazing two weeks. Now it is time for Taylor to return home. For the first time since the accident, Paul would be alone. He has all the services and devices he needs in place. The computers and phones have been switched to voice activation. He’s had the house wired by a security company so he’d be able to call for and get help at the push of a button. He’s spent a bit more to have the entire system wired for voice activation which includes the ability to be able to check on the place by remote. It is probably more than it has to be but now he doesn't have to worry about finding his keys every time he goes out. The computer always knows where they are by tracking the fob the security company has included. The engineer that lives inside him reminded him to put in a UPS system – backup, in case the power goes out. Electric gadgets and electronic devices are great, as long as there is electricity to run them.

“I’m glad you figured that out,” whispers the voice that he has decided is just his conscience, being pushy.

“You okay, Paul?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess so.”

“Then why such a deep frown?”

“Something is darting around the back of my mind. I know there’s something I've been meaning to ask you.” Munching on a fork-full of salad, Paul cocks his head. A habit he has when he is thinking. Taylor wonders if he is aware of it.

“OH, now I remember! In the hospital, every time the nurse took my temperature she’d say ‘ear’ so I’d know what was coming.” He stops with a shudder. “And each time I’d have to steel myself to not pull away from her. I've wanted to ask if you knew what that was all about.”

Taylor makes a non-committal noise. Paul can feel the vibration as the other man taps his fingers on the table, a habit he has when thinking. Paul wonders if Taylor is aware of it. The tapping stops as Taylor speaks.

“I can’t say for certain so don’t quote me,” he begins. “I can make an educated guess, though. Has your hearing become sharper since you woke up?”

“Yes. Well, not really, although I hear things I've never paid much attention to before.” Paul has a flash and knows where this might be going. “Ah.”

“Indeed.” Taylor sounds pleased. “Go on.”

“My ears have taken over; become my most important link to the world. When I could see what was going on around me I didn't need to listen as well. I've become uncomfortable with the thought of anything around my ears – it’s a defense mechanism. Of sorts.”

“Very good!” Taylor is pleased. “That is exactly what I would have said. I think the student has become the teacher; which should be the goal of any who undertakes to instruct another.”

Paul takes a steadying breath. “So, when are you heading back?”

“Day after tomorrow.” Paul’s mouth goes dry. “You’re going to be okay, you know.”

“I know. It’s just that.” He can’t go on.

“Don’t worry, Paul. We’ll be fine.” It is the first time the Voice has used his name. It is getting a bit creepy.

“I get it.” Taylor is puzzled by the vacant look on Paul’s face. He decides not to make an issue out of it. “With this fancy security system I suspect you’re never going to turn the lights on again, on the off chance that someone might be watching.” Taylor’s tone is light as he lays his hand on Paul’s arm. “You might give a thought to a housekeeper. At least there’d be someone around during the day.” Then he laughs. “You could find one who cooks, solve your biggest problem!” He pats Paul’s arm then withdraws his hand.

“You know I've been fighting that idea.” Paul laughs. “Now I’m beginning to have second thoughts. Maybe it would be a good thing. Especially the cooking part!”

“I’d be happy to lend a hand, help you screen candidates, if you’d like.”

“That would be great!” Paul can’t keep the relief out of his voice.

“Would you mind someone with vision limitations? We have a list of graduates who are capable and are looking for work.”

“As long as they don’t mix up the salt and the sugar, I’d be fine with it.”

“Let me get the list, we’ll get going on this.” Paul listens as Taylor bounces up the stairs. He smiles, understanding that Taylor has been as worried about leaving him alone as Paul had been. He has to agree with the Voice, however. Having someone around who can cook would be a blessing!

Taylor and Paul spend the rest of the day, reviewing possible candidates, before they settle on Mary Travis. She is a widow, the mother of fifteen year old twin boys with a desire to ‘do’ for someone. Her vision issues keep her from driving so her sons go from sports to band practice to the movies with the neighborhood families. Mary makes all the games and concerts, just not the practices. Or the movies.

“I suspect me vision is similar to Taylor’s,” she explains. “Everything in me world is underwater. I've been told that it’s like looking at the world through a pane of glass that has water streaming down it. It makes watching football very challenging, although if Man United is winning I’ll make the attempt!”

Paul is confused, then it dawns on him what she means. “Football? Not football, soccer! Manchester United is a soccer team. An English soccer team at that.”

“Aye, you may call it soccer if you wish, Yank.” Mary retorts with a delicate sniff. “We all know the proper term for it, don’t we? And what’s wrong with cheerin’ on the best team to ever play the game?”

Paul fell in love with her soft, Irish brogue even as he realizes that he is going have to learn English all over again, from her point of view. Mary decided to start working the morning of the day that Taylor was leaving. Everyone agrees that it wouldn't be a good idea to leave Paul alone too long with the sharp edges in the kitchen: the one place where he still isn't very adept; a failing that has nothing to do with his failed vision.

…