Page 11 of Sight Unseen

Would I care too much if he had?

I swore as again I knocked the same knee on the toilet bowl—I guessed I’d need to get used to sustaining bruises—fumbled around gingerly, pulled down the lid and sat. I stayed there, picturing the bathroom in my head, putting off the inevitable moment when I’d have to stand up, reach in and turn on a tap I could no longer see. Luckily Jon and I both enjoyed our showers steaming hot so the temperature setting was probably still the same and I wouldn’t have to adjust it.

Sitting there, knowing where I was, yet unable to see the images I’d grown used to when I was sighted, turned my stomach to roiling nerves.

“Do you need any help, Nate?” Jon called from somewhere outside.

“No I’m fine,” I called back. I stood and began unbuttoning my jeans, sliding them down my legs where they gathered at my ankles. My boxers followed and I pressed my palm against the wall as I pulled each foot from the clothing puddle at my feet. My shirt was next, dropped to the floor, then, using muscle memory to avoid hitting my naked hip on the basin, I fumbled for the glass door to pull it back.

It slid open easily, and silently I applauded myself.

The shower was large, the showerhead wide and generous, one of the luxuries I’d afforded myself when I’d bought the house. I liked the feeling of being in a space where water ran freely, and you could stay in and pretend you were caught in a rainstorm. Now, with the drought restrictions, taking an hour in the shower was a thing of the past.

“So far, so good,” I muttered. “Now all I need is to turn the water on and to try not to slip on the soap.” I stopped dead. “Maybe if I hit my head again, it might bring my sight back.” The flare of hope was overshadowed by common sense. That only worked in the movies.

I had the water switched on in no time and once it was hot, I stepped in, closing the door behind me.

“God, this could almost be normal. If normal meant I couldn’t see anything.” I groped around for the soap, which was usually in the shallow dish attached to the wall. The dish was empty.

Fuck. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

“Calm down,” I whispered, taking a deep breath, using a technique Marty had taught me to stave off panic attacks. It didn’t work. The water beat down on me, drowning the tears that welled in my eyes, joining them in sympathy and no doubt disappearing into the shower floor drain.

My throat choked up and I held the wall tightly with my hands and slid down to sit on the cold tiles, my knees raised. I laid my head on them and sobbed.

Who knew how long I sat there.

“Nate? Are you okay? Did you fall?” Jon’s voice brought me to my senses.

I swallowed, and nodded. “I’m okay. Just needed to sit down. I couldn’t—” my voice broke—“I couldn’t find the damn soap.”

“Oh crap, I forgot to pop a new one back in the shower. Hold on.”

I heard the bathroom door opening, then fumbling with the bathroom cabinet and the crackling of paper as something tore. The shower door opened and something smooth and cold was pushed into my hand.

“Here you go. Do you need me to help you up?” Jon asked, his tone uncertain.

“I’m blind, not crippled. I can get up by myself.” Slowly I climbed the wall with one hand, clutching the damn soap with the other and pushing myself up.

There was a breathy, resigned sigh as the shower door closed, and soon after, the bathroom door closed too. I stood there as the shower rained down and slowly I began to wash myself.

At least I can still do that.

Five minutes later, wrapped in only a towel, I’d managed to navigate my way to the wardrobe in the bedroom. It was a small triumph but one for which I’d given myself a mental pat on the back.

Now try to get dressed. This should be fun.

I felt my way around my clothes. I’d already had a makeshift system even if it was a bit messy—jeans on one shelf, tee shirts on another, formal shirts and trousers hung up. I was confident I’d look all right, no matter what I picked from my casual wear. I didn’t care about appearance much anyway, not like Jon. He wanted everything color-coordinated with fabrics to match.

I needed to spend some time on detailing my wardrobe when I was up to it. Marty had given me some helpful tips: Use safety pins to indicate colors—one pin for blue, two for black, that kind of thing. Or there were iron-on tags with the first letter of the color. Marty had been a mine of useful information.

Yet another something to look forward to.

I took out a soft tee shirt and what felt like a pair of sweatpants.

Bearing in mind Marty’s advice, I fingered the texture, familiarizing myself with it.

There were other ways to guess what I held in my hands. A denim texture and its unique smell indicated jeans. Silk could be used for shirts, and tee shirts might have emblems on them helping me differentiate. Buying trousers with a specific zip or set of buttons would enable me to recognize them.