Things Not Seen

  “Hey, great dog! Purebred shepherd, right? What a beauty—can I pet him?”

  Terrific. An uninvited dog lover, butting into my life, breaking my concentration. Happens about once a week.

  Which makes me want to say, “Would you ever suddenly grab the steering wheel of a car someone else was driving? Or would you reach over with your foot and stomp on the brake just because you felt like it? Because that’s pretty much what you’re doing right now.”

  But I don’t say that.

  I smile politely, as if he’s the first person who’s ever asked me that question, and I say, “Actually, you shouldn’t pet her. She’s working now.”

  “So it’s a girl, huh? Doesn’t look like she’s working. She’s just standing here. Hey, can I give her some pretzels?”

  As he talks, I hear the location of his voice change, dropping closer to the ground, probably squatting down in front of the dog. And I’m surprised Gertie’s being so tolerant, which isn’t like her. She usually tries to pull me right past an intruding admirer.

  And I can picture this guy. He’s got a sophomore voice, and he’s trying to make it sound extra deep and mature, and he’s pouring his biggest smile into it. Kind of cocky, probably thinks he’s heaven’s gift to girls. Maybe nineteen, maybe a white baseball cap on his head, backpack on his back, a Vonnegut novel sticking out of his coat pocket, thinks he knows everything because he’s smart enough to be at the U of C. And he thinks he’s going to score points with the blind girl by being nice to her puppy dog.

  Or…he could be a really nice guy who’s never seen a real live guide dog before. Dense, but nice.

  No—I don’t think so. This one’s an idiot.

  Time to move on.

  “Look, don’t mess with my dog, okay? And do some outside reading on guide dogs and blind people and basic courtesy when you get a minute, all right? Now get out of the way.”

  I pull Gertie to the left and march, my jaw clenched, half hoping that we knock this guy flat on his back. And if he wants to make something of it, fine, because me and Gertie, we’ve got him outnumbered.

  “Sheesh!” he says. “Not very nice…Alicia.”

  My name. And a different voice when he says it.

  I stop in my tracks and whip around to face him. “You rat…you are the worst…”

  Because now he’s laughing. Bobby’s laughing at me.

  Which is not the way I pictured his homecoming. Not at all.

  chapter 4

  friend

  Bobby and I are inside the library, walking toward the elevators.

  I don’t know why I feel like I need to hold myself back a little, hide how glad I am to see him. But I do.

  So…want to hear why you’re holding back?

  As if you would know what I’m feeling.

  Didn’t you have your heart set on a tender, private moment, when your precious Bobby finally got back from New York? And…it didn’t happen. Too bad, huh?

  Not at all. In case you didn’t notice, we met right out in front of the library, people all around us—hardly the place for a…a display of affection. We had a nice hug. It was very…sweet.

  Except it wasn’t really what you were hoping for, right? I mean, you’re being cheerful about it, but you can’t fool me. And aren’t you just dying to know how Bobby really feels about the talented and sensitive Gwen, the girl with the golden violin? It has to be completely on your mind…am I right? And you’re feeling vulnerable, don’t want to be wounded. Again.

  Just shut up, okay? And stop sounding all superior. You don’t know everything, not by a long shot.

  But I’m right about this one, Tootsie.

  Stop calling me Tootsie.

  Sure thing. Tootsie.

  I shut off the head chatter, and to prove I’m not vulnerable, I say, “I’m really glad you’re back.”

  He slips his hand into mine, and says, “Me too.”

  Long, cool fingers. And a heart flutter. I can’t help it.

  I manage to say, “So how come you didn’t say you were coming home when you called last night?”

  He laughs. “What, and miss a chance to surprise you? How’d you like my Joe College act out there? Pretty good, right?”

  “Pretty mean. You’re just mean, Bobby Phillips. Mean.” But he knows I’m not mad about that. We’ve been playing this game for more than a year, where he puts on a phony voice and tries to hook me into a conversation. He’s got skills, and I’m blind—a perfect setup for an amateur impressionist.

  I say, “I thought your last college visit wasn’t till Saturday.”

  He drops my hand, and I hear him push the elevator button.

  And he doesn’t take my hand again. Couldn’t he have pushed the button with his other hand? Did he want to let go of my hand?

  Overanalyzing. You’re overanalyzing, Tootsie.

  He says, “Yeah, but I got the audition moved up to yesterday. And then I went to the airport at five o’clock this morning, flew standby, got home at eight-thirty, and here I am.”

  The elevator doors open, and Gertie hesitates. She doesn’t like small rooms with funny doors and floors that shake. But the three of us are in, the doors close, and we’re going up.

  I say, “So, like, you had no sleep at all, right? You don’t know it, but you called me up around two A.M. Chicago time. So it was after three o’clock in New York, and I heard you, still wide awake, arguing with some guy.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  The sudden sharpness in his voice is a surprise, so I laugh a little and say, “You must have sat on your phone, ’cause it dialed my number in the middle of the night.”

  “And, like…you heard all that?” He’s trying to sound neutral now, calm. But he’s upset about this.

  “No,” I say. “I just heard a little—enough to catch the tone, that’s all.”

  “And the tone was…?”

  Again, the sharpness. And now he’s starting to irritate me. “Like I said—it sounded like an argument, that’s all. Nothing specific. It’s not a big deal. But if you don’t want people to eavesdrop, try turning off your phone before you sit on it.”

  “So you were eavesdropping, right?”

  The elevator doors open, and Gertie leads me out and takes a sharp right. She knows we’re going to the room I always reserve. So does Bobby.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, I was sound asleep. My phone buzzed, and I knew it was you, so I answered, and I heard some talking for about ten seconds. And, yes, I listened. Which is not a crime. End of story, all right? I was only saying that you must not have gotten much sleep, remember? Just a friendly observation, that’s all. Friendly.”

  He laughs and takes my hand again. But now it feels forced.

  “Sorry,” he says. “You’re right. Not enough sleep, I guess. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  We’re walking along the railing at the stairwell to the floor below, and he says, “Hey, guess what. My parents are away until Sunday. Dad’s talking at some particle physics conference in Switzerland, and Mom went with. No school till Monday, no parents around…now, if I could just find somebody really nice to hang out with…Too bad you didn’t let me pet your dog.”

  The cheeriness still feels forced, but I smile and play along. “Very funny.”

  “So, you want to come over? For the afternoon, maybe stay and eat some dinner?”

  He’s asking me to come and be alone with him.

  But I’m confused, and I don’t answer, pretending to concentrate on navigation.

  “’Cause the fridge is full of food. It’ll be good to have some time to catch up.”

  He wants me to come, he’s asking again. And we can be alone, and I can talk to him. Because I have to.

  But now it feels odd. Because I don’t know what’s going on between us. I want to spend time with him. I do. I need to. But something still tells me to hold back.

  Because he’s holding back. About what happened in New Yor
k. And about that conversation I heard last night. Why would he do that? And after I say what I have to say to him, then what? And look at us—we can’t even talk for three minutes without arguing.

  Tootsie, Tootsie, Tootsie—overanalyzing! What is your problem? Just smile and say, “Great—when should I come over?”

  But I can’t say that.

  I say, “I’ve got a lot to get done right now—for school. Can I see how the work goes, and call you a little later?”

  A one-second delay, just enough to tell me he’s surprised. But he hides it.

  “Sure, fine. I mean, I’m just barging into your day out of nowhere. Absolutely.”

  And he lets go of my hand.

  We’re at the door of room 307, a music-listening room where my talking laptop won’t bother anyone. It’s the same room where Bobby found me two years ago. Where we had our second conversation. A century ago.

  I’m sure he’s remembering all the time we’ve spent here. Because I am. It’s not only that early conversation that happened in here. This room has been one of our sanctuaries. One of our hideouts.

  He touches me on the arm, and he’s close enough for me to smell the toothpaste on his breath. “So, call me, okay?”

  I smile, nod. “I will. And thanks for coming to see me, Bobby.”

  “Good to be home. See you later, Alicia.”

  I nod. “Unless I see you first.” One of our oldest jokes.

  A little laugh from each of us, and he’s gone.

  I’m in the room now, and the heavy door hisses shut, and it’s completely quiet. Soundproof. I release Gertie, and I hear her move to the corner, walk around in a circle a few times, and then lie down and heave a big sigh. She’s off duty. Nap time.

  Me, I’m wide-awake in the dark, hyperconscious, leaning forward, both hands on the cold oak tabletop. And I’m replaying every second since the moment Bobby said my name out in the library courtyard. Thinking of all the warm, funny, intelligent things I could have said.

  But didn’t.

  Something feels so wrong, so empty, so…lost. Again.

  But this time it’s the kind of lost where I feel the dense darkness closing in around me. The heavy stuff. Suffocating me. Drowning me. Cramming me into a coffin, a premature burial, bleak as Poe, black as a raven. Nevermore.

  But I know what to do when it gets this dark. I have experience with blindtime. And wounds.

  So first I make myself sit.

  I make my mind be still.

  I make my mind make my body be still.

  I breathe. Long, deep breaths.

  And then I listen to my heart.

  Not the thumping one. My other heart.

  The heart that knows the deep things.

  The heart that knows that the light is real.

  The heart that knows that the darkness is only light’s absence.

  The heart that has already recovered from sadness far deeper than this.

  And I know that now I must do.

  Doing is important.

  Doing is evidence, proof that I’m alive, intact, still myself.

  Because a girl who is drowned in darkness does not sit down at the library table and light up her computer.

  A girl in a coffin does not find her audio notes and listen as her own voice tells her what to do next.

  A dead girl does not wipe her eyes and open a new document and begin tapping ideas into focus, making the words obey her.

  And as my doing does its work, now the heart that does not thump knows that nothing important has changed.

  And this heart tells me that soon I’ll make that phone call to Bobby. I will. I’ll call my friend. And my friend will answer. And I’ll talk with my friend.

  Friend.

  It’s a bright word, and I hold it tight.

  chapter 5

  watchers

  It’s going to be colder walking home. The forecast said it’s going down to five degrees tonight.

  So I sit on the bench across from the front door security desk at the library and tie my scarf behind my neck so it covers my nose and chin. It’s a nuisance, and I know it makes me look like a bank robber, but when it’s way below freezing and I’ve got to walk due north, it’s not about fashion. It’s about survival.

  “Miss, may I have a word with you?”

  It’s a British accent spoken by a man who’s standing up, about two feet to my right.

  I turn toward the voice and give a neutral smile. Which is stupid, because I’ve got a scarf across my face. I pull the scarf down and say, “Sure.”

  Gertie’s been sitting to my left, and she stands up and leans against my knee. And then she growls.

  She never does that.

  “Gertie, down. Down. Good girl. You’ll have to pardon her manners.”

  “Not at all. She’s a beautiful dog. I’ve never owned a shepherd, but one day I’d like to. One of the brightest breeds is what I hear. And excellent as guide dogs. Have you had her a long time?”

  I smile and give Gertie a pat on her head. “No, only about six months. And she’s the smartest dog I’ve ever known. And she learns really fast too.”

  The man’s not moving toward Gertie, not trying to pet her or anything, so that’s good. And I’m thinking our conversation is over. It was a dog chat.

  Then he says, “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  Goose bumps. Up and down both my arms. It’s his voice. He’s dropped it low, almost a whisper. I know this tone. People use it for telling secrets.

  He says, “I think your friend, the young man who came into the library with you earlier, I think he may be in danger. Considerable danger.”

  I feel him take a seat on the bench to my right. I’m short of breath. “I…I don’t understand.”

  Gertie sits up, leans against me again. She can tell I’m afraid. Another low growl. “Gertie, hush—hush. Good girl. Like, have you been watching me?”

  “No, not at all. Not you. Your friend. I’ve been watching him. And watching the two other people who are also watching him, the two that I’ve spotted. There may be others. And now that he’s had contact with you, someone could be watching you as well. Right now.”

  In a flash I recognize this voice. “Fee, fie, foe, fum”—it was an Englishman arguing with Bobby in my dream this morning. But I didn’t hear this man’s voice in a dream. It’s a real voice. I heard him speak during a phone call. Last night, when I was eavesdropping.

  I whisper, “You and Bobby talked last night, about three in the morning, right?” I don’t know why I’m whispering.

  “Ah—so he told you about that. It was closer to four. And yes, we had a talk. More like a shouting match. And he jumped into a cab with his suitcase before I got to tell him what I think is happening, before I convinced him how much I need his help. I’ve got to make him understand what’s going on.”

  And even though I’ve got my hat and coat on, I shiver. Because I’m picking up this deep agitation, almost a hunger in the man’s voice. And I’m hearing desperation too, the same kind I’ve heard in the voices of kids I’ve tutored at the Hadley School, kids who can’t face the fact that they’re not going to see again. This man’s in trouble.

  But I jump back to what he just told me.

  “Bobby,” I say. “He doesn’t know these people are watching him?”

  “No, I don’t think so. There are two men. They’re very…professional.”

  And the way he says it, the word professional sounds like a threat.

  “But…why? And why are you watching—who are you?”

  “My name is…William. And if you are who I think you are, your friend may have told you about me. About finding me in New York City.”

  My heart almost stops, then starts pounding so I can feel each beat in my neck, in my arms, on my wrists. Because Bobby did tell me a little. He said he’d found someone in New York, a man who’d had the same experience he had. A man who woke up one morning and couldn’t see his body. A man who is si
tting next to me. In the library. In Chicago. Right now.

  And I want to leave, run away, get as far from this man as I can. But I can’t. Because if Bobby’s involved, so am I.

  And that means that I have to know if this man really is who I think he is. And there’s only one way I can find out.

  I reach out my right hand, and I whisper, “Please—put your arm here.” He does, and I touch, and I can judge how far away he’s sitting by his forearm, and his elbow, and the angle of his upper arm. It’s a thin arm, all muscle. Then I open my hand and push it toward him.

  And my palm hits bare flesh—a bony rib cage, zero body fat.

  He’s not wearing a shirt.

  no shirt

  in the library

  he’s right…here

  on this bench

  no one else can see him—no one else knows he’s here

  except Gertie

  I yank my hand back.

  This man is why Bobby told Gwen our secret. About turning invisible.

  My legs are shaking, and I feel my face go pale. Gertie sits up, moves closer, leans against my knees.

  And this man is completely naked. He has to be. It’s the only way he could be out in public.

  This happened to me before. Two years ago it was Bobby, invisible and out in public, and me there, facing the same facts. That was the first time. But past experience does not make a skinny, naked, invisible Englishman any less weird. Or disturbing.

  Gertie growls again.

  “Gertie, hush. Good girl. Sorry,” I say to him, “I mean, about pushing you like that. I had to…see.” I’m still whispering.

  “No apologies needed. You’re Alicia, right? Alicia Van Dorn?” I nod, and he says, “I heard Robert speaking about his girlfriend when he was in New York. And he mentioned she was blind.”

  Robert. That’s what Bobby’s been calling himself. Says it’s his professional name. It’s what Gwen calls him. And even though I’ve got a million questions whizzing through my head, all I want to ask this man is what Bobby—what Robert—said. When he was speaking about me. About his girlfriend. When he was in New York.