The girl is startled, and so am I. Because she’s not just typing on her laptop. I didn’t see the slim tape recorder on the table next to her computer, and a man’s voice is speaking:
…he had almost gone by before Hester Prynne could gather voice enough to attract his observation. At length, she succeeded.
“Arthur Dimmesdale!” she said, faintly at first; then louder, but hoarsely. “Arthur Dimmesdale!”
I know those names. She’s listening to an audiobook. She’s reading.
My hand is still on the doorknob. She’s turned toward me in her chair, her face a mix of curiosity and concern.
I could still back out. I could turn around and go silently out of the room and she’d never know it was me.
But it’s been three days since I’ve talked to anyone except Mom and Dad. And Mrs. Trent and Dr. Fleming. And a couple of cabdrivers. So basically, it’s been three days with no human contact.
She says, “Hello?…” And it strikes me that she’s easily the prettiest girl who’s said hello to me in at least two years.
So I try to sound normal—as normal as a naked guy can sound—and I say, “Hi, I’m…I’m sorry to barge in, but I saw you, and…and I wanted to say hi.” Her head tilts a little to one side, and her hair falls away from one cheek. “You don’t really know me, but I’m the guy—”
She nods, smiling a little. “The guy who ran into me down by the entrance on Tuesday, right? I remember your voice. You made a strong first impression.” Bigger smile now. A sense of humor.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that…and that I had to run off too, but I was late for something.”
She shrugs, still smiling. “No big deal. I’m usually the one who bumps into things. It was a nice change.”
I don’t know what else to say, and neither does she. The tape recorder is still talking, like a third person trying to keep the conversation alive. I notice her hands, long fingers, sensitive, never completely still. As if she can tell I’m looking at her hands, she stirs, feels around a little, pushes a button, and the voice stops.
In the quiet I say, “The Scarlet Letter, right? We read that first semester. How do you like it?”
She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Too slow for me. I like books with more action.”
“Yeah, me too.”
And we’re stuck again. I’m starting to wish I hadn’t opened her door. “So, do you come and study here a lot?”
She nods. “I’ve got this room reserved four times a week. I live pretty close. A couple hours here is better than being stranded at home all the time.”
“So you don’t really go to school, like not every day?”
“Like never. I take correspondence courses. Independent study.”
“Through the U of C? So you can use the library and stuff?”
She shakes her head again. “I’ve got an ID because my dad teaches here. I take courses from a special school up on the North Shore.”
“Your dad teaches here? So does my mom.” Something safe to talk about. Lame, but safe. “She’s into English literature. What’s your dad teach?”
“Astronomy mostly, and some math.” She does the nose wrinkle again. “He’s pretty much of a nerd.”
So we could also talk about our dads, try to figure out which one is nerdier. Except before I stop to think, I hear myself asking, “How long have you been blind?” Right away her smile freezes and she gets this half-confused look on her face, and she starts to turn red. I can’t tell if she’s mad or embarrassed. So I try to back off. “I mean, like I’m not trying to get personal, but I just wondered…because I really don’t know anyone who’s blind, and I was just—”
“Curious?” she says, and her right eyebrow lifts up. “You were curious about the little blind girl?” There’s an edge to her voice. Not angry exactly. More like sarcastic and a little amused, like she can tell I’m embarrassed now, so she’s messing with me. “It’s all right,” she says. “I can talk about it. I’ve only been blind for about two years.”
“Was it an accident or something?”
“An accident? An accident, you mean, like as opposed to maybe I made myself blind on purpose, maybe by poking myself with a sharp pencil? Or, like a pot of acid blew up in science class—that kind of accident? Is that what you mean?” Definitely sarcastic now.
I put my hands up like I’m backing off. Which is stupid twice—first, because I’m invisible, and second, because even if I wasn’t, she’s blind. But I put my hands up anyway and say, “Hey. It’s okay. You don’t want to talk, I’ll just go away. Really. Didn’t mean to bother, didn’t mean to take you away from your wonderful novel.” Sarcasm is a lot more fun to give than receive.
Then I say, “So long,” and I turn and open the door, and I’m gone, pulling the door shut with a thump. Because who needs this? And besides, my feet aren’t cold anymore.
I’m about five steps away when her door opens behind me, and she says, “Hey…can you come back?”
Six or seven students turn to look, some sitting at terminals and some studying at tables by the windows. They’re trying to figure out who the girl’s talking to. I walk back quickly, and when I’m close, I use a library whisper and I say, “Okay.”
She turns and sits down at the table again. I shut the door and take a look at our audience of students. They don’t have time to worry about some girl who calls out to no one and then closes her door again. Midterms are coming. They go back to work.
I’d like to sit down, but I’m not sure I want to plant my bare bottom on some public piece of university property. I solve the problem by pulling out a chair, folding my right leg onto it, and then sitting on my leg.
When she hears me sit down, she aims a sheepish smile my way and says, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” I say, “really, it’s my fault. I didn’t mean to be nosy. You don’t even know me. I shouldn’t have asked that. I…I’ve been on my own a lot for the last couple of days, so I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and it’s like I’ve forgotten how to talk to people. So when I thought that question, I just kind of said it right out loud. I mean, like, a week ago, I probably wouldn’t have even said hi. So you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”
There are so many different kinds of smiles. This one she smiles at me is a new one. It’s warm, but there’s tons of other stuff behind it. Like sadness. And loneliness. A lot of loneliness, I think.
And she says, “What do you mean, about being on your own a lot?”
I start carefully. “You know on Tuesday, like, a couple of hours after I ran into you at the library? My parents got in a car wreck, and they’re going to be okay, but they’re still in the hospital.”
She’s got a great face, the kind where what she’s feeling is right there. And it’s okay to just keep staring at her, because she can’t see me—I mean, like even if I could be seen. But it’s not like watching that guy on the street, because this girl knows I’m here. She knows I exist. And she must know I’m looking at her face. It’s a face worth memorizing.
Her eyebrows come together. “And you’re staying at home by yourself? Your parents said that was okay?”
“Yeah. It’s sort of complicated, but that’s the way it’s been.”
“So you just take a bus to school?”
“I’ve been at home.”
“Sick?”
“Not really, just not ready to face school right now.” I’m ready to stop talking about me. “So, do you like the correspondence course thing? Sounds pretty nice, I mean, not going to school and all.”
She gives this funny little snort. “The only reason it sounds good is because you’re not locked into it. I don’t have any choice.” She pauses, then decides to keep talking. “I called you back because no one ever asks me about being blind or how it happened or anything. Most people just try to avoid me, especially other kids. It’s like they pretend not to notice. So when you asked that, it was a surprise. And it doesn’t take much to get me feeling sorry for myself—it happens in a second. And then I get mad.”
“And don’t forget sarcastic.”
She grins and almost laughs. “Right. And sarcastic.”
A beeping sound fills the small room, coming from the laptop. Then this demented-sounding voice says, “Three-fifty-five P.M.”
She smiles. “That’s Albert. He lives in my computer. I’ve got to be out of here in five minutes.” She pauses again, thoughts running across her face. Then, “Are you going home soon? Because I’ve got to head home, but if you’re going to leave soon, we could walk a little. It’s a pretty nice day outside.”
So I say, “Sure, let’s go.”
In two minutes her laptop and tape player are packed away. She puts on her coat and backpack and picks up her long white cane.
And we’re on the move.