***

  The drive shouldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes, and I don’t think it does. Whether or not the driver drove in circles around the city block to jack the price up, I would never know, but I think I would have caught on, eventually.

  Since my accident, I have to rely on others for help. I have to trust others implicitly. I have to believe there is good in people and that most have my best interests at heart.

  This was hard for me to do at first. Almost impossible, in fact. I had seen the darker side of human nature. I watched how petty jealousy turned into violence. I watched how greed turned some men into animals. I watched it all, worked with it all, fought it all, chased it all, hunted it all. I arrested it and removed it from society. Day in, day out. For fourteen years. I looked killers in the eye. I questioned them, challenged them, hated them, pitied them. Sometimes, I was duped by them, too. Sometimes, I even believed their lies. All par for the course. Usually, I got my man or woman. Usually.

  And now…

  Well, now, I am expected to forget what I know is stalking the city streets on any given night…and to trust my fellow man. Now, I am supposed to let down my guard and just hope for the best. Now, I just sit here in the back seat and hope that my Uber driver is a good man. If not, then bad things are going to happen, and will probably happen to me. Of course, not if Betsie has any say in the matter. And she does. A big say. A big ‘woof’ maybe.

  I have to believe that this man will take me where I’d hired him to. I have no way of knowing where I’m going, unless I have the route memorized, and I don’t. I have to believe that he isn’t going to, say, drive me to a back alley, where I could be robbed and shot and left for dead.

  I have to believe this; I have little choice otherwise.

  I enjoy the vibration of the car. I enjoy anything tactile, tangible, physical. I enjoy heat and cold, even extremes; indeed, I enjoy sweating and shivering equally. I enjoy, mostly, how such sensations take me out of my head and bring me back into my body. Now, I enjoy the vibration that seems to come from everywhere; up through the floorboards, up through the seat, the small flow of air from the air conditioner. I revel in it all and sit back in my seat and pat my dog and run my fingertips through her longish, soft fur.

  I could, of course, rely completely on my brother, but that’s not fair to him, or healthy for me. Not to mention, I sense we are reaching his breaking point, of what he’s willing and able to do. I don’t want to break my brother. I want only to spend time with him. I want only to be a brother to him. Not a project. Not a burden. Not a hassle.

  I stay up on sports, because I know he loves his Dodgers and Lakers. Me, not so much. But I want to be able to discuss the latest trades, the latest standings, the latest news. Of course, my news via the braille newspaper is generally a week behind, but I make do.

  It has been many years since I’ve driven to my ex-girlfriend’s apartment. I don’t have the route memorized, turn by turn, but I have a fair idea where we are, and when I feel the car come to a stop, the timing seems about right to me.

  A moment later, the driver’s door opens with a whoosh of warm air, followed by my own door a few seconds later. Now, a slightly more confident grip takes hold of me just inside my elbow. I am led outside, along with my dog. Once I am standing on the curb, I feel a pat on my back, and I nod and smile and hold out my hand. A dry but firm hand shakes it. I will never know my driver’s name or his race or age or anything. I know only his heart. He is friendly and attentive and I like his hand. It is firm and confident and rough and friendly. I feel his heart in his hand and I wish I could see him…

  Maybe I am happy I can’t. I’ve never felt someone’s heart in their hand before my injuries. Now, I see people in different ways, and sometimes, it’s not so bad.

  Before he leaves, he gently turns my shoulders and takes my wrist in his. He raises my hand and uses it to point in the direction of the building. I smile and nod and the next thing I know, he has wrapped his arms around me and pulls me into him and hugs me very tight. He releases me and holds me at arm’s length and I can only wonder what he is thinking or saying, or what other people are thinking or saying.

  When he leaves, I take in a lot of air through my tracheal tube, hold it, then start toward my ex-girlfriend’s apartment.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hers is a secured apartment building.

  One needs a key to get in, or one needs to be buzzed in. Now, as I stand before the glass doors—doors that I see again in my mind’s eye—with the heat of the morning sun on my neck, my right hand firmly holds Betsie’s harness, my left grips the walking stick, and I realize the foolishness of my decision.

  After all, I have no way of buzzing her or contacting her or figuring out how to use the newfangled intercom system. And, since this is L.A., the apartment isn’t manned by a doorman. Or even security.

  I dated Gwen for two years. We loved each other, yes, but our connection was never so strong that we discussed a future together. Nor was it so tenuous that we broke it off. I think we were both waiting for a reason to either move forward together or break up. The explosion seemed to have made the decision for us.

  But maybe she’s reconsidered? Maybe she misses me, too? Maybe she doesn’t know how to reach out to me?

  Maybe, I think, as I scan the area in my mind’s eye, trying hard to remember the details. There’s a cement planter out front that doubles as a long bench. I’m sure of it.

  The sun grows hotter on my neck. Now, I feel people from the sidewalk staring at me, probably wondering if they should help. I could let them help me. I could ask someone, via my notepad, to buzz Gwyneth Morgan for me. But so far, no one’s approached me, nor do I seek anyone out. Yet.

  So, I turn and, using my walking stick, feel my way over to the planter and have a seat but the cement is hot and I worry about my dog’s paws. Would they blister in the sun? Probably, but I don’t recall much in the way of shade around here.

  I do the next best thing. I use myself as shade and position Betsie in front of me, hoping that much of my shadow falls over her. She won’t complain either way. She will sit there and pant and wait until the cows came home, through burning paws and thirst and heat, until I get up and leave.

  Herbal, pungent and flowery plants surround me, all mixing into what I imagine is a heady concoction. For me, the scents barely make it through my damaged olfactory system. Still, I can detect them occasionally. And occasionally is good enough.

  Beggars can’t be choosers.

  Yes, my sense of smell comes and goes, triggered by God knows what. But I’m always appreciative when it hits me, and it hits me now, and I revel in what I am sure is pungent acacia and sweeter deer grass. Years ago, I took an environmental biology class and learned the names of most drought-resistant plants in California. By proxy, I got to know their scents, too.

  I revel in them now. Sharp at times. Flowery at others. All permeated with the earthy, mushroomy smell of moist soil. This is Beverly Hills, after all. To hell with the drought in California. The street plants need to be watered. Either way, I love it all, revel in it all. Crave it all. Hunger for it all. I wish more scents would hit me. I wish I could smell the exhaust from nearby Doheny Street. I really do. No matter how foul or offensive. I wish I could smell the cigar of a man smoking nearby. I wish I could smell sweat and perfume and cologne and gasoline and oil and halitosis. I wish it would all come to me often, in wave after sweet wave. Or pungent wave. Or foul-smelling wave. Hell, I’m not picky.

  I do not check my time. I don’t need to. There’s no reason to. I know it’s midday, and I have nowhere else to go. I am where I need to be. In front of my ex-girlfriend’s apartment…waiting.

  For what, exactly, I don’t know. For her to recognize me, perhaps. For her to invite me in. For her to tell me that she has missed me this whole time and has wondered about me but wasn’t sure if seeing me was a good idea. That she wants to know all about me and my life. I could, of course, fill her in easy enough. The last five years have passed without much incident, unless you count the many times I’d fallen, or gotten lost, or learned a new way to communicate, or received a false hope that doctors might be able to help me speak again.

  And she would hold my hand and show me that she had mastered sign language in the time we’ve been apart, with the small hope that she might see me again, and now, here I am and all is right in the world.

  I am saddened by how unlikely these scenarios seem, even in my own fantasy.

  It has been four years and six months since we last dated. And just over four years when I last heard from her, back when she had told me she was now dating an attorney. She told me this, of course, through the use of the plastic letters on my kitchen table, back when she had been returning some of my stuff. She had never bothered to learn sign language.

  I let that thought go and lift my face to the sun, feel the wind in my hair, catch the faint smells, feel the heat of the cement planter. Sometimes, when I’m indoors, I feel…nonexistent. So much so, that I will sometimes snap my fingers and wave Betsie over just to feel her hot breath and wet tongue on my skin. Just to reinforce that, yes, I am alive. I am not dead, not a ghost, not a memory, not a stray thought.

  Outdoors is different. Outdoors, I can feel the wind and the sun, the cold and sometimes, even the rain. Outdoors, I can pick up stray scents and sometimes even get jostled by a pedestrian, or someone trying to squeeze into the table behind me at Chango. Outdoors, I feel part of humanity, connected to this earth.

  Now, as I sit here in the sun, I almost forget why I am there. Indeed, I am reveling in the heat and the scents and the wind and the weight of my dog pressed against my calf when I notice something else. Betsie’s tail is wagging, slapping against my shoe. The wagging is followed by another sensation. The smallest, smallest touch on my left forearm. Someone is here.

  Betsie’s tail continues to swish over my shoes. She’s panting now. Excited, relaxed, playful. Whoever’s next to me has her attention. My guess, it’s a woman. Betsie always seems to prefer women. Maybe she gets that from her dad.

  The small touch on my forearm comes again. Very small, very light, the fingertip slightly cold, despite the warm day. It hits me. A child. A girl, probably. Maybe even a little girl.

  I am instantly alert. Why is a girl approaching me on the street? Is she alone? Where’s her mother? The touch comes again, followed by more tail wagging from Betsie. If I have to guess, and I kind of have to these days, I would say Betsie is getting some serious scratches behind her ears.

  After waiting for the touch of a mother or father or even a nanny—this is Beverly Hills, after all—I realize it’s just me and the girl. I reach into my shirt pocket—all my shirts have pockets—and take out the small notepad with the attached pen. On the cover of the notepad, I’ve written the words: “I’m sorry, but I’m blind, deaf and mute.”

  I always wonder if my handwriting is holding up these days, although I haven’t had any complaints yet. Then again, there might be a special place in hell for whoever criticizes a blind man’s handwriting. “Mute” isn’t the most acceptable term, but it gets my point across nicely.

  I have no idea how old the little girl is, or if it is even a little girl. Betsie’s reaction has a lot to do with it. She doesn’t react this way to just anyone. A man would have had her on guard and pressing against me. Either a little boy or girl, but I’m leaning toward girl, mostly based on the tiny and cold fingertip. And Betsie’s wagging tail.

  I also don’t know if the little girl can read, but I take my chances. I hold up the cover of the notebook for her to see and point to it, and then give her the thumbs-up sign. Then I flip through the notepad, searching for the dog-eared page that would indicate my next blank page—after all, writing on already used-up page wouldn’t do at all. When I find the blank page, I flip the notebook open and write:

  “Where’s your mommy? And remember, I can’t hear you.”

  I hold up the page and wait a heartbeat or two, then feel gentle hands tug on my pen and notepad. Whoever’s there wants to write me a message in return. I smile and shake my head and write:

  “I can’t see your writing either.”

  That should be enough for the curious little girl to get going. But she’s playing with Betsie, because I can feel Betsie just itching to jump. Except Betsie never jumps. Never does anything she’s not supposed to do, which makes me sad sometimes. Dogs and little girls should play together. Betsie knows she’s a working dog, and takes her job very seriously.

  Betsie is still reacting positively to whoever is there, panting against my inner leg. The girl hasn’t left, and a moment later, a small hand picks up my left hand. She opens my hand, and to my surprise, I feel the smallest fingernail—a ragged fingernail that has been chewed and not clipped—write into my palm one big letter at a time, slowly.

  “H-I.”

  I nod and smile and mouth the word “Hi.” I then flip back to the page where I had written: “Where’s your mother?” And hold it up to her to read.

  She takes my hand again, a little bolder this time. “She is fighting with Tom. He’s her boyfriend.”

  “Fighting where?” I write on my pad.

  “In the kitchen.” Except she doesn’t spell kitchen right. Kittchin.

  I write: “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

  She writes the next words slowly, and I can imagine her little tongue sticking out as she focuses on each and every letter in my palm. “Yes, Mommy will be mad.” Mad is spelled madd.

  I keep all my old notebooks in a big dresser drawer in my bedroom. Not the drawer with the gun next to my bed. No, the drawer beneath my socks, socks that are all white and the same size. Makes my life easier. Anyway, the drawer with my notebooks is about half full. Notebook after notebook of my scribbled conversations to strangers. My one-sided conversations. I do not know why I hold on to them. No, that’s not true. I think a part of me wants to leave behind a legacy of who I am and what has happened to me and who I met along the way. To whom I would leave this legacy, I don’t know.

  I wonder if Gwen is still single. I wonder if she still lives here. God, I hope she still lives here. There is something about being here that felt right. I was excited, nervous, hopeful. It was midday. Gwen worked from home, where she ran a small interior design business. Mostly, she popped over to residences and charged a consulting fee. Sometimes, she got bigger jobs, too. Mostly not. Which was why she lived in a smallish apartment in Beverly Hills, rather than a biggish apartment, or even a home. She had been content to take the small jobs. I always suspected she didn’t like to work very much, even though she ran her own business.

  I shouldn’t be here, I know. My confidence is shaky at best. I want to get up and head home. But I power through my insecurities. It had cost me good money to be delivered here, and I was going to see it through, as best as I could. Besides, wasn’t there a little girl even now petting Betsie, a little girl who might have even wandered off?

  I flip to a clean page, and write:

  “You need to go inside now. You should not be out here alone.”

  I hold it out to her to read. The light tickles on my forearm are from her as she leans forward and reads my writing. Writing that I hope is intelligible.

  So insecure, I think.

  Now, she takes my hand again, and a single, small finger spells out big letters in my palm. “Not alone. I am with your doggie.”

  “How old are you?” I write, balancing the notepad on my knee this time.

  A single, looping number drawn on my palm. She is eight. But she isn’t done writing. The words continue to form. Sometimes she stops them and literally makes an erasing motion on my palm. A lot of cuteness. So much so, that I am aware all over again that I want kids of my own. I would sigh, if I could.

  She finally spells out: “You had an accident?”

  I nod, and mouth the word, “Yes.”

  “I am sorry,” she writes.

  “I am, too,” I write on my notepad.

  More writing in my palm, more erasing, and finally, she forms the sentence: “Do you pray for God to help you?”

  I turn my face to her, and briefly wonder what she would think if she saw my empty eye sockets. I would scare her and give her nightmares, no doubt. Finally, I shake my head no.

  Her writing is bolder now. “You should pray. God will help you.”

  I give her a half-smile, and think about what I want to say, and finally write: “Maybe I will.”

  I sit motionless, while she continues holding my hand. After a minute or two, she opens my hand and spells out: “I will pray with you.”

  I am about to shake my head, when she reaches forward and shushes my silent lips with her little finger. I smile and would have laughed if I could have. Hard to laugh through a tracheal tube. Poor excuse, I know. I could make the motion of laughter, and sometimes, I have. But no real sound comes out of me, from what I’m told.

  “Please.” She writes in my hand.

  I nod. Okay.

  She squeezes my hand, excited. Then spells: “Repeat after me, okay?”

  I smile and nod again. There won’t be much repeating on my end, but I can always mouth the words.

  “Dear God,” she begins, spelling slowly into my palm.

  “Dear God,” I mouth.

  “Please help this man see again.”

  I begin to mouth the words, when I feel the tears come to me. I fight them back a little and repeat her words, mouthing them. “Please help me see again.”

  Now, she holds my hand, squeezes it, pets my dog, and then, the little girl is gone, running off, I hope, back to her apartment. Maybe her mother has stopped arguing with her boyfriend.

  I stay put, wondering how long I will need to wait. I can’t give up.

  Two hours later, Betsie stands, turns and growls low and deep. I can feel her growl vibrate through my shoes, which she’s presently standing on. I reach out and pat her head. But not so much that I discourage her from doing her job. I need her to growl for me. I need her to warn me—to protect me—from whoever and whatever is coming. Then again, we are in Beverly Hills, so maybe it’s a wild Kardashian trailed by paparazzi.