And so, I continue to pat Betsie’s neck, gauging the severity of the situation. Someone is approaching us, that much I know. Betsie is reacting to each step. But she is not lunging and not barking, just growling low in her throat, I think. Whoever is coming toward me is a man.

  Or…

  Is it possible?

  Betsie never did like Gwen. And the feeling was mutual. I remember my brother, at the time, saying to me through sign language into my palm, that it took a special kind of bitch to not get along with a seeing eye dog.

  Betsie does eventually calm, although I can feel her chest vibrating ever-so-slightly. A low, subsonic growl, perhaps. Whoever is approaching is not a threat—Betsie would have gone ape-shit. No, Betsie simply doesn’t like whoever’s approaching.

  I take a chance, flip to a clean page, and write “Gwen?” nice and big. I hold up the page to whoever’s approaching.

  Back in the day—during those six months Gwen and I had been together after my accident—she hadn’t bothered to learn much sign language, if any. Instead, we developed our own language. For instance, she would often tap on my shoulder twice for yes and squeeze it for no.

  As I sit there, and as the growls in Betsie’s chest cavity deepen, someone taps my shoulder twice.

  It’s Gwen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Her apartment is so familiar.

  I am sitting in the living room. I turn my head, getting my bearings. The kitchen is there, in front of me. The bedrooms to my right, down the hallway. The balcony in front of me, through the living room, where we had sipped many glasses of wine together, watching the glittering city far below.

  Once, while drinking with Gwen before the accident, or, B.A., as I think of it now, I remembered listening to the woman next door on the phone. From what I gathered, she worked for a psychic hotline. I remembered the details the woman gave over the phone, and I often wondered how accurate she was…and if I should ever schedule an appointment with her. Then again, that was five years ago. What were the chances she was still around too?

  I decide to lead off with that question, and open to a fresh page in my notebook. While I do so, I feel the cool air from the AC unit on my forehead. It feels good. I had burned while I waited outside. Sometimes, I like the feeling of being burned. Not a serious burn. Something minor, enough to get my attention, and to keep my focus on something other than, say, the tracheal tube. Or the ringing in my ears.

  A cool glass of water gets pressed into my hand and I nod my thanks. I note there’s no ice. Ice would have been nice. Before I drink, I reach into the backpack that’s sitting at my feet and remove a small plastic bowl—an old Reddi Wip container—and fill it with a few fingers of water from the glass. When I feel Betsie lapping away, I drink from my own glass.

  I can almost feel Gwen’s disapproval. Probably water splashes out into her carpet. I next remove my packet of plastic letters and set them on the coffee table in front of me. I remove them carefully, so that they don’t clatter across her table. For some reason, I am feeling tight and nervous. Gwen always has that effect on me.

  I ask myself again why I am here and don’t have a ready answer but push forward anyway. Gwen, I know, is my best chance—perhaps my only chance—at finding love. Sad as that might seem.

  “Hi,” I mouth to her, feeling myself flush slightly, although that could just be the sunburn setting in.

  Whether or not she says hi in return, I’ll never know. A small touch on the back of my hand. Gwen’s indication of hi. Betsie doesn’t like Gwen touching the back of my hand and growls low and deep. I can feel the thrums of the growl as Betsie presses against me. I pat my dog with one hand and rest the fingertips of the other on the glass coffee table. Now, I can feel micro-vibrations rise up through it; Gwen is arranging the plastic letters.

  When finished, she taps the table; I reach out and she guides me, somewhat roughly, to the first plastic letter of the first word. I feel each in turn, rapidly, piecing together the sentence in my mind, one letter at a time:

  “Forgot all sign language, sorry. What are you doing here?”

  Yes, my plastic letters even come with plastic question marks and exclamation points. So far, I don’t think anyone’s ever used the exclamation points.

  I consider what to write, and finally decide on:

  “I’ve missed you.”

  I don’t sense any movement on her part. No gentle pat on my shoulder. No loving hug. No peck on the cheek. No reaction at all. She’s not spelling out how much she’s missed me, too, or how much she regrets ending things the way she had—via a text my brother had to read for me nearly a week later.

  And so, after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence—and for me, that’s saying something—I quickly scribble on my notepad: “And I just wanted to see how you are doing.”

  Now, she’s spelling out words again. I sense the glass table shuddering more than before. I imagine her spelling the words emphatically. Betsie is on high alert. Sitting straight. Ears erect. Muscles tense. I do my best to calm her down, patting her and holding her with my left hand. Her harness is looped over my left wrist.

  A sharp tap on my shoulder. She is done spelling. This time, she doesn’t guide my hand to the first letter. Instead, I go to the same general place on the table where she’d begun the last dialogue. “I am fine. How are you?”

  And that’s it. No playful banter. Nothing inviting, encouraging or sweet. Then again, maybe I was reading too much into plastic letters. At least, she asked how I was doing.

  A part of me knows this is a bad idea. But I deny that part of me. Dammit, I’m in Gwen’s apartment, a place I hadn’t stepped foot in since, well, since before my accident. I’m here now. And, good or bad, I am going to see it through.

  I balance my notepad on my knee and write:

  “Still waiting on my driver’s license.”

  An old joke between us. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Truth is, Gwen never laughed very much at my jokes, even when I was trying to make the best of a bad situation.

  Anyway, I get no response at this attempt either. No pat on the back. No gentle hug. I wonder if the pen has gone dry, although I don’t think it has. It had flowed smoothly enough over the page. With that said, I can feel palpable tension in the air. Betsie feels it, too. I’ve never seen my dog react this way, not for such a prolonged period. That is, not since the last time she was around Gwen.

  “Remember our old joke?” I write on the pad.

  No response. I assume she nods. Or maybe she’s just staring blankly at the freak show seated in her living room, breathing through a tube in his mouth, his plastic letters spilled across her nice coffee table, his dog growling at her, his face flushed and slightly burned, his need for acceptance and love so overwhelming that he endures this embarrassment.

  I write: “We’ve had some good times. I miss that. I miss you.” I hesitate before I write the next sentence, then shrug, and dash off the next line: “You still dating the attorney?”

  But I don’t show her the page. Not yet.

  Instead, I almost close the notebook and shove it back in my shirt pocket. I ask myself again why I’m here, and suddenly, I don’t have a clear reason. To reconnect with the last woman I had loved. The last woman who had loved me. The only woman, I think, who could possibly love me now.

  Finally, I nod and hold the page up for her to read.

  There is a short hesitation, and then I can feel her manipulating the plastic letters on the table. A moment later, a slightly smaller, less aggressive tap on my forearm. I pick the first letter up, then the next, my thumb pads and finger pads stroking each rounded or angular edge carefully, forming the words in my mind as I do so. When I get to the last letter, I nod and do my best to smile.

  Her words are to the point. Everyone I communicate with these days gets straight to the point. There’s little banter anymore. Another thing taken from me. I sigh at that. Apparently, spelling out a flippant, cute, offhand comment was taboo when dealing with the blind, deaf and silent.

  “The attorney is gone but I am engaged to someone else.”

  I’m still nodding as she reaches over and spells something else out. She guides my hand to the first letter.

  “I am sorry.”

  I nod some more and smile and feel more sad than I should. I should have known she would have moved on. I should have known she would want nothing to do with me. I should have known there wasn’t a chance in hell that she would still be interested, or missing me, or even caring whether I was alive or dead, since I hadn’t heard from her in four-and-a-half years.

  I think she senses my pain and confusion and self-hate, and I am a little surprised when I feel her hand on my forearm. It’s warm and gentle, and then, she pats me. And then, I feel her lean forward on the couch and feel the coffee table shift slightly with her efforts of spelling more words.

  Whatever she is spelling takes some time, and while I wait, I pat Betsie’s head lightly. Gwen’s apartment is cool. The couch feels new. There is a slight scent of…there it is…a man’s deodorant. I am sure of it. No doubt wafting down the hallway. But I could be wrong. I am surprised I can smell it, but today is a good day for my olfactory sense. Anyway, she is not lying. There is a man in her life. Maybe smelling the deodorant is a gift to me, helping me understand that she really has moved on.

  She touches my hand again, and guides my fingers to the first letter. The sadness is still in me. Not shock, just deep sadness. But her kindness is helping me some. I pick up each letter slowly. My concentration is all over the map. Mostly, I hate myself for coming here and subjecting myself to more pain. Of course, she has moved on. Of course, she has gone through a few men, too.

  I absorbed each new letter, dropping them into place in my thoughts. Each new letter forms words, and the words begin taking on meaning and depth and profundity, and, as they do, my groping fingers move slower and slower. It takes a while to feel my way through these longer sentences. Finally, I pick up the last letter and sat there motionless, holding it.

  “I was not strong enough for you, Lee. I know this is hard for you to read. I see you are hurt. And I see you still have feelings for me. I miss you, too. And I often wonder how you are doing, but I am afraid to ask. It was a shitty way to break up with you. I am sorry. More sorry than you can ever know.”

  I set the last letter down and take out my notebook—which I always, automatically, return to the pocket at my chest, and flip to a new page:

  “A lot of plastic letters. I have a hand cramp now.”

  Now, I do feel her laughing, the couch cushions bobbing up and down a bit.

  She leans forward again, spelling out something new, then guides my hand to the first plastic letter. Her fingers, I note, are shaking a little…and feel ice cold. Her single sentence says, “Maybe we can be friends?”

  I turn the final letter over in my hand—the question mark—and set it down. I pull out my notepad, then write:

  “I’d like that but…”

  I pause and hold up the notepad so that she can read what I wrote, then point to Betsie who’s leaning against my legs and who hasn’t, I am certain, taken her eyes off Gwen. I think about how she broke up with me. I think about how she has never bothered to follow up with me, inquire about me, help me, or care about me. And so, with a heavy heart but also a small smile that may or may not have found my lips, I resume writing. And hold up the pad again:

  “I don’t think Betsie likes you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I don’t usually drink, but tonight, I make an exception. I also almost never get drunk, but tonight…well, we’ll see.

  It is late evening and I’m sitting on my balcony with my legs up on a plastic footrest and Betsie lying somewhere beneath my outstretched legs. I’d had a heckuva productive day. I’d taken a ride to Beverly Hills and effectively put an end to any crazy notion that Gwen and I would ever be together again. Maybe I should have been relieved. She had been a handful back when we were dating. The more I think back on our time together, the more stressed I remembered feeling. Stress I didn’t need. My job was stressful enough.

  I drink from a highball glass, filled with Jameson, neat. I sip slowly, carefully, enjoying the warmth of it down my damaged throat. I can almost follow its heated path through my organs, along my bloodstream. I am quickly becoming buzzed.

  My last one, I think. Maybe.

  The buzz is a welcome relief. I am enjoying letting my mind go a little. Enjoying the freedom, the expansion, the release from my broken body.

  I imagine my thoughts spreading out a little further, filling the entire balcony, from corner to corner…and leaking out over the ledge and spilling down to my neighbor below. The feeling is…liberating, and I go with it for a few minutes. I imagine, briefly, that I am the building itself, that my mind fills the apartment building and rooms and hallways and stairwells and elevators. I imagine what it would feel like to have people move through me, flick on my light switches, slam my doors.

  Weird, I know…but I go with it.

  My mind reaches out further, out beyond the apartment, beyond the parking lot and out over the trees. I feel myself seeing everything, smelling everything, alive and everywhere and free.

  Free from my broken body.

  And soon I sleep.

  ***

  A buzzing in my pocket.

  I awaken colder than I had been in a long time. I reach for my cell phone and turn off the alarm, something I do every morning at this time. Usually, though, I wake up in bed.

  Shivering and wondering if I have gotten myself sick, I push out of the plastic deck chair and somehow, simultaneously, scratch Betsie between her ears. I can feel her panting. It’s always a good morning for Betsie.

  I did not get drunk last night. Three shots max, enough to get me buzzed and spend the night out on the balcony. Then again, this is Southern California. Fall nights are not very different than summer nights. And, hell, even some winter nights.

  Now, I’m in the kitchen making coffee with the Keurig, since last night was spent drinking—and not remembering to prepare my coffee maker. My brother had shown me in detail how to work the Keurig, guiding my hands over the various buttons and lids and features. I thought I was getting the hang of it quickly enough; that is, until my brother walked out in frustration to control himself, only to return and guide me, somewhat roughly, through the final stages of coffee making.

  Now, I hold the coffee mug’s handle while the coffee dribbles in. I can feel the heat rising from the mug, over my knuckles, up to my face. When finished dribbling, I mix in the vanilla coffee creamer. Before I sit with my coffee, I reach into a Tupperware container on the kitchen counter and toss a chicken treat to the only girl in my life who matters, to the girl I know is waiting patiently at my feet. I suspect Betsie snatches the treat out of the air. One bite, maybe two max, and I suspect the treat is already long gone.

  I move over to the small bar table by the door, the table littered with plastic letters. I push some aside and set the coffee mug down. I reach down to scratch Betsie’s long flank, and feel her tense. She snaps her head around. She barks once, I’m certain, judging by the bolt of energy that surges through her. As she barks, I feel my phone vibrate at my hip. Someone has pressed my doorbell, which is synced with my phone. Another fancy gadget my brother had gotten for me.

  Where would I be without him? I don’t want to know. I also don’t want to think about it.

  I do my usual joke of pretending to look at the peephole. Then I open the door, holding Betsie’s harness tightly. She might be perfectly trained, yes, but she’s still a dog protecting her master. I like that about her.

  As always when guests come unexpectedly, there is a moment or two of awkwardness, perhaps awkward silence, although I’ll never know for sure. I help the situation by smiling encouragingly and holding out my hand.

  I wonder who will take it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Almost immediately, a soft, small hand takes my own, and I know by the touch, the pressure of the fingertips, the way the thumb moves over the back of my thumb, who it is.

  Slender fingers form words quickly in my palm. “Guess who?”

  I smile and nod and move away from the door. I feel her step past me, and then feel another person step past me too, a person whose pat is firm and rough and manly. I can smell the faintest of whiff of aftershave or men’s deodorant. Either way, I know it’s Detective Hammer.

  In the relative safety of my apartment, I don’t need Betsie’s services―and I always imagine she acts more like a normal dog in here than out there, where she is a working dog. Even now, I imagine her tail is wagging as she gives Hammer and Rachel a good sniff or lick or shoulder bump. Or, if they’re lucky, she’s even stuck her nose in their crotches. Either way, I imagine her tongue hanging out, maybe even spilling a drop or two of drool, and, of course, looking cute as hell. All in my imagination, of course. I have never seen my dog…and never will, and that’s a damn shame.

  Once we are inside, I ask if they would like some coffee. Via Rachel’s fast and expert signing, the response comes back yes, but that she will make it for us. I insist on making it and she lets me, which I am grateful for. The Keurig is fast and soon I am signing if they want milk and sugar or some of my vanilla creamer. Both want the creamer, and I take it from the fridge and let them add their own, which they do. We are all in my little kitchen, which, for some reason, doesn’t feel crowded but cozy. A cool blast of air suggests that Rachel has put the creamer away, and now, she is touching my elbow, subtly directing me to follow them and sit with them, which I do, through the kitchen and living room and over to my couch.

  Rachel eases down next to me and I catch a faint hint of perfume and shampoo and coffee and vanilla and dog breath. I think the five greatest scents ever. My sense of smell is working overtime these past few days. I couldn’t be happier. Well, maybe I could. Just a little.