BLIND

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020

Warning: If you don't like reading transgender-related fiction, then stop reading now.

Author's Note: None.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

MOVING

A change is as good as a holiday. Or is it 'a rest'? Regardless, it was time for change; I was swapping the country for the city.

Forty years ago, Kevin and I had met at university; both of us were 20 and immediately attracted to the other. Study, study together, study then hang together, then screw studying and just hang together, etc.: it's a very common university pattern. We loved each other. We married, got jobs in the city, bought the quintessential suburban home, had children, and lived the quintessential suburban life. There were challenges, I might say, along the way.

Regardless, we became empty nesters and then, three years ago, I became a widow: an early onset of dementia and an unfortunate traffic accident. I would visit Kevin one last time and once again forgive him for not being himself during the last two years of his life. He had always liked pink roses; they always sat nicely by his headstone.

I didn't feel too guilty about moving. The house needed an extensive reno that I was not prepared to both pay for and endure. Many of our old neighbours --- friends, actually --- had aged and moved. Our remaining ones were considering moving too. Traffic in the city was increasingly chaotic. People were increasingly rushed. Busy, busy, busy; I hated the city now.

And I hated the house. My home. If walls could talk.

As a widow, I acutely felt the loneliness. The bed in which our children had been conceived? Still there and still cold now, even in the summer. Every time I walked down the main hallway, I could still see his slipshod drywall repair: "I can do it during halftime; don't worry." I had worried and then for seven years after I was reminded of that spot by the spot. Ghosts like that haunt a house.

Other ghosts do too. There were fond ones. The twins at 6 trying to build a soccer pitch in the backyard. The twins at 12 laughing at the dinner table as they joked and relentlessly teased. The twins at 18 coming in the front door at two o'clock in the morning, swearing on their granny's grave that they hadn't been drinking with their boyfriends.

There were some other ghosts as well. The twins' chasing their younger brother down that same defective hallway. The twins' explaining their obvious innocence and commendably accusing their younger brother of general and specific unruliness. The twins' understandable fixation on revenging themselves upon him for his several transgressions.

And there was one dark ghost, found in the silence of... of that empty bedroom.

I wanted to put all this history behind me and move beyond my current walls.

Far away.

-----000-----

I settled on a 2-acre lot in the Town of Pleasantville. The little town was safe, clean, and hospitable. Nestled in-between some hills by the shores of our state's biggest lake, it offered outdoor adventures, fresh air, and a quieter pace. Because of its distance from the bigger cities, commuting was not practicable and therefore housing prices remained low.

Kev and I had paid off our mortgage years ago. We had also saved; it did us well. The twins didn't have to work while at university (they did in the summer). We always had two cars. Kev never wanted for a power tool that he didn't already have. My nails and hair were ever immaculate. Between the equity and profit from the home in the city and our savings and investments, I could live comfortably for the rest of my life, with nary a want nor a care.

It was not likely that my daughters would disturb that tranquility.

In retrospect, I suppose one might charitably say that Kev had spoilt them; uncharitably, one might say I had. I am not and never have been persuaded by the latter argument. I certainly had encouraged them to be forthright and assertive. The young women of today have so many more opportunities than I had decades ago. I envied my daughters. I agree that I pushed them into modernity. I admit not having expected them to run so far away into it that they left me behind.

They and their husbands and their children lived in Europe now. It was communicated to me that I should feel privileged to enjoy even one week per year with each of them. It was of great disconcertment that my daughters never made me feel truly welcome. Me! Their mother! Each time I departed Emily's Tuscany villa or Fiona's Normandy manoir, I sensed belittlement and condescension.

I didn't like that feeling. It was the sense that I was unwanted and undesirable. Silent contempt. Hushed disdain. Each time my daughters told me that they loved me, I saw in their eyes their asking me to get out of their and their respective families' lives.

I drove the car along the country road toward Pleasantville. I lowered the windows and enjoyed the bright, sunny day. Farmers' fields: the smell of cow shit hung in the air.

No, neither Emily nor Fiona would ever visit me here.

-----000-----

I paused at the stop sign, as one should I suppose. The sign said, 'Church Street'. I turned left onto it. I hadn't been here in three months. I knew what my new house looked like but could not place it within the sequence of houses on the street. Sigh: numbers then. Why do so many houses now have such small address numbers on them? There it was! Number 77.

I parked on the street across from it. I stood by my car and took in my new home. It was a 900 square foot bungalow. Stucco exterior: white. A black, metal roof. Baskets hanging from the many windows. A neat front lawn. A mature silver maple. Driveway and garage to the left. White picket fences flanking the property. Charm.

The street was tree-lined and shady, refreshingly so on a hot summer's day. The houses adjacent to mine were similar in vintage and design: quaint and cozy. So were the houses behind me, across the street from mine. On the sidewalks, I could see the faint traces of hopscotch courses. Some feral children left their bikes on someone's front lawn. Further down the road, I could see (presumably) two young mothers on a blanket on the lawn tending to their toddlers.

A lawn had been mown recently; the smell of freshly cut grass lingered.

I closed my eyes, leaned against my car, and waited for my real estate agent to arrive and deliver my keys.

I smiled to myself. I wanted this.

THE FIRST WEEK OF MY NEW LIFE

The movers showed on time and unpacked most of my belongings. I sat on the couch in my new living room and listened to the distant cries of kids playing and moms warning.

The doorbell rang. I opened it. I was greeted by a hearty "Hi! I'm Norma, your new neighbour!". The matronly woman walked toward me and offered her hand. She looked an energetic 40-something, maybe late 30-something. I was 60 and normally felt it. But her attitude jolted me in a good way. I couldn't help but smile at her.

We sat in the living room. I offered coffee or tea. She offered freshly baked cookies.

Norma and Greg had moved here twenty years ago. They had come from an even more remote part of the country and considered this bucolic town to be a big city. She chuckled as she said it. They had three teenagers, a dog, a cat, and a basement that was perpetually being redone. Yet another husband's dream project; I sympathized. We bonded.

Norma was a delight! She lived directly across the street from me and knew everybody's business.

The couple to my left were the Barnes, Warren and Dorothy. A retired couple, he had worked in finance and she in nursing. Now she ran the banking and he nursed her: she had gout.

The family to my right, Joanne and Ted Kilby, were owners of a used car dealership, parents of three large teenage boys who were playing football in high school, and devoted Pentecostals. Personally, I confess to never having understood that experiential branch of Christianity. I was proudly Lutheran. Ted was apparently a skirt-chaser: cliché for a used car salesman, I thought.

Norma knew them all. Big Ben, the veteran and ardent Packers fan lived next to her on one side while on her other side were Tammy and Jack Pendergast. It seemed that Ben and Jack would regularly chit chat on Norma's front lawn, Greg would come out ("Get them off the lawn!" Norma would instruct him), and an hour or two later Norma would open her front door, shoo her neighbours away, and scold Greg for not completing whatever part of his basement reno he was working on that day.

We chatted freely for at least two hours. She offered dinner. I feigned off, citing a long day (it had been) and a desire (a real one) for some quiet and contemplation. Norma left.

I stared at the ceiling as I drifted off to sleep. I needed this new home. I was glad to have left the old one.

I felt alive.

-----000-----

Saturday. My first weekend in bliss. I took my morning stroll, waved to various neighbours tending their lawns and gardens, and then showered and dressed for Norma's open house.

She had invited all the neighbours and various friends of hers to her backyard for a no-reason-for-it social. She whispered to me conspiratorially that I would soon be able to put faces to the gossip she had begun to tattle to me! I looked forward to meeting everyone.

I crossed the street carrying a tray of apple crumble crisps and a bucket of ice cream. I found Norma in the kitchen --- "Oh! Hi, Greg!" I added -- - and got to work helping her lay the buffet table and place various snacks. Greg was in charge of drinks; I caught Norma's disapproving glances as he tested each drink.

To be honest, both Norma and I tested some of the sangria as well.

The guests began to arrive at two. Some of them I had met during the past few days. The Moons and Wilkinsons arrived with a bottle of Tattinger in hand. The Bloomers, Fitzs, and Hardys arrived, each with a more conventional bottle. All of them brought boundless smiles on their faces.

Sarah Collins, a ghastly woman, so profoundly stupid and immensely dumb, arrived with an air; she seemed to have been expecting heralds and a red carpet. I've met her twice now, for a total of ten minutes. I don't like her. Norma admitted that she would prefer to have nothing to do with the harridan. I readily understood.

As a single woman, a widow at that, living in a small town and on a street with a varied demographic, I did not expect to be impressed (or smitten!) by many --- or any. My expectations were simpler: meet good people who can enjoy a good meal and share a good wine. Does life have to be more complex than that?

I saw him come through the back gate. He was tall, handsome, and fit. His broad smile at once conveyed happiness and mischief. He looked 40 or so. He wore a golf shirt and shorts; it ought to have been a muscle shirt. If I were younger, then I would be interested. I could and did sigh.

But I had had my time decades ago, and he seemed to be accompanied by an exceptionally attractive woman. Thirtyish. She wore a designer summer dress and expensive low heel sandals. Her jewelry was impeccable. And that was definitely not a knock-off Rolex. I recognized that Everose colour instantly. I immediately envied her; she had my dream watch.

Norma led them to me. "This is Mark from --- how many is it again? --- seven houses down? He's the leading lawyer in town and a wonderful scratch golfer. And this," she nudged the woman forward, "is his darling wife, Jessica."

Mark extended his hand and warmly greeted me. He small-chatted right from the start. He was good at it: marketing his skills compelled him to do so, I suppose. Jessica nodded her head at me. She said nothing except a distant "hi". I reciprocated with a blasé "pleasure". One would think a lawyer's wife would know how to welcome strangers!

Far more amicable and warmer were Heather and Alana Ronaldo, the former a tiny red head who worked at the Town Hall and the latter a senior manager at the nearby Walmart who was, given her roots, not a natural blonde. They knew how to laugh and demonstrated their skill loudly and often. Everyone knew them and loved them. So did I.

I was also tremendously impressed by Charles Dillon and his wife, Christine. They ran a real estate company. I apologized for not having known them earlier. They kindly took the joke for what it was. We bantered back and forth about the local market, my experience, the embarrassing things vendors leave out on display, and the many hidden disasters that unfortunately all too often surprised buyers after the sale went through. These were nice people.

-----000-----

A roseal sunset informed us that Norma's social would wind down. I was so thrilled that she had extended this opportunity to me. I stood next to Norma as she bade the guests farewell.

From Joanne Kilby, I received an invitation to a bridge club. From Tammy and Jack, I received an invitation to dinner next Thursday. Heather and Christine were members of a wine tasting club. I giggled when they informed me of their strict membership requirements: "No Shiraz!" We laughed together.

Mark shook my hand and gave me a compellingly magnetic grip and grin as he said goodbye. In complete contrast was his wife's face; was that contempt? Without trying to be too haughty, I extended my gracious hand and offered a pleasant, "It was such a pleasure to have met you."

She looked down at my hand, kept her two hands on her Louis Vuitton purse, and flatly replied: "Yes. Indeed." She spun around and left me.

What a rude bitch.

SETTLING IN

I never regretted leaving the city to live here.

Pleasantville turned out to be the exact sort of community I had yearned for. How can I summarize my experiences during my first few years?

There were the clubs. I hiked with the Ladies Hiking Club. The primary criteria to determine which trail we used was its proximity at its end to a tea house or other establishment. Gayle, Linda, Maureen, and Bernice were the leading members of this club. They assisted my choices of hiking gear and were stellar trail companions. We became close friends. And their husbands were innocuous.

I've already mentioned the bridge club. It happened that the club was less about bridge --- to be clear, we did play it --- and more about gossip and Chardonnay. I am more inclined toward Pinot Grigio. Joanne ran the show. Allison, Helen, Eve, Tony, Jim, and Oscar (Kerry's husband: I think they're going to get divorced soon) rounded out the eight.

There were also the more frequent, informal activities that transform acquaintanceships into reliable friendships. Norma and I were much like sisters now. There were some other widows in the neighbourhood, and we often shopped or grabbed a tea and biscuit together. These are the sorts of little ties that glue one into a life, into a warm gathering of kindhearted people and a fulsome life.

Frankly, Sarah had tried her best but, despite the frequency of our exchanges, I still found her bothersome and loathsome. I politely treated her as neutrally I could. In fairness, she put on the very best Halloween parties and could be relied upon to dress as a convincing witch. I found no end of irony in that.

I would be remiss were I not to mention that the twins did regularly send me birthday flowers and 'expressions of love', one might call the socalled gifts, at Christmas time. I knew not what my grandchildren looked like anymore. I had over the years slowly felt their apathy.

When you know that someone dislikes you, you feel it, physiologically, not just psychologically.

-----000-----

I unpacked several long-unopened boxes to decorate for my first Christmas in Pleasantville. After the twins had left home and more so after Kevin had died, I had increasingly scaled down holiday decorations. It was reversal time; let's enjoy Christmas again! It wasn't difficult to find the small artificial tree I had purchased several years ago. I placed it on a table centred under the living room window. The lights still worked! What else was in the box?

My stocking. And Kevin's. Mr. and Mrs. Claus. I held them in my hands and cried. It seemed so final; I now had only memories of the silly stocking stuffers he had incessantly gifted to me. How useless so many of them were! Now, how I so deeply wished I could just once get one more of them...

The twins' stockings twisted my stomach. Should I send them to them? Would they care? I doubt they would ever visit me here --- except to confirm that some future ailment was indeed fatal and that they would inherit everything. I resolved to retain Mark for the purpose of drafting a new Will and Powers of Attorney.

And then I saw the fifth stocking. Buried under wrapping paper that I had reclaimed from some old gift. I held it up to the light.

Suddenly, I was no longer in Pleasantville. I was back 'home', in the city. Christmas morning. Kevin was still in bed (sobering up). The twins and I sat gleefully on the couch. Their faces betrayed their mischievous nature. Mine likely expressed my inclination to tease. We watched the gift get opened. We giggled at the shock, the astonishment! We riotously laughed at the shame, the humiliation, the embarrassment!

No!!! I forced myself back to the present. No, no, no!!!

It's a Pleasantville Christmas! I hastily buried the fifth stocking back under the wrapping paper, put all the other stockings back in the box, and closed it.

-----000-----

It was several months later that I wandered along Main Street, heading to Mark's office.

A phone call with Emily had reminded me to substantially reduce her benefits --- and her family's --- under my Will. The ingratitude of that girl. All that I had done to ensure that she enjoyed the best benefits of youth: ignored and forgotten.

Mind you, the virtual visit I had recently had (or suffered, perhaps?) with Fiona and her smarmy husband had not been much better. The condescension: "You should really see the Abbey of Saint-Étienne someday, mom." The disregard: "We might get to Pleasantville next year." The distance: "Best wishes, mother."

Maybe I had taught my daughters too well.

Regardless, I was ushered into Mark's office. He greeted me with a warm, dry handshake. "How might I help you?" Such a nice smile. I explained. His face was now a professional one, his Montblanc scribbled furiously across the yellow, heavyweight bond paper, legal sized pad. "Please fill out this form; it's a client intake form. And this other one please; it's our standard one for Wills and Powers of Attorney."

I examined the form, pursed my lips, and started writing. Names. Addresses. Family members. Their addresses. Investments. Debts. Liabilities. And so on. I suppose it was all necessary background information in order that he and his staff might compose a strong, comprehensive Will. I gave it to him.

"If you'll excuse me a minute, I will just do a quick check of our records to see whether we have any conflict in advising you on this. Shouldn't be a problem. I'll be just a minute."

I waited, staring at the reproduction of Hogarth's 'The Shrimp Girl'.

Mark returned with a grim face. "I'm sorry, but I cannot be your lawyer. There is a conflict of interest that cannot be overcome. Not only on this but on anything. I'm sorry."

I was flabbergasted. Why? I've not been sued here! I have zero ongoing or historical legal matters in this town except my purchase of my house! I asked him. He declined to answer. I pressed the point. He dug in.

"At least give me a hint! Mark, we've shared a good glass of wine together! Please, give me something." He said nothing. He looked at me, passed me the two forms that I had completed, and told me that he was about to lead me out.

At the door, I asked him one last time. He glanced at one of the forms and flicked a finger at it. He smiled as though to say sorry. He said, "Truth will out." He closed the door.

I stood on the street. What the hell just happened?

-----000-----

Norma's hand was warm on mine. Maybe it was the tea mug. Maybe she's just naturally warm. Anyway, her caring touch helped calm me.

"I've not wanted to tell you this," she began, "but it might be worth knowing. Jessica is said to not speak well of you." Norma sipped her tea. "Nothing horrific nor insulting. But she does convey that she does not enjoy your company and will decline if invited to attend something to which you too are invited. Anything. Dinner, Tea. A club meeting. Girls night out. Anything." She sipped her tea.

"When was the last time you saw her?" she asked me.

I had to think. Christmas caroling? Yes, that was it. We were raising money for the earthquake orphans. We sang together. I admit not recalling whether she and I spoke. I don't think we did. Come to think of it, I can't recall having spoken to her at all since Norma's welcoming social last summer.

The coincidences were too coincidental to be coincidences. She's cold to me when we first meet. Mark welcomes my business. I complete two forms. Mark shuns my business. And she's been running me down behind my back. It's not me; it's her.

That bitch.

STEWING

I made inquiries amongst my friends. I had to proceed delicately of course; Jessica was well known and well regarded. Accordingly, between the sunrises and sunsets of several weeks, I blandly nibbled at my various friends' knowledge:

"Oh, how old are those darling children?" (Five, four, and three. Adopted).

"Such a cute couple. When did they marry?" (Seven or eight years ago).

"How long has he been practicing law?" (Fifteen years or so, right after law school).

"Is she from around here?" (No. No one knew exactly whence she came).

"How did they meet?" (At an investment conference in Capital City).

"What does she do?" (Part-time investment advisor, housewife, and community leader).

And on and on my softball questions continued. But each accrued snippet added to my understanding of her. With understanding comes knowledge and with that comes power. I prepared myself.

-----000-----

Norma was kind enough to offer her patio as a neutral site. Her crumpets and tea were renowned and always something to look forward to. I was in the backyard when the doorbell rang. Norma went to get it: Jessica. I heard them greet each other kindly.

I stood as Jessica approached. Norma took her seat and poured Jessica some tea.

"It's a pleasure, Jessica," I said, offering my hand as I spoke.

Jessica almost snickered and replied, "Sure. Please sit." She ignored my hand.

Norma raised her eyebrows and encouraged me to sit. The high road would be best, I suppose. Norma started our conversation, explaining that she liked both of us and had thought she might offer a peaceful venue and chance to get to know each other better. I appreciated her deft tongue. Jessica smiled brightly at her.

"Jessica," I began, "I am afraid that I troubled Mark some months ago. And I've regretted it ever since. I wish there were a way for me to apologize to him." I sipped my tea. I had given much thought to initially assuming a position of blame.

Her chuckle hung in the air. "He declined to advise you?" She ran her fingers through her long blonde hair. Straight nose. Dazzling green eyes. Immaculate makeup. She was stunning.

"Do you know why?" she asked me. I shook my head; I truly didn't.

"Did you bring those forms, Norma mentioned?" I nodded and passed them to her. She read them. She raised her eyebrows once. She put them down. She looked at me. She pursed her lips before speaking again. It struck me that she was putting a great deal of thought into her choice of words.

"Are these forms accurate?" she quizzed me, harshly. I nodded: yes.

"I'll tell you what," she said, "you tell me your entire life story, warts and all, and I will determine whether your oral candor is to be rewarded."

"Rewarded?" I asked, miffed.

"Rewarded, indeed, rewarded. The reward I offer is perspicacity. The cost is truth. Proceed." She was taunting me.

Norma stiffened; she had not expected such tension.

I inhaled and slowly began to tell Jessica the story of my life.

-----000-----

"And then I moved here," I finished.

Jessica stared at me. Her eyes held no emotion. There was neither smile nor sneer.

"That's it?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered.

She studied her fingernails for a moment. Both hands. She pursued her lips as she did so.

"So, I want to make sure I understand this. Your husband, Kevin, he died almost four years ago. Your twins, Emily and Fiona, they left home after university, about 17 years ago, yes?" I nodded that she was correct.

"And that's it, right?" She glared at me.

"Yes." I tried to glare back but something caused me to avert my eyes after a second.

She dropped the forms on the table, leaned back in her chair, and asked Norma whether she could pour her another drink. Norma did. Jessica sipped then chugged it. She smacked her lips, pushed her chair out from the table, stood, and stared at me, much as a winner looks down upon an uncompetitive loser.

The moment held. What was she thinking?

"Norma," she began, "please never invite me to anything involving this woman ever again. I shall, watch me, I shall tell my better friends on this street that I wish to have nothing, zero, to do with her. Ever."

Norma's face dropped: mine too. I felt social death had just kissed my cheeks.

Jessica turned to go. She slowly scanned the sky from one horizon to another, as though she was remembering something endearing about this house, this street, this neighbourhood, this Pleasantville. She glanced back at me and spoke:

"It would not be in your best interest to continue to ask my friends questions about me." She dropped her napkin on the table and left.

In the weeks and months that followed, Pleasantville became, for me, somewhat unpleasant. A cold shoulder here. A limp handshake there. A wave and a 'hi' instead of a hug and a chat. Even Norma went straight to her car from her front door, or vice versa as the case may be, when I would come out to greet her.

I thought of moving again.

THE ACCIDENT

But I couldn't.

In late July, almost a year since moving to Pleasantville, I suffered an accident. I was seriously injured. I awoke in the hospital. Norma was by my side. Greg hovered in the corridor.

"Rest easy," she said, holding my hand.

"How? When?" I asked her, confused as I was.

"It's been three weeks. Little Billy Hardy dashed out to get a ball. You swerved to not hit him. Your car hit the Hardy's tree. You've been in a coma since."

I faded out again.

-----000-----

A doctor I presume, leaned over me, and flashed a light in my eyes. "There you are. Welcome back!" His smile was infectious. I started to feel better --- momentarily. I couldn't move myself. He placed his hand on my shoulders.

"We need to talk," he stated grimly.

By the time he was finished, part of me wished that I had died in that accident.

No, I was not paralyzed in anyway. However, my left knee was smashed, and the breakage of my femur and tibia precluded, the doctor said, any hope of knee replacement. My back was shot; I would need extensive physio before standing up straight again. Any hope I ever had of writing with my right hand ever again was gone; my thumb and index finger had been severed in the crash. And my left elbow was shattered.

Of more concern were his descriptions of my cranial injuries. I had a coup contrecoup injury. Basically, as I understood him, my brain had been smashed against both sides of my skull. My future guaranteed me little but pain. Amongst other symptoms, I could for the remainder of my life experience without warning headaches, seizures, confusion, nausea, memory difficulties, mood swings, blurred vision, slurred speech... He went on.

The doctor finished and left. I noticed Norma sitting off to the side. She was teary-eyed.

"I contacted both Emily and Fiona on your behalf," she started. She looked out the window. "I informed them of your accident." She looked at her feet. "They asked whether you would survive. I replied 'yes'." She bit her lip. "They seemed happy at that and thanked me for phoning."

"When are they coming?" I croaked out.

Norma gave me a long sympathetic stare: "They're not."

I looked at the ceiling and surrendered to sleep.

-----000-----

I awoke. It looked like September: leaves.

Jessica sat by my bed.

"Norma told me that your daughters weren't coming to see you."

"Yes." Why was Jessica here?

"Did she tell you that they want to exercise the Power of Attorney with which you empowered them so they could sell your house to pay for your medical bills?"

I was stunned. My house? My retirement nest? Where would I live? I cried. I whimpered.

"They wanted to retain Mark for their work. He declined after the initial interview. They Skyped him. They were asking for all the proceeds less the medical bills to be forwarded to them. They also requested that you be placed in a state hospice. You know the sort: bureaucratic, uncaring, industrial, bedpans changed once a day, food rejected by the homeless. That sort. That's where they wanted you."

Jessica drew her chair closer to my bed.

"It's unusual, I venture to say, to see such callousness from one's children directed to their parent. What made them this way? Was mommy a bad example?"

Hers was the grin of a Cheshire cat. Her gloating permeated my damaged brain. She was scaring me.

"There's a karma in this world, old woman," she sneered, not awaiting my answer, "and for every wrong, there's a right. There is a symmetry to life." She stood up and moved to the end of the bed. She faced me.

"Look at me," she demanded.

I did. She was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Her long blonde hair caught the sunlight through the window. Her bushy yet controlled eyebrows suggested energy. Her eyes pierced me. Her dress revealed her fit shoulders, toned arms; it perfectly pinched her waist. Somewhere, there are parents proud of her.

"Is there anyone else whom we may contact to help you?"

Jessica's question cut my soul. "If there isn't, then Fiona and Emily will face no opposition to proceeding as they intend, given what they said to Mark. I imagine that they have retained someone else by now. Your situation," she tilted her head at me, "is precarious."

"I can cancel the Powers!" I said loudly.

"You have brain damage." She had no end of answers.

I hesitated but said it. "There might be someone,"

She put her hands on the end of my bed and leaned forward over my feet.

"Who?" she quietly asked. Her intent stare made me feel uncomfortable.

"I asked you about your life last summer. Your husband is dead. There are the twins. Don't they sound like callous bitches now? De-housing their mother. Taking her savings. Letting her languish in a public health gutter. You've never mentioned anyone else."

I closed my eyes, exhaled, and finally confessed:

"I have a son."

Jessica moved to my side. She grasped my hands. She drew to within an inch of my face and asked in a whisper, "Where is he?"

I cried. My life was falling apart. Everyone was gone.

"I don't know."

"Why not?" she said blandly.

-----000-----

What could I say?

That Ian was an oops child. That the twins had never liked him. That I left the twins to care for him perhaps at too young an age. That he had constantly complained of their mistreatment of him. That he said they tied him up and pinched him. That he visibly changed when they approached him or were left alone with him.

What could I excuse now?

By his early teens, the twins forced him into dresses when they babysat him. They showed such photos to their friends. They tormented him at school. They enlisted the help of their friends to do so. They alienated him from everyone. They secretly added their birth control pills to his food. He became a sullen loner, picked on, bullied. By the time they went to university, the damage to Ian was irreversible. They continually reopened his healing scars.

How could I excuse myself?

I had mindlessly encouraged the twins. I had never attached any credence to Ian's words or opinions. Too often I had told him that he misunderstood their mindfulness and care. I had told Kevin that Ian was fine; boys will be boys. I had cautioned Ian against telling his father of the twins' playfulness. And I was a participant in their last Christmas humiliation of him.

Reposed in a hospital bed, facing a life of disability, confronted by the betrayal of two daughters for whom I had spared nothing, and lying there alone, my vision suddenly cleared.

No wonder he ran away, and never returned.

-----000-----

"Where is he?"

I cried. My life was falling apart.

"I don't know."

"Why not?" she said blandly.

I looked at Jessica. My pride prevented me from telling her the truth; that I had allowed the twins to ruin him and that I had driven him out of the house.

"Because he never contacts me!"

Jessica recoiled at the words. She stood up and straightened her dress. She moved toward the door. She opened it. She paused. She looked at me. I saw her smile sadly at me.

She sighed in resignation.

"You're so self-centred and mean, I don't blame him. And you're so blind, you probably wouldn't recognize him even if he were standing right in front of you."

And I never saw Jessica again.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020