Blind Seduction (2 page)

Janey, my best friend since kindergarten, glared at
me. Yep, mind reading was a given when you've been friends this
long. “I am
so
not gonna jump for it,” she told me.
Obviously, there was no entertainment value to be had here, so I
reached up and tugged the switch on for her while berating myself
for not thinking of it sooner.

Janey resembled a real-life Barbie doll, more pretty
than beautiful. A wholesome, blond, blue-eyed woman with a
startling intelligence in her eyes when one cared to overlook the
outside packaging. Her outrageously voluptuous 5'3” figure was
encased in a few layers of thermal-wear with heavy work boots on
her tiny, size six feet. Even after five hours of kneeling in the
kennel, managing the messy birth process, she appeared polished. If
I were a jealous woman, I might be inclined to hate Janey for her
looks, but she was the most friendly, giving person I had ever
met.

I tugged my waist-length ponytail self-consciously.
For some reason I always looked like I had walked straight into the
wind, with my hair askew and my clothes loose and rumpled about my
tall, lanky figure. While my athletic 5’10” frame was noteworthy,
polished was not a word people thought of when they looked at
me.

We stepped out of the whelping box, roughly the size
of a bathtub, and I latched the swinging mesh door behind us.
Across from the new arrivals, Goofball (not his real name, which
was longer and much more dignified) lay stretched out on his back,
legs spread immodestly with his paws in the air. I'm pretty sure he
was snoring. Most of the dogs were already out in 0 enjoying the
crisp morning air.

“By the way, Red is mine. I'm snagging the name Druid
too.” I had already paid my deposit and been promised first pick of
the litter. Once Janey decided on a Halloween theme for this brood,
she and I had fun coming up with a list of possible register names
for the puppies: Sorcerer, Pagan, Wiccan, and Oracle. The list got
longer, and sillier, after a couple glasses of wine and lack of
sleep.

Flipping off the light switch, Janey chuckled, “I
seem to remember someone telling me last night she wanted a female
pup.” We paused outside the kennel door as Janey tugged the latch
to be sure it was securely fastened.

“I gotta go with the pushy one,” I explained.
“Besides, there are only two females in the litter. I know you
wanted to a keep a female for the kennel, and you have a female
requested by a customer. Dru and I will be absolutely perfect
together.”

There was a flash of lightning, followed, almost
immediately, by a sharp clap of thunder. Janey shivered; she had
always hated thunderstorms. It was probably the only thing we
didn't have in common, besides our looks of course.

The temperature was only slightly warmer than when we
had ventured out to the kennel at five a.m. to monitor the puppies
being born. The clouds were dark and swelled with water, the wind
fiercely bowing the treetops. What a miserable day this was shaping
up to be. It was almost ten o'clock, and I hadn't even had my first
cup of coffee yet.

Being cold is the absolute worst. I shook my fist in
mock fury at the sky. “Bring back the sun!” I was rewarded by a
splash of rain hitting me in the face. Janey had already sprinted
across the yard, unimpressed by my show of machismo.

With a final rattling check of the secured latch, I
started toward the back door of her house as the sky let loose with
a fury of its own. There was a loud snap of lightning. I registered
the scent of ozone, and almost simultaneously, heard the crack of
something large being broken apart with tremendous force. Time
slowed, or maybe paused entirely; my heart beat with it. Janey
stood frozen on the porch and stared back at me, horror in her
eyes. I glanced over my shoulder and the world went black.

The window seat in my bedroom was my favorite spot in
the house. Not long after I bought the large four bedroom
multi-level, I'd sewn a thick quilted cushion to pad the over-long,
extra-wide bench seat. To complete my cozy alcove, I purchased a
tactile, colorful selection of pillows to accent the dark green
fabric. It was a plush nest, with a warm chenille blanket to
snuggle into, while I watched magnificent storms roll in from the
west. The rest of my room was done in deep golds and coffee browns,
mimicking the wooded ten acres surrounding my little slice of the
Inland Northwest.

I had grown up in the area surrounding Spokane,
Washington. After a few years of college in wetter Seattle, I
happily returned home to my trees, lakes, and mountains. Most
importantly, I returned to four seasons instead of blasted
perpetual drizzle. Seattle had been like living in an Ansel Adams
photograph; everything in gloomy shades of ash. If it wasn't damp
and over-cast, Seattle was drenched in a dark gray downpour. The
trees and undergrowth had been more green and lush than in my
favored Spokane, but who could tell with those charcoal skies and
the incessant rain? Perhaps, after a few more years, I could've
learned to say “rain” without a snarl in my voice. Biased? Maybe. I
enjoyed the cold, snow-covered winters, the mild springs, hot
summers, and stormy, wet autumns in my part of the state.

A motion-activated light turned on and drew my eyes
to the raccoon shuffling across the fenced part of my backyard
toward the man-made pond in my garden. Ha! Good luck with that. I
moved the goldfish into the garage tubs last week in anticipation
of the colder, winter weather. The raccoon—make that raccoons, I
amended noting the addition of three juveniles in tow—were probably
hoping for an easy breakfast. Predators were abundant in the form
of 'coons, heron, and hawks so screens over ornamental ponds were
necessary to discourage the more insistent wildlife from treating
my water feature like a Vegas buffet.

For the winter, I left the small pond uncovered so
wildlife could get to fresh water if needed. Sometimes portions of
the river froze over and animals had a hard time getting to water
without risk of falling through the irregular ice. Every winter
there were stories about four-legged travelers, often moose, deer,
and sometimes an unlucky dog, falling through the ice while
crossing the lakes. Fortunately, some are saved, but it’s a huge
risk to the people out on the ice throwing ropes or dodging
antlers. Giving the critters a safe place to drink was rewarding,
plus I had the added bonus of getting some great camera shots to
post to my Facebook page.

Tugging the blanket tighter against my body, I stared
out the window from my second-story perch. A faint smudge of light,
barely discernible behind the silhouette of Mt. Spokane, let me
know it would be dawn soon. I hated these crazy, restless nights
when I woke up before the sun crested the mountains. In the
distance, I could barely make out a flash of lightning from an
incoming storm. Settling back against the tower of pillows, I
closed my eyes, and strained to listen for the faint rumble of
thunder.

The whirl of a coffee grinder startled me. I gasped
and sat straight up, covers pooling at my waist, leaving my torso
bare to the room’s chill. I was confused from waking up so
abruptly. Still dark? I thought it was close to dawn. It took only
a moment to remember my world is always dark now. A dream, I had
been dreaming.

I was not in my window seat. I hadn't curled up there
since I got back from the hospital over six months ago. Why bother
if I can't look out over the view?

Deal with it, you whiner! Out of habit, I tapped the
button on my bedside clock, which informed me in a very serious,
mechanical voice it was Tuesday, July 8
^th
, 6:42a.m. I
flipped the covers back and swung my feet over the side of the bed,
then slid my butt off the edge. Padding nude to the en-suite
bathroom, I pulled a towel off the shelf. Time to start my
morning.

After I brushed my hair and teeth, I braced my hands
on the sink vanity, shifting my weight forward as if to view my
close-up image in the mirror. After thirty years, it was easy to
mentally picture my chocolate almond-shaped eyes, dark brown hair,
and golden, blush-tinted skin. Each morning, I tried to semi-impose
what I must look like now, with my scar-altered features. American
Indian mixed with something vaguely Asian or Polynesian. Who knew?
My adoptive parents didn’t have much information regarding my
heritage. It was all guesswork. Janey seemed to think I looked
“exotic” and beautiful. What does exotic mean anyway? I always
thought I looked geeky and awkward. It didn’t really matter at this
point.

Supposedly, the scarring wasn’t really bad, if you
overlook the right eye. The familiar mantra, “I should never have
looked back,” started to sneak its way into my brain. I firmly
forced my mind to consider the projectiles from the tree could have
struck my spine if I hadn't turned the angle of my body to glance
over my shoulder.

There is a permanent slow motion reel running through
my head. I stretch out that particular moment in time, less than
three seconds in reality, into endless minutes of what-ifs.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

As it was, small daggers of wood damaged my eyes, and
added some interesting scars to my face, while a larger branch had
slammed into my shoulder, and knocked me senseless. Thankfully,
Janey was far enough away to avoid being hurt, and she called
emergency responders to the scene immediately. Janey has a good
head on her shoulders and didn't panic. Her quick thinking saved my
life.

I lay in the hospital recovering from the accident
until shortly before Thanksgiving. At that point, I was transferred
to a rehabilitation facility which helped me learn new skills for
coping in a world without light or color. In the past few months,
I’d noticed an increased awareness to scent and sound, but all
things tactile were still beyond me. I didn't seem to have the
sensitivity in my fingers to differentiate the little bumps and
subtle nuances of braille. Stupid fingers!

Janey and I never mentioned the scars after the first
time I asked her to give me an honest assessment of the damage. I
waited until the third or fourth month to ask; by then the pain was
a memory and the swelling finally gone. Tactile insensitivity
aside, I could feel the fine, and not so fine, traceries of scar
tissue. I suppose vanity demanded I hear someone tell me the facts
so I could stop wondering. According to Janey, the damage was not
as bad as it felt to me.

The loss of sight in both eyes was the most
distressing aspect, but the scar slashing down over the right
socket, from my eyebrow to the outer corner of my eye, took the
longest to heal. The doctors thought I’d lose my eye, but somehow
they managed to save it, so aesthetically my face was still
whole.

There were five other facial scars; more like
punctures really, which I'm told have healed to fine, almost
invisible, lines.
“Quit playing with them!”
Janey scolded me
all the time as my fingers were inexplicably drawn to the ridges
and bumps.

The splinter that damaged my left eye completely
missed the skin, embedding itself in the corner of my socket, to
wreak its damage internally. My eyes look normal (if not a little
freaky due to the big-ass scar bisecting the lid of the right one),
and I'm told people can't necessarily tell I'm blind, as I’ve
retained the habit of tracking sound with my eyes, and turns of the
head, as though I can see.

There were other punctures to my shoulders and right
arm from the large branch which knocked me out, but I don't think
about them as much. Out of sight out of mind?

While doctors were busy debating how to save my right
eye, Janey presented me with a selection of colorful, decorated eye
patches she swears give me character, making me look dashing and
mysterious. Of course, I think she's full of crap. She gifted me
with twelve patches in all, taking time to describe each one in
detail, and declaring which outfits they would match. Janey
entertained me with outrageous stories, helping me hold onto the
threads of sanity.

“Now this one,” she told me while placing a satin,
embroidered patch in my hand, “is puke green. The same color as the
sweater you like to wear all the time.”

“Hey! That's my favorite sweater! It is not puke
green, it’s
mint,”
I corrected. “I get compliments every
time I wear it.”

“Pity compliments,” she sighed, heavily. “It hurts my
heart you can't tell when people are simply being kind,” she told
me in exaggerated sympathy. In my mind, I could see her shaking her
head and frowning at me in wonder. Did I mention Janey's favorite
color is yellow? I mean really, who likes yellow? We have
mercilessly teased each other about our favorite colors for over
twenty-five years.

“Now this one,” she said, plucking away the demeaned
green patch and replacing it with another, “is a lovely black and
gold, which matches the swimsuit you bought last summer.”

I laughed, picturing myself in the gold, shimmery
bikini etched in black lace, wearing a matching eye patch over the
right lens of my sunglasses. “You're such a goof ball. And, where
would you get a gold and black lace eye patch anyway?” I asked,
running my fingers over the abrasive lace which would probably itch
like heck if I wore it. “It’s really chartreuse isn't it? You're
planning to get your secret kicks from parading me out in public
dressed like a clown.”