Fade In (2 page)

“Date of birth?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Charlotte? You know my date of birth. You just told me happy birthday when I walked in! I know you have to ask, but do you really have to ask? I've been coming here since I was fourteen. It's a little redundant. Don't you think?”

Charlotte is Dr. Meade's receptionist. She's about a hundred years old and wears “slacks,” and a lovely parka could be fashioned from all the cat hair hanging from her blouse. She's my favorite brand of old lady. Don't tell anyone I said that.

“I'm sorry. I'm just anxious. I didn't mean to cuss you out for doing your job.” That's me. I blow up and then apologize. I have no filter when I'm nervous. “Four, twenty, nineteen eighty-five.”

“Thank you, Tatum. Doctor is on schedule. It should only be a minute. Are you doing anything fun for your birthday? Is Kurt taking you anywhere?” She waves her hand in a big way to let me know I can sit.

“I think we are going to dinner with Winnie and Coop. They are picking me up here in a while. Any recommendations? I'm supposed to be deciding where to go. I hate that. Deciding where to eat. It's like—” And mid-sentence, on my way to the seat, that, mind you, I've sat in almost every time I've been here for years, I slam my shin into something. “Son of a bitch!”

I look down and see that I hit it hard enough to shove the coffee table back a foot or so.

“Charlotte, when did this piece of shit get moved here? Ouch.” Oh, yeah. I'm losing my sight. Seems cruel to move furniture on an almost blind klutz, doesn't it?

I sit, and she comes around her desk to check on me. Moving the offending table back to its rightful position, she picks up the magazines that fell off.

“I'm sorry, dear. I put that there the other day. It was by the window. Then the ficus was dying and—oh dear. I'm so sorry. I should have said to mind the coffee table.” Looking as guilty as the cat that ate the canary, she stands before me, all apologies. Like it's her fault I can't navigate around a four-foot-long inanimate object.

“It isn't your fault,” I say, rubbing my battered leg. It isn't like that is the only bruise I have earned myself. Today.

As if on cue, Dr. Meade walks through the door that leads back to the patient rooms. “Tatum. Happy birthday. Did Charlotte finally get sick of your potty mouth and kick you?”

Ha. Ha. They look between each other and have a nice chuckle at my expense. No pity from him.

“No, Dr. Evil. I whacked my leg on that wretched table,” I replied in an innocent singsong voice. “Real classy to shift around the furnishings before your favorite handicapable patient arrives. Bravo.”

He comes to me and offers me a hand up. I accept and limp my lame ass towards the door with him. His hand is warm and big. He lets go so I can follow him down the hall to the examination room towards which he is steering us.

He stops just short of exam room four and waves me past him. He smells like rubbing alcohol and cologne. Strangely, it smells good to me. It's familiar.

I have tried to figure out how old Dr. Meade is many times. When I first met him, he seemed way too young to be my doctor. If I had to guess, I would say late thirties or early forties.

I've always thought he was handsome. His dark hair is beginning to lighten around the edges, and his kind and easy smile has left charming laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.

Of course, I get to look at him closely during my visits, and I have been his patient for a long time. I can see pretty well up close if I'm looking directly at something. That is the strange thing about my condition.

I have RP, or Retinitis Pigmentosa if you're fancy. Let me break it down for you. It started when I was a teenager. I had poor peripheral vision—not awful, but poor. I was diagnosed then with RP. It didn't seem like that big of a deal. Who needs peripheral vision?

It sort of stayed the same for a long time, and other than that, my vision was pretty good. I made it fine through college, sight in tow. I landed a great job. Bought and renovated a fabulous apartment on the Upper East Side, and everything was smooth sailing.

Then around the time I turned twenty-six, it started getting worse. I always came to see Dr. Meade on a regular basis to monitor the condition. He could tell, too. I suppose he'd be a pretty crappy eye doctor if he hadn't noticed.

Our plan was to just monitor it, and then he would let me know if treatment became available. So far, it's just a good dose of vitamin A. Seriously. That is all the remedy they have.

I can still see pretty well. Although, it is not as good as it was six months ago. Simply, it's like tunnel vision. For a long time, it has just been a fuzzy gray edge around my field of sight.

Then it got darker and the rim got wider. Now it is about thirty percent gone. So it's still better than it could be, but it's a lot like looking through a porthole on a ship, and my night vision is really starting to suck a big one.

“I like your haircut, Tatum. It looks nice for summer. I don't think I have ever seen you wear it this short.”

“Thank you. You can't help but flirt, can you?” I wink, and he lets my flirting slide. He always does. “It is just easier to fix in the morning. We've been busy at the show, and it was just a pile on my head by the end of the day anyway. I had no use for it.”

“Well, I'm glad you are cutting out the unnecessary. Simplifying.” Dr. Meade smiles as if it were his idea to have Luis, our staff stylist, cut nearly a foot off my blond hair. He motions for me to sit in the chair and I do.

“You look pleased. Should I have my stylist send you the bill?” We laugh—him in earnest and me sarcastically.

“No. I'm just glad that you're making things easier for yourself.”

I know he's just being honest, but I don't like it. It makes me uncomfortable being real about what's going on.

Sitting in his chair, he wheels towards me with his clipboard. “How have you been feeling? Any headaches?”

“Only when I smack it off something. Same goes for my toe aches and leg aches.” That earns me a look. “No. I still haven't had many headaches.”

“Good. Have you noticed your peripheral vision getting worse? Is your tunnel vision narrowing more? Are you more tired than normal?” He's writing and lifts his head up. “Just answer, Tatum. I can't say anything to anyone. You can tell me.”

“It is getting narrower, but not by a lot. I've been measuring it sort of. Like at work. I use to be able to see both of the cameras from offstage. Now it's like I'm looking right in between them. My night vision is almost nonexistent. If I wake up in the middle of the night and there isn't a light on, I can barely see to get to the bathroom without waking up Kurt by bumping around. It isn't like he wants to sleep with the light on. Who would?” I sigh, aware that I didn’t really need to tell him all of that, but again, I'm nervous and can't help it.

“Well, we were expecting that. If the light is on, can you see better when you wake up?” he asks as though he is talking to a child.

“Yes, but it takes a minute for everything to focus. It comes back in a few seconds and everything is back to shitty-ass normal. Tell me the truth. Is this because of my adolescent masturbating? I was told that leads to blindness.”

“This again!? Would you quit with the masturbating!” he almost shouts.

“I wish I could. It's just that I'm so good at it.” I know it’s bad timing, and timing is supposed to be everything. It's just that sometimes my dirty mouth rescues me with a perverted life jacket and it's always just my size.

Why should I be the only one uncomfortable? If you can't beat me, I'll make you join me.

“You know what I mean. You need to talk to someone. Have you considered seeing a therapist that specializes in people who are visually impaired? Would you use a referral? You always do that, you know? This is serious.”

“Do what?” I know I'm baiting him again to say something I can twist around into dirty word play and embarrass him into changing the subject, but it isn't as effective as it used to be. Have I desensitized my optometrist?

“You know what. I think you could benefit from seeing someone who can help guide you through this transition. You should also consider going to a facility that can teach you practical ways to deal with how your life is going to be.”

“Like a fat farm? No way. I'm not going to blind camp. Not going to happen.”

This isn't the first time he has approached me with the idea of therapists and blind school. I'm not ready for that, and I don't mean to sound like a better-than-somebody snot either. I can hardly see myself keeping my mouth shut around other people who would probably benefit from me not being there.

He takes a few more notes as I continue.”And I really hate therapists. How can they help me if I don't feel like myself when I'm talking to them? I wouldn't tell them the truth. I'd probably just mess with them. They're all quacks. Pill pushers.”

“Don't totally dismiss the idea of getting help with this. I will try to think of some alternatives for you. You wouldn't last a day there anyway. They wouldn't be able to handle you.” And there is my Dr. Meade. Swinging it right back at me.

“Great idea. Alternatives. You think on that. I will hire another assistant for my personal life and start interviewing housekeepers. See? This is compromise. You said to make life simpler. You do your thing and I'll do mine.”

We finish up the standard exam with his agreeing that he can see more degeneration and suggesting we not wait as long in between visits.

After I make the appointment with sweet, old-ass Charlotte, I sit in the waiting room, eager to get the text from Winnie that says that they are outside. Winnie is my best friend, colleague, and soon-to-be sister-in-law.

Some say that if you let people go and you're meant to be with them, then they will come back. I say that if you have a smoking-hot college roommate you love, then hook her up with your adorable brother and you'll never have to worry about that leaving shit.

My brother Coop—Cooper if you are our Grandma—fell in love with Winnie the first time he saw her. But then again, in a way, I did too.

She is dramatic and wild. Her body totally matches her personality. And she has crazy curly brown hair, an ass that won't quit, and big brown eyes that make her irresistible. That's why she made a great actress with no training at all.

We are both writers. That's how we met in college. We had the same major, and admissions had paired us up as roommates.

Following graduation, we landed a couple of jobs as pages at one of the biggest television stations in the country, ABN. Don't ask me how that seriously lucky turn of events unfolded, because I will never tell. Neither will the two-pump chump Derek, the lead page at the time, who I ironically met on my birthday my senior year.

Then after slumming it for a year or so, we both were promoted to different floors in the building and on different shows. I was hired on as a junior writer for The Up Late Show, a late-night talk show, and Winnie was hired at a sketch comedy show to write and perform. We made friends with people, both of our shows came and went, and born was Just Kidding.

That is our show. Winnie and I would like to take credit for the entire thing, but it actually is a three-way—me, Winnie, and Wes Ruben. Winnie and Wes worked on the same comedy program before Just Kidding and had great on-camera chemistry.

If they were in a scene together, then it was gold. Their characters were always fan favorites, and that made them a hot-ticket commodity in the entertainment business. When they approached me as a writer for the spin-off of their canceled show, I was more than happy to say yes.

First of all, I was unemployed. So that was a no-brainer.

Second of all, I knew working with Winnie and Wes would be fun, profitable, and an opportunity that wouldn't ever come around again.

If I were a betting person, I'd bet that they will both be on the big screen in leading roles within the next five years. They are that good.

My phone buzzed with a text from Winnie.

Winnie:
Birthday Slut, are you ready yet? We are 3 blocks away.

Me:
I'm not Birthday Slut anymore. You can call me Birthday Bitch from here on out. I'm walking out the door.

Winnie:
Oh, I bet Birthday Slut is in there somewhere.

How coy.

So, there was a time before Kurt and I got together that I might or might not have had some casual sex. I wasn't a whore or anything. I dated and had casual boyfriends. Nothing too serious. Dating within the business is like that. Here one minute and kiss my let's-be-friends ass the next. Every year on my birthday, if I were dating someone, I would break up with whomever and not look back.

Then Winnie and I would go out and Birthday Slut it up. Well, I would. She faked it by just going home with Coop and telling me that she’d called him by a different name. She has the best logic.

I walk out onto E. 63rd Street and it is a miracle that Coop found a spot right outside the door. I'm instantly relieved. I love New York. It is my home, but at this time of day, it is a mass of commotion. Definitely a time of day when a person's peripheral vision would come in damn handy.