Vivid (9 page)

"Let your fingers find the details that tell you the information you need to know. The feel of the hanger, the feel of the shirt. Memorize them."

She spent the next hour going through each of my shirts and telling me what they looked like as I ran my hands over the material. By the time we were done, I could identify two of my favorite shirts without her help, and I could tell the difference between a few of my sweaters.

Don't get me wrong. There were still times I felt like
nothing
would help me, but Grace always proved me wrong. She was good at finding new ways to get through to me, and I was getting better at cutting back on the swearing and frustrated exclamations.

I even stopped grumbling when Mom started to coddle me, reminding myself that pushing Mom away would only push Grace away. That and she was my mom and deserved my respect and love.

But I couldn't lose Grace. Not now. Not when her voice was the only thing that helped me fall asleep at night.

I don't know if Grace sang just for me or if it was something she
always
did. I certainly don't remember hearing her when we were younger, but there were a lot of things I overlooked back then. Regardless, it was the peace I felt when she sang – or even spoke – that made me desperate for more of her.

We were having dinner together on a Friday night. I was listening to Grace talk about my appointment the next day and what to expect from the new hand therapist I was being sent to. I didn't want to have an endless schedule of doctor appointments, but Grace told me to stop being a baby and deal with it. The promise of finally being able to grip something in my left hand, without feeling like a sapling, kept me from arguing any further.

I had been overdoing it on the exercises this last week and could barely move my hand when I woke up each morning. Grace started to hide the therapy ball I was given to strengthen my grip. The little spitfire only brought it out when it was time for my therapy. Tonight, she made an exception.

Grace had started cooking more often and Mom was grateful for her help. She was a good cook and she let me help every so often to make me feel like I was contributing to my own care. Sometimes I felt like a child all over again. I would never be able to cook well by myself, but that wasn't the problem. Not anymore. The problem was that I didn't
want
to be alone anymore.

Mom apparently saw this and started talking about Grace every chance she got. When Micah stopped by earlier in the week and asked about her, I knew without a doubt Mom was meddling. My family wanted me to be happy, but they just didn't understand that someone like me could never be with someone like Grace. Not anymore.

She deserved someone better. Someone whole.

Didn't help that she was being paid to spend time with me in the first place.

"How do you like the spaghetti?" Grace asked, interrupting my negative thoughts.

"It's delicious," I replied, lifting the fork with my good hand and taking another bite. Her shoulder brushed against mine and I lost my grip on the ball. It fell to my plate with a
splat
and I felt spaghetti sauce splatter onto my shirt.

"Ah, fuck!" I grumbled and dropped my fork, sending it clattering to the floor without thinking. I shook my head and tried to push away from the table, but Grace's hand on my shoulder stopped me.

"No harm done, Merrick. Just a little less sauce on your pasta is all," she said cheerfully, removing the ball from my plate. I heard her move around the kitchen and open a drawer before she put another fork in my hand.

Running water and the sound of her humming made my ears perk. I assumed she was cleaning the ball, but I didn't ask and I didn't move. When she sat back down beside me and handed it over, the anger I felt a moment ago faded into nothing.

Accidents happen to the best of us and even though they would happen to me more often than not, Grace proved that it wasn't a big deal. It could be cleaned up, swept away, and forgotten in a matter of moments.

Yes, the anger was gone, but the despair was still ever present. I wanted to watch her smile at me and tell me it was okay. I wanted to see the patience in her eyes for myself.

But I couldn't.

I didn't even know what she looked like and it finally hit me that I hadn't ever asked.

"Grace?"

"Yeah?"

I cleared my throat and slowly took a sip of water before carefully turning toward her. "What color is your hair?"

She obviously wasn't expecting this question. Her shocked silence was proof of that.

"Grace?"

"Oh wow, I never even thought to tell you what I looked like," she said, a smile in her voice.

"I've never asked," I pointed out.

She shifted in her chair and slid her plate away, the sound making me more anxious. Then, I felt her touch the front of my shirt, wiping some of the sauce away.

God, if she only knew what that did to me.

"Umm, it's brown."

"What kind of brown?"

"The only kind of brown there is?"

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "There are lots of browns. Light brown, dark brown, reddish, golden."

"Dark brown. Darker than yours," she said quickly.

"How long?"

"Just past my shoulder blades."

I nodded and lifted my hand to point at my own eyes. "And what color are your eyes?"

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They aren't really one color. Hazel, I guess."

I needed more than that. I needed to see her in my mind, to capture some memory of what she looked like. I knew I'd seen her all those years ago. I
had
to have seen her.

"Describe them for me."

She chuckled dryly. "What? How?"

I kept my eyes pointed forward and shrugged. "Go look in the mirror if you have to, but I need you to describe them for me."

"Why?"

"Please."

I don't know why I couldn't just accept her simple answer. I could picture a pair of hazel eyes lined with long, black eyelashes. I could see them in my mind so clearly that it could have been her eyes I was actually imagining. But I needed to be sure. I needed to picture them exactly how they were. Nothing else would satisfy me in that moment.

Grace rose from her chair and her footsteps moved down the hallway. I took another bite of spaghetti while I waited and tried to calm my nerves. I shouldn't be asking what my nurse looks like because it was only going to exacerbate my situation. I already had feelings for Grace that I couldn't quite understand. Feelings that I didn't have any business feeling for her. We were neighbors most of our lives and not once did I truly see her. I'd been an inconsiderate bastard.

Now?

Things were different.

Grace returned a moment later, sitting in her chair and brushing up against my arm again. I felt my grip on the exercise ball go a little slack once more, overwhelmed with the feel of her so close to me. This time, I kept my cool.

"They're a golden brown close to the pupil, then they change to a grayish-blue. The outside edge is more of a greenish-blue. And there are little specks of brown throughout."

In other words, they were eyes I could fall into, if I could fucking
see
them.

"How tall are you?" I asked, feeling her image form in my mind. "Normally I would be able to tell, but the chair ..."

"I'm about five feet three inches. Not very tall at all."

Tall enough to fit perfectly against my chest with the top of her head probably just reaching my chin when I could stand.

"And your nose?"

She laughed softly. I could imagine she was shaking her head, but there was no other way to find out what she looked like. Instead of arguing about it, she seemed resigned to answer all of my strange questions. "I don't even know how to describe it. How do you describe a nose?"

I shrugged. "Is it small and narrow? Straight? Crooked?"

"It's straight. Kind of small I guess. I always felt like it points up a little bit. It's covered in freckles."

My lips tugged into a grin. Those are the details I needed to hear. "Your ears?"

I heard her shift in her chair and assumed she was touching her ears. I balled my hands into fists to resist the urge to touch them for myself.

"They're just ears. Not too big, not too small. I like to wear dangly earrings. The lobes are normal size?" She said it as if it were a question and I felt her arm brush mine again when she shrugged.

"Are you sure about that?"

She sighed before saying, "Yeah, I'm sure."

There weren't any other questions I could ask without sounding like a creeper. How full are your lips? Do you have dimples when you smile? Is your neck slender and soft? And don't even get me started on the questions I wanted to know about the rest of her body.

"Anything else, Merrick?"

I cleared my throat and pushed away from the table. There was only one other way for me to
see
her, but I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. "Umm, no. Nothing that will ..."

I felt her hand rest on my arm, stopping me from rolling away and getting the hell away from her before I said something stupid.

"I know you don't remember me from before, but I ..." Her words trailed off, her fingers constricting against my skin.

God, if I could just touch her, I wouldn't need to ask questions. I would be able to feel every soft curve and edge, and I wouldn't need anything more than that. If I could just
touch
her.

"I was never one of those girls that you found yourself with all too often."

I frowned and leaned forward, waiting for an explanation. I had no idea what she was talking about. Of course she wasn't one of those girls. She was real and sweet, compassionate and smart. Those other girls were just fake. The pretty was only on the outside.

"I was never really pretty. At least not the pretty that everyone would have
seen
. I was kind of awkward and nerdy, but rounder in areas where other girls were flat. Still am. Does that make sense?"

I hesitated before nodding my understanding, grinning when I envisioned her. "So you're telling me that you look like a real woman and not a stick?"

She gasped and pulled her hand away from my arm. "I didn't say that."

I waited for her to continue. Anything that would give me a better picture of her. She stayed silent. I was starting to feel like the air around me was too thick to breathe.

Grace cleared her throat and shifted in her chair. I wanted to know what she was doing with her hands. Was she wringing them together? Were they in her lap? In her hair? Was she looking at me or trying to avoid that?

"I'm just me," she said, quietly.

"You're beautiful." The words left my mouth without my prompting, but there was nothing inside of me that wanted to take them back.

She released a self-deprecating laugh and, again, I wondered what she was doing with her hands.

"I may be blind, Grace. But I can still see
some
things."

Silence.

I had no idea what I was doing, but fuck if I could stop it. The last few weeks had been pure torture. A stunning agony that I wanted to end and last forever. It was a peace in some ways. Being with her forced everything else out. I didn't want to give that up.

But in her words,
I'm just me.

"I'm tired. I think I'm going to go to bed," I mumbled. My left hand ached as I clung to the cold metal of the wheel. I turned the chair away and felt my way around the table. The sound of Grace's movements reached my ears as she started picking up the plates still on the table. I shook my head and cursed under my breath. I didn't want her to clean up my messes, but I would be no help anyway.

"I'll be here Monday, Merrick. Have a good night."

A good night?

A good night would be spending the rest of it talking to her and listening to her talk about her friend and her parents. Listening to her talk about her love of music and telling her about the things I loved ... the things I
used to
love.

It wasn't late at all. In fact, I was sure it wasn't even six o'clock by the time I heard Grace finish in the kitchen. The ringing of her phone perked my ears, the muffled sound of her voice almost as soothing as hearing her sing.

I sat in darkness and listened for a moment, but my senses heightened when I heard the panic in her voice. Footsteps moved quickly as she made her way to my room and I turned my chair when I heard her reach my door.

"What's wrong?"

She took a deep breath and her footsteps moved closer. Her small hand grasped mine and she placed the cell phone against my palm, curling my fingers around it.

"It's your father. He needs to talk to you."

I lifted the phone to my ear and before I even said a word I could hear the commotion in the background.

"Dad?"

"Merrick, it's your brother. Mitch was in an accident and he's on his way to the hospital right now."

Mitch?

My little brother was in an accident.

What kind of accident?

How injured was he?

Was someone else with him?

Endless questions swarmed my mind, but there was one that stood out among the others. An image flashed before my useless eyes, and I saw them again. My friends, the fire.

I could hear my mother crying and my father trying to calm her. I closed my eyes and pretended that was the reason I was able to push the image away. That it would stop me from seeing
everything
. My insides churned, my grip on the phone tightened. The sound of the plastic creaking under the pressure was the only thing that kept me grounded. "Is he ..."

"He's alive and Micah seems to think he will be fine, but he has some pretty serious injuries."

"Is everyone else okay?"

"Yeah, they are. He was alone and the other driver is alive, but that's only because he's about five times over the legal limit. It's not even six and the guy was already drunk."

This piece of information made me angry. I could handle anger. I could focus on anger. "Where are you at? Can you come and get me?"

"We are on our way now. Be there in two minutes."