Post by Dreamfire on Jan 28, 2007 1:20:10 GMT -5
Hitting the Wall
Jim stopped, his breath high in his chest. “Christie?” He gripped the cane tightly in both hands, holding it vertical, pressed hard into the ground. A deep frown line scarred his face, the lines around his eyes were deeply etched and he licked his drying lips. His head turned this way and that, seeking her voice in the confusion of sounds around him. “Christie?”
“Yes, Jim? I’m here.” Her tired voice came from somewhere behind but she didn’t step up.
He turned, first from the waist, then shifting his feet, feeling awkward in his own body. Head tilted down he spoke quietly, “I can’t do this now. Take me home.” When she failed to step closer he held out his hand but she didn’t take it.
He held out his hand for her to take it. She curled her own under her arm and hugged it close to try and ease the ache she felt. The woman at the hospital said she mustn’t give in so easily. Her throat was tight, it was hard to force the words out. She felt like she was betraying him.
He waited, straining to hear her. If she didn’t speak he couldn’t find her. If she just left him here, he didn’t know what he would do.
“Jim, you know the woman at the hospital said you should be able to do an hour. It’s only been 20 minutes.”
“I’ll do an hour tomorrow. Christie, please.”
“Look, I’ll take you back to the wall and I’ll be just a few feet in front. How’s that?”
Jim hesitated, what he wanted was her arm in his hand and to be back in the apartment now. Christie didn’t even try to understand what he was going through, and he wasn’t used to feeling things like this; helpless, panicked, scared.
He nodded and reached out again but instead of putting her hand in his she took his jacket sleeve and tugged him around and then two steps to the right. He resisted the urge to turn the tables and snatch her wrist. He could do it; he had done it a hundred times to suspects, a thousand times in training. But this was his wife, he might hurt her wrist, he would frighten her, and she was only getting him to do what he had been told to do.
She placed his hand on a wall; he felt rough bricks under his fingers. “There are no more corners, just a straight line from here all the way to our block. Use your cane.” He heard her take two steps away and then there was no indication she was anywhere near. No rustle of her jacket, no sound of her breath. She was gone.
JIm set his jaw. He let his hand slide off the wall, took the cane in his right hand again, and swept the tip over the ground until it hit the base of the wall. He lifted his head, took a hesitant step forward and then another.
“Remember to sweep, Honey.”
His wife’s voice was so close and unexpected, he startled turned toward it, losing contact with the wall for a moment. He had thought she had moved off but she was right there. He swept and stepped, swept and stepped, resisting the urge to swap the cane to his left hand and reach out to the wall with his right.
Another two steps and the cane bucked in his hand, slipped through his sweaty fingers, and jabbed him painfully in the stomach. He jolted back in confusion. Stupid f*cking cane. An unwilling blush rose up his face at the thought that Christie was watching. He clenched his jaw and took control of his breath. After a pause, Jim moved his hand back up the length to the rubberized grip and pushed the end of the cane around the obstacle it had found. Okay, something on the ground, a step, probably leading to a door in the wall he was following. He skirted it, seeking where it ended so he could move back to the wall as soon as it resumed.
Another two steps and the wall disappeared too. He stopped, reluctant to call out for Christie again. Instead he tried to draw the block out from his memory. Come on Dunbar you’ve lived here for years, you know this place, what’s here? He swapped the cane to his left hand and reached with his right. The wall went around the corner. A corner, he had made it to the corner, somewhere in front of him was a small street and then his own block and home. The image in front of him was clear, he had seen this a thousand times before today. He knew where he was, he knew where he was going. He stepped out with a confident stride and then another, sweeping the cane in a firm arc in front of him.
Then the ground fell away unexpectedly, his foot landed heavily and slipped. Jim tipped forward and came down hard. The gravel tore at his outstretched hands and sharp edges dug into his knees. The cane skittered out of his hand and disappeared.
“Honey,” Christie’s voice sounded as panicked as he felt, “you’re okay, you’re okay. I got you.”
She went to take him by the arm, but instead, as soon as she touched him and he knew where she was, he snatched her elbow. Using her to orient to vertical, he stood. “Enough. Enough now, I can’t do this, Christie. Take me home. Now.” His throat constricted and the words came out torn at the edges.
His voice brooked no argument, and his grip was like a vice. She didn’t even ask him to loosen his hold; there was no way her husband would let go of her arm now, and he’d never even see the bruise he was inflicting. Tears spilled from her eyes, making the image of him swim in front of her. She blinked repeatedly. Jim’s head was angled down, as if he was trying vainly to see the ground in front of him, or to hide from the watching world. She looked from his hand where small droplets of blood began to seep, to his torn denim knees and back to his face; white now with such strain as she had never seen before.
They began to cross the street; Jim almost propelling her forward. She stopped. “Wait, I have to get your cane.” Dredging up a supreme effort of will, he let go of her arm for long enough for her to retrieve the hated cane. He waited, sick to his stomach with need, buffeted by the wind, alone. Finally she returned and touched the cane to back of his hand. Only after he had ensured he had a firm grip on her arm again did he open his hand to take the cane. Red smeared to pink on the laminate of the long white cane.
“Curb.” She waited while he found the edge with his foot and stepped up, then she stepped up after him, and they continued without mishap. People made way, watching with lightly veiled pity and flowing around them like water around a rock in the stream.
He held onto her arm in the elevator and even in the corridor. It wasn’t until his scouting left hand confirmed that the apartment door was open in front of him that he released her. He stalked into the apartment, threw the cane, still open, toward the wall where it clattered and fell. Then, hands in front of him, unsure, even here, that the ground wouldn’t open up and swallow him, or a door or wall wouldn’t unexpectedly arrive in his path, he made his way past the couch, the kissing pole, and into the bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him.
Huddled against the glass door, she watched her husband in torment. He sat on the bed, head in hands and rocked back and forth. Even through the glass and the sheer drape, she could see his hands clench and unclench, his jaw so tight it hurt her, and his shuddering breath telling the truth about how he was coping.
Christie hoped he would calm down and relax, but instead of dissipating, his emotion continued to build. Jim rose unsteadily and groped for the door to the bathroom. She turned away, reaching blindly through her tears for the comfort of the couch. She curled in on herself, pulling a small throw tight around her shoulders and shivered; fear and pity warred in her heart. As her sobs quieted, a sound made it through her misery. Thumping, regular, bang, bang, bang, muffled but ominous. As silently and as quickly as possible, she crept into their room, glad the door hinges were oiled and quiet. Fearful of what she would see, she slowly pushed open the door and peered into the dark bathroom. He wasn't banging his head on the wall – she lifted her head up, giving thanks that her worst fears were unfounded- but his hands were wrapped in thick towels, and he was hitting the tiled wall in front of him; slowly, and nowhere near as hard as she knew he could do it. He looked crazy. How would it help if he broke every tile in the bathroom? Tears began to well again and she left before the cry in her throat became audible to him.
She clutched the phone to her breast and then dialed. They had given her and Jim numbers to call, counselors to go to when it got too much. Jim, as far as she knew, had never called his. She called hers again. “Debbie? …It’s Christie Dunbar…. I don’t know what to do…”