Post by minianne on Oct 12, 2009 13:23:05 GMT -5
A Long Way Up
Chapter 1
“Just a few more hours,” Jim Dunbar thought, twisting his wedding ring. “Just got to get through today and it‘ll be over.”
He was seated in an easy chair in the corner of his hospital room. The orderly had just left after helping him to get dressed. This was the day the detective was going to be released from the hospital. He’d been there for over a month, recuperating from the bullet wound that had cost him his eyesight.
Everyone kept asking if he was excited to be going home. He always answered, “Yes, of course.” But that wasn’t the truth. His stomach was churning. He was sick…yeah, sick of life.
Christie had arrived to take him home. He could hear the steady click, click, click of her high heels as she entered the room.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said brightly, leaning in to give him a kiss. She then sat down on the edge of his bed. What he didn’t see was how red and were puffy her eyes were from crying.
“Has the doctor been in yet?” she asked.
Jim shook his head, “no“, not bothering to turn his head in her direction.
“Aren’t you happy to be going home?” she inquired, doing what sounded like crossing her legs.
He smiled ruefully, then asked: “Did Rick and Mom come with you?”
“Just Rick,” she said, “He’s parking the car. I wanted to run up first to make sure the doctor hadn’t discharged you yet.”
“Your mom,” she added, “Is home baking you a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Your favorites.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door and Dr. Michaels, Jim’s neurologist entered the room.
“Good morning, Jim,” a precise voice with a British accent said. “It’s Dr. Michaels.”
Jim hated that voice. Never more so than when “it” explained that his optic nerves were severed and there was no way to regenerate them. “Medical science has not progressed to that point as of yet…”. He could still hear the prognosis: “Profound, irreversible blindness.”
“I’ve already signed your discharge papers,” the doctor explained. “One of the orderlies should be by with a wheelchair in a few minutes.”
Jim nodded stiffly when Dr. Michaels reiterated that he should go home and “take it easy” for the next couple of weeks. After that, he wanted to do an in-office follow up. If all was well at that appointment, the detective would be free to resume “normal” activities.
He then handed Christie several prescription slips.
“Make sure you get these filled and follow the instructions on the bottles.” he said.
Michaels then wished Jim luck.
“Thanks doc,” Jim replied, holding out his right hand. The doctor took it.
It astonished Jim how casually the doctor had said “normal activities.” What was that? Nothing in his life was ever going to be “normal” again.
“Hey bud!” Jim’s youngest brother Rick’s voice boomed out from the doorway. “Ready to roll?”
“Oh, the orderly’s here with your wheelchair,” Christie said, jumping up and walking toward Jim. She took his hand and he stood woodenly, allowing her to guide him into the chair. The orderly then adjusted the foot rests.
“Fuck,” Jim silently thought. “Yup, this is what my life has boiled down to. A blind cripple being wheeled out of the hospital.”
It had only been a month and a half since the detective had taken heroic action in saving the lives of four fellow officers at a bank heist. He’d taken out the perp, but not before the bastard had the chance to take one last shot, that had entered Jim’s brain and caused all this.
The first month had been a blur. Hell, he had been so doped up, he had only gotten his wits about him and realized what was going on a few weeks ago. He was so confused for so long… In fact, he was still confused.
The only thing he really remembered about the shooting was the sensation of being hit by a brick. He’d spent a great deal of time in the past weeks trying to piece together what had actually taken place. It had been at a bank robbery. There was a shootout. One cop was killed. This is the point where Jim’s memory started to get fuzzy. But he was pretty sure that he had run out of ammo and crossed the street finding his partner, Terry, cowering behind a building. He thought that he had pleaded with him to take a shot. But the other man had frozen and Jim was forced to physically pry the gun from his partner’s hands.
Jim had thought about it so much and so often over the past weeks that he wasn’t sure what was real and what he imagined. At this point, did it even matter?
Post-surgery, Jim had been in a chemically-induced coma for nearly a week. The bullet had caused significant brain swelling and there was a chance that he might die. Doctors had also warned Christie and his family that besides the bullet, he’d had taken a significant blow to the back of the head when he collapsed after being shot. That had taken 60 some-odd stitches to close. There could also be a major deficit in muscle tone. In layman’s terms, he might have some paralysis.
The overwhelming feeling that Jim had lately was of claustrophobia. Funny. He’d always assumed that blind people lived in “darkness”. Somehow what he was experiencing was worse than that. It was nothing. Just thinking about it made his heart race. “Christ“, he thought time and time again…“Have I lost my mind?” It was like a deep, grey fog that never changed. Like trying to see out of the back of his head…he just couldn’t. Day and night he could feel it closing in around him. The worst time was when he woke up in the morning.
God, that was the worst. He’d wake up to this void. You’d think it would get easier every day. Jim felt it was getting worse. He would wake up, open his eyes and his body would physically react to the realization that he couldn’t see. His blood literally ran cold.
Sometimes he put his hands to his eyes to confirm that they were actually open. He’d “look” up, down, sideways…still, nothing. It was surreal. The side of his head where he’d been shot was still somewhat numb. There was an area with stitches and though it didn’t especially hurt at that spot, he was experiencing what felt like a searing headache behind his eyes 24/7. Then there was the back of his head where he had a Frankenstein monster’s worth of stitches. That did hurt. A lot.
What the hell did it matter? Pain was nothing compared to the blindness. It had become a sort of sick obsession with Jim…waiting, wondering, fascinated with how much he could endure and still live.
The parade of visitors through his room had been unending. The mayor, the police commissioner, his mother, his brother, his aunt and uncle, Christie’s family and of course, Christie. His partner Terry and his wife were conspicuous by their absence. It was just as well, Jim didn’t want to deal with Terry, ever. Fuck. He didn’t even want to go there.
He hated visitors, but was pretty much obliged to let them in. Wasn’t like he was going anywhere. Jim’s reverie was interrupted by a group of nurses and orderlies who gathered around to say goodbye and wish him luck.
“Luck?”, he thought to himself, bitterly. “I think my luck ran out a long time ago.” But, he forced a smile and thanked them all for their ministrations.
As the orderly wheeled him down the corridor to the elevator, Jim cracked his knuckles, a response to the sounds and smells of the hospital. He heard a patient moaning in pain as they passed his door.
“Poor bastard,” Jim mused to himself. “Probably no better off than I am.”
“Here, Jim…”, Christie said, placing a bundle of metal tubing into his hands. “Aren’t you going to want your cane? You left it back in the room.”
“Aw, shit,” Jim thought, acid rising in his throat. But what he said was measured: “Please, Christie…not now.” He dropped it into his lap as though it was red-hot.
The day before, a representative from the Lighthouse, a rehabilitation center for blind people stopped by to introduce himself. The man, John Eberle, was also blind and wanted to, what? Welcome Jim to the land of the blind? Actually, he wanted to meet Jim and tell him about the services the Lighthouse offered. Independent living…orientation and mobility…Braille…assistant technology…etc., etc., etc. Jim knew that John was trying to throw him a lifeline of sorts…but, the other man’s efforts had left him cold.
Before Eberle left, he presented Jim with two things…a white cane and a plastic “talking” watch. He showed Jim how to hold the cane and demonstrated how it could help him in moving freely. Of course, Jim would be getting extensive training in use of the cane later, but, for now…it could be a great help in getting his bearings at home, etc.
Jim would have thrown it into the trash can, but Christie had entered the room at that moment. If he had given in to his impulses, it just would have started an argument and he wasn’t up to that. He had to conserve his energy for what needed to be done.
Chapter Two
“Here’s the car,” Christie said, taking Jim’s hand and helping him out of the chair. She walked behind him, virtually “steering” him by the shoulders. He heard a car door open and Rick ran around to open the front passenger door.
“Man,” his brother said. “I can only imagine how happy you are to be getting out of here.”
Jim slowly got into the car and fastened his seat belt.
“Oh,” he finally replied in a voice dripping with irony. “You have no idea.”
The ride back to Brooklyn was a long one. There were lots of starts and stops. The sounds of traffic swirled around him.
“Traffic must be heavy“, Jim thought, struggling with his claustrophobia. He was having trouble breathing. It was like he couldn’t get enough air. He felt a wave of nausea and gripped the padded door handle to “center“ himself.
“You okay, hon?” Christie asked, leaning forward to touch his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Jim replied in a tight voice, then asked: “Where are we?”
“Just about to hit the bridge,” Rick replied.
They rode on in silence, until Rick turned on the radio. Patti LaBelle belted out, “I Shall Survive.”
“Yeah,” Jim thought, “Good luck with that, lady.”
When they reached their building, Rick let Jim and Christie off in front, then drove the car into the parking garage.
Jim opened the door and got out. He immediately became aware of a sensation of warmth on his face. “Jesus Christ“, he thought with a shudder, touching the roof of the car. It was hot. That confirmed it. The sun was shining.
An eerie calm descended upon him. “Okay, Jim,“ he told himself, “You’re almost home. It’s almost over.”
Christie led him into the building, then up the steps to their apartment. At the door, she tried to give him a little hug, but his arms stayed stiffly at his sides.
“Welcome home, Jimmy…” she said, opening it at taking him inside.
“You’re home!” he heard his mother exclaim, then felt her hug and accepted her kiss.
Carol took Jim by both hands and walking backwards, showed him the way to the sectional couch in the living room. He sat obediently, running a hand over the buttery soft leather. The room smelled like chocolate chip cookies, scented candles and air conditioning.
Rick entered the room, carrying Jim’s overnight bag.
“Hey,” he asked, “Where do you want me to put your stuff?”
Jim just shrugged.
“In our bedroom, thanks,” Christie called from the kitchen where she was busy making coffee.
Her husband reached into his pocket and extracted the plastic watch the man from the Lighthouse had given him. When he pressed a button on the right side a mechanical voice said: “Nine-forty-five”.
Jim grimly wondered how he was supposed to know a.m. from p.m. anymore. It wasn’t as if he could see the fucking sun in the fucking sky. He twisted his neck to the side making a cracking sound.
Rick returned from the bedroom and sat next to Jim. He was a few inches taller than Jim, but weighed 30-40 lbs. more. Their coloring was similar, but Rick had a “military” style haircut, a bushy mustache and wore squarish, aviator style eyeglasses. He looked exactly like what he was: Chief of Police in Muncie, Indiana.
“How ’ya doin’ bud?” Rick asked, giving Jim’s forearm a little punch.
“I’m good,” Jim replied, his face expressionless.
Jim’s mom, a short, plump woman with gray hair, sat down next to him. She took his hand.
“Jimmy,” she said, “I made you some chocolate chip cookies. Would you like some?”
He really didn’t. But he knew it would make her happy if he ate a few.
“Yeah mom,” he replied. “I’d love some.”
While his mother and Christie busied themselves putting the cookies on a platter and pouring coffee for everyone, Jim asked Rick if he would help him to the bathroom.
Closing and locking the door behind him, Jim leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall. He felt like a runner who could see the finish line. Just stay the course. It wouldn’t be long before he could carry out his plan.
After relieving himself, he washed his hands and felt along the wall until he found a towel. Funny. He’d been living here for what, five years? Everything was where he knew it should be, but it seemed abstract, unreal without being able to see it with his eyes.
Rick was waiting in the hall and immediately took Jim back to the couch. His mom and Christie had brought the cookies and mugs of steaming coffee into the living room.
“Sweetheart,” Christie said, “There’s a cup of coffee on the table right in front of you.”
Jim ate three of his mother’s cookies, pronouncing them “delicious” and “the best ever“. He could tell that made her day. That was the least he could do for her. He hoped that she would be able to forgive him for what he was about to do.
“You never make cookies for me,” Rick whined, making an attempt at humor.
“Yeah,” Jim thought, “You’ve gotta be blind for that. But, he smiled weakly.
It was time, Jim realized. This was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But, it wasn’t as though he had a choice.
“Mom?” he said. “The entire time I was in the hospital all I could think of was your chicken and dumplings. The food was so awful there. Would you make that for me for dinner tonight?”
He knew darned well that Christie wouldn’t have all the ingredients in the house. They would have to go to the store. This was something they would all jump on.
“Honey,” his mom said, “I’ll be happy to. Rick, will you take me to the store?”
Rick agreed.
“Chris”, Jim then added, “Didn’t the doctor give you some prescriptions to get filled?”
She nodded, then realizing he couldn’t see her gesture, spoke. “Yes, he did. Carol, could you and Rick get them filled when you go to the store?”
Carol and Rick agreed, then Christie and Carol went into the kitchen to see what ingredients they had on hand and make a list of what was needed.
“Rick,” Jim said, turning toward his brother. “All I want to do is rest. This morning has me wiped out. My head is pounding. Why don’t you take Christy and mom out for lunch someplace nice? That’ll give me a chance to take a nap.”
The younger man looked at his brother’s face skeptically.
“You sure, buddy?” he asked. “Don‘t you think somebody should be here if you need anything?”
Jim nodded.
“I’ll be fine”, he said. “Really, the doctor is right. All I want to do now is take some pain meds and sleep.”
It took a bit of convincing on Jim’s part to get his mom and Christie to go along with the idea. But, soon, Christie had helped Jim find his way to the bedroom and he was sitting on the edge of their bed.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked, giving him a soft kiss and touching his cheek.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, forcing a small smile and taking what would be, he thought, one last whiff of her perfume.
As soon as Jim heard the front door close, he reached out with his right hand until he encountered his nightstand. Opening the drawer, he reached inside. His face fell as he felt about. It was empty, except for a pack of tissues, a flashlight, a jar of Vick’s Vapo-Rub, the case holding his eyeglasses and a box of what was probably those breathing strips left over from his last cold.
“Shit,” he said aloud, realizing that his gun was missing. “Where the hell could it be?”
Not bothering to shut the drawer, he abruptly stood, hands stretched outward and headed in the direction of the dresser. When he found it, he opened the top drawer and felt around again. His face flushed with anger. No gun there, either. The bullets were missing as well.
“God damn it!” he wailed, shoving the drawer closed with such force that everything on the top of the dresser fell over. Their framed wedding photo smashed onto the floor.
Jim put his palms on his forehead and ran them over top his head. Oh shit, shit…shit. Where were his guns? They should be there. They’d always been there. That was where he’d left them. What had Christie done with them? Damn it to hell anyway. Did she…did they suspect that he’d try to do this?
“Well”, he thought, taking a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “There is one more place.” Surely, Christie didn’t know about this one.
He slowly walked toward the bedroom door. Feeling his way along the walls, he made his way to his desk in the living room. He kneeled down and felt underneath the bottom drawer until he found the hidden door. Sliding it open, he realized that it too was empty.
Just then, the front door opened. Soon, he heard Rick’s voice boom out.
“Jim, oh man, what are you doing?”
He lifted his head and in doing so, hit his left temple against the bottom of the top drawer. The pain stunned him for a moment.
“What the fuck do you think I’m doin’? he screamed desperately. “What did you do with my guns?”
Rick walked over to his brother and took his arm, trying to help him to his feet.
“No!” Jim said, taking a punch at Rick that landed square on his jaw.
His brother’s police training went into effect. He waited until Jim regrouped and tried to strike again. Grabbing Jim’s wrists, he pulled his arms behind him in a lock. This didn’t subdue the other man a bit, just seemed to make him stronger. Finally, Rick overpowered Jim and pinned him on the floor while the other man shouted epithets and struggled to get out of his grasp.
“God damn it!” Jim howled, his sightless eyes wide with emotion, tears of rage pouring down his cheeks. “What did you do with my weapons?”
Rick was weeping as well. He didn’t want to hurt Jim, but he had to keep holding him down until he had fought and screamed it all out. It took all the strength he had. If Jim hadn’t been weakened by his injury, he could never have done this.
Minutes ticked by while Jim raged, the flood of emotions he’d been struggling to hold back suddenly pouring forth. After what seemed like forever, he quieted down.
Rick tentatively released his grip. He was rewarded by another blow. Jim wriggled from his grasp and stood, but Rick grabbed his ankles and pulled him down. They rolled about on the carpeting, both caught up in the fight of their lives.
Finally, Rick flipped Jim onto his belly and pulled his hands behind his back. In response, Jim just broke down and cried. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs escaped from his body in waves. Rage, panic, anger, frustration and fear all mixed together.
At that point, Rick let Jim go and sat beside him, rubbing his back. He straightened his glasses and sighed.
“Why won’t you let me kill myself?” Jim implored. “You have no idea what this is like. You’ve gotta give me back my guns. You don‘t leave an animal wounded. You finish ‘em off…”
Rick just continued rubbing his brother’s back.
“J.D.”, he said, softly. “This is not what you want to do. Please. Just realize that I love you. You’re my big brother. So many people love you and need you. Christie, Mom, Tommy, all your nephews and nieces… Jim, I know this is hard for you, but things will work out. You have to give it time.”
“You have no idea what this is like!” Jim cried, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. The whole world is gone. I can’t function like this. I won’t do it….
“No,” Rick answered. “I don’t know what it’s like to be blind. But lots of people are and they have very full lives.”
Jim crossed his arms and laid his forehead on top of them.
“I don’t want this life,” he said softly. “Ricky, I’ll never see anything again for as long as I live. Don’t you understand? I should have died back at the bank. Just let me finish it off.”
Rick hung his head, not knowing what to say.
“J.D…man, you’re a soldier, you’ve seen people die. Also, you’re a cop. You know what a suicide looks like. You’ve seen what it does to the people who are left behind. Is that what you want for Christie…for Mom? To come home and see your brains splattered all over the walls?”
“I was gonna put a sign on the door”, Jim replied. “Call 911.” Nobody would have seen anything. Shit, where else was I gonna go?”
“Do you believe in God?” Rick asked quietly.
“That’s a stupid question,” Jim replied.
“I’m serious, J.D.”, Rick said.
“If there was a God, this wouldn’t have happened to me.”
Rick smiled sadly.
“Jim,” he said evenly. “With all you’ve seen…murders, rapes, assaults, etc. Do you think any of the victims could have imagined whatever it was happening to them?”
Jim sighed loudly. “No.”
“Bad things happen to good people all the time,” Rick continued. “We have to believe that God has a plan for us all. Jim, I think you need to ask God for help. I‘ll pray with you if you want.”
The room went silent.
“Damn it, Rick”, Jim said in a hoarse whisper. “What did you do with my guns?”
“Let’s go sit on the couch,” Rick said, helping Jim up. “This is killing my back.”
It turned out that Rick had suspected what Jim might be considering. The night before he asked Christie to show him where he kept his weapons. He removed them and all of the ammunition from the apartment. Just in case.
At the last minute, Rick decided to let his mom and Christie go ahead to the store and lunch, then came back upstairs.
“J.D.”, he said in a firm voice. “You have got to pull yourself together and get help. I don’t know whether it should be a psychologist or a psychiatrist. I just know that we’ve got to pull you out of this hole you’ve fallen into.”
“You are not alone in this. Everyone who loves you would do anything in the world to help. Just try. Please. Just try to get it together not only for us, but for yourself.”
Jim nodded, then stiffly stood, slowly walking toward the bedroom.
“I think I need a little time alone,” he said, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 1
“Just a few more hours,” Jim Dunbar thought, twisting his wedding ring. “Just got to get through today and it‘ll be over.”
He was seated in an easy chair in the corner of his hospital room. The orderly had just left after helping him to get dressed. This was the day the detective was going to be released from the hospital. He’d been there for over a month, recuperating from the bullet wound that had cost him his eyesight.
Everyone kept asking if he was excited to be going home. He always answered, “Yes, of course.” But that wasn’t the truth. His stomach was churning. He was sick…yeah, sick of life.
Christie had arrived to take him home. He could hear the steady click, click, click of her high heels as she entered the room.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said brightly, leaning in to give him a kiss. She then sat down on the edge of his bed. What he didn’t see was how red and were puffy her eyes were from crying.
“Has the doctor been in yet?” she asked.
Jim shook his head, “no“, not bothering to turn his head in her direction.
“Aren’t you happy to be going home?” she inquired, doing what sounded like crossing her legs.
He smiled ruefully, then asked: “Did Rick and Mom come with you?”
“Just Rick,” she said, “He’s parking the car. I wanted to run up first to make sure the doctor hadn’t discharged you yet.”
“Your mom,” she added, “Is home baking you a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Your favorites.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door and Dr. Michaels, Jim’s neurologist entered the room.
“Good morning, Jim,” a precise voice with a British accent said. “It’s Dr. Michaels.”
Jim hated that voice. Never more so than when “it” explained that his optic nerves were severed and there was no way to regenerate them. “Medical science has not progressed to that point as of yet…”. He could still hear the prognosis: “Profound, irreversible blindness.”
“I’ve already signed your discharge papers,” the doctor explained. “One of the orderlies should be by with a wheelchair in a few minutes.”
Jim nodded stiffly when Dr. Michaels reiterated that he should go home and “take it easy” for the next couple of weeks. After that, he wanted to do an in-office follow up. If all was well at that appointment, the detective would be free to resume “normal” activities.
He then handed Christie several prescription slips.
“Make sure you get these filled and follow the instructions on the bottles.” he said.
Michaels then wished Jim luck.
“Thanks doc,” Jim replied, holding out his right hand. The doctor took it.
It astonished Jim how casually the doctor had said “normal activities.” What was that? Nothing in his life was ever going to be “normal” again.
“Hey bud!” Jim’s youngest brother Rick’s voice boomed out from the doorway. “Ready to roll?”
“Oh, the orderly’s here with your wheelchair,” Christie said, jumping up and walking toward Jim. She took his hand and he stood woodenly, allowing her to guide him into the chair. The orderly then adjusted the foot rests.
“Fuck,” Jim silently thought. “Yup, this is what my life has boiled down to. A blind cripple being wheeled out of the hospital.”
It had only been a month and a half since the detective had taken heroic action in saving the lives of four fellow officers at a bank heist. He’d taken out the perp, but not before the bastard had the chance to take one last shot, that had entered Jim’s brain and caused all this.
The first month had been a blur. Hell, he had been so doped up, he had only gotten his wits about him and realized what was going on a few weeks ago. He was so confused for so long… In fact, he was still confused.
The only thing he really remembered about the shooting was the sensation of being hit by a brick. He’d spent a great deal of time in the past weeks trying to piece together what had actually taken place. It had been at a bank robbery. There was a shootout. One cop was killed. This is the point where Jim’s memory started to get fuzzy. But he was pretty sure that he had run out of ammo and crossed the street finding his partner, Terry, cowering behind a building. He thought that he had pleaded with him to take a shot. But the other man had frozen and Jim was forced to physically pry the gun from his partner’s hands.
Jim had thought about it so much and so often over the past weeks that he wasn’t sure what was real and what he imagined. At this point, did it even matter?
Post-surgery, Jim had been in a chemically-induced coma for nearly a week. The bullet had caused significant brain swelling and there was a chance that he might die. Doctors had also warned Christie and his family that besides the bullet, he’d had taken a significant blow to the back of the head when he collapsed after being shot. That had taken 60 some-odd stitches to close. There could also be a major deficit in muscle tone. In layman’s terms, he might have some paralysis.
The overwhelming feeling that Jim had lately was of claustrophobia. Funny. He’d always assumed that blind people lived in “darkness”. Somehow what he was experiencing was worse than that. It was nothing. Just thinking about it made his heart race. “Christ“, he thought time and time again…“Have I lost my mind?” It was like a deep, grey fog that never changed. Like trying to see out of the back of his head…he just couldn’t. Day and night he could feel it closing in around him. The worst time was when he woke up in the morning.
God, that was the worst. He’d wake up to this void. You’d think it would get easier every day. Jim felt it was getting worse. He would wake up, open his eyes and his body would physically react to the realization that he couldn’t see. His blood literally ran cold.
Sometimes he put his hands to his eyes to confirm that they were actually open. He’d “look” up, down, sideways…still, nothing. It was surreal. The side of his head where he’d been shot was still somewhat numb. There was an area with stitches and though it didn’t especially hurt at that spot, he was experiencing what felt like a searing headache behind his eyes 24/7. Then there was the back of his head where he had a Frankenstein monster’s worth of stitches. That did hurt. A lot.
What the hell did it matter? Pain was nothing compared to the blindness. It had become a sort of sick obsession with Jim…waiting, wondering, fascinated with how much he could endure and still live.
The parade of visitors through his room had been unending. The mayor, the police commissioner, his mother, his brother, his aunt and uncle, Christie’s family and of course, Christie. His partner Terry and his wife were conspicuous by their absence. It was just as well, Jim didn’t want to deal with Terry, ever. Fuck. He didn’t even want to go there.
He hated visitors, but was pretty much obliged to let them in. Wasn’t like he was going anywhere. Jim’s reverie was interrupted by a group of nurses and orderlies who gathered around to say goodbye and wish him luck.
“Luck?”, he thought to himself, bitterly. “I think my luck ran out a long time ago.” But, he forced a smile and thanked them all for their ministrations.
As the orderly wheeled him down the corridor to the elevator, Jim cracked his knuckles, a response to the sounds and smells of the hospital. He heard a patient moaning in pain as they passed his door.
“Poor bastard,” Jim mused to himself. “Probably no better off than I am.”
“Here, Jim…”, Christie said, placing a bundle of metal tubing into his hands. “Aren’t you going to want your cane? You left it back in the room.”
“Aw, shit,” Jim thought, acid rising in his throat. But what he said was measured: “Please, Christie…not now.” He dropped it into his lap as though it was red-hot.
The day before, a representative from the Lighthouse, a rehabilitation center for blind people stopped by to introduce himself. The man, John Eberle, was also blind and wanted to, what? Welcome Jim to the land of the blind? Actually, he wanted to meet Jim and tell him about the services the Lighthouse offered. Independent living…orientation and mobility…Braille…assistant technology…etc., etc., etc. Jim knew that John was trying to throw him a lifeline of sorts…but, the other man’s efforts had left him cold.
Before Eberle left, he presented Jim with two things…a white cane and a plastic “talking” watch. He showed Jim how to hold the cane and demonstrated how it could help him in moving freely. Of course, Jim would be getting extensive training in use of the cane later, but, for now…it could be a great help in getting his bearings at home, etc.
Jim would have thrown it into the trash can, but Christie had entered the room at that moment. If he had given in to his impulses, it just would have started an argument and he wasn’t up to that. He had to conserve his energy for what needed to be done.
Chapter Two
“Here’s the car,” Christie said, taking Jim’s hand and helping him out of the chair. She walked behind him, virtually “steering” him by the shoulders. He heard a car door open and Rick ran around to open the front passenger door.
“Man,” his brother said. “I can only imagine how happy you are to be getting out of here.”
Jim slowly got into the car and fastened his seat belt.
“Oh,” he finally replied in a voice dripping with irony. “You have no idea.”
The ride back to Brooklyn was a long one. There were lots of starts and stops. The sounds of traffic swirled around him.
“Traffic must be heavy“, Jim thought, struggling with his claustrophobia. He was having trouble breathing. It was like he couldn’t get enough air. He felt a wave of nausea and gripped the padded door handle to “center“ himself.
“You okay, hon?” Christie asked, leaning forward to touch his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Jim replied in a tight voice, then asked: “Where are we?”
“Just about to hit the bridge,” Rick replied.
They rode on in silence, until Rick turned on the radio. Patti LaBelle belted out, “I Shall Survive.”
“Yeah,” Jim thought, “Good luck with that, lady.”
When they reached their building, Rick let Jim and Christie off in front, then drove the car into the parking garage.
Jim opened the door and got out. He immediately became aware of a sensation of warmth on his face. “Jesus Christ“, he thought with a shudder, touching the roof of the car. It was hot. That confirmed it. The sun was shining.
An eerie calm descended upon him. “Okay, Jim,“ he told himself, “You’re almost home. It’s almost over.”
Christie led him into the building, then up the steps to their apartment. At the door, she tried to give him a little hug, but his arms stayed stiffly at his sides.
“Welcome home, Jimmy…” she said, opening it at taking him inside.
“You’re home!” he heard his mother exclaim, then felt her hug and accepted her kiss.
Carol took Jim by both hands and walking backwards, showed him the way to the sectional couch in the living room. He sat obediently, running a hand over the buttery soft leather. The room smelled like chocolate chip cookies, scented candles and air conditioning.
Rick entered the room, carrying Jim’s overnight bag.
“Hey,” he asked, “Where do you want me to put your stuff?”
Jim just shrugged.
“In our bedroom, thanks,” Christie called from the kitchen where she was busy making coffee.
Her husband reached into his pocket and extracted the plastic watch the man from the Lighthouse had given him. When he pressed a button on the right side a mechanical voice said: “Nine-forty-five”.
Jim grimly wondered how he was supposed to know a.m. from p.m. anymore. It wasn’t as if he could see the fucking sun in the fucking sky. He twisted his neck to the side making a cracking sound.
Rick returned from the bedroom and sat next to Jim. He was a few inches taller than Jim, but weighed 30-40 lbs. more. Their coloring was similar, but Rick had a “military” style haircut, a bushy mustache and wore squarish, aviator style eyeglasses. He looked exactly like what he was: Chief of Police in Muncie, Indiana.
“How ’ya doin’ bud?” Rick asked, giving Jim’s forearm a little punch.
“I’m good,” Jim replied, his face expressionless.
Jim’s mom, a short, plump woman with gray hair, sat down next to him. She took his hand.
“Jimmy,” she said, “I made you some chocolate chip cookies. Would you like some?”
He really didn’t. But he knew it would make her happy if he ate a few.
“Yeah mom,” he replied. “I’d love some.”
While his mother and Christie busied themselves putting the cookies on a platter and pouring coffee for everyone, Jim asked Rick if he would help him to the bathroom.
Closing and locking the door behind him, Jim leaned his forehead against the cool tile wall. He felt like a runner who could see the finish line. Just stay the course. It wouldn’t be long before he could carry out his plan.
After relieving himself, he washed his hands and felt along the wall until he found a towel. Funny. He’d been living here for what, five years? Everything was where he knew it should be, but it seemed abstract, unreal without being able to see it with his eyes.
Rick was waiting in the hall and immediately took Jim back to the couch. His mom and Christie had brought the cookies and mugs of steaming coffee into the living room.
“Sweetheart,” Christie said, “There’s a cup of coffee on the table right in front of you.”
Jim ate three of his mother’s cookies, pronouncing them “delicious” and “the best ever“. He could tell that made her day. That was the least he could do for her. He hoped that she would be able to forgive him for what he was about to do.
“You never make cookies for me,” Rick whined, making an attempt at humor.
“Yeah,” Jim thought, “You’ve gotta be blind for that. But, he smiled weakly.
It was time, Jim realized. This was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But, it wasn’t as though he had a choice.
“Mom?” he said. “The entire time I was in the hospital all I could think of was your chicken and dumplings. The food was so awful there. Would you make that for me for dinner tonight?”
He knew darned well that Christie wouldn’t have all the ingredients in the house. They would have to go to the store. This was something they would all jump on.
“Honey,” his mom said, “I’ll be happy to. Rick, will you take me to the store?”
Rick agreed.
“Chris”, Jim then added, “Didn’t the doctor give you some prescriptions to get filled?”
She nodded, then realizing he couldn’t see her gesture, spoke. “Yes, he did. Carol, could you and Rick get them filled when you go to the store?”
Carol and Rick agreed, then Christie and Carol went into the kitchen to see what ingredients they had on hand and make a list of what was needed.
“Rick,” Jim said, turning toward his brother. “All I want to do is rest. This morning has me wiped out. My head is pounding. Why don’t you take Christy and mom out for lunch someplace nice? That’ll give me a chance to take a nap.”
The younger man looked at his brother’s face skeptically.
“You sure, buddy?” he asked. “Don‘t you think somebody should be here if you need anything?”
Jim nodded.
“I’ll be fine”, he said. “Really, the doctor is right. All I want to do now is take some pain meds and sleep.”
It took a bit of convincing on Jim’s part to get his mom and Christie to go along with the idea. But, soon, Christie had helped Jim find his way to the bedroom and he was sitting on the edge of their bed.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked, giving him a soft kiss and touching his cheek.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, forcing a small smile and taking what would be, he thought, one last whiff of her perfume.
As soon as Jim heard the front door close, he reached out with his right hand until he encountered his nightstand. Opening the drawer, he reached inside. His face fell as he felt about. It was empty, except for a pack of tissues, a flashlight, a jar of Vick’s Vapo-Rub, the case holding his eyeglasses and a box of what was probably those breathing strips left over from his last cold.
“Shit,” he said aloud, realizing that his gun was missing. “Where the hell could it be?”
Not bothering to shut the drawer, he abruptly stood, hands stretched outward and headed in the direction of the dresser. When he found it, he opened the top drawer and felt around again. His face flushed with anger. No gun there, either. The bullets were missing as well.
“God damn it!” he wailed, shoving the drawer closed with such force that everything on the top of the dresser fell over. Their framed wedding photo smashed onto the floor.
Jim put his palms on his forehead and ran them over top his head. Oh shit, shit…shit. Where were his guns? They should be there. They’d always been there. That was where he’d left them. What had Christie done with them? Damn it to hell anyway. Did she…did they suspect that he’d try to do this?
“Well”, he thought, taking a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “There is one more place.” Surely, Christie didn’t know about this one.
He slowly walked toward the bedroom door. Feeling his way along the walls, he made his way to his desk in the living room. He kneeled down and felt underneath the bottom drawer until he found the hidden door. Sliding it open, he realized that it too was empty.
Just then, the front door opened. Soon, he heard Rick’s voice boom out.
“Jim, oh man, what are you doing?”
He lifted his head and in doing so, hit his left temple against the bottom of the top drawer. The pain stunned him for a moment.
“What the fuck do you think I’m doin’? he screamed desperately. “What did you do with my guns?”
Rick walked over to his brother and took his arm, trying to help him to his feet.
“No!” Jim said, taking a punch at Rick that landed square on his jaw.
His brother’s police training went into effect. He waited until Jim regrouped and tried to strike again. Grabbing Jim’s wrists, he pulled his arms behind him in a lock. This didn’t subdue the other man a bit, just seemed to make him stronger. Finally, Rick overpowered Jim and pinned him on the floor while the other man shouted epithets and struggled to get out of his grasp.
“God damn it!” Jim howled, his sightless eyes wide with emotion, tears of rage pouring down his cheeks. “What did you do with my weapons?”
Rick was weeping as well. He didn’t want to hurt Jim, but he had to keep holding him down until he had fought and screamed it all out. It took all the strength he had. If Jim hadn’t been weakened by his injury, he could never have done this.
Minutes ticked by while Jim raged, the flood of emotions he’d been struggling to hold back suddenly pouring forth. After what seemed like forever, he quieted down.
Rick tentatively released his grip. He was rewarded by another blow. Jim wriggled from his grasp and stood, but Rick grabbed his ankles and pulled him down. They rolled about on the carpeting, both caught up in the fight of their lives.
Finally, Rick flipped Jim onto his belly and pulled his hands behind his back. In response, Jim just broke down and cried. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs escaped from his body in waves. Rage, panic, anger, frustration and fear all mixed together.
At that point, Rick let Jim go and sat beside him, rubbing his back. He straightened his glasses and sighed.
“Why won’t you let me kill myself?” Jim implored. “You have no idea what this is like. You’ve gotta give me back my guns. You don‘t leave an animal wounded. You finish ‘em off…”
Rick just continued rubbing his brother’s back.
“J.D.”, he said, softly. “This is not what you want to do. Please. Just realize that I love you. You’re my big brother. So many people love you and need you. Christie, Mom, Tommy, all your nephews and nieces… Jim, I know this is hard for you, but things will work out. You have to give it time.”
“You have no idea what this is like!” Jim cried, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. The whole world is gone. I can’t function like this. I won’t do it….
“No,” Rick answered. “I don’t know what it’s like to be blind. But lots of people are and they have very full lives.”
Jim crossed his arms and laid his forehead on top of them.
“I don’t want this life,” he said softly. “Ricky, I’ll never see anything again for as long as I live. Don’t you understand? I should have died back at the bank. Just let me finish it off.”
Rick hung his head, not knowing what to say.
“J.D…man, you’re a soldier, you’ve seen people die. Also, you’re a cop. You know what a suicide looks like. You’ve seen what it does to the people who are left behind. Is that what you want for Christie…for Mom? To come home and see your brains splattered all over the walls?”
“I was gonna put a sign on the door”, Jim replied. “Call 911.” Nobody would have seen anything. Shit, where else was I gonna go?”
“Do you believe in God?” Rick asked quietly.
“That’s a stupid question,” Jim replied.
“I’m serious, J.D.”, Rick said.
“If there was a God, this wouldn’t have happened to me.”
Rick smiled sadly.
“Jim,” he said evenly. “With all you’ve seen…murders, rapes, assaults, etc. Do you think any of the victims could have imagined whatever it was happening to them?”
Jim sighed loudly. “No.”
“Bad things happen to good people all the time,” Rick continued. “We have to believe that God has a plan for us all. Jim, I think you need to ask God for help. I‘ll pray with you if you want.”
The room went silent.
“Damn it, Rick”, Jim said in a hoarse whisper. “What did you do with my guns?”
“Let’s go sit on the couch,” Rick said, helping Jim up. “This is killing my back.”
It turned out that Rick had suspected what Jim might be considering. The night before he asked Christie to show him where he kept his weapons. He removed them and all of the ammunition from the apartment. Just in case.
At the last minute, Rick decided to let his mom and Christie go ahead to the store and lunch, then came back upstairs.
“J.D.”, he said in a firm voice. “You have got to pull yourself together and get help. I don’t know whether it should be a psychologist or a psychiatrist. I just know that we’ve got to pull you out of this hole you’ve fallen into.”
“You are not alone in this. Everyone who loves you would do anything in the world to help. Just try. Please. Just try to get it together not only for us, but for yourself.”
Jim nodded, then stiffly stood, slowly walking toward the bedroom.
“I think I need a little time alone,” he said, closing the door behind him.