3. The Diary
Sarah Maxwell took a deep breath, pushed her dark thoughts away, and swung her legs over the bed. She scrunched her toes into the carpet, yielding to the sensation. Something real.
A chortle told her Sammy was on the carpet a few feet away. Moving onto the floor beside him, she felt the sunlight warm her skin, felt the carpet between her fingers, felt the fur and warmth of her friend.
“This is a great spot, isn’t it, Sammy.” Sammy purred his approval at the fingers rubbing his chin. “No worries for you, eh boy? What a life.” Sammy stretched his chin further to signal his satisfaction.
She lay on the floor next to Sammy, listening to her mother making breakfast, humming some new song she didn’t recognize. Probably something from Church.
It had been a year since she went to church. The thought of people staring at her, even if she couldn’t see them. She shook her head. And what would her friends say? Hi, how are you? How’s it going? How come you never come to church anymore? Her parents tried to get her back in church, but she didn’t want any part of it. God had abandoned her and she was done with him.
At first, she didn’t want to go to therapy for the blind. But her dependence on her family to do simple things like dress herself and even eat. It fueled her anger. She was not going to eat with her fingers, and definitely not going to have her parents feed her at the table. So she went to every class and therapy session available to her. Every day was a fight to claw back her independence. She loved her family, but she was a burden to them. One day she would move out and live on her own. She would free them from the burden. Maybe soon.
Sarah breathed deeply and rolled on her back next to Sammy. Breakfast aromas assaulted her—pancakes, scrambled eggs, and the overwhelming smell of bacon. Her other senses were keener now. She heard the bacon cooking, the scrape of the spatula flipping pancakes, the crack of eggs on the edge of a bowl.
And there. Her Dad wandered into the kitchen and spoke in low tones to her mother, who whispered a giggled response. Sarah grabbed her head. “Mom!” A child shouldn’t hear parents talk like that. She got up from the floor, felt her way to the closet, opened its door, and stared into its nothingness.
It didn’t matter what she put on anymore. Her clothes were tagged by colors, so she wouldn’t totally embarrass herself, as if someone would actually say something. And her hair? She grabbed at her hair and felt the mess, felt for the brush on the dresser and began brushing her hair. Her mom and sister offered to brush an style her hair, but that was just one more point of dependence. Nope. No more curls, no more styling. Sarah pulled her hair back and secured it. It was ponytails forever. She thought about cutting it all off, but it would make her uglier than she already was—ugly clothes, no makeup, and staring blankly at people.
She would never giggle with a husband in the kitchen.
A deep sigh swelled and escaped from her. No one would want her. Tyler couldn’t handle it. He visited her once, but she never heard from him again. Not even a text. And she thought he was the one. Now she was defective. No one would ever be the one. She would never have a husband to whisper things in her ear. She would always be alone.
Tears wanted to come, but she wouldn’t let them. God, why? Why did you do this to me?
Are you talking to me now?
That familiar voice, so gentle, the longing in his tone. His love washed over her like a wave breaching her walls. She used to talk to God, and he would respond. They had a thing. They were close. She was going to do things for him and change the world.
And then this. She was in a deep hole now. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.
Now the tears came. She didn’t know if they were from anger, self-pity, or a longing to feel his love again. It didn’t matter. She leaned her back against the closet doorframe, slid down it, pulled her knees into her chest, and cried.
“Sarah?”
A gentle voice from her door, followed by the pad of her younger sister’s feet on the carpet. A warm body snuggled up to her on the floor, and a head rested on her shoulder. Sarah reached a hand toward her sister. Two hands wrapped around her own, and they sat on the floor, saying nothing. Jo was always there for her. Loving her. Not demanding anything.
Like me.
Sarah took a long breath and let it out slowly.
“Joanna!” Their mom yelled from downstairs. “Go wake your sister. Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“She thinks you’re a late sleeper. I won’t tell if you don’t.” Jo ran her fingers through Sarah’s hair. “How come you got the gorgeous hair? It’s not fair.”
Sarah sniffled and squeezed her sister’s hand.
“I’ll go tell Mom you’re on the way down. Take your time. If you’re not there, I’ll eat your pancakes, and Mom can make more.” Jo kissed her shoulder. “See you downstairs.” Jo’s warmth was gone, and the sound of her footsteps faded.
Sarah leaned back against the door frame and pushed one leg out straight. It bumped into something on the floor, something cold. She reached for it and felt a square metal box with rounded corners—the lockbox where she kept her journal. She’d thrown it into the closet, deciding it was not much good to her anymore.
Open it.
The thought injected itself like someone had spoken it into her right ear. She cocked her head to listen, but there were only the sounds of her mother and sister in the kitchen. She turned her attention back to the box.
Her fingers brushed the top of the box, found the touchpad and entered the combination. 7117. The lock clicked in obedience. She hesitated, then opened it.
The earthy smell of leather brushed her face. Pulling out a leather book, her fingers lingers on its smooth texture, the stitching, the seams. You didn’t touch leather, you experienced it. It was rare and must have cost a lot. Aunt Kate had secretly given it to her several years ago.
“Write down things that God tells you,” she had said. “Treasure his words, and he will give you more.”
Pleasant memories passed through her mind as she opened the leather book and felt the paper. Real paper. Her uncle said there was a time when all books were printed on paper. He had books. Hundreds of them that filled a whole wall.
Her fingers brushed over the page, and an image sprang into her mind with such force that she sucked in a breath and jerked her hand back.
Sarah held her breath for a beat, then moved her hand back toward the page. She touched the edge of the page. Nothing. She moved her fingers to the center of the page, and the image sprang to life again. It was the dream she’d had the night before her accident. That morning, she’d written it down in her journal. She planted her hand upon the page as if to remember.
The image appeared again in full color. In her dream, an angel stood in her room and told her—what was it exactly? She tried to remember, but the words were shrouded. A desperation clawed at her mind. She needed to know the words.
Her fingertips touched the page again, searching for the words she wrote a year ago. Her fingers lingered over the spot where she knew they should be, almost as if she could feel their absence. She pressed her fingers harder against the page, as if willing the letters to appear. As she did so, vivid images flooded her mind, the words appearing in a dazzling script written with liquid gold ink, dancing across a black expanse. The letters glowed with an otherworldly light, radiating warmth and life into her darkness. Sarah held her breath, afraid that even the slightest movement might make them disappear.
She read the golden words. “You will see the wonders of his loving-kindness as heaven bends to reveal his sons and daughters. You will see what others cannot.”
“Sarah! Breakfast is ready!” Her mom yelled from downstairs.
The images disappeared, and her mind was swallowed in darkness again. You will see what others cannot, he had said. But that was then. None of it mattered anymore.
“I guess you changed your mind.”
She said that out loud. She knew he was listening and snapped the book closed to make the point, then tossed it into the closet.
“Sarah!” Her mom yelled louder than last time. “Your pancakes are getting cold!”
Her parents still thought they had to yell so she could hear upstairs. She didn’t have the heart to tell them she could hear their whispered dirty talk and giggles. She yelled back that she was on the way down.
I don’t change my mind.
“You could have done something and you didn’t.” Sarah shut him out. He left her with a puny life in the dark and she’d had enough.
She threw on jeans and a T-shirt, then felt for the scanner on her nightstand. Her uncle had a high-tech company, and he built it for her. He said it used lasers and sound to scan what was in front of her, then translated that into various vibrations to inform her about her surroundings. It took her several months to use it effectively, but she could now navigate rooms. And she didn’t have to wave her arms out in front like a walking Frankenstein. She needed it. And so she hated it.
Her finger paused over the button to activate it. Her lips turned down, and her eyebrows scrunched together. She hated her dependence on the thing, pushed it into her jeans pocket, and headed for the door to her room.