Shooting Starr

this particular morning that was so different from other mornings in her recent past. It came to her at last. It’s so quiet.

It came to her, too, that quiet was very different from silence. As she’d discovered during her time in the hospital, silence spoke with many languages; silences must be deciphered, interpreted, understood. Quiet, on the other hand, was…peace.

One thing hospitals and jails had in common was that they are never quiet. It occurred to her that this was the first time in many, many weeks that she’d had a chance to think…really think about everything that had happened and where she was now and what the future might hold, to think without shock and pain and fear, without the shadowy specter of Panic lurking like a stalker just beyond the edges of her mind’s eye.

The first thing she thought about was what a wonderful relief it was to wake up this morning and not feel terrified. It was somewhat of a mystery to her why that should be so; she was still definitely blind, still almost certainly in danger, still very much alone among strangers, just as she’d been yesterday.

Unable to solve that puzzle, she put it aside and moved on to the second thing that was missing from her life this morning: pain. Okay, not completely missing; there was enough tenderness under the bandages that still encased quite a large part of her head to make her wince and gasp when she touched it with exploring fingers. But the pounding, nausea-inducing headache that had been her constant companion in the days following the shooting had faded to a hum in the background of her mind.

Having determined that much, her fingers moved on, lightly now, tracing the bandages…then her eyebrows… her nose…cheekbones…lips. Exploring the shape of her own face. How odd, she thought, that I’ve never done this before. What must I look like? She’d been swollen and bruised. Was she still? Were her eyes still bruised? And my hair! Did they shave my head? Do I have any left? Gingerly she felt the top of her head, breathed a long sigh when she felt the familiar short, slippery tufts. Badly in need of washing, she was sure, but there.

She’d never been vain, but now she would have given anything for the chance to look in a mirror and see her own reflection looking back at her. She’d never thought before how vulnerable it made a person, not to be able to check out her own appearance before presenting herself to the world. How awful not to be able to tell if she had a smudge of dirt on her face, spinach in her teeth, food spilled down her front, clothes that didn’t match. A rooster tail in her hair!

She threw back the covers. Trembly, she sat on the edge of the bed and explored her body as she had her face. Arms…shoulders…collarbones…breasts. What was she wearing? Oh, yes-cotton bikinis and a camisole top that Jess had said belonged to her daughter, Sammi June. Jess had told her they were pink-Sammi June had evidently been very fond of pink-with a little edging of lace. Yes, she could feel that and also three tiny buttons on the front of the camisole near the top. She felt bones in unexpected places; she’d lost weight. Small wonder…

She stood up carefully, feeling brave and very tall in her personal darkness. She put out her hands and the left one brushed something-a lampshade. Yes-on the nightstand! And there were all the little plastic bottles with her medications Jess had put there for her the night before. A glass of water.

Feeling her way, she moved clockwise around the room, identifying the door to the hallway, then a tall dresser, and another door, this one obviously a closet. Then a rocking chair…oops, and a small desk. Then…a window. She explored it with her fingers and discovered that it was very much like the one in her room in her parents’ house in Sioux City-an old-fashioned wooden sash, double-hung, with a locking lever. She moved the lever and tried to open the window. It slid up easily-evidently the former occupant of the room had liked fresh air, too. It rushed in, cool and light across her face, and she gave a little sobbing gasp of joy. Prickles filled her nose and eyes, then tears; she hadn’t expected she would ever feel joy again.

Sinking to her knees, she rested her arms on the windowsill, and then her chin. How do I tell, she wondered wistfully, if it’s morning or night?

But wait-it was the bright and busy twitter of birds she heard, not the ratchety chorus of frogs and insects that filled Southern nights. Daytime, then. As if in confirmation, she heard the creak and bang of a screen door, and someone’s-Jess’s-voice talking to the dogs. “Hey, Bubba… Hey, Blondie. Yes…good girl…down now. Okay…yes… aren’t you a good ol’ boy…” And the eager woofs and grunts and whines they made in reply.

How she longed to be out there, too! Could she? Why not? But…by myself? Do I dare?

Yes, she told herself firmly. I do. I must.

Yes…because the one thing in the world she feared more than being blind was being dependent. I won’t, she thought, as memories of last night’s attack of panic rose like a nightmare specter to taunt her. I can’t. She closed her eyes and felt again the warm and solid strength of C.J.’s arms around her…how good they’d felt…the chill of loneliness when he’d left her. She shuddered. Never. I’d rather be dead.

Using the windowsill for leverage, she pulled herself up and methodically continued her circumnavigation of the room. Finding herself back at the foot of the bed, she discovered the pair of sweats she’d taken off last night and put them on, being careful to get the backs and fronts right. Tags to the back! She made the bed, taking quite a long time at it and stumbling over her sandals in the process. When she had it smoothed to her liking, she sat on the slippery bedspread and put on her sandals, then rose, lightheaded and triumphant. So far so good.

What I need, she thought, is the bathroom and some food. In that order. Jess had shown her last night where the bathroom was. Her toothbrush awaited her there, at position “two o’clock.” She’d smiled when Jess said that. And there was soap and a washcloth-nine o’ clock-and warm water and soft towels. How good it would feel to brush her teeth, wash her face…

Her stomach growled. Lord, she was hungry!

Yes! You’re alive! Good morning, Caitlyn Brown…and welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

Chapter 8

As she was going slowly and carefully down the stairs-and yes, she’d remembered to count them-Caitlyn heard voices and music. Following those sounds and the wafting smells of coffee, bacon and maple syrup, she felt her way to the kitchen. A U-turn to the left at the bottom of the stairs, Jess had told her, then down a long hallway with several doors opening off of it, all the way to the end.

On the way she marked the fact that there was a carpet runner on the floor and several creaky spots in the wood underneath and that the walls were papered. She could feel the seams with her fingertips as she trailed them along the surface.

The door to the kitchen was open, and she could feel warm, moist air on her face. As she stood sniffing the wonderful smells and basking in her own inner glow of triumph at having attained such a remarkable goal, she heard a voice say, “See, Momma, what’d I tell you?”

Then Jess sang out to Caitlyn, “Come right on in, hon’, straight ahead about six steps and you’ll hit the table.” She paused, then added with a note of smugness, “Momma wanted me to go get you when we heard you up and around, but I told her you’d find your way down here just fine.”

Behind those words, Caitlyn heard the sounds of a chair being scooted across linoleum and a wordless demurral that had a smile in it, and then someone short and soft put an arm around her waist and gave her a quick, warm squeeze.

“Oh, well,” Betty’s voice said near her shoulder, “I just thought, since it was your first day and all… Now, what can I get you, hon’? Coffee? You want some hotcakes and bacon? Or would you like some eggs? Jessie, turn that radio down.”

“It’s okay-” Caitlyn said quickly, but the country song had already faded to background noise. “Coffee would be great,” she breathed as her fingers made contact with the back of a wooden chair. “Black, please,” she added while she was easing herself into it. Safely seated, she let out a relieved breath.

Fingers brushed her left hand, and Jess said cheerfully, “You’re doin’ great, hon’. How’re you feelin’ this