AIMEE SHUDDERED. SWEAT BEADED her upper lip. She balanced herself against the smooth Formica- topped chest of drawers beside her. She’d never realized how difficult putting on her underwear could be. Forget matching or even clean. Wearing a leopard thong with the black lace bra wouldn’t matter, not even if they were inside out.
First she had to find them, then get one leg in and then the other, and pull them up.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Loud and in front of her.
You might want to close your door,” said a familiar voice.
“Not on duty at the hospital?”
“Time for my nap,” she said. “I work a split-shift today.”
Aimee heard a yawn.
“We’re neighbors,” the nurse said. “A perk of my job; I get lower rent, an
Aimee sympathized. Living in her seventeenth-century high-ceilinged apartment with extensive foyers and a cavernous diamond-tiled hallway didn’t always make up for the galleylike kitchen and postage-stamp bathrooms.
“Call me Sylvaine,” the nurse said.
Aimee felt her hand grasped by a a warm one.
“Aimee,” she said.
“Feel free to ask for help. That’s part of my rent package, too.”
Aimee felt shy, but her legs were freezing. That she stood practically naked in full view from the hall hadn’t occurred to her. Yet on second thought, she realized, few inhabitants would know the difference.
“I know you’re tired and I don’t want to impose but . . .” Aimee said. “Mind helping me get dressed? If you get me started, I think I can manage.”
“Organization,” Sylvaine said. “It all comes down to organizing, putting and keeping things in the same place, developing a system that works for you. Makes you independent.”
Aimee liked that idea.
A half hour later Sylvaine and Aimee had arranged LeClerc’s face powder, Chanel red lipstick and lip-liner, and Chanel #5 scent within reachable distance for Aimee and organized her drawer of patterned panty hose, bar of dark chocolate, and cell phone so Aimee could locate them. They’d hung her leather miniskirt over the chair back and angled her boots by the door. Aimee felt thankful Rene had brought her the essentials on his first visit.
“My mother was blind,” Sylvaine said. “But you’d hardly have known it. At home anyway. She did everything. Even managed homemade
“She sounds amazing,” Aimee said.
A welcome breeze entered the small studio via the window.
“And bullheaded,” Sylvaine said. “She wouldn’t have got far without that strong will of hers. We had our own secret way to communicate. At least, I thought it was secret until I saw some of the deaf-blind people use it too.”
Interested, Aimee asked, “How’s that?”
“We did it for fun. If we were somewhere and she didn’t like something, she’d block print instead of whispering or being rude.”
“Block print?”
“Palm printing . . . it’s simple. You form the words in capitals on someone’s palm or forearm. Like this.”
Aimee felt Sylvaine take her arm. Then Sylvaine’s finger traced lines and curlicues on it.
“It tickles.”
“All the letters are composed of one to three strokes,” Sylvaine said. “A U is a rounded one stroke. The V slants . . . feel the difference?”
Aimee nodded. Sylvaine’s presence dispelled the cold isolation she had felt.
“What did I write?”
“The doctor was . . . no is . . . chunky?”
Sylvaine’s throaty laughter filled the room.
“Do me one more big favor,” Aimee said. Rene had left her room too soon to give her the information. “Write down on a paper the numbers from this phone’s speed dial on a piece of paper. Then I promise to leave you alone.”
“
Aimee felt a paper thrust into her hand.
Then a beeping came from somewhere at mid-level where Sylvaine stood. “Oops, I’m being paged,” she said. “Time for my shift.”
Aimee felt guilty. “Sorry that you missed your nap.”
“
After Sylvaine’s last footsteps echoed down the hallway, it struck Aimee. For a brief time, with Sylvaine, she’d forgotten she was blind. The first time since it had happened since that night.
The phone rang.
“I’m mad at you, Aimee,” said Martine, her voice husky as usual. “Furious.”
“But why? Won’t Vincent cooperate . . . is he badmouthing me?”
“You didn’t let on. I’m your best friend,” she said. “Tell me it isn’t true? You’re . . . you’re. . . . It’s not permanent, is it?”
“I was going to tell you,” Aimee said. “I didn’t want to ruin your big evening.”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I feel terrible. What do you need?”
What she really needed, Martine couldn’t provide.
“Don’t worry,” said Aimee.
“Rene says Lambert’s
Martine’s father had had routine cataract surgery, and the eye clinic in Geneve specialized in macular degeneration. Neither was her problem. But she knew Martine wanted to help.
“Martine, I need decent dark glasses,” she said. “Miles Davis chewed on the only pair I have, not that it matters to my vision . . .”
“Say no more, they’re on the way,” she said. “I’ll engage a nurse to help you at my cousin’s apartment. Round the clock care.”
“Whoa Martine, you’re wonderful but I’m learning to help myself. And I need to stay here, they’re still running tests.”
And she wasn’t really sick. Battered, blind and concussed, but that was different. She didn’t need a nurse.
The phone clicked. “Sorry, I have to put you on hold,” said Martine.
By the time Martine came back on the line, Aimee had gotten one of her legs into her black tights.
“This magazine will kill me yet if the typesetters don’t,” she said, sounding frazzled. “The typesetters were on strike, but we took care of that. Now the major account in Bordeaux has ‘problems’ with the concept of our article on the ‘new’ winemakers.
