Fox River. Emilie Richards
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grown-ups in their lives aren’t honest.”
“I’ve reassured her.”
“Are you spending time with her? Have you taken her out to eat? Taken her to a movie? Helped with her homework?”
“I have a job. I’m doing what I can.”
Bard’s job had never been a source of tension before, because Julia had always been home to fill in the gaps. He was a real estate attorney for Virginia Vistas, one of the area’s largest development firms. When he wasn’t closing and negotiating deals, he worked with the developers both as an attorney and a private investor. He had a gift for knowing when to buy and sell God’s green earth that made the substantial holdings he’d inherited from his wealthy parents a mere line or two in his financial portfolio.
“Are you spending any time with her?” she asked. “She loves to ride with you. Have you taken her riding?”
“The last time she rode with one of her parents wasn’t exactly a roaring success.”
“More reason. She needs to see that my accident was a fluke.”
“I’m doing what I can.”
“She needs more.”
“Then you’ll need to get better quickly, won’t you? Callie’s welfare should be an incentive.”
“You can be a bastard, can’t you?”
He was silent. Without visual cues, she could only imagine the expression on his face. But the possible range wasn’t pretty.
“I’ll take her riding this weekend,” he said at last.
It was a concession, but not much of one, since today was only Monday. “Bard, nothing that’s happened to me is under my conscious control. And it may not go away quickly. If it doesn’t, I have no intention of staying at Gandy Willson just because you want me out of sight.”
“I’d like you to stop saying that. You need to stay here to get well.”
“You can catch Callie before she goes to bed. Please go home and read her a story for me.”
He was silent a moment. “All right. But I’ll let her read to me. She needs practice.”
It was an old argument. Callie had a form of dyslexia that made reading a struggle. Bard believed if the little girl just read out loud enough, her disabilities would disappear. No matter how much she hated it or how much it upset her.
“Will you read to her instead, please?” Julia asked. “She can practice reading when everything else is back to normal.”
“You want me to spend time with her, but you want to tell me exactly how to spend it.”
“If you spent more time with her, I wouldn’t have to tell you.”
When he spoke, he was standing directly in front of her. She hadn’t even heard him move. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll read to her. But will you stop fighting everything and everyone and concentrate on seeing again?”
She didn’t repeat that all the concentration in the world wasn’t going to bring back her eyesight. She recognized a compromise when she heard one. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” she promised.
“That’s my girl.” He bent and kissed her, not on the cheek but full on the lips.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“That would be wonderful.” His voice was husky. “I hope you will see me tomorrow.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m flying down to Richmond early in the morning, and I won’t be by until after dinner. Sleep well.”
That was a promise she couldn’t make. “You, too.”
He closed the door gently enough, but moments later it still resounded. She was left with an assortment of feelings.
She had never dealt well with her own emotions. Only rarely had she understood what fed the creative well inside her or sealed it completely. She had found it best not to tamper. Painting or drawing, even sculpting—something she’d only done infrequently—had become her outlet. Perhaps she didn’t understand anything better when she’d finished, but she felt better. And that was good enough.
Now a desire to sketch seized her with a force that almost took away her breath. She got to her feet and felt her way around the room until she came to the desk. She slid her fingers underneath, feeling for a drawer. She was rewarded with what felt like a wooden knob, and when she grasped it, she felt the drawer sliding toward her. When it was open, she poked her fingers inside and felt for paper or a pen, but the only thing residing there was what felt like a slender telephone book, despite the fact that her room had no telephone.
To prevent theft, Bard had taken her purse. At the time she hadn’t thought that he was also taking pens and memo pad, her only means of drawing. Why would she have? How odd to think that a blind woman would want to draw something she couldn’t see.
Yet she did. With such an intensity, such a hunger, that she felt, for a moment, that she might starve if she couldn’t.
Before she could think what to do, Karen knocked and entered. “I saw your husband leave. Will you need help getting ready for bed, Mrs. Warwick?”
She wanted to weep with relief. “Karen, this probably sounds ridiculous. But I’m an artist, and even though I can’t see, I need to draw. I don’t need anything fancy. Just a notepad, if you have one. A pencil or two, even a pen. Would that be too much trouble?”
Karen didn’t answer for a moment, just long enough to let Julia know she wasn’t thinking about where she might find supplies.
“Mrs. Warwick, the thing is, Dr. Jeffers has forbidden it. He ordered the nursing staff not to provide you with art supplies.”
Julia still didn’t understand. “What possible reason could he have for that? Is he afraid I’ll slit my throat with a pencil?”
“I think…I think he believes it’s an escape from reality. That he wants you to face your problems directly.”
Julia drew a startled breath.
Karen hurried on. “Do you want me to call him at home? I could tell him what you’ve asked and see if I can get permission. He might want to come and talk to you about it himself.”
Julia slashed her hand through the air to cut her off. She knew what Dr. Jeffers would say. He was locked firmly in the psychiatric past, when psychoanalysis was the only therapy worth mentioning.
“I’m so sorry,” Karen said. “I don’t agree with him. But if I helped you…”
“I’ll get myself ready for bed.”
“I really am sorry.”
Julia didn’t trust herself to answer.
“I’ll just scatter the wood. The fire’s almost out anyway.”
Julia stood stiffly and waited until Karen closed the door. Anger was now a boiling cauldron inside her. Rarely had she felt so unfairly treated. At this, the most frightening moment of her life, she was locked away among strangers she couldn’t see, the prisoner of outdated therapies and psychiatric whims.
She had never been a rebel. In all areas of her life, her choices were usually fueled by concern for others. Even as an artist, she had never rocked the boat. She painted traditional portraits and landscapes. At William and Mary she had been the despair of art professors who had praised her talent and urged her to break free of convention.
She wanted to break free now. She had followed all the rules, and look what had happened to her. Her own body had betrayed her.
She took a deep breath to calm herself, but it was like a gust of wind fueling glowing embers. From the other side of the room she heard a faint