“Isn’t there something you can take for that? Because some days you look so tired. I don’t think it’s good for your body to live on so little sleep.”
Some remote part of his brain registered she was concerned for his health, and he tucked that tidbit away to mull it over later.
“I don’t like taking drugs of any sort. Anyway, I get a lot done if I don’t sleep.”
“That’s not a good answer. I’d rather have you healthy, even if you get less work done. I’m gonna do some research about sleep issues with blind people.”
“Knock yourself out. I doubt I’ll listen to you any better than I listen to Fordham or my doctors.”
She went quiet for a moment and then said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but how did you lose your eyes?”
He’d been waiting for this question. Everyone was curious.
“Cancer. Retinoblastoma.” He said the words like it was no big deal.
“Was it painful?” Her voice was tight with some emotion stronger than curiosity.
“I guess so. I don’t remember. I was a baby at the time.” This was all the information he intended to share, but something made him go on. “My mom told me it was her fault I lost both eyes instead of one. She said the doctors explained I could’ve had radiation in one eye. It was risky, but maybe I could’ve kept my sight in that eye. Mom argued it was better to lose both eyes and know for sure I’d survive. Dad said something to the effect that I might be better off dead.”
He heard her sniffing. Why did I tell that story? I made her feel bad. He hurried to make an awkward apology. “Steph, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, I’m glad you told me.” Her voice cracked. “I hope your mom waited until you were grown before she told you that.”
“Mom died when I was seven.”
He heard a muffled whimper, like she was covering her mouth with her hand.
“Oh, Bran! I’m so sorry.”
Next thing he knew, he’d spilled the whole sordid story of his childhood, from birth through his mother’s death. Though Steph never moved from her chair across the desk, he felt her soothing empathy as if she were holding his hand. Dry-eyed as always, he gave every detail, including the rumors he overheard at the funeral.
“They were whispering that it wasn’t an accident. That she jumped off the balcony on purpose. I was sitting right there, but I guess they thought I was deaf, too. Or maybe too dumb to understand.” He didn’t say what he’d always suspected— always known—that his mother was escaping the horror of having a defective child.
“That’s so terrible.”
It was then he noticed the sniffing and the distinct sound of a tissue being pulled from the box on his desk. I’ve got diarrhea of the mouth. What’s wrong with me?
“I’m sorry, Stephanie. I shouldn’t have gone on like that. You can see why I’m so screwed up.”
She responded in a shaky tone, “No child should have to deal with any of the things you’ve had to face, much less all that baggage put together. It could’ve turned you into a bitter man. But it didn’t. You channeled it all into a good thing. The work you do for disabled kids. I think you turned out amazing, after all you’ve been through.”
Her words made him swell up, wishing so badly to be the man she described. But deep inside, he knew she was wrong.
“I’m more bitter than you think.” He snatched his stress ball from a tray on his desk and squeezed with all his might, thinking of his dad.
“I wouldn’t have been able to deal with all that.” Her wobbly voice steadied a bit. “My life was easy. My grandmother raised me, and she loved me with every bone in her body. She died three years ago, but her voice is still in my head.”
“Fordham’s voice is in mine.” He put the stress ball back in its proper place.
“A good voice to have.”
His fingers itched to touch her face. To know the shape of her nose, the line of her jaw, the slope of her forehead, the contour of her eyelids, the softness of her lips. He wanted to know her form as he knew her soul, to see her the only way he could. He pushed the yearning back inside, where it belonged.
From that point on he had wanted not only Stephanie’s presence, but her approval, though he knew it was based on pity. He craved it, like an addict. And he would take it any way he could get it.
Irritated at his lack of concentration, Bran increased the speed on the treadmill until his only thought was finding the strength to land one foot in front of the other. On and on he pounded, unrelenting, sweat dripping from his body. At last, a beep sounded to indicate he’d reached his ten-mile goal, and the machine gradually slowed to walking pace.
He followed with a round of one-handed pushups, once again proving to himself he was in complete