Aban's Accension

Chapter 19: The Blind

Chapter 19: THE BLIND

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

The next morning, Aban wakes up soaked. She takes a cold shower and has barely dried off when the heat once again begins to build up layers of moisture on her skin. Her thighs stick together before she has a chance to pull on her pants. Her forearm sticks to her upper arm when she bends her arms to comb her hair. Her feet peel off the sticky floor when she walks through the bathroom’s humid air into the hallway’s dampness. Damp damp damp. Hot hot hot. Aban hates it, hates it, hates it.

She yells, “I hate this heat!”

She doesn’t feel better.

She feels restless. She wants to go away. She wants to go home. She doesn’t want to go home. She wants to find El, she doesn’t know why. Aban acts on the latter impulse and heads downstairs where she hears murmurings -- gentle words with overtones of firmness -- filtering out of the living room. Aban follows the words and peeks through the living room door.

El is sitting on his sofa. The coffee table has been moved toward the fireplace. Facing him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, are seven men and women, faces upturned to El. Between them and El, a man sits cross-legged, facing El yet not quite looking at him. It’s as if the seven have the man’s back, but the man is nervous anyway.

El asks, “Why are you here?”

The man answers, “I’m blind.”

Aban sidles into the room as El asks, “How did you get that way?”

“Does it matter?”

“Why do I ask?”

“I don’t tell people. They know I’m blind; they don’t want to hear why because then it could happen to them. They’re afraid.”

“Because they can’t do anything about it?”

“Exactly.”

“How did you become blind?”

“Why does it matter?”

El doesn’t answer. The man jerks his head side to side as if searching. El waits. The man fidgets with his hands and mutters, “It was an accident.” El murmurs encouragingly. The group wait in a way that seems to hold the man up. The man inhales raggedly, “I was, you know, in charge of the fireworks for Canada Day a few years ago. I always did it. Me and my son, we went to get them, the fireworks We got all the favourites and some new ones. I followed the rules, you know. Had a hose nearby, stuck them in sand in a bucket. But we don’t have a large backyard. It’s Toronto, you know,” he pauses. “Anyway, I set them off like always and like always one doesn’t go off. And like always, I go over to see if I can get it to go. But it explodes. Right into my face. The pain was awful, like thousands of fires landing on my face and my eyes. My eyes! My eyes...,” he peters off in anguish. Everyone holds their breath. The man sniffs, wipes his marked face with the back of his hands, his head downcast, hiding his face from El's gaze. He begins to speak again. “The fireworks went into both eyes. The doctors said I closed them quickly. It’s instinctive. But... Anyway, I got help. It was superficial, the doctors said, just to the corneas, not the whole eyes. They said they could treat the injury. My face healed, but my eyes never did.” He stops talking. His story seems to be over, yet El continues to sit in anticipation. The group look at him puzzled, then at their friend.

His voice pierces the quiet as he takes up his tale again. “I have nightmares. I see the flash. I can’t hear. And then I can’t see. Little fires are all over my face, and my eyes are burning so much. I thrash about trying to put them out. I sleep separate from my wife so she doesn’t have to know about my nightmares. I don’t want her to know. My son, he wakes up screaming most nights. He thinks it’s his fault. I tell him not to talk about it; it’s best to forget it, to put it behind him. It’s not his fault anyway. I tell him that every night. I’m past it myself.”