Black-Eyed Susans by Julia Heaberlin Read Free Book Online Page A

dear
    My vows shall ever true remain
    Let me kiss off that falling tear
    I never want to hurt you again
    But if you tell, I will make
    Lydia
    A Susan, too

Tessie, 1995
    After he leaves the office, my fingers brush
     over three stubby charcoal crayons; the cool metal coil binding a drawing pad; a Dixie
     cup of water; a few brushes, a narrow paint box with a squeaky hinge. The doctor has
     repeated the order of the paint colors four times, left to right. Black, blue, red,
     green, yellow, white.
    As if what colors I choose will make a
     significant difference. I am already thinking of swirling the colors to make purple and
     gray, orange and aqua. The colors of bruises, and sunsets.
    This is not the first time I have drawn
     blind. Right after Mom died, Granddaddy was constantly trying to distract me from
     grief.
    We sat at his old cedar picnic table. He
     punched a No. 2 pencil through the center of a paper plate, a de facto umbrella, so that
     I could grasp the pencil but not watch my hand draw. “Making pictures in your head
     is primal,” he said. “You don’t need your eyes to do it. Start with
     the edges.”
    I remember the faint blue flower border that
     etched the paper plate, that my fingers were sticky with sweat and chocolate, but not
     what I drew that day.
    “Memories aren’t like
     compost,” the doctor had said, as he guided me over to his desk. “They
     don’t decay.”
    I knew exactly what he wanted out of this
     little exercise. Thepriority was not to cure my blindness. He wanted
     to know why my ankle shattered into pieces, what implement etched the pink half-moon
     that hung under my eye. He wanted me to draw
a face.
    He didn’t say any of this, but I
     knew.
    “There’s infinite storage space
     up here.” He tapped my head. “You simply have to dig into every
     box.”
    One more self-help bite from him before he
     shut the door, and I would have screamed.
    I can hear my father outside the door,
     droning blurry words, like a dull pencil. Oscar has settled into the cave under the
     desk, his head resting on my cast. Pressure, but nice pressure, like my mother’s
     hand on my back. The doctor’s voice floats through the door. They are talking
     about box scores, like the world is running along just fine.
    My head is blank when the charcoal begins to
     rub insistently against the paper.
    The click of the door opening startles me,
     and I jump, and Oscar jumps, and my pad slides and clunks to the floor. I have no idea
     how much time has passed, which is new, because ever since I went blind, I can guess the
     time of day within five minutes. Lydia attributes it to a primitive internal clock, like
     the one that reminds hibernating animals to wake up in the black isolation of their
     caves and venture back into the world.
    I smell him, the same Tommy cologne that
     Bobby always liberally sprays on himself at Dillard’s. My doctor wears Tommy
     Hilfiger, sounds like Tommy Lee Jones. Everything Tommy.
    “Just checking to see how it’s
     going,” he says.
    He is at my side, reaching down, picking up
     the pad from the floor, placing it gently on the desk in front of me. My drawings,
     except for the one on the pad, are ripped out and scattered across his desk. My head
     pounds, and I press a finger into my right temple like there’s a pause button.
    “May I?” he
     asks, which is ridiculous because I’m certain his eyes are already greedily
     scanning. He picks up a sheet, puts it down, picks up another.
    The air is thick with the heat of his
     disappointment; he’s a teacher with a second-rate student who he has hoped will
     surprise him.
    “It’s just the first
     time,” he says. Awkward silence. “You didn’t use any paint.” A
     hint of reproach?
    He stiffens. Leans in closer, tickling my
     shoulder, turning my pad, which was apparently upside down. “Who is
     this?”
    “I’m not done.”
    “Tessie, who
is
this?”
    I had scrubbed the charcoal against the page
     until it