Blindness by Ginger Scott Page A

and dryer tucked in a pantry closet. A door on the
far side leads to what I presume is his bedroom, and that’s where
he goes, once again attempting to shut the door on me as I follow.
I catch it in my hand and wait in the doorway while he falls
forward on his bed, sliding his body up until his face is planted
in his pillow.
    “Just leave. I’m sorry I bothered you,” he
says, working his feet until his shoes fall to the floor. He grabs
a fistful of his pillow and lifts it over his head until it covers
it, like he’s trying to hide.
    I know the safe thing to do would be to
leave. But I can’t seem to get my body to follow through with my
mind’s orders. I’m wavering at the door, watching his back rise and
fall with the heavy breaths he’s taking. Eventually, I close the
door all the way and slip my own shoes off, kicking them to the
corner. I pull my sweater off, too, since the rain nearly soaked
through it when I ran outside. I wait at the foot of the bed,
unsure of my next move. I know he can sense I’m still here. I see
his hands grip at the sheets and squeeze, like he’s holding
everything in just for my benefit.
    “What did you mean?” I ask, not really
knowing where to begin with him. He pushes his pillow from his eyes
slowly and squints at me. “Before? What you just said to your mom.
About Jim?”
    I can’t seem to get myself to repeat it. His
words were so harsh, so ugly. And as desperate as I am to
understand why he’d lash out at his mother, part of me knows deep
down that he was probably telling her the truth. I sit down on the
bed and slide myself up to the headboard, closing the distance
between us, hoping it will help him open up and slow down his
breathing.
    We sit there, looking at each other for a
full minute before he answers. “Jim’s having an affair…some woman
in Chicago. My mom knows all about it; she just lets him get away
with it. Says she’s the one who gets the house and all this,” Cody says, rolling to his side and waving his hand in
the air.
    My heart sinks even more—every new fact I
learn about the Appletons drives my opinion of them lower. I’m
struggling with Trevor, trying not to paint him with the same
disappointment I have for Jim and Shelly. I know it isn’t fair, and
I know he doesn’t have the full story. He would be ashamed of his
father if he knew everything.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing what else I
can say. Cody shrugs and pulls his pillow from above him, stuffing
it behind his neck now so he can roll onto his back. I’m unable to
avoid the glimpse I get of his bare stomach as his shirt raises up
just enough to show the line of his boxers peering out from the top
of his jeans. I’m flushed suddenly and start to chew on my
fingernails as a distraction. I keep reminding myself I’m here
because somewhere along the way I became Cody’s friend—or at least,
I’m trying to.
    “You and your mom…you seem kind of…distant?”
I say, feeling him out.
    Cody sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead and
staring at his ceiling. His lips open with a breath, the words on
the tip of his tongue in several false starts before he finally
lets me in.
    “My mom didn’t go to my father’s funeral,” he
says, his words punching me in the gut. “Before he died, she was
more interested in how she could move up in her social circle, and
how she could drown her own fucking disappointment in herself with
alcohol.”
    I don’t know what to say to him. I want to
make it better, to suddenly give his mom a cure—to make her be a mother. But I know, probably better than most, that there
isn’t a magic pill for this. It’s something people have to decide
to be on their own—and some never do.
    “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s
okay?” Cody says, his eyes drifting off into a blank stare again. I
just nod, focusing on the feeling of my teeth along my fingertips
and the inside of my cheek—anything to keep the rising panic and
thumping of my heart from