Sensing Serafina Read online

  Today marks one week of being home, and, while I prefer to be here, I’m feeling somewhat claustrophobic. Like cabin fever. I decide to attempt to journey out and ask mom to walk with me to a nearby park. I really hate feeling dependent on her; my loss of independence makes me feel like a child. Hopefully, I can learn new ways to at least get by, but, in my heart, I know there is more for me than that. But I hate waiting. I strive for liberation.

  The fresh air feels like a step in that direction, and the smells of the park are comforting and fresh. There is a food cart nearby of which I was already aware, but the scent of food calls me; so, while I wait on a nearby bench, mom buys us a snack. Sitting here with my sunglasses on feels like a disguise, hiding my plight from all passersby. A relief, but misleading even to myself.

  The scent of grass and summer heat accented with various flowers and shrubs awakens a small glint of light in my mind. The outdoors have always appealed to me, providing escape, peace, rejuvenation. It is what I need today.

  I can hear kids playing, dogs barking, tires of bicycles as they speed by, and somehow my senses provide the image that is lacking, which definitely gives me hope.

  It is a long road ahead, but at least I am finally on it.

  Before

  My schedule changed but I don’t care because I don’t have many friends at school, nothing and no one relevant to me. I’m just trying to get out of here, so I can leave this town. I don’t talk to Mom about my plans. I think she already knows I won’t stick around after high school.

  I’m not sure what I want to do; I just need fresh air, and it doesn’t exist here.

  Most of my credits are behind me, so getting out of school early gives me the chance to work, to add to my small savings under my mattress. All I can envision is the open road, my bike. After that, fate will lead the way.

  In the back of my mind, though, she lingers, alluring, like a magnet, and her pull is strong.

  Chapter 6

  Now

  Escape. Breaking out of this town has always been my desire, a search for purpose and a fear of monotony. But my residence is within me. And I’m stuck.

  My therapist tells me that I’m not trapped. But where can I go from here? In limbo, the battle is real, encompassing, and I can’t see to get out. I want to surrender and wave the white flag, to concede to the darkness. Rescue is an illusion, a mirage that I stumble to reach. So I settle for contentment; yet, even it is still fleeting.

  Never participating in many activities while growing up, I lean on the one thing I enjoyed, in which I found some sense of fulfillment and placation. My hands provide in me a truce, a medium for expression. Sculpting, a lifeline, a means to escape, but also to remain.

  I had two weeks remaining in my high school career when fate circumvented everything, effectively extinguishing my life with her, turning our dreams into fantasy. I still graduated on paper; the school generously exempted my finals, my previous grades enough to pass, and my therapist, Dr. Roberts, encouraged me to attend the local junior college in the field of art. While school was never something I wanted to pursue long term, art has never felt like work. The most difficult aspect of going would be using the necessary resources and accommodations per my disability, a huge dent in my already scarred pride.

  A couple of days ago, I decided to explore the idea of at least taking a few classes. It is a start.

  I made a call to the college and spoke with someone in the admissions department who directed me to a guidance counselor, Mrs. Penny Peterson. Apparently, “there are a handful of blind students who are very successful.” She arranged for a meeting to help me with the application process and to direct me towards a “wonderful college experience.” Her cheeriness was preferable to the alternative, but she was clearly disillusioned to my struggle. I tried to humor her, putting on a mask of togetherness and ability despite my lack of confidence internally.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go in there with you?” my mom asks after leading me to the appropriate door to the administration building. It is a small college that boasts small classes and personal attention. I appreciate the smaller campus and fewer buildings to maneuver.

  “No. I will figure it out on my own,” I answer her, partly continuing to be a martyr, though I wouldn’t admit that aloud, and partly as a test. It’s like a baby bird learning to fly, the mom coaxing it out of the nest, even though falling to the ground a few times is imminent. I have to embrace instinct. If I had been born this way, it would be my normal. I would know nothing else. But I wasn’t, and no amount of nurturing will teach me to survive.

  I’m using my walking cane, listening intently to my surroundings when I hear my counselor approach me. She had agreed to meet me just inside the double doors of the building.

  “Cal? I’m Mrs. Peterson, but you can call me Mrs. Penny. Everyone else does.” I feel her hand on my shoulder and try not to wince, hoping that one day unexpected touch will seem less shocking.

  Attempting a smile, I extend my right hand in the direction of her voice. “Nice to meet you.”

  To prevent an opportunity for awkwardness, she quickly continues, “Well Ok, let’s get you started. If it’s ok with you, I will lead you to my office.”

  I try so hard to ignore the difference in the way people talk to me, handle me. It sounds like Mrs. Peterson is not new to assisting people like me, but I still notice a hint of sympathy and possibly the notion that she takes pride in helping the unfortunate. I hope I’m mistaken. Just jumping to conclusions to preempt possible truths that might destroy my psyche even more.

  She places my hand on her elbow. I wonder if she thinks about how it feels to me. I can hear her age in her voice, but the soft, smooth skin of her exposed elbow further proves her appearance, the loose skin reflecting years beyond mine or even my mom’s.

  Walking slowly, my feet shuffle beside, but a little behind her, and I hear people glide past us at a normal pace, their air breezing by me, unaffected and unaware. I think of the cliché ignorance is bliss, recognizing its own irony.

  Finally seated, I hear Mrs. Peterson shuffle some papers and walk around her desk before sitting in her chair that I can hear deflate and then squeak as it reclines beneath her weight.

  She explains the process and places my hand where signatures are required. I think about the trust necessary, my mind considering bizarre scenarios where I could have signed my rights away.

  “Do you have any questions, Cal?”

  “So, you said I will receive a guided tour before classes start?” I ask, my fear creeping back in, a constant shadow greedily lurking behind my ambition.

  “Yes, yes. Let me see if Lexi is around. She could take you around campus right now if you like?” She ends her sentence on an up note, in the form of a question. “It’s actually a good time to do it if you have time because most of the students have not arrived for fall semester yet and the last summer session is wrapping up.” Time. An overstated abundance that is currently my adversary.

  I think of Mom waiting in the car and decline the offer, my fear the victor this time.

  “Thank you, but I might just have my mom help me find my way around sometime this week. I appreciate your time, Mrs. Peterson,” I say, standing and looking forward to the completion of a mentally exhausting but encouraging meeting.

  “Mrs. Penny. Call me Mrs. Penny. Let me help you to the door,” she says.

  “Mrs. Penny. Right. Thank you.”

  Once outside the building, I search the sounds around me and wait, knowing my mom will be watching for my exit. I hear the car door shut, the old, creaking sound distinct with rust, and hear mom’s footsteps rushing to my aid. I know she means well. But it still sucks.

  Before

  I attend a large school, which makes it easy to blend in and kind of disappear into the pandemonium within the halls between classes. I’m pretty quiet and don’t feel the need to fit in. I contradict the stereotypical high school student, refusing to conform. I also don’t w
ant to be viewed as the cool deviant. I guess, really, I just prefer to remain inconspicuous, for now.

  Except for when I see her standing near the door that leads to the student parking lot, the door I need to exit so I can head to work. I don’t pay to park in the student lot, but my motorcycle fits easily along the adjacent residential street. I see her before she sees me. She appears to be waiting for someone, and I wonder if she is leaving early like me. I know she is a senior because her ID badge is purple like mine, a classification method used to help the faculty keep track.

  I slow down my walk, giving myself a little more time to observe her unaware. God, she is beautiful. My attraction to her is primal, compelling, destined.

  Turning around, she sees me and stills, recognizing this gravitation we seem to share. A hint of a smile illuminates the direct path I follow towards her, commanding my steps. The space between us, close. I decide I can’t contain my thoughts, so I allow myself a few words hoping the rest won’t spill out, not prepared to reveal the overwhelming feelings I have for a girl to whom I haven’t even spoken yet.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” I ask.

  But she doesn’t answer my question, her own out before I can finish mine.

  “Are you leaving early?” she asks.

  Both of our grins widen and my hand falls from the door, not ready to open it yet. I answer her first, “I’m finished for the day, so I was headed to work. You?”

  “Yeah, me, too. Except for the work part. But yeah, I’m finished for the day.”

  “So, I didn’t get your name the other day. At the shop.”

  “Sera. It’s short for Seraphina, but I just go by Sera. And yours?”

  “It’s good to finally meet you, Sera,” I say, taking her hand in mine to shake it, but I maintain our hold, answering her, “I’m Cal.” This moment, while out of my norm, somehow still fits into my comfort zone. As we sift through the initial awkward introductions, it feels like there is still a calm and compatible harmony between us.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Cal.” My name on her lips, her smile, the light behind her eyes, the feelings I have ~ sensory overload. And I am done, intoxicated, complete.

  She looks at our hands, and I realize I haven’t released hers, so I let go and feel immediately cool, desperate to regain the warmth she brings me. I can tell she feels it, too, her mouth falling, afflicted.

  “Maybe I will see you again soon?” I say, not ready to leave.

  “Definitely,” she assures me. “Soon,” she says, smiling again. I smile back and head out the door, already counting the hours until we meet again.

  Chapter 7

  Now

  I feel relief when the sun moves behind the clouds, the burn on my arms and face easing. August heat causes my sunglasses to slide down my nose, my sweat frustrating me. A drought smothers our state, stunting new growth and denying liquid nourishment. The burnt grass mixes with the hot air and slaps me, hits me head on, while I slowly walk the campus with my mom, feeling out my future path.

  I labor through it, anticipating the reward, the light at the end of the tunnel.

  Mom encourages me. “I’m proud of you, Cal.”

  I mutter, “Thanks.” Conflicted. I need her help, her approval, but I look forward to doing this on my own. “I can do this,” I keep telling myself but seeing is believing and I have to find a new avenue for belief. My destination suspended in faith.

  After several walks that orient me to the campus, we stop at the local ice cream place. I’ve always had a thing for pistachio ice cream, and Mom is determined to lighten the mood. It’s a treat we don’t often get. The texture, cold and creamy with the crunchy nuts mixed in, is more noticeable to me now, and I’m able to enjoy it in a new way.

  The bell on the door rings as a group of kids come in; they are all talking enthusiastically about what flavors they want. But I notice a sudden hush, followed by a mom’s whisper, “It’s not nice to point.” Several minutes later, their topic changes and the kids are talking about a t-ball game, which I assume preceded their trip here.

  Mom puts her hand on mine. She recognizes my pause when I hear their conversation. I know they are pointing at me, at the scars that I can feel when I touch my head. Sunglasses unable to mask the raw, jagged lines that map the accident, which now serve as another constant reminder. Wounds I try not to notice when I run my hand through my messy, brown hair, a habit that is hard to break. But I guess I don’t care what they think about me. It is insignificant. I will get used to it. Eventually.

  Right now, art is my light. I embrace the ability to lose myself while creating something beautiful, something that represents what I can no longer reach. It is a substitute that will sustain me.

  Before

  My favorite part of each day: Sera standing by the door. But after a week of exchanging smiles and goodbyes, I need more.

  I notice as I near the door, Sera is watching me.

  I feel myself smile, and I look forward to her, to any interaction with her.

  “Hi again,” I say, approaching her at the end of the hall, just inside the double doors where she usually stands.

  “Hey, Cal. You headed to work?”

  “Actually, no, not today. Got the day off.”

  “Oh, that’s cool,” she smiles back, our usual small conversation having become the norm.

  “Yeah, it’s good. So, what are you up to today?” I ask, hoping to extend my time with her, even if only for a few minutes while we talk.

  “Oh, me? Just headed home I guess. Sometimes I stop at the library, but I don’t have any homework today, which is nice.”

  “It’s pretty today, especially for this time of year.” I hesitate but decide I have to just put it out there. “Would you, uh, want to hang out at the park for a little while?” I bite my bottom lip and have to force my hands to be still by my side. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Maybe it’s that I know how much I like her already, how much I would have to lose if she says no.

  “Umm, sure. Yeah… just let me text my dad and let him know what I’m doing. He kind of freaks out if I don’t,” she smiles, getting her phone out.

  “Definitely.” It takes about a minute for her dad to respond, but it feels like too long for that little swoosh sound that means so much. Looking down at her phone, she grins and nods at me.

  My smile widens. And my nerves dissipate. “Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her hand with a new sense of confidence. In me. In us. Our future that I know is imminent.

  Her giggle is kindle, rousing a new relationship full of beauty. Attraction. Her brilliance, my calling.

  I walk her to my bike and hand her my only helmet. “Put this on.”

  She takes it, and I have to help her with the buckle under her chin. I ask, “Have you ever ridden before?” I can see she is unsure.

  “No. Is it scary?” She is so innocent, adorable. I chuckle. “No, it’s not scary. You will love it; trust me. Just hold on to my jacket.” She nods at me and her eyes reflect faith. Something new and uncharted for me. It’s exhilarating.

  I drive slowly and carefully, and I can tell she wants more, her joy evident in her laugh. I love getting to be the one who introduces her to the spontaneity, the weightlessness of riding. It is the closest thing to flying. A satisfaction unmatched. Until her.

  We drive around the park to a spot where ducks are swimming in a small lake. There is a monumental, old tree, its branches providing protection over a perfect moment where we sit on its roots facing the water.

  Looking at me, she grins, “You were right; it’s not scary. In fact, I loved riding with you. It’s so freeing.”

  “Yeah, it brings me peace, the wind on my face, even the loud sound of my bike. It’s like it’s drowning out all of the other noises.” I feel a little exposed sharing this, worried I sound too intense, so I pick at the grass nearby, not making eye contact.

  “You’re right. I felt like it was all there is, like I have no worries.”

  I g
lance up to see her looking at me, smiling, encouraging.

  My lips turn upward and our eyes lock for a second, long enough to see each other more clearly. Revealing a connection deeper than either of us can understand. A door opening to a scene so serene, vibrant, jubilant, but stepping through requires a leap. Over my fears. Over my inhibitions. But my legs are running in my mind, getting a good start so I can clear the fissure dividing us.

  I jump.

  Chapter 8

  Now

  Two weeks of classes and I’m finally feeling more confident about getting around and adjusting to college life despite my disability. I have to immerse myself and allow everything to sink in. My previous style of learning was seeing the information. I would commit things to memory visually. Maybe that is helping me now. I can still visualize the material, although it may not be completely accurate. It helps me to stay sane though. I can’t let darkness invade my spirit just because it took my eyes.

  I’m taking four different classes, two art classes and two basic prerequisites necessary for any degree. I decided I might as well obtain a degree if I’m going to bother with attending college. Freshman English and Algebra are easy for me. They always were. Mrs. Penny connected me with the financial aid department, and I was given a grant to help cover my classes and supplies. I was able to use it to get a laptop that, with new technology, allows me to hear what I can’t read. I’m still learning braille; it’s not coming easily to me. I also have a special calculator that assists me in algebra.

  I’m surrounded by voices and sounds, though, something through which I constantly have to sift in order to find what is relevant. Sometimes it is very distracting, especially for me. Growing up, I frequently became lost in thought, easily losing focus. Now, every single sound has to be intentionally discarded. A sneeze, a cough, a giggle, paper shuffling, pencils dropping, the click of the teacher’s shoes as she walks and teaches at the same time, the hum of the lights, a yawn.