Now, from the patio on the first floor of the house, I can hear the waves kissing the shore, and the sky is painted with colors: orange and yellow streak across the violet, making a beautiful canvas I can’t take my eyes from. I’m sitting in a chair, a beer in my hand, when my phone rings. I pick it up, noting Flash’s name on the screen.
“Flash, tell me good news, man.” I don’t mean it, but my voice is nothing but a growl when I answer the call.
If he’s taken aback by my tone, he doesn’t let it phase him. He launches right into the reason for his call. “Thanks for backing Arden up at the shop today. I’m glad you were there.”
“Yeah, man. Any time. Has she heard from Brantley?” I rush Flash through the niceties, because all I really want to know is whether Brantley is safe.
He hesitates, and I catch it. It’s telling, but I don’t know what it’s saying yet. “She didn’t call, she texted. It sent Aaden into a kind of tailspin, but at least she knows she’s okay. Said she had to run down to Florida to ‘take care of something,’ that she’d be back sometime tomorrow. She told Arden not to worry, and that she’d call as soon as she returned.”
A sigh of relief and confusion whooshes out of my lungs. “Seriously? Well, I guess that’s better than nothing, right?”
Flash grunts his agreement. “That’s what I told Ards. But you know how she gets when she’s worried about something. She’s a dog with a bone. I feel sorry for B when she gets back. My wife isn’t going to let this one slide.”
Remembering how Arden pressed Brantley the other night about where she’s been going during her disappearances over the past year, I can imagine how it will be after this impromptu trip to Florida. I cringe.
“Yeah. But Brantley can handle it. I just want her to trust someone enough to tell them what’s going on. You didn’t see her face before she left today.”
Flash doesn’t respond right away. “She seem stressed?”
Thinking back to the way Brantley’s expression strained, the way she looked like the only thing she wanted to do was bolt the second she ended that call, I answer in the affirmative. “Yeah, man. More than stressed.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it. Brantley is family. She may not be a Jackson, but we’ll protect her like she is.” The determination in my brother’s voice matches what I’m feeling, and relief fills me up.
“Definitely.”
“Mr. Jackson, please come in.”
The petite, Asian woman steps back to let me inside her suburban Savannah home. I walk inside, immediately taking note of all the things that might prove to be difficult or even dangerous to my new client.
“Paul is waiting for you in the living room,” she continues.
“Thank you, Mrs. Yang.” Following her down a short hallway, we enter the living room, which is open to the kitchen. It’s a typical planned community floor plan, with a sliding glass door which opens to a deck in a small backyard. The house is immaculately clean, letting me know that Mrs. Yang cares a lot about appearances and perfection, and I don’t have to go out on a limb to guess that the same compulsions apply to her son. She folds her arms and assumes a watchful, but not unfriendly, position against the kitchen island a few feet away while I sit down on a leather wingback chair in the living room.
On the couch opposite me sits a fifteen-year-old boy. He’s wearing an expression of pure, unadulterated fury, laced with devastation and embarrassment. His black hair is cut in a perfect style, his clothes in a preppier fashion than I’ve seen most teenage boys his age wearing. The long-sleeved polo and khaki pants probably aren’t very comfortable for sitting around the house, and that’s going to be the first change I make for this kid.
“Hey Paul.” Keeping my tone casual, I greet him with a smile that I know he can’t see. “I’m Axel. I’m going to be your O&M specialist. Do you know what that stands for?”
Paul shrugs. I note that he isn’t wearing sunglasses, and his eyes are directed just above my head, at the fireplace mantle behind me.
“It’s an Orientation and Mobility specialist. That means—”
Paul cuts me off. He doesn’t change his position on the couch, continuing to lean back against the cushions and stare off above my head. “It means your job is to babysit blind people. And I now fit into that category. Right?”
From her stance in the kitchen, Mrs. Yang emits a disapproving noise. When I glance at her, the expression on her face is appalled, but not surprised. I focus on Paul again.
“You don’t look like a baby to me, Paul. And neither was my brother, who was my very first client. Air Force veteran and total badass. That’s my brother. Before and after he lost his eyesight.”
Paul blinks, and his expression changes to slightly interested. His mask of fury drops Instead, I see the scared boy he really is underneath all of his anger. “Really? He used to fly jets and stuff?”
“We both did. Now, I work with other people who have lost their vision because I like to help. You aren’t any less of who you were before, Paul. Just different. I’m going to help you realize that. I don’t take people onto my caseload who are scared of hard work, though.” I pause, letting those words sink in. “I heard that you’re a classically trained pianist, that true?”
A pained expression crosses Axel’s face. He jerks his head in something resembling a nod. “Yeah. I was, before my eyes…” He trails away. “Before. But I need to see to play the piano.”
I harrumph. “You’re classically trained, you must know about Ray Charles? And what about George Shearling? You’re saying even though they were blind, they sucked at piano?”
Paul is silent for a moment. I can tell he’s thinking; a muscle ticks in his jaw. Finally, he leans forward. “I bump into things a lot. I thought I knew my own house, you know?” He’s lowered his voice, and shame colors his face.
I glance over at his mom. “Mrs. Yang, I think we’re going to be just fine here. This first appointment is going to take about two hours. Can you leave us for that long?”
Mrs. Yang hesitates, but finally, she nods. “I’ll go and run some errands. If you need anything, just give me a call. Paul…”
Her son lifts his chin. “Yes, mom?”
Mrs. Yang’s voice shakes just slightly. “Work hard.”
There’s something heavy in Paul’s voice when he answers. “Yes, Mom. I will.”
When she leaves, I don’t move right away. “Your mom, she’s pretty strict, huh?”
Paul’s response is immediate. He rubs a hand across his forehead, as if he’s already been working through a difficult problem. “She expects perfection in everything. That’s what kind of parent she is. And my dad…he’s a mathematical engineer. They’ve both always put a lot of pressure on me, you know? But I’ve never had a problem meeting their expectations. Until now.”
Sympathy for the kid runs through me. “That’s a lot of pressure you’re putting on yourself. Being blind isn’t something you need to be good at, Paul. It’s something you need to get acclimated to. Then you’ll continue living your life and excelling at the things you were good at before. My brother runs a multi-million dollar company now. He even creates products for the visually impaired to use. You can be great at whatever you decide to do. If that’s piano, so be it.”