Sisters

A monitor standing outside the school came forward to help her, as Annie walked into the school. He took her to the office, and put Band-Aids on her knees himself, then escorted her upstairs for orientation. He pointed her in the right direction and she got lost immediately, and wound up in a sex ed class for advanced students, where they were showing them how to put condoms on bananas, and as she listened, Annie realized that she had come to the wrong room. They asked her if she had brought her condoms with her, and she said she didn't realize she needed them for the first day of school, but she promised to bring some the next day. After a ripple of laughter swept across the classroom, another person took her back to the right place, but everybody in her section had already left the room for a tour of the school. So she was lost again, and had to ask for help to meet up with her group. She confessed later to her sisters that by then she was in tears. Someone saw her crying, and escorted her to her group. She could feel that she had blood on her torn blue jeans, realized that she had skinned her hands too, was crying pathetically, had to go to the bathroom and had no idea where it was, and couldn't find a tissue to blow her nose.

“What did you do?” Sabrina asked, when she heard the story later. Just listening to it, she was ready to cry herself. She wanted to put her arms around Annie and never let her out of the house again.

“I used my sleeve,” Annie answered practically, with a grin. “For my nose, I mean. I waited till later to find the bathroom. I held it in. And my group finally found me.”

“Oh God, I hate this,” Sabrina said, writhing in her seat.

“Me too,” Annie said, but she was smiling by then, which she hadn't been in school.

At orientation they had explained to them what the next six months would be like. They would learn how to manage public transportation, live in their own apartment, take out the garbage, cook, tell time, type in braille, apply for a job—the employment office would find her one if necessary—shop for clothes, dress themselves, do their hair if it was something they wanted to learn, take care of pets, read braille, and work with a seeing-eye dog if that was what they wanted to do. There was an additional training program for working with the dog, which would extend her school year by eight weeks, and guide dog work was done off-site. They mentioned that there was a sex ed class for advanced students, and listed several other options including an art class. By the time Annie had listened to the whole list, her head was spinning. According to them, about the only things she wouldn't be able to do after six months at the Parker School were drive a car and fly a plane. There was even an exercise class and a swimming team, and an Olympicsize pool with lanes. Just hearing about all of it, she was overwhelmed. And after orientation, they went to lunch in the cafeteria, and were shown how to manage that too, how to handle money, how to choose what she wanted to eat. The signs were in braille, which was going to be their first class every morning. For today, there were teaching assistants who told them what the choices were and helped them get it on the trays, and to the tables. Today's lunch was free. Welcome to the Parker School. Annie had picked a yogurt and a bag of potato chips. She was too nervous to eat. The yogurt was pineapple, which she hated anyway.

“Boy, this is intense, isn't it?” a voice next to her said. “I graduated from Yale. It was a lot easier than this. How are you? Are you okay?” He sounded young and as nervous as she felt.

“I think so,” she said cautiously. The voice was male.

“So what brings you here?”

“Research for a book,” she said, sounding flip.

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “I'm blind.” She was suddenly sorry for what she'd said.

“Me too,” she said more gently. “My name's Annie. What's yours?” She felt like one of two kids meeting in the sandbox, checking each other out on the first day of school.

“I'm Baxter. My mother thought I should come here. She must hate me. So what brought you here?”

“A car accident in July.” There was something intimate about the darkness they lived in, like being in a confessional. It was easier saying things when she couldn't see his face, nor he hers.

“I had a motorcycle accident in June, riding with a friend. I was a graphic designer before this. So now I figure I'll be selling pencils in a cup on the street. There's not a lot of work out there for blind designers,” he said, sounding half tragic and half funny. But she liked him, he had a friendly voice.

“I'm …I was a painter. Same problem. I was living in Florence.”

“They drive like lunatics there. No wonder you got in an accident.”