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Down toward the eastern end of some side streets, I catch glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge, which makes me feel like I’m in a movie. Actually, a TV show: Full House.
After driving through the area for a while, turning here and there, moving toward the houses and away from commercial buildings, we come to a block of houses that are identical white two-stories, with porches on the side, big, grassy yards, and red, Spanish-style roofs. They remind me of beach houses.
I park in front of the one with a “For Sale” sign on the lawn, and Burke sits his seat up. He rolls his shoulder—the one I thought looked bruised and swollen through his gown—and glances out his window before staring down at his lap.
Can he see the house?
I nudge his elbow lightly. “This look like the place? I know you can maybe only see the—”
“Yes.”
He glances at me and then shuts his eye again, and lets a breath out, like my talking was annoying. I take a deep breath and ask him, “Do you have a key?”
“There’s a realtor passcode thing on the door,” he says quietly.
“Okay. I’ll come around, and we can walk up to the door together.”
He nods, tight-jawed and angry-looking again.
I don’t know what the deal is, but he definitely seems pissy as we walk the short path to the front door, my arm threaded through his. He tells me the passcode, and I punch it into a small box attached to the door handle; it swings open, revealing a key. As I unlock the door, I feel a shudder move through his big body.
“You okay?”
He nods once, his gaze on the ground—but I can see his jaw is ticking like he’s gritting his teeth.
We step inside, into a spacious, beautiful foyer. His unpatched eye goes wide, and I can feel his breathing pick up. He gets a few deep breaths and then rasps, “Into living room…and down the hall. It’s the first room on the right.”
“Okay.” Despite myself, I want to wrap an arm around him or say something soothing. I guess he really can’t see much at all, and he’s upset about it. I would be, too. Yeah, sure, it was shitty what he did—and I don’t have a lot of patience for people who just disregard others the way he did me—but I’m going to need to move past that, given our current and pending situation.
Since I don’t feel comfortable wrapping an arm around him, but I want to be sure that he doesn’t trip or something, I put a hand on his lower back as we walk past a very formal dining room, beside a gleaming, curved staircase that leads upstairs.
Everything about this place is super nice, with fancy, new hardwood, fresh, smooth paint, elegant modern chandeliers, and furniture that looks like it was arranged by a decorator.
“This is your house?”
He doesn’t answer.
Between the dining/foyer area and the kitchen, there’s a little step-up, where the floor goes from hardwood to some kind of pale, slate-looing tile. I start to tell him, but he must be able to see it—or, more likely, this is his house, so he knows where it is—because he steps up at the right moment.
Then we’re in the open living/kitchen area, a large square space dominated by a long, tan sectional couch and a fancy kitchen done up in stainless steel and pale green colors. Burke stops between living room and kitchen, his whole body tensing as he looks slowly around.
“Is this your house?” I feel compelled to ask again. He just…does not seem relaxed. Also, it looks like a showroom. “Maybe are you thinking about buying it?” I shake my head at that dumb question, and realize, “You must have bought it already, huh? I’m not firing on all cylinders today.”
Burke keeps moving, past the living room’s fireplace and down the sleek, hardwood hall. A few steps down it, he stops again and covers his eyes, breathing deeply. His eye must be hurting.
“I think I see the door you mentioned. Can you see it with your eye that’s not hurt? Just a few more steps—like maybe ten or something—and we’re there and you can sit down.”
He moves slowly, stiffly, and I’m sure his whole body is sore. I take his hand as we reach the closed door. Something about him just says he needs it. When my fingers fold around his, I can feel his palm is sweaty.
“Let’s go lie down.” I push the door open, revealing a bedroom that’s done in navy, beige, and royal blue. It’s small—not the master—with a wall of bookshelves and a built-in desk, a wall of windows, and a queen-sized bed beside a deep wood armoire.
Burke goes straight for the bed, shoves some pillows aside, jerks the covers down, and climbs in on his side, facing the window. I can see his chest and shoulder heaving as he breathes hard, but from where I’m standing behind him, his posture looks unwelcoming and rigid.
