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The woman chuckles and hands me a flyer. “Not a problem. Caught your attention that way!”
I look down at the piece of paper in my hand. The enlarged microphone. The elaborate font on top that spells out three innocuous words.Open mic night.
“Huh,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Come on by,” she says. “Either to listen or to perform.”
“Yeah. I… yeah. Thank you.”
I make it another block before I find my phone. Call Posie’s number. She answers immediately, surprise in her voice.
“Hey, Summer. You’re not cancelling Sunday, are you?”
“No,” I say. “Tell me, do you want to play guitar with me next weekend? Like we used to?”
27
Anthony
I run a hand through my hair and glare at the tiny, folded plastic thing on my kitchen counter. So small. Harmless. But since I took it out of the packaging, I haven’t been able to touch it.
It’s too early for cane training, Dr. Johnson had said. But the specialist I’d talked to had told me to order one anyway.Get used to it,he said.It can be a great mobility tool. It’s freedom. You’ll see.
So here I am, staring at the thing like it might attack me, and wondering how the hell it’ll give me freedom.
All we need to do is get acquainted, I think. Shake hands, so to speak.
Perhaps I’m pushing this. In the afternoon, I have a meeting with a man who has the same diagnosis as me, but ten years down the line.
I’d started writing a list of questions for him yesterday, and by starting, I mean I’d stared at a blank notepad, a pen in hand, and felt like dying.
So yeah. No questions prepared.
But I’m going. That’s the goal for today. Touch a cane and talk to a blind man.
I wonder if I’m similar to the guide dogs for the blind Summer’s mother fosters. You sat down? Here’s a treat! Oh, you can shake paw? Here’s a treat!
There’s only one treat I want for doing all of this, and though she might be too big to eat in one bite, she’s delicious.
I reach out and grip the folded cane.
Nothing happens. It’s cold, hard plastic. It’s almost as if all of my combined fearsaren’timbued in this one inanimate object. Who would have thought.
The doorbell rings and I drop the cane like it might burn me. But halfway to the door, I change my mind, and toss it into a cupboard. Just in case she’s here. I don’t want her to see it.
But it’s not Summer on my doorstep.
It’s my brother, and the scowl on his face mirrors my own. We haven’t spoken since the harsh words in his office.
“You were right,” he says in greeting and steps past me into the house.
I shut the door. “Ah.”
“You were fucking right,” he repeats and strides into the living room, only to stop dead. “You don’t keep your booze in the same place Granddad did.”
“The cabinet to the left. Top shelf.”
He finds my scotch and pours himself a glass. Tugs at his collar again. It’s sweltering outside, but Isaac is in a three-piece suit.
