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She had no cause to be freaked out by him. She’d made what might have been a normal human interaction into something twisted and complex, because she was attracted to him and she didn’t know what to do about that and the whole thing was so straightforward. She needed to do nothing, because he was simply passing through her life and he’d be gone in three days. She had three days to make it up to him by behaving like a normal human being.
Next morning she waited for him in reception. He pushed through the front door, sunglasses on, a takeaway coffee cup in one hand, a white cane in the other.
“Good morning.”
“Georgia, it is. How’s Fluffy?” He folded the cane and tucked it in his satchel.
“Loves her tank. Does a lot of hiding from imaginary forces of evil.”
“That sounds serious. She might need therapy.”
“Maybe I can get a two-fer.”
He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and gave her a quizzical look.
“I do a lot of hiding from imaginary forces of evil too.”
It was the perfect line. If they’d been a couple in a rom-com they’d have kissed and all the misunderstanding would’ve been forgiven and the Lauren character watching them would’ve been seen wiping her eyes or cheering, or maybe frowning as she plotted revenge.
Damon sipped his coffee but it didn’t cover his smile. “I think you’re safe with me.”
She was. Damon wasn’t Hamish. He was funny and generous. He didn’t feel sorry for himself, or hold her accountable for his issues. Of course he didn’t. In the scheme of things she was no one to him. She did need therapy. More of it. This time to adjust to being on her own and overreacting to men who pushed her carer trigger.
Before he was settled in the iso booth and had a chance to take control again, she said, “I went to England on a university exchange program and stayed.”
He stopped unpacking and looked up. “I’ve got a rare degenerative disease. It’s aiming to leave me in total darkness one day.”
He said it so matter-of-fact. “Do you worry about that day?”
He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “No. I’ve always known it was coming.” He was so pragmatic where Hamish was studiously unreasonable. “I’m ready when you are.”
They recorded the session and this time she joined the others over sandwiches with Damon, laughing at his stories about the trouble he could get into in airports, taxis and hotel rooms. But what she heard behind the humour, his willingness to make others laugh at his own misfortune, was how important his residual sight was to him, how often it saved the day. He might say he was ready for total darkness but it was hard to imagine how you could be.
The next day, Friday, their second last session together, she opened with, “I married my uni sweetheart. But we both changed and the marriage wasn’t good.”
She’d practiced that on Fluffy overnight and since she hadn’t hidden under her bridge, Georgia figured Damon would cope. Saying it made her feel like she had her own fantail to help her stay afloat.
“Were you too young?”
“Yes.” And both of them too damaged to know they wouldn’t be good for each other.
“You’re still young.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”
Damon was quiet a moment, looking at her through the glass. “I can’t stand songs where the singers name check themselves. Britney, Jessie J, Mr Worldwide. Who needs that.”
Now she was quiet, but she recognised he was trying to lighten the mood.
“Please laugh at that, Georgia.”
“Leonard Cohen, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell.” It wasn’t just a rap craze. She named the greats. She’d one-upped him and Damon laughed then spouted Mitchell’s lyrics to Big Yellow Taxi, the line about paving paradise for a parking lot, which she used to set their session up.
They had lunch together again and talked about nothing particular because there were others around, but back in the studio the urge to keep spilling her secrets was impossible to ignore and there was something about their tentative conversation that was tender and secret. “My soon to be ex-husband has a brain injury.”
Damon frowned. “Was he injured before you married him?”
She looked down at her hands. This new desire to tell Damon such terrible truths was an ache in her chest that wasn’t relieved by saying it. “He was in a hospital bed.”
