Enlightened

I lie here in bed, staring up at the ceiling, surprised at how bright the darkness is. I'd never really noticed before how much ambient light there is in our bedroom after we turn out all the lamps to go to sleep. A bright ray of gold from the nightlight in the hall pries its way under the door and another tries to squeeze in at the top. None of the kids are afraid of the dark anymore, but Kathy keeps it burning for safety's sake, in case one of them wakes in the night to go to the bathroom or downstairs for a snack. Cool white light from the street lamp outside our window oozes in through the blinds, shining up onto the ceiling and throwing the textured pattern into high relief. From the bathroom, two green eyes glow at me, slightly off the level, one from the electric toothbrush and the other from my shaver. The red numbers on the clock tell me it is after three in the morning and I am still awake.

My eyes itch and burn, and tears slide out of the corners and into my ears, but I don't blink. I am afraid to close them, even just long enough to relieve the dryness. I am afraid that if I do, when I open them, everything will be gone again.

No, not gone, exactly, just, out of sight.

The whole time I was blinded, I was afraid. My first thought when I opened my eyes and found nothing there was that I would never see my wife's face again, and I realized in that moment that I had always had this image in my mind of us growing old together. I'd go bald and probably get a small double chin, not so much from fat, because I would always work out, as from the skin losing its elasticity; but Kathy, she'd grow old gracefully, staying as beautiful as she was on her wedding day even as she matured from a blushing bride of nineteen to a mother, and then a grandmother, and if we were lucky, someday, a great-, or even a great-great-grandmother. The crows feet would appear first, crinkling at the corners of her eyes whenever she smiled, frowned, or worried about me or one of the kids. Then the laugh lines would show up. They'd be there even when she wasn't smiling because, at least in my imagination, we'd been very happy together and she had smiled a lot, enough to make them permanent. Then there would be silver in her hair, first a little, and then a little more, until it was all that color, but still thick and full and beautiful. People would look at her and wonder what a handsome woman like her was doing with an old geezer like me.

Her eyes, though, they would never change. They would always be that perfect blue that could see right through our children, but became bewildered and a little hurt whenever I managed to shut her out.

Then I thought of my children. Oh, how I wanted to see them grow up! I wanted to see my son become a man and my girls mature and blossom into young women. Maureen had already done that, and, God, she was beautiful. Kathleen was well on her way, and now that I was back at home, she was dressing a little more respectably again. Elizabeth, though, she was just starting to mature. She was still my little girl. She still had her chubby baby face, and I couldn't even imagine what she would look like as a young woman. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see the way her face changed as she moved from childhood to puberty to womanhood to becoming a wife and mother. I wanted to see the wisdom growing in her eyes as her thoughts turned from dolls and sleepovers to future plans and dreams. And someday, when each of my girls brought home the boy she planned to marry, I wanted to be able to shake his hand, look into his eyes, and take his measure as a man.

Then there was the baby. I'd been there for the births of the other four, and I couldn't imagine not seeing this one as it came out to greet the world for the first time. I couldn't imagine not looking down into those big, blue, unfocused eyes and saying, as I had said to each of the others, "Welcome, little one. Daddy loves you." How could I help my wife raise a child never having seen it? How could I go the rest of my life never knowing what my youngest looked like?

Then I thought of Kathy again. How could she cope with a helpless newborn and a helpless husband? Maybe she would have been better off if I hadn't come home. Maybe she'd leave me again.

If I had been afraid before, that thought sent me into a panic. I couldn't feed myself, dress myself, or find my way to the bathroom alone. How the hell would I survive without my family, without my wife to take care of me? Of course, I soon felt like an ass for having those fears. Kathy was there, and she wouldn't leave me, at least not right away. She was a good woman and a faithful wife. Even if she decided she couldn't care for me, she would stick around until I could take care of myself or hire someone who would.

Then I thought of my job. Without my job, how would I pay someone to look after me? How would I support my wife and kids? How would we afford another baby, put the twins through college, support ourselves in our old age?

My heart is pounding now, and not all of the tears that slip from my eyes are from irritation. I gasp for air, trying to reign in my emotions, my fear; and in her sleep, Kathy senses my distress and instinctively turns toward me, throwing her arm across my chest and her leg across my thighs as she nestles her head on my shoulder. She sighs and mutters in her sleep, "Mmm, Elliot," and I feel safe again.

I know I cannot continue like this. Sooner or later, I must sleep, and to sleep I must close my eyes. I know logically that the world will not vanish just because I close my eyes, but like a toddler just discovering the permanence of reality, I don't really believe it and have to prove it to myself. There is only one way to do that.

Kathy moans, and in her sleep, she places a hand on her pregnant belly. Without a thought, I lay my hand next to hers and I can feel the baby moving, a little knee or elbow pressing against my palm, and I smile. As long as I can feel it there, that tiny person pushing back in response to me, I know this is real, and lasting and that it will still be here, even if I look away for a moment. Finding my courage, I finally blink, which causes more tears to fall, and I am relieved to see that the world is still there when I open my eyes again.

Emboldened now, I close my eyes for a longer moment and wait to see, or rather to not see, what happens.

The first thing I notice is the feel of Kathy's skin against mine, how smooth it is, and the slight friction as she shifts against me with every breath. Then I hear her breathing, slow and deeply relaxed, she takes one breath to every two of mine. I feel the air tickle against my neck every time she exhales, and it sends shivers across my skin. With my hand, I trace her curves from shoulder to hip, then down to her thigh. She makes a low mewling sound and snuggles even closer against me. I press my lips to her forehead and feel the soft skin and each individual, tickling strand of hair. I can smell her shampoo and on my lips I taste her lotion, cocoa butter and something else tropical. It reminds me of some kind of fruity mixed drink that a man would never order in a bar in New York City, but he would drink more than half of his wife's if she ordered it at a resort on vacation. I smile as I realize how comforting her presence is, even when I cannot see her in the dark.

For a moment, my fear comes back. Yes, her presence is a comfort, but would she have stayed if I hadn't regained my sight? The thought is so distressing that I have to open my eyes, just for a moment, and see that she is still there. Just like in the hospital when she was always there. I was too afraid then to test the air for the scent of her perfume or listen for the sound of her breathing, so I would call out to her. Every time, she answered immediately and took my hand. Then we could sit together without talking, and I would feel safe because I could feel her there. Yes, she's always been there, from the time we were children, even when I was in the Marines, even when we were separated, she was there, my anchor, my foundation, she was there.

I'm feeling safe again. She is my courage. I close my eyes once more, and dare to explore. Carefully, I slide out of bed, trying to disturb her as little as possible. I walk cautiously toward our bedroom door, keeping my eyes closed, shuffling along in the dark with my hands out in front of me. I can feel and hear the carpet, soft and springy brushing under my bare feet until I just barely graze my fingertips against the smooth wood of the door and grope for the doorknob. I am surprised that I never noticed before how loudly the latch clicks and the hinges squeak, and I freeze and hold my breath, hoping I haven't woken Kathy. I listen intently and all I hear is the slow, relaxed sound of her breathing.

Smiling to myself, I continue out into the hallway. With my eyes closed, it is still dark, but there is a lighter quality to the darkness when I turn toward the nightlight. I don't think anyone who was truly and completely blind would be able to sense this, so I feel I have cheated by using it to orient myself, but this is, thankfully, only an experiment anyway.

I cross the hall and stop when my fingertips brush against the cool plaster wall. Listening intently I hear life in our house. My children are breathing. One of the girls changes position in bed, and I can hear the sheets shift and the box springs squeak Dickie has fallen asleep with his video game on. It is running in demo mode, and I can hear the muted sound effects. The scents of perfume and cosmetics drift from the girls room to tease my nostrils, but then I turn my head toward Dickie's door and catch the manlier odors of sweaty socks, stinky shoes, and Doritos.

For some reason tonight, I feel compelled to discover all those experiences that I have been missing by letting my mind be preoccupied with work and worry until I drift off into exhausted slumber. Turning to face away from the wall, I lean against it and slide down carefully until I am seated on the floor. I am wearing only my pajama bottoms, and the plaster is cold against my bare back. It raises goose bumps on my flesh. I can feel them erupting from my skin and under my fingertips as I rub my arms to warm myself. I am aware of things as never before. I can hear the faint rasp of friction as my hands glide up and down, feel the tickle of my body hair against my palms.

Outside, a car drives past the house. Even through the walls and windows, I can hear it. The brakes squeak when it gets to the stop sign at the corner. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a cat squalls, and I have no doubt that in a few weeks Elizabeth will be telling me who has a new litter of kittens and begging me to let her have one. I'll have to say no, because I don't want a cat around the house to be jealous of the baby, but maybe, now that she's old enough to look after it properly, just maybe once the new baby is settled, I'll talk Kathy into letting her have one. After all, it's only fair. Dickie had a turtle, until it got jammed in the garbage disposal.

One of the girls turns in her sleep again, smacks her lips, and yawns. I hear the blankets shift as she gets up. The sound comes from Elizabeth's side of the room and I recognize her footsteps as she comes out into the hall.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Then what are you doing down there?"

"Listening."

"To what?"

"Find out for yourself."

Elizabeth is my curious one. Without hesitation, she sits beside me on the floor, slides an arm behind my back, and snuggles up to my side. I drop an arm around her shoulders and we guard the silence for a little while until she whispers, "I can hear your heartbeat. Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump. And your breathing, ooooo-ahhhh, ooooo-ahhhh, ooooo-ahhhh."

"And I can feel your fingernails on my back," I tell her. "When did you start growing them long?"

"A couple of weeks ago," she says. "I want them long for homecoming, and a manicure is cheaper than acrylic nails so I have been putting clear polish on them to make them stronger."

I can't help grimacing. My baby girl is making plans for the homecoming dance. Where have the years gone? I sigh.

"What's the matter, Daddy?"

I smile. She's listening. Of course she heard that.

"Oh, I just realized that you're growing up, that's all."

She laughs at me. "Just wait until the baby comes," she says. "Then you'll be glad I'm not a little kid anymore. Why are you keeping your eyes closed?"

There is no way I can answer that question without telling her about my fears, and I don't want to lay that on her. She's my baby, and if I can give her nothing else, I can at least give her the security of knowing her dad will never let her down. So, I keep quiet and hope she will change the subject.

"Are you wondering what it would be like if you had stayed blind?"

I freeze. How in the hell do I answer that? I am sure she can feel my tension because she starts massaging my neck with the hand that is behind my back and she pats my arm with her other hand.

"We would have taken care of you, Daddy," she assures me. "No matter what happens, you never have to worry about that."

Part of me wants to cry to know that my job makes my children have to think about things like that. Part of me is bursting with pride to know my little girl is so sensitive and compassionate that she knows what is on my mind and what I need to hear.

As it turns out, I don't have to say anything. We stay quiet for a few more moments, and then she giggles. "Dickie's snoring."

I listen more closely, and sure enough, I hear it, a faint wheeze followed by a quiet whistle. I chuckle, and wonder how that must sound to Elizabeth with her ear pressed against my chest. Kathy is stirring in our bedroom.

"El?" I hear her call.

"Out here," I reply quietly.

I hear the bedclothes move, the faintest slide of silk as she puts on her robe, though I have to wonder if that's just my imagination, and then the soft padding of her feet as she crosses the carpet. The door clicks open and the hinge squeaks.

"What are you two doing out here in the dark?"

"Listening," Elizabeth tells her simply.

I hear a laugh. "To what?"

"Find out for yourself," Elizabeth tells her, and I feel my daughter's warm body leave my side. Before I can tell her to get her mother a chair, I hear a rustle of silk and Kathy is sitting beside me. .Like our daughter, she wraps one arm around me and snuggles close, rests her head on my shoulder. I want to tell her she shouldn't be sitting on the hard, cold floor, but after three pregnancies and four kids, I know she would just irritably remind me that she is pregnant, not an invalid.

"I'm going to get a drink of water," Elizabeth says.

As far as I can tell, Kathy doesn't respond. I nod my head in acknowledgment and promptly hear Elizabeth's feet padding down the hall to the kids' bathroom. The bathroom door shuts, the water runs, the disposable cup clatters softly against the sides of the trash can when she throws it away, the bathroom door opens, and she comes padding back to us.

I can sense her standing there for a minute, and finally, I ask, "Do you need anything?"

"Uh, no, no I don't," she says. "Do you?"

"We're fine, sweetie. Go back to bed," Kathy tells her.

I hear her return to her room, but she comes out again a few moments later, and I feel a soft, fuzzy blanket being dropped over us.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Kathy says.

I hear Elizabeth leave once more. Her bedroom door creaks as she pushes it partway closed, her box springs squeak when she gets into bed. There is the rustle of covers and the sounds of Elizabeth turning this way and that to get comfortable. Then all is quiet except for the sounds of the house and our breathing. At first Elizabeth's respirations are a little faster and louder than those of the other kids, but soon they turn into the deep, even breaths of sleep.

"I can hear your heartbeat," Kathy says.

I smile and kiss the top of her head.

"I love you, you know," she reminds me.

"I know."

She puts a hand on my stomach and rubs gentle circles. Her touch is warm and comforting. It goes on for several minutes, and I find I can begin to distinguish one of her fingers from the other, and every once in a while, I can feel the metal of her wedding band brush against my skin. Slowly, I feel myself begin to relax, and that surprises me because I had not realized I was tense.

"You don't have to be afraid," she says. "I'll always take care of you."

My chest feels tight, my heart starts to pound, my throat burns, my eyes sting, and I struggle to breathe. Kathy reaches up and wipes away a tear with her thumb. She kisses my jaw and whispers again and again, "It's all right, baby, it's all right."

I struggle to identify the emotions I am feeling. Finally I recognize a combination of relief and a sense of security that I haven't felt in a long, long time. My breathing comes under control, my tears stop, and I am calm again.

By this point, I think that Kathy has dozed off, so I am surprise when her soft voice comes out of the darkness asking, "How do you feel?"

Again, it is hard to find the word that fits. Relieved? Yes. Happy? That, too. Safe? Certainly. They all fit, but most importantly, I know we're in this for keeps. I'm not sure I really knew that before. Now I know.

I smile. "Enlightened," I tell her.

She doesn't say anything for a long while, but I don't feel any pressure to fill the silence. Finally, she says, "Good," and snuggles closer to me.

Her skin is soft and warm and our bodies shift sensually against one another as we breathe. I hear the change in the rhythm of her inhalation and exhalation as she falls asleep.

I could pick her up and carry her to bed, but she seems comfortable here beside me and I am content where I am. So I stay here, leaning against the hallway wall, the comforting weight and warmth of Kathy's body pressed against me, and I fall asleep to the sound of my wife and children breathing.

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