vision for granted. Hell, I used to be one of them.
But they were right.
However, it was on my to-do list—to find a vision-impaired community in the suburbs—but life seems to keep getting in the way. I navigate away from the Chicago Lighthouse page, but before logging off, I’m notified that a direct message has come through from Jake. Did I will him to contact me just from thinking about him? I dismiss the ridiculous notion, but my heartbeat quickens as I hold my finger over it to listen.
Hey, Bec. I know it’s been a long time, and I didn’t know if you had the same cell. I heard about your mom and your husband … I’m so sorry. I’m back in Chicago and would love to see you and catch up. Here’s my cell: 773.858.7663. I miss you.
I hike up the volume and replay the message. Jake is back in Chicago? Jake misses me? Eleven years have gone by, and he still misses me. I close the message and drop the phone in my lap. I obviously shouldn’t respond.
I pick up the phone again. I have a book queued up on Audible but suddenly am thick with fatigue. I close my eyes and don’t open them until the train rumbles into Ogilvie station.
My limbs rebel when I stand, joints stiff and bones like lead. My sleep-starved body demands more. We exit and the familiar city smells hit me, like hot cat piss and a thousand dirty gym bags. But then I think about what’s outside: energy, nature, steel, possibility, memories … him.
I maneuver through the tight spaces and mumble my apologies to people in massive hurries. An elbow jabs my ribs. Sweat already dampens my clothes, and it’s still morning. I huff up the stairs, erecting my cane and sweeping it over the concrete. Finally, I explode outside to a slight chill from the lake and a blast of buttery sunshine I’d give my left arm to see.
I head the few feet to Le Pain Quotidien and someone holds the door open for me. I fold my cane. “Thank you.”
I step toward the front and inhale fresh croissants and strong, rich coffee.
“Table for one?”
I nod. I attempt to follow the hostess’s footsteps, but my hip rams into a table’s edge. I massage the sore spot, settle onto a bench, and order coffee and avocado toast. When I’d first gone blind, everything had been a land mine. Stepping foot into the city not only seemed like the scariest thing on earth—it was. I was terrified of potholes and traffic. Too many times, I’d miscalculated a turn and literally dropped off the curb into the street. I’d had so many horns blared at me, I thanked God drivers hadn’t been using cell phones as often as they did now, or else I’d be dead.
Like Chris.
I sip my coffee, eat my toast, and shift gears to think about anything other than my dead husband or Jake’s message. Despite my better judgment, I pull up Facebook and listen again. Before I can think too much about it, I issue a verbal response and attempt to keep my voice low so as not to disturb the other patrons.
Jake, my God, it’s been too long. Thank you for the kind words. It’s been a really tough year. I do have the same cell and would love to catch up. I’m actually in the city right now for a noon appointment. Let me know if you can grab coffee after?
I send it and immediately regret it. Have I opened a dangerous door? A few minutes later, his message comes through:
I’d love to meet. Want to do Big Shoulders Coffee?
He provides the address and I tell him I will text when I’m on my way. I swipe sweat from my hairline. I immediately rethink my outfit, my appearance, my choice to say yes.
I remember the last day I saw Jake. I’d walked him to the orange line so he could head to Midway Airport. I watched him board the train and knew I’d never love anyone else the same way I loved him. And despite how much I loved Chris, how stable Chris was, what a good husband … it was and had always been different than what I shared with Jake.
I sip the last cold remnants of coffee and wonder what would have happened if I’d moved to Florida. But I’d had my career to think about, my mother, my friends.