Cindy Miles: At First Touch

“You okay, sis?” Emily asked, and she draped her arm over Reagan’s shoulders. Then she lifted the ponytail Reagan had pulled her shoulder-length hair into the night before. “Want me to brush it? It’s grown out since you cut it short.” Emily tugged at her ponytail. “I can braid it if you like—”

“No, Em.” Reagan rose from the bed and slowly moved toward the blurred image of the window. With her hands outstretched, she grasped the sill and stood, allowing the sunlight to bathe her face. Outside the windows, crickets chirped. “I’m not helpless. I can get myself in and out of bed, dressed and...even braid my own hair. I’m not an invalid.”

Emily’s sigh reached her ears. “I know—I didn’t mean anything, Rea. Honest. Hey,” she said brightly, changing gears. “Let’s have breakfast on the dock. Like we did when we were kids. Do you remember?” Her footsteps grew closer. Hesitant. “It’s a sincerely magical morning. Perhaps a mermaid will join us.”

Reagan closed her eyes briefly, and a slight smile touched her lips. Emily had a way with words, and she’d always made up the best stories when they were kids. “Sure.” She turned toward her sister. “Sounds good.”

“Swell! I’ll throw everything together! You like bananas, right? Fruit? Greek yogurt?” Emily said, and Reagan nodded. “Great!” Em’s voice grew faint as she hurried from the room. “It’ll only take me a sec!” A crash to the floor followed by a muttered shiitake mushrooms! reached Reagan’s ears, and she again felt her mouth pull into a slight smile. Emily Quinn—soon to be Malone—hadn’t changed a bit. She’d never been one for swearing. Instead, she’d made up her own forms of verbal release. Shiitake mushrooms being one of them.

The sounds of Emily bustling around in the kitchen washed over Reagan for a moment more; they—the noises—seemed familiar, too. Of a time long, long ago, when their mother used to make ham sandwiches and dill pickles to eat on the dock. Or toast waffles—toast with butter and syrup—and bacon on Saturday mornings. Sounds she’d taken for granted as a kid were the only link to the past she had now. The clink of silverware. The creak of the pantry door. Reagan breathed, scanned the room with her useless eyes, then eased across the wood-planked floor, arm outstretched, and made her way slowly across the hall to the bathroom. The thing about the Quinns’ river house was that it had a lot of windows, allowing the sun to pour in from all directions. It gave her some semblance of direction. A small help, she guessed.

In the bathroom, Reagan quietly closed the door behind her, washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toiletries she’d carefully laid out on the shelf after she’d first arrived. After running a brush through her hair, she pulled it back into a ponytail again and then stared hard at the blurred image before her. Tentatively, she lifted her fingertips to her eyes. Brushed the tender skin beneath them. The corners. Then the lids.

Useless. Blank stares. That’s all she had to offer now.

Pushing angrily away from the sink, she made her way back to her room, bumped into the door frame and swore, then once inside pulled open the first drawer of her meticulously packed dresser. Emily had helped her arrange the clothes in her dresser so all Reagan would have to do was feel around for them. With her fingertips she felt in the first drawer for a bra. Easy enough. In the next drawer, a pair of cutoff faded jeans that she knew reached midthigh and had a hole near the pocket. Then a tank top. Plain. Easy. No color coordination required. The only thing she’d ever have to worry about would be that her shirt was inside out, and she absently lifted her hand and brushed the back of her tank. Small, silky tag intact and inside shirt. With a shake of her head, she sat on the floor and pulled on her well-worn Converses, then slipped on her shades, grabbed her walking stick and headed for the kitchen.

Shadows and light collided as the sun poured in through the multitude of windows, from every angle, and for a moment Reagan stopped in her tracks to get her bearings. Living room. Kitchen to the left. She continued on, tapping her stick side to side as she went along. She knocked against something hard—an end table, probably—then something soft. Sofa. She felt like a fool, swiping the long stick with the telltale sign that a blind person was on the move: white stick, red tip. Swipe swipe swipe.

“Just let me grab one more thing and we’re all set,” Emily said, and her figure shot about the kitchen in a hurry, then came to stand before Reagan. “Okay, ready?”

“I can help carry something,” Reagan said.

“Nope, it’s okay. I’ve—”

“Em,” she warned with impatience. “Seriously.”

“Fine,” Emily agreed with a sigh, then draped a strap over Reagan’s shoulder. “You carry the lunch box. I’ve got the thermos and cups.”

Reagan nodded and adjusted the bag. “Right behind you.”

The screen door creaked open and Reagan caught it with her palm as she and her sister stepped onto the porch. Humidity clung to the air around her, and she inhaled the ever-present brine that always heightened at low tide. She followed her sister’s lead, walking the trail she remembered from years ago, until they left the shade of the magnolias and live oaks and hit full sun on the dock. The wood creaked as they started across, and Reagan picked her footing carefully.

“You should’ve seen this when I first returned,” Emily said. “Every other wood plank was sketchy, then there was the big gap.” She giggled. “I’d hired Matt to repair it, and Lord have mercy above, you should’ve seen him out here.” She sighed, and the sound floated back to Reagan on the breeze. “All cutoff shorts and bare chest with all those muscles glistening from the water.”

Reagan’s mouth tugged up in the corners. “Sounds like you were perving on him, sis.”

“I totally was,” Emily confessed. “Are you okay back there?”

Reagan swept her stick side to side, and the dock was just enough of a shadow in the bright sunlight to make out. “Yep, I’m good.”

“You amaze me, you know?” Emily continued. “I mean, look at you. Taking the dock like you own it. Which you do.” She giggled. “On a good day I pick my way carefully down, even though it’s in good shape now.” Another sigh. “Guess I’m a scaredy-cat.”

Yeah, right. You’ve never been a scaredy-cat, Reagan thought, but said nothing. She just continued her path to the end, then eased down the aluminum plank to the floating dock. It rocked back and forth with the lapping water. Another door creaked, and Emily’s figure bustled about in the little dock house, then finally returned.

“Let me throw down this quilt,” she said. “So our backsides don’t fry.”

Reagan stood, letting the salty breeze brush her face and toss her ponytail as she waited.

“Okay, it’s all ready. Move one step over and have a seat. You’re close to the edge, so we can hang our feet in the water.”

Reagan slowly lowered, felt the cool material of the quilt beneath her palms, and eased onto it. Slipping off her sneakers, she felt for the edge, found it with her fingertips and lowered her feet into the tepid water. A shadow moved, then a splash beside her as Emily found her place.

“Okay. Yogurt,” her sister said, handing her the cool plastic container. “Spoon is right beside you.”

Reagan sighed, hating that she had to be told where items were, felt the lid with her fingertips and pulled the thin foil top off. Found the spoon next to her on the quilt and picked it up. “Thanks, Em.”

“No problemo,” she returned. “You know, we could—”

The sound of Emily’s phone ringing cut off her words. “It’s the café. I’d better answer,” she said. “Emily Quinn, esquire and entrepreneur, here. Oh, hey, Toby, what’s up?” Silence, then, “Oh, shoot. Okay, give me a few and I’ll be right in.” Emily sighed. “Fudgsicle,” she huffed. “I’m sorry, sis. I have to go in. Ginger had to leave sick.”