Blindness(102)

“I’m not sure, but I just feel like I need to do something. He needs something,” I say, my focus fading and looking away from my two friends.

“What he needs is you,” Gabe says, just barely audible, but enough that I hear it when they walk away.

I lock the door behind them and slide down to the floor to sit with my feet facing my empty kitchen. I have very few belongings, and my small apartment looks more like the home of a squatter than an actual renter.

The lighting is dim from my one small lamp, but it’s enough for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll pick up another lamp or two and maybe a table from the Goodwill down the road. I take a fast shower, thanks to the cold water, and unbox the old quilt and bed sheets to dress the mattress that’s directly on the floor.

My body is exhausted, but my mind doesn’t seem to be able to slow. There’s no view from my window, only the bare branches of the giant tree that’s covering it. So without anything else to distract me, I pull out my sketchbook and spread my drawings around me in bed.

The more I move the renderings around, the more the story starts to make sense—old row homes with front steps, front porches, and gardens mixed along with specialty shops and businesses of a by-gone era. It’s my Louisville—the one I grew up in—only the way Mac always painted it in my mind. He talked about his plans, the things he was going to do to his house, and how it would inspire others to do the same.

Mac never got a chance, but maybe I could. Not his home—not his neighborhood—but another one. The adrenaline is instant, and I begin sketching manically. I pull my art box up on the bed and rip and tear at the pages of my book, at least twice heading out to my trunk to pull out the larger pages for drawing. The sun is rising before I know it, and I am surrounded by dozens of drawings—each part of the puzzle that is my own version of perfect.

I’m not due in for my internship until this afternoon, but I’m too excited to wait. Exhaustion was hours ago, and now I’m moving on powerful fumes. I’m racing on potential—on hope. I pull everything together into my portfolio book and dress quickly in the best outfit I have clean. I have to sell this idea—it could change everything.

The front desk girl looks at me with a confused expression as I rush by, but I don’t stop to talk or explain. I just keep walking—quickly—all the way to my mentor’s office. His name is Jeff, and he’s the one who liked my original drawings. He’s always been supportive of my work, but we haven’t really had many one-on-ones. He was ready to sell my original sketches to senior management a few weeks ago, at least as worthy enough for me to keep on as the intern, so I’m hoping what I have in my bag is just enough to win him over completely today. The door is closed, but I can tell through the open blinds on his office window that he’s alone, so I take a deep breath and knock.

“Come on in,” Jeff says, his head buried in piles of paper on his desk as I enter.

“Hey, Jeff…I’m a little early today. I hope you don’t mind?” I say, clearing my throat as I speak, trying to dispel my nerves.

“Charlotte, hey! Yeah, no problem. Just give me a sec to clear out my desk, and we’ll see what’s on tap today,” he starts, but I keep moving toward his desk until I’m sitting right in front of him.

“Okay, that’s fine…but before I get to work, I…uh…” I say, fidgeting with the snap on the top of my portfolio case. My fingers are trembling, I’m so nervous, and Jeff can tell. He closes the folder on a set of plans he was about to review and pushes them out of the way to give me his complete attention.

“Oh, are you done with the renderings I saw before? I’d love to see them,” he says, clearing more space for me, his voice encouraging.

I swallow hard and pull in one last deep breath, shutting my eyes for a quick, second-long inner pep talk. Showtime.

“Yes, though…I made some changes. I really like…no…I love how it all came out. I hope you do, too,” I say, standing tall with my best posture and meeting his eyes.

“All right, then. Well…let’s give it a look,” he says, his face a little wary, but curious.

The first drawing I lay before him is the series of row homes—each a version of the originals I drew based on Mac’s. Jeff scratches at his chin, covering his mouth, but he doesn’t say a word. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or scowling, so I slide the picture over and pull out three more—each a different perspective of the same set.

The more drawings I line up on his desk, the more he’s scratching at his chin, but he’s slowly starting to nod. He hasn’t said a word, minus the, “Ah,” that escapes his lips when I pull out the first of my series of storefronts. I hit him first with the cafes with awnings and patio dining. Next are the studio spaces, with large windows showing artists working on their craft. Then there’s the grocer, barber, and office space—the neighborhood is almost complete. There’s only one drawing left.

Jeff is sliding them around, looking more closely at each, when I pull the final piece from my portfolio. I’m holding my breath as the green windows reveal themselves first. I even sketched a few classic cars up on the blocks in the auto bays—everything is almost an exact replica, only better. It’s the way Jake’s shop always looked in Cody’s mind—I know it in my heart. And just as I hoped, when Jeff pulls this final drawing to the center, holding it in his hands, and lifting it up in the light, his smile starts to spread.