Lily and the Octopus(37)

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this thing a predator,” the octopus answers. He shakes his head in pity as Lily turns her usual three times before lying down.

“Why don’t you crawl down off her head and see how long you last against that thing.” This may be the only moment that I’m not horrified by Lily’s hunting instincts, her skill in eviscerating plush prey, her innate Germanity. If only she could grab the octopus by his squishy flesh and shake until his insides decorate his outsides.

“That’s okay. I’m fine where I am.” He smiles a crooked smile. Lily settles her chin over the side of the bed. It’s probably the best thing for her to do, sleep. But part of me wishes she was not giving in to the blinding. Part of me wishes she was charging, head down, at the walls of the kitchen full speed, that she would ram the octopus into submission, making him choke on his hubris.

“So if she’s not a predator, and you’re not scuttling away, why release your ink?”

The octopus rolls his eyes. “I thought you were the octopus expert.”

We glare at each other and I know neither of us is going to back down, just as he knows it, so I answer my own question. “Because sometimes you get bored.”

The octopus looks surprised, maybe even a little impressed, but he tries to mask that quickly. “Very good.”

“How long will the ink last? When will she be able to see?”

The octopus shrugs. I don’t know how he manages it, because an octopus doesn’t have shoulders, but that’s exactly what he does—he shrugs. “I don’t know.” He sounds genuinely baffled.

“Why not? Why don’t you know? How long does it usually last?”

“I don’t know because I’m usually long gone by the time it clears.”

“But you’re still here!” I’m on the verge of pulling my hair out in clumps.

“You know, I take it back. You really are becoming quite the expert.”

I turn away from him and place my hand over my mouth to muffle my agonizing scream.

“Also, I don’t know because I’ve never released my ink sac directly into someone’s brain.” He blows air through his lips, causing them to vibrate, to intonate that it’s anyone’s best guess.

And just like that, I understand that Lily’s eyesight is not coming back. The octopus took it simply because he was bored and he could. She has seen my face, the world, her world, for the last time. She’s a blind dog now.

My quiver is emptying of arrows, but I mentally draw one of the few I have left and carefully take aim. “The octopus does have predators, you know.”

The octopus laughs. “Ha-ha. Yeah. Sharks!” He looks around the kitchen. “I don’t see any sharks here!”

This time I don’t say what I’m thinking. This time I hold my cards close to the vest. This time I don’t spill what my late nights of worry and reading have taught me. This time I’m one step ahead of him.

That’s right, sharks. And it’s true, there are no sharks here. But I also have reason to feel emboldened.

For octopuses have two natural predators:

Sharks.

And humans.





2.


The sun is hot and it’s burning my eyes, and the tighter I close them the more they itch with heat and sweat. I scrunch my eyelids, then loosen them; a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns floats in front of me. TV static, paisley, comets trailing fiery tails, sunbursts, tornados, violence, calm—all happening in the darkness behind my closed eyes. I wonder if this is what Lily sees, blinded as she is, if she can sense light, if her blindness is rich with colors and patterns. Or is it just darkness, her eyes painted in the total blackness of octopus ink?

I prop myself up on my elbows and slowly open my eyes to see the blue waters of Trent’s swimming pool. I look over at my friend. He’s lying on his stomach with his sunglasses hanging crooked on his face. I can’t tell if he’s awake or asleep. I reach for the plastic tumbler under the chair in the only shade to be found, but produce a bottle of sunscreen instead. When I find my glass it’s empty.

“Shall I make us more drinks?” Trent’s voice is groggy and thin and disappears into the ambient sound of the afternoon.

I turn to Trent, who still hasn’t stirred. “I’ll do it. In a minute.” My body is cemented to the lounge chair. There is no graceful way to get up, and it feels good in the sun. I’m almost relaxed, the most I’ve been in weeks. Lily would like this, the warm afternoon, the soft grass, a quiet backyard filled with smells. But since the octopus took her sight, I can’t trust her around water. A casual stroll across the yard could result in an unexpected dip in the pool.

Home life has been an adjustment, but we’ve managed. She has the layout of the house down from memory, but she can sometimes miss a doorway by a few inches or so. Our efforts remind me of the old Helen Keller joke: How do you punish Helen Keller? Rearrange the furniture.

Doogie was not surprised to hear of Lily’s blinding, although there wasn’t anything he or his staff could do to bring her eyesight back; our options are as bleak as ever. Instead, he said to pick a spot in the house to call “home base.” When Lily gets disoriented I’m to place her there, always facing the same direction, and say out loud, “Home base!” It’s like pressing a reset button to instantly orient her again. I always feel stupid doing this (Marco! Polo!), but it seems to work and Lily responds with appreciation. Slowly, we’re figuring this out.