Blind Tidings

As humans we try to eliminate any minor pain or irritations with pills and ointments, but what if we are closing ourselves off to sensations we were meant to learn from? What if we were able to get nagging messages from unlikely places, like a rash?

For Zinnia, pink was the feeling of cotton candy melting on your tongue. Pink was the flush of a first kiss and the warmth of uncertainty. Pink had a softness and sensitivity that you couldn’t hold onto for too long.

For Zinnia, pink would only ever be an idea translated into a feeling or texture. She had never, and would never see pink. An infection had claimed her vision mere days after birth. When the fever struck, she was still to young to distinguish her mother’s face from the shifting shapes and features around it. The only thing Zinnia retained from that experience was a subconscious understanding of light.

One spring, Pink took on a new meaning for Zinnia.

Before the bumps showed up, the rash started with a nagging warmth. Then the tingling, an insistent itch, impossible to ignore. Her mother was the first to notice the spots on her arm.

“Don’t itch it. It’s already pink and raised. You’ll only make it worse!” Zinnia tried to add this new sensation into her understanding of the color as her mom’s hand moved swiftly through the air, and clapped over her fingers, restraining them. It was her first time with a poison ivy rash, and she thought she had more self-control. Apparently not.

“I can’t help it,” Zinnia whined, even though, at 12, she knew she was too old to use her baby voice.

“Honey, why aren’t you using the cream we got you?” her mom asked, trying on her own whine for size. “I even labeled it for you.”

“I didn’t see…” Zinnia suppressed a smirk, knowing her mom wouldn’t fall for the line.

“Ha. Ha. Zin, very funny. I put it on your nightstand right between your water and clock. Just--” She set Zinnia’s hand down in her lap, “wait a minute, would ya?”

Her mother’s heels clicked away on the tile. In Zinnia’s mind, she saw splashes of light where each step landed. She turned her head to follow the action, but the needling itch drew her hand back to her forearm. Just before the steps disappeared around the corner of her mental map of the kitchen, her mother warned, “Stop scratching it!”

Thoroughly chastised, Zinnia dragged her hand back to her lap.

Pan’s breath warmed the backs of her fingers. Instead of scratching, she busied her hands with petting and scratching him. If Pan, her guide dog, could learn how to avoid poison ivy as well as he led her away from oncoming traffic, she wouldn’t have gotten the rash in the first place. But how could she hold anything against him? She was the one who had missed the bus, and it was her idea to take the wooded path to school, instead of making her mom late for work.

The bright footsteps returned.

“Here.” The tube of ointment was pressed into Zinnia’s hand and she ran her fingers over the raised braille label that read ‘Poison Ivy Cream’. Thanking her mom, she twisted the cap off, and squeezed a small amount onto her waiting fingers. It had an astringent smell but felt like cool velvet. As she rubbed it on the spot, the itch faded back to its earlier warmth almost instantly, and the word, 'bus’ came to her mind out of nowhere.

What? Zinnia’s fingers moved over the raised bumps of poison ivy more slowly this time, slick with ointment. The poison ivy rash took the form of nine organic bumps. The thing was, the placement almost perfectly took the shape of four braille cells. The letters ‘B’, ‘u’, and ‘s’ were raised on her skin like a fresh tattoo. There was even a dot in the three position before the ‘B’ to signal a capital letter.

“Mom, this is so crazy--”

“I know, the magic of science.” Her mom’s sarcastic comment flit from one end of the kitchen to another with the bright heel splashes and the papery rustle of a lunch bag.

“No-- Yeah, it works great,” the sound of her backpack zipper helped Zinnia face her mom as she continued, “but you wouldn’t believe the--”

“Hun, I’m late for work, and you’re gonna miss your bus. Your lunch is in your bag already. Pan, up!”

Zinnia heard Pan’s dog tags clink genially as he stood and walked through his harness. “But, Mom, the poison iv--”

“You gotta go, hun.” A rush of air seemed to swing Zinnia’s bag up onto her arm, and her mom swooped in for a hurried kiss. “I love you. Have a good day!” The words had barely left her mom's mouth before they disappeared with her mom’s heel flashes around the corner of their kitchen.

Zinnia let out a breath, and absently set the cream on the kitchen counter before directing Pan, “Forward.”

When they got to the bus stop, Zinnia probed at her arm again. The bumps were already less pronounced than before, but she felt ‘Bus’ faintly before the squealing brakes and rush of hot exhaust announced its arrival.

***

During second period, Mr. Evans was droning on about Native Americans and their belief in Animism when Zinnia’s fingers found the spots once more. Now another four spots were forming left of the first. If she were to imagine a single braille cell with these four dots in the 2, 3, 4, and 6 positions, they would have made the braille contraction: ‘the’.

“the Bus.” Feeling bemused and a bit silly, she touched the fleshy message once more. These random spots could probably have formed some other letters if she thought hard enough, but--

“Zinnia, what do you think?”

She didn’t have an immediate response, but her body did. Her cheeks instantly flushed. One of the "pink" feelings that came with getting caught not paying attention.

“Um… I’m sorry, I was just wondering… You sounded like you were referencing a picture? I, uh, I was wondering if you could describe it to me?” This tactic didn't always work to get her out of answering, but it bought her time by switching the spotlight onto the teacher.

From Mr. Evan's stammered apology, she knew it worked. Her flustered new teacher described the visuals on his presentation, read out each bullet point, and practically gave her the answer he was looking for. He did this all very loudly, as if not being able to see made her somehow hard of hearing, as well.

By fifth period, math, two more letters, ‘k’ and ‘e’, had formed on her arm even further left of the first, but the “Bus” cells were starting to get swallowed by other random dots that didn’t fit any traditional braille patterns.

***

When setting her lunch tray down at her usual table, her best friend, Quinn, greeted Pan by breaking all the rules of interacting with guide dogs. She scratched and pet him, tried to get him to sit on the bench next to her. When he finally jumped up, she fed him half of her bologna sandwich.

“My mom was trying to figure out why he’s gaining so much weight. Soon I’ll have to roll him to class in a wheelbarrow,” Zinnia teased.

“How can I help it? He’s just such a good doggie, aren’t you? You are! I know!” Quinn kept petting and praising Pan.

“You know it’s harder for me to get around when he sits up there, right?”

“Oh, shut up. You’re fine.” Quinn and Zinnia had been friends since 2nd grade when her parents transitioned her into the mainstream school, so this kind of ribbing was their typical side dish at lunch. “Oh my God-- I just got a text from Kendall. Should I text her back?”

“What’d she say?”

Quinn laughed through her hand before reading, “‘Had a great time at the movies, and an even better time after’ Winky face.”

Zinnia faked a gasp. “You slut!”

“Oh, shut up. I told you, we just held hands.”

“So your hand’s the slut.” They giggled and Pan panted along if he was an active part of the conversation. “Well, while you were getting up close and personal with Kendall, I think I got my first hickey.”

“What?!? Shut UP! Who was it? Kevin??” After the first word, Quinn managed to whisper-shout all of the rest.

“He’s the strong silent type. Loves the sun and the outdoors. Kinda clingy though...” Zinnia held up her arm, showing her poison ivy rash. “It’s a little itchy, but--”

“You’re an idiot. That’s disgusting--” Quinn’s voice softened, probably because it was aimed at her cell phone instead of Zinnia. “What is it?”

“Mom says it’s poison ivy.”

“Ew, stay away from me!” Quinn audibly recoiled and shifted her lunch tray further away from Zinnia.

“It’s not contagious at this point. You’re more likely to catch it from Pan. He’s probably how I got it in the first place.”

“What? Pan, you dirty carrier! How could you? I thought we were friends. Off!” The entire lunch table shook as Pan leapt off the bench and made his way back to Zinnia’s side. “But what should I write?” The question confirmed Zinnia’s thoughts that Quinn had her phone out again. “Does, ‘Encore 2nite?’ sound desperate?”

“I don’t know,” Zinnia ran her fingers over the bumps again, wishing she had remembered to put the cream in her pocket before leaving the house. ‘Take the Bus’? Was she going crazy? “You know braille?”

“Not personally, is he nice?” Zinnia was sure Quinn was making one of her signature cheeseball smirks, proud of her dad-joke. “No duh! I know what braille is.”

“Sorry, it’s weird, but…”

“Hang on. Let me just… Ok-- sent! What?” Quinn asked.

“So, this morning when I was putting something on it, I felt the word ‘Bus’ right here,” Zinnia pointed at the spot. “Now it says ‘Take the Bus’ here,” Zinnia reached out for Quinn’s hand to show her. “Give me your hand. I’ll--”

“Ew! I’m not going to touch it. That’s gross!”

“Well, I don’t know where your hands have been either, you little hand slut--”

“Ha! You’re crazy.” Quinn leaned closer to get a better look. “Don’t you take the bus anyway? Sounds like a lame message to me. Why couldn’t it be, like, winning lotto numbers or something?”

“Yeah, but how--”

“Ooh! She text me back!” Quinn’s phone scraped on the table as she grabbed it, “Thumbs up and the cool shades emoji. Should I respond?”

“No. Text her after school. Or better yet, just walk over to her table and talk to her.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t just walk over now and announce it to the whole school??”

“Fine, just…” Zinnia started, but even over the din of the cafeteria, she could hear Quinn’s nails clicking furiously at her screen.

“Phones away, ladies,” Ms. Johnson’s scolding tones popped up from behind Zinnia.

“Sorry--”

“Sorry, Ms. Johnson,” the girls’ apologies overlapped.

Apparently satisfied, Ms. Johnson must have moved along, because Quinn clucked her tongue and whispered, “Hate her.” They both laughed.

***

By eighth period, the tingling warmth of the rash was maddening. Zinnia found herself stroking Pan repeatedly to distract herself.

When her watch started vibrating its the three minute warning before the 9th period bell, Zinnia gathered her things, and moved through the halls swiftly. On days like these, she especially liked being dismissed early. That way she wouldn’t get jostled around by the wave of oblivious sighted students who took their gift for granted.

Zinnia was first to her bus, as usual, and she went to her usual seat next to the emergency exit. As the rustle shake of bodies stomped up the steps and hurried to their seats, her hand stretched towards the nagging rash once more. ‘Bus’ and ‘the’ were connected now and completely swallowed by a patch of dots. Further left, though, was something new.

A word-- no, a warning-- made something under the nape of her neck crawl.

“DON’T”

All caps. She felt suddenly lightheaded.

“Don’t take the bus?” Zinnia whispered as the accordion doors hissed closed and the driver lifted the brake. “Don’t Take the Bus!” Zinnia said louder this time as the bus lurched forward. Pan, sensing her agitation, barked uncharacteristically and stood.

“Please sit down.” The bus driver crackled over the overhead speakers.

“No! I can’t take the bus! We can’t take the bus!”

Kids started murmuring all around her at each exclamation.

“Please stop the bus!” Zinnia braced herself on the seat to her right as the brakes screamed their protest at having been forced to stop prematurely.

“Get off the bus!” As Zinnia made her way up the aisle, she tried pulling someone out of their seat to get them up.

“Yo, don’t touch me.”

She heard the whispered words, “What a freak…” to her left. Her stomach turned with electric embarrassment. She and Pan barreled their way down the rest of the aisle.

“Everything Ok?” the driver asked.

What could she say? They would commit her, or even worse-- assign her a full time aide, if they heard what was happening. “I just forgot something.”

“We can’t wait for you. Got a timed route to make,” the bus driver warned.

“It’s fine, my mom can pick me up,” Zinnia lied, shakily.

Once safely on the sidewalk, she clicked out her retracted white cane to steady herself a moment before she and Pan headed for the wooded path near the school.

The woods creaked and popped around her. Pan led the way around rocks, slowing near large roots. With her cane, she probed the ground before her. Far off to the left, she heard the siren call of an ambulance. Tracking the direction of the sound, Zinnia misstepped and rolled her ankle. The spot bloomed with a warm pain. It was exactly why her mom told her never to go into the woods. Roads and sidewalks are safer, but they would double the length of her trip.

Leaves whispered their sympathies as she continued on, wincing with each step. The horn of a firetruck sent a haunted echo through the trees, that seemed to whirl around her in the wind. When she and Pan finally exited the woods, another police siren wailed as it zipped passed.

Limping down the sidewalk, Zinnia paused for a moment to catch her breath. A car’s brakes and the scrape of the metal undercarriage on the sidewalk, erupted to her left, as if one of the tires popped the curb.

“ZINNIA!”

“Mom?” It was way too early for her mom to be out of work, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere. “What’re you--”

“Zin, Baby!” She was crying. The car door swung open, and her mom nearly bowled her over by the force of her hug. “I came as soon as I heard!”

“Woah, mom! What’s the deal?” Zinnia dropped her long cane and Pan’s harness, to hold onto her mother.

“I thought I’d lost you!” Her mom’s voice was shaking with emotion, and when Zinnia lifted her hands to her face, she felt trembling lips and cheeks that were slick with tears. “Thank God you’re OK!”

“What do you mean? What happened?” Zinnia’s ears were warm and ringing, but then again, maybe it was the warning chime of the car door her mom had left open.

“Honey,” her mom sniffled and wiped her cheeks to calm herself, but when she spoke, her voice was still raw, thick with emotion. “There was an accident… A truck...” As her mom related the story of the incident that sent the bus up in flames, Zinnia imagined it happening in a flash of light and sound. She was speechless, but her hand found her arm as if magnetised. The rash had taken over the top of her entire forearm. None of the distinctive letters remained.

“Oh, honey. That looks really bad. We need to get you home.” Despite the urgency of her words, Zinnia’s mom squeezed her tightly, and they didn’t move. Zinnia’s arms were starting to tingle, but she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t say anything.

Her mom kissed her on the cheek, and cupped her face in both hands as she let out a shuddering breath. The side door of their minivan rumbled open and Pan led her in.

***

Back at home, the cream soothed the itching, and in a few days her mother told her the bright pink rash had faded to a muted peach. But that confused Zinnia, because peaches were sweet and there was nothing sweet about the fading message. She imagined she was losing some new connection to something bigger than herself.

That spring, Zinnia's understanding of the color pink moved from the fragrance of her neighbor’s hyacinths in bloom to a warmth of the insistent bumps that had saved her life. Though Zinnia never saw pink, and still had trouble understanding it, she knew it was all around her in the little moments and in the big ones. Precious, powerful, and fleeting in all its forms.

#ShortStories #Speculative #Fiction #amwriting