Read Online Helen Keller in Love by Kristin Cashore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristin Cashore
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stay steady but Peter grabbed me, guided me to shore. This time his hands told me he was mine.
Chapter Eleven
B lindisms—the rocking, the hair twirling, the things that identify us as blind, I tried to keep those things from Peter. Years ago, Annie trained them out of me. When I was seven years old and had just learned language, I wanted so much to talk that when Annie wasn’t around I spelled to myself. All day and night, my fingers moving so I could talk, talk. Annie said it looked strange, and to stop me she tied my hands behind my back to “cure” me, to spare me the humiliation of being different. But she didn’t want me to be totally normal. I could look like other women, I just couldn’t have the pleasure women had with men.
So the moment Peter guided me to shore, the sand gritty under my feet, I suppressed my shame when Annie marched up to me and said, “Helen, stop twirling your hair!” Her scent was heavy with camphor and cough drops. I stopped the twirling, but I did take Peter’s hand. I was about to betray her.
“We’ve got news,” Peter said as we both dripped water, standing before Annie.
“Like hell you do.” Annie stepped between us. “I’m the one with news. And it’s for Helen’s ears only, if you don’t mind, Mr. Fagan. Now if you’ll excuse us?”
“Anything you say to me you can also say to Peter.” To my surprise, I blurted this out before thinking.
“Foolish girl. This is critical. Get rid of him, now.”
I did not move. For years Annie had claimed emergencies: When John fled the house after their marriage broke up she kept me up nights, weeping on my shoulder in a way that was heartbreaking, and then stopping only to lean heavily on me and saying, “Well, Helen, at least we have
your
story to tell.” Then, in the months after he left she became so hopeless that some nights she ran off and couldn’t be found. Early mornings she’d return, the emergency passed. Only later would I learn that she’d spent the night curled up like a child under our rowboat. She would returndistant, unmoved.
How could I turn her away?
“Give me a minute,” I said to Peter.
“Take your time. I’ll be in the house. I’m not going far.”
I stood in place as the sand gave off the
whuff, whuff
of Peter’s footsteps fading away.
Annie approached me at the shore. “Years of practice, Helen, and you’re alone for two minutes and you do this? Pull these straps up—damn you!”
When I struggled into my bathing suit—the suit weighted by water—I felt her cool shadow over me. But when I came out from behind Annie into the warm sunlight she said, “Don’t tell me you were working down here at the beach?”
“Working, chatting …” I betrayed Annie again.
“This is no time for socializing.” She led me over to a wooden bench. “Sit down.” Her palm shook. “Listen.” The coolness of shade made me lift my head as I sat on the rickety bench.
“What?”
Annie snapped back, “Not now, Helen. Don’t act up with me right now. It appears you’re too busy with Peter. You’ve ignored me twice already, so why should you listen now?”
But just before Annie stalked off she said, “Sorry to have interrupted. It’s nothing, really. Just urgent news.”
My nostrils quivered with the scent—pond water, salt, brine—that told me Annie was gone.
I sensedAnnie’s footsteps over the pine needles. She did not tell me her news. Instead, she walked off as she often did. I tried to follow her—clumsily, rapidly, I tried to make my way into the woods.
Ahead of me her footsteps,
ca-runch, ca-scratch,
on the gravel path, in her finely heeled shoes—because even outside she was well dressed.
Wait, what is it?
I wanted to say, but could not. The chill scent of moss and decay rose from the forest floor but I could not find the path. I stood, lost and unable to catch up with Annie.
But the desire to be with me won out; even from the wood’s edge I sensed her return, her
Chapter Eleven
B lindisms—the rocking, the hair twirling, the things that identify us as blind, I tried to keep those things from Peter. Years ago, Annie trained them out of me. When I was seven years old and had just learned language, I wanted so much to talk that when Annie wasn’t around I spelled to myself. All day and night, my fingers moving so I could talk, talk. Annie said it looked strange, and to stop me she tied my hands behind my back to “cure” me, to spare me the humiliation of being different. But she didn’t want me to be totally normal. I could look like other women, I just couldn’t have the pleasure women had with men.
So the moment Peter guided me to shore, the sand gritty under my feet, I suppressed my shame when Annie marched up to me and said, “Helen, stop twirling your hair!” Her scent was heavy with camphor and cough drops. I stopped the twirling, but I did take Peter’s hand. I was about to betray her.
“We’ve got news,” Peter said as we both dripped water, standing before Annie.
“Like hell you do.” Annie stepped between us. “I’m the one with news. And it’s for Helen’s ears only, if you don’t mind, Mr. Fagan. Now if you’ll excuse us?”
“Anything you say to me you can also say to Peter.” To my surprise, I blurted this out before thinking.
“Foolish girl. This is critical. Get rid of him, now.”
I did not move. For years Annie had claimed emergencies: When John fled the house after their marriage broke up she kept me up nights, weeping on my shoulder in a way that was heartbreaking, and then stopping only to lean heavily on me and saying, “Well, Helen, at least we have
your
story to tell.” Then, in the months after he left she became so hopeless that some nights she ran off and couldn’t be found. Early mornings she’d return, the emergency passed. Only later would I learn that she’d spent the night curled up like a child under our rowboat. She would returndistant, unmoved.
How could I turn her away?
“Give me a minute,” I said to Peter.
“Take your time. I’ll be in the house. I’m not going far.”
I stood in place as the sand gave off the
whuff, whuff
of Peter’s footsteps fading away.
Annie approached me at the shore. “Years of practice, Helen, and you’re alone for two minutes and you do this? Pull these straps up—damn you!”
When I struggled into my bathing suit—the suit weighted by water—I felt her cool shadow over me. But when I came out from behind Annie into the warm sunlight she said, “Don’t tell me you were working down here at the beach?”
“Working, chatting …” I betrayed Annie again.
“This is no time for socializing.” She led me over to a wooden bench. “Sit down.” Her palm shook. “Listen.” The coolness of shade made me lift my head as I sat on the rickety bench.
“What?”
Annie snapped back, “Not now, Helen. Don’t act up with me right now. It appears you’re too busy with Peter. You’ve ignored me twice already, so why should you listen now?”
But just before Annie stalked off she said, “Sorry to have interrupted. It’s nothing, really. Just urgent news.”
My nostrils quivered with the scent—pond water, salt, brine—that told me Annie was gone.
I sensedAnnie’s footsteps over the pine needles. She did not tell me her news. Instead, she walked off as she often did. I tried to follow her—clumsily, rapidly, I tried to make my way into the woods.
Ahead of me her footsteps,
ca-runch, ca-scratch,
on the gravel path, in her finely heeled shoes—because even outside she was well dressed.
Wait, what is it?
I wanted to say, but could not. The chill scent of moss and decay rose from the forest floor but I could not find the path. I stood, lost and unable to catch up with Annie.
But the desire to be with me won out; even from the wood’s edge I sensed her return, her
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