Feature Writer Ann Chiappetta – Renovations of the Heart: Part 3 (Fiction)
My heart was in two places, and until that moment, I didn’t want to admit it. If it was like this after fifteen years, there was no hope, I thought, watching Walt and his fiancé hold hands while we waited at the reception’s bar for drinks. My husband couldn’t come and even though Cara was with me, I felt lonely. It didn’t matter that my husband needed to work so we could come to the reception.
After a few drinks and an hour of dancing, I got my white cane and headed outside. Cara was busy with a few kids she’d met and I took the opportunity to slip out after letting their mom know where I was going.
“Want some company?” asked Walt, appearing beside me. Once outside, he put my hand on his arm and we walked around the garden. “Are you happy?” I asked.
He stopped and seemed to consider the question before answering. “Yes. I’m doing what I love to do; I’m with someone I think I can spend the rest of my life with, so, yeah, I’m happy.” He squeezed my hand against his side for emphasis. I felt his bicep bulge.
“What about you, Amy?”
I leaned into him for a moment, then sighed and let go of his arm.
“I’ve got so much to be thankful for, my marriage, my kids, and my family. For a long time after my diagnosis, I pushed them away. I didn’t want them feeling like I did, you know? But it’s better–I’m getting there, getting back to being me.”
“What’s it like—going blind, I mean.”
“Not being able to control it. Not knowing when it will get worse is what I hate the most about it,” I answered. I knew he was looking at me. I reached up and touched his cheek; I wished I could see his hazel eyes one last time.
“I’m going to be okay” I said, and fell in beside him. We walked back to the reception, my arm tucked securely into the crook of his elbow.
I knew I didn’t have to say I was scared about losing my sight, about living with the anger or the fear. Walt knew. He understood, and, if I’d learned anything about him during our friendship, it was that he respected and admired me for fighting my way through the slush pile called disability.
“Amy, did I ever tell you how amazing you are?” he said, and leaned in to kiss me. It was just like the one he shared the day he finished renovating our kitchen. There were so many times I wanted to know what he thought about me, about my life, my decisions but I was too afraid to ask. Too afraid to let anyone get close enough to see my pain.
But those words and that kiss provided me with the answer I’d ached to hear for so many years. He validated our past and the future with a simple set of words and gestures, what I will always remember as a renovation of the heart.