Matt sat in his hospital bed listening to the snatches of conversations: from people walking by quickly in the corridors around his room and from the rooms opening up on to the corridors; from waiting rooms and nurses stations; from the various tvs and radios at all sorts of levels of volume; the phone conversations where one side easy to discern and the other side of the conversation sounded distant; the conversations that occurred as the elevators moved between floors and the way they were muffled and then would explode onto the floor once the doors opened. Even though he was isolated in his room, with the waves of conversation that were constantly crashing over him, he felt like he was in a stadium of people. At first he found it incredibly grating on his nerves, and gradually he was getting used to it. It helped if he focused on one thing, singled out a conversation and focused on it, rather than just letting all of it wash over him constantly. He had asked the nurse on duty for ear plugs and that helped him fall asleep a little faster, except that he found the noise of the foam in his ears nearly as annoying as the sounds he was trying to escape.
Matt heard a rhythmic tapping that rings of metal against linoleum in concert with soft footsteps coming closer down the corridor outside his room. It stopped outside his door. Odors wafted in - a mixture of soap, laundry detergent, strong coffee, onions, cumin, and something else he couldn't quite place. He heard a faint rustling noise - fingertips on the wall, maybe? Then the tapping tentatively sounded against the door frame and there was a knock. He knew the knock was meant to be gentle, but to Matt, it sounded like a gun has been fired into the room. He flinched.
"Hello?"
"Is this Matthew Murdock's room?" The voice of the man was scratchy with age. It was not as painful to listen to as his dad's booming voice. He could hear the man's heart hammering - he sounds nervous. He has an accent . . . Spanish.
"Yes . . . you can come in." A question lingered in the air. Who are you? But something was familiar about this man. There's something that Matt couldn't quite place, but he knew he'd met him before. His voice wasn't familiar - it was something else. His smell. But the memory was indistinct.
"Thanks." The metal tapping noise sounded different now . . . shorter distances between taps. The noise pinged off the walls almost making them visible to Matt - as if they lit up with the sound, but wasn't light. Maybe it was just his imagination filling in the missing pieces his eyes were no longer providing. Maybe my mind is so used to seeing that it creates its own pictures? Is that really any different than what normal vision does? The pages from a book he read at the library about color and how light enters the eye and how that information is converted into images by the brain pop into his mind. I should read that again . . . crap. I can't read books anymore.The memory of all the hours spent pulling dusty books off the shelves at the library excited about the mysteries he was about to uncover makes his throat tighten. Did his library even have books in braille?
He waited expectantly for the man to identify himself. He must be blind, too.Is this my mobility instructor? Dave? I'm supposed to meet him today, but later in the day. No this is someone else. Someone who is feeling a lot of emotions right now . . . if I'm reading his heartbeat and sweat accurately.
The cane . . . white cane, probably . . . tings against the bed frame. Matt feels the tap vibrate through the bed frame as the sound rings out.
"Hi?" Matt says, the question still in his voice.
"Hi, Matt." His voice breaks a little as he speaks. Matt can hear that man shifting from foot to foot nervously. From the sound of it, he's now holding the cane in front of him, between his feet and leaning against it slightly.
"I'm Miguel Reyes. I'm the man you saved on Sunday. I came by to thank you." Matt can feel the relief slide off Miguel as he says these words as the air is expelled from his lungs.
"Oh! Wow. Yes. . . . Are you okay? Did you get hurt at all?" It occurred to Matt that he hadn't even asked about the man. He was embarrassed to realize that he was so caught up in his own trauma that he hadn't thought to ask.
"I am fine . . . thanks to you . . . ¡y gracias a Dios!" Miguel sighed.
"Do you want to sit down? There is a chair on the other side of the bed." Matt offered - all the years of courtesy and respect his dad and Auntie Grace had drilled into him kicking in automatically. Matt started to slide out of bed, wanting to help Miguel find the chair. He could feel Miguel's warmth radiating off his body, not far from where he was and he had a sense of the space in the room and how to navigate around the obstacles such as the overbed table that was now at the foot of his bed. Some of the monitoring equipment had been removed from the room (Matt was so relieved - even when they weren't beeping the electronic whine that they put out was so piercing.)
Miguel started to move toward the bed, tapping gently with his cane and then navigate around it. With each tap of the metal tip of the cane against the bed, Matt could hear the distance of the walls from the bed. He stood up and reached for Miguel, finding the fabric of his shirt, his arm. Still a little unsteady on his feet, Matt lurched a little and withdrew his hand.
"Do you want some help finding the chair, Mr. Reyes?"
"Sí, gracías.I mean . . . Yes, please. Thank you."
"Hablo Español, Señor Reyes." Matt said with his strong gringo accent and pleased to use one of the phrases that he learned in his Spanish classes at school.
"¡Ah! ¿De veras? ¡Qué bueno que hablas Español, mí hijo!" Miguel grasped Matt's right arm just above his elbow and waited patiently while Matt moved between him and the bed, and then holding his cane parallel to his body, fell in step behind Matt as they moved around the bed. "No hablo muy bien, entonces . . . Estoy aprendiendo."
"No, no . . . hablas bastante bien, mi hijo."
Matt felt awkward being so close to someone he didn't know well, also, the irony of the situation began to dawn on him. Miguel was probably way more adept at moving around spaces in the dark than he was. The blind leading the blind! Geez.
Miguel's cane tapped against the floor and in that moment, Matt heard the tap bounce off a square object hanging in the space over their heads at the foot of the bed. He stopped and Miguel stopped behind him.
"Oh, careful. There's something . . . a tv . . . to the right of us . . . at about 3 o'clock . . . just about level with your head, I think."
Miguel raised his cane up, and tapped it gently against the base of the monitor confirming Matt's guess.
"Oh, yes. Gracías. That could be a nasty bump." They moved around the bed to the other side. Matt could feel the coolness coming off from the windows.
"Aquí esta la silla,Señor Reyes."
"Gracías."
Miguel moved his cane until it came in contact with the chair and bent to find the arms, then turned and sat down while Matt found a perch on the bed. The railings had been folded down now that he was conscious and moving about more.
"Do you know someone else who is blind, mi hijo?
"No . . . er . . ." Matt hesitated. "Yes. I guess so . . . Why?"
"Oh, it seems like you know what to do. Most people just grab me by the arm or give me directions that I can't use. You did a nice job. ¡Bien hecho!"
"Thanks." Matt paused. He didn't know why he was hesitant to tell Miguel . . . maybe I'm afraid he'll blame himself. . . He felt a kinship with this old man, though he barely knew him. Something had drawn their lives together. And now they shared more than that moment in time.
"That person I know . . . he's me. I'm blind." Matt felt like he was being dramatic, but he didn't know how else to tell him. He obviously hadn't heard from the nursing staff and hadn't picked it up from talking to Matt. How could he? He couldn't see the bandages over Matt's eyes.
"¿Qué digas? ¡Madre de Dios! ¡No puede ser! What are you saying? How long have you been blind? How did you save me, then?"
"Since Sunday. I was blinded by some chemicals that splashed from the barrels that fell from the truck." Tears rose in Matt's eyes and throat. He hadn't talked about it since then. Miguel put out a hand and found Matt's knee and patted it in a comforting gesture.
"Ay. No me digas eso. ¡Qué lastimá! ¡Qué barbaridad!"Matt could hear the tears in Miguel's voice, smell the salt as they were released from his tear ducts. He could hear the bones in Miguel's neck creak as he bent his head forward and could hear how his voice was now pitched to the floor instead of toward Matt.
"No te preoccupes.It'll be okay." Matt wanted to comfort Miguel.
"How did you know about the tv, then?" Miguel lifted his head up quickly.
"I don't know . . . I guess I heard it."
"But it wasn't on."
"Yeah, but your cane made a noise and I heard it bounce off the tv. Didn't you hear it?"
"No. That's . . . ¿como te dice? . . . echolocation."
"What's that?"
"Being able to tell where things are by the sounds. You must have very good hearing to be able to tell that. And so quickly after your accident.¡Qué dicha!I have been blind for many years now . . . from glaucoma . . . but I still can't do this echolocation thing. Maybe just a little bit, but not like what you did."
Miguel stood up.
"I have to go. But can I come back? I came today to simply thank you. Dar gracias.But now. I feel that Dios nos puso juntos . . . he meant for us to meet."
"Yes. I would like that. Mucho gusto de conocerte.
"Igualmente. Igualmente."
Miguel tapped to the door.
"Vaya con Dios, mijo."
Translations:
*¡y gracias a Dios!And thanks be to God!
Sí, gracías.Yes, thank you.
Hablo Español, Señor Reyes.I speak Spanish, Mr. Reyes.
¡Ah! ¿De veras? ¡Qué bueno que hablas Español, mí hijo! Oh, really? That's great that you speak Spanish, my son.
No hablo muy bien, entonces . . . Estoy aprendiendo. I don't speak very well, I'm still learning.
No, no . . . hablas bastante bien, mi hijo.No, no . . . you speak well enough, my son.
"Aquí esta la silla,Señor Reyes." Here is the chair, Mr. Reyes.
mi hijo.my son.
¡Bien hecho!Well done!
¿Qué digas? ¡Madre de Dios! ¡No puedeser!What are you saying? Mother of God! It can't be!
"Ay. No me digas eso. ¡Qué lastimá! ¡Qué barbaridad!"Ay. Don't tell me this! What sadness, what barbarity.
No te preoccupes.Don't you worry.
¿como tedice? How do you say it?
¡Qué dicha!What a joy!
Dar gracias.Give thanks.
Dios nos puso juntos God put us together.
Mucho gusto de conocerte.It was very nice to meet you.
Igualmente. Igualmente. Equally, equally.
Vaya con Dios, mijo.Go with God, son.