Chapter 3: Gloria, Gloria, Hallelujah

Summary: Sands realizes that blind people aren't helpless.

There was a knock on his door and he was roused from sleep. He was dreaming a nice dream. There were images in it, not darkness, and that was enough to make it "nice" in his book. He couldn't remember much, but he knew there had been some kind of orgy going on between monks, belly dancers and nurses, while he looked on. Sometimes he just loved the way his mind worked.

Whoever had knocked gave an encore performance, and he pushed the last images of the dream from his mind. 'Come in,' he said, fighting his desire to reply "Stay Out", instead.

The door creaked open (somebody should take a q-tip dipped in oil to that thing!), and soft footsteps carefully made their way into the room. He was damned if he couldn't smell something vaguely reminiscent of an omelette.

The footsteps stopped at a reasonable distance from the bed, and a female voice spoke up in Spanish. 'I've made you some lunch. Nothing heavy, just some scrambled eggs and some milk.'

He listened for a few seconds, but could hear nothing to help him draw a clearer picture of her in his mind. 'You're the new girl', he stated, instead.

'No, you're the new guy. I've lived here all my life,' she replied, and he would put money on the fact that she was grinning: he could hear it in her voice. She had a sense of humour; maybe he could learn to tolerate her. 'I'm Gloria,' she added. 'Can I put the tray on your bed?'

He ignored her last question. 'You live here? Where have you been all this time? I've been here for eigh—who knows how long, and I've never seen you before.' Fuckmook! Of course you've never seen her before, and you'll never see her in your lifetime. Blind. Blind. Blind.

'I was selling my baskets at the market in Mazatlan. There are more tourists there, so business is better and---,' she suddenly stopped, and Sands imagined she was shaking her head at herself.

So the kid sold gum, and the chick sold baskets... He felt some kind of emotion he didn't recall feeling in a very long time – if he had to put a name to it, he might have gone for "compassion".

She chuckled. 'Why am I talking to you about baskets?' It was clearly a rhetorical question. 'I just want to give you your lunch, all right?'

'All right, give it here.' Her soft footsteps restarted, as she walked towards his bed. He felt hands brush across his arms lightly, and a woven-cane tray was placed on his lap (he briefly wondered if it was the kind of weave she sold in Mazatlan).

She spoke again, her voice level with his head: she must be crouching. 'There's some scrambled eggs in the plate, and some apple. I cut it into squares for you. There's toast on the left of the tray, and a glass of milk to the right of the plate. Try not to spill it.' He heard her clothes ruffle as she stood up.

He looked directly at where he imagined her head to be, did his best impression of a sighted glare, and wondered how intimidating a pair of bandages and surgical-tape could be. 'How am I supposed to eat?' The demanding tone in his voice was intentional.

'Oh, right. Forgot: there's a fork to the right of the plate,' she replied. He waited for her to go on, to do something, but she just stood there.

He was pissed. 'That's it?! Am I supposed to feed myself? I can't see the damned food! The Kid's Grandmother always helps me.' There. That should get the chick in line.

It clearly didn't. 'Well, I am not going to feed you. That's got to stop. You've got to feed yourself.' Her voice was soft and supportive, but he hated what she was saying.

'Are you deaf?' he shouted. 'I can't fucking see. Have you any idea what that's like? Have you any idea what it's like to be surrounded by unchanging darkness, every single second of the day, every single fucking day?' he was still shouting and he didn't care. 'I can't see the fucking fork, I can't see the fucking plate, I can't see the fucking eggs, I can't even see the fucking tray. So don't tell me what to do.' He crossed his arms across his chest, his fingers having a very close encounter with the glass of milk, which wobbled precariously. He ignored the voice in his head that told him he looked childish.

Her voice was still soft. 'Actually, I do have a very good idea.'

Huh? What was she talking about?

'I'm blind. Just as blind as you are,' she said. But she couldn't possibly mean it literally, could she?

On the other hand, it did make a strange kind of sense. After all, he had been wondering who in their right minds would put up with a bitter newly blinded stranger. Answer: a family where blindness was a normal part of life. Probably part of their "Save the Blind" Crusade.

It also explained Gabriel's dedication to him on the Day of the Dead, and the care with which he guided him. (True, the kid had walked him into a veranda, but that was before he realized Sands couldn't see.) His mother (Sister? Cousin?) was blind.

'You're blind,' he said, and the sentence held a hundred questions. Apparently, she heard them.

'Yes. Stray bullet. To the head. Cartel bullet, meant for somebody else. I was 11, selling gum in the wrong place at the wrong time,' her voice had lost none of its softness, and he wondered how she could speak about it with such inner peace. He'd like to know if in ten years (Fifteen years? Twenty?) he'd be able to do the same.

Thinking about it, he guessed the Kid's Grandmother felt it was her Mission to look after him, because she was seeing history repeat itself. He had been blinded by Cartel just like Gloria had.

Gloria was blind. His mind was racing, hovering over fleeting bits of information. She had gone to Mazatlan by herself. She had made it back. She had cooked him lunch. She worked. She was looking after him.

'You're blind,' was all he said. If she could see, she would have seen the thoughtful look on his face.

Maybe there was hope for him yet.

He reached for his fork, and aimed at the scrambled eggs.