Expectations

Chapter 13

"Watch out, Jim," Christie said from her place on the bed. "Boxes."

Jim froze. "Where?"

"Uhh…twelve o'clock."

"Why did I put them there?" Jim muttered, feeling for them.

"It's all kind of a mess," Christie said with a note of sympathy in her voice. Jim knew she was aware of how any lack of order disoriented him.

Not touching the babies' room until after the shower had seemed like a good idea at the time—holding off on the mess until after everyone had been over—but now Jim was paying the price for the planned procrastination. The apartment was full, not only of baby furniture and gifts, but of the boxes of junk he had been storing since long before he was married. Even Hank had taken to skulking in the kitchen, one of the only places left intact after the upheaval. He seemed as dismayed by the lack of order as Jim was. Hank couldn't be in harness all the time and getting around without him was hazardous. Worse than that, sorting through all those boxes seemed like a preposterous and sad thing for Jim to have to do.

He lifted his hands helplessly and let them drop. "We should just toss it all," he said.

"No, Jimmy. I told you. We'll go through it together so we can be sure to keep anything that might have sentimental value."

He felt his way to the foot of the bed and sank onto it. "You don't mind?" he asked. "There's so much of it and—I don't even know why I kept a lot of it. Most of the—the—sentimental value may be gone now."

"I know," she said quietly. "That's what we have to find out. And—even if you can't appreciate all of your old stuff the way you used to, some of it may be worth saving for your girls."

"But the rest we can just throw away, right?" he asked eagerly.

"Sure. Whatever you want. I just don't think we should throw it away without knowing what's in there first."

He nodded, drawing one side of his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought.

"You okay, Jimmy?"

He swung to face her. "Why do you ask?"

"You're biting your lip. Means you're thinking deep thoughts."

He grinned. "I'm always thinking deep thoughts."

A crash from the other room made him jump, but then he heard Shannon's laugh combining with Marty's.

"I better check up on them," he said, rising to his feet.

"They're fine."

"I just—I need to."

Feeling from box to box, he made it to the door and then across the hall to the open door of the tiny room.

The laughter stopped.

"Hey," Shannon said, almost sounding guilty. "What's up, Jimmy?"

"That's what I want to know. Is everything okay? I heard a crash."

Marty's voice was sheepish. "That was me."

Shannon started laughing again. "He tripped over the stepladder and fell and—"

"Pink paint in my hair," Marty finished.

Jim frowned. "Pink?"

"Yeah," Marty confirmed. "I'd feel much manlier if I had green or blue paint in my hair, but I—"

"I thought we weren't going to paint the room pink," Jim said, turning toward his sister. "We talked about this."

"I don't know," Shannon said in a tone that implied shrugging. "It's not a really girly pink. Just a tasteful dusty rose. Kind of mauvy, actually. I like it."

Jim shook his head. "Whatever."

"Hey," Shannon said, speaking in the feisty tone she hadn't used much with him since the shooting. "This is the color Christie wanted. I'm following orders here."

"I told you about that," Christie called from the bedroom. "I said it was a pale dusty rose."

"I guess I didn't know what dusty rose meant," Jim muttered. "I was thinking more about the dust then the rose."

"Jim," Marty said, sounding very man-to-man all of a sudden. "The color's fine. You wouldn't hate it. Hell, I don't even hate it. I would prefer it not to be in my hair, but…it's fine. Perfect for little girls, but not too frilly. It's a muted, neutraly kind of pink, if you know what that means."

"You sure?" Jim asked, but he felt sure he was getting it straight. Marty never lied unless a healthy dose of sarcasm was involved.

"I'm tellin' you," Marty said earnestly. "This room is gonna be nice. Shannon showed me all the fixtures and curtains and furniture she and Christie picked out. You have nothing to worry about. It will be just as glamorous as the rest of your place."

Jim smirked at the sarcasm that had crept into Marty's voice at the word "glamorous."

"You gotta admit," Marty said, "This place doesn't exactly scream 'cop' when you walk through the door. I'm kinda glad to see it all messed up today. Makes me feel a little more at home."

"That's great, Marty," Shannon said. "Now why aren't you painting?"

Jim smiled. "Can't say I didn't warn you," he said to Marty before heading back toward the bedroom.

"He's nice," Christie said once Jim had closed the door.

He hefted a box and walked it over to the bed. "What?" he asked, dropping the box on the center of the mattress beside Christie.

"Marty."

Jim sat beside the box, running his hands over it absentmindedly. "You didn't just meet the guy."

"I know, but I just saw him briefly now and then. After all I've heard about him since you were reinstated, I'm surprised that he's such a nice guy."

Jim opened the box and reached inside, laughing over what Christie had just said. "So am I," he said. "Marty has more than one side. He's an all-around good guy who also happened to make my early weeks back on the job a living hell. There are pros and cons to having a guy like that around. It's good when he gets the hots for my sister and decides to start painting rooms."

"You really think that's the only reason he's here?"

Jim shrugged. "No. And yeah, maybe a little." He felt around inside the box and frowned. "This box seems to be full of papers. Old receipts? Bills? I don't know."

"Want me to look?"

Jim took a deep breath. "Yeah. Okay."

"I'm going to have to look at a lot of this stuff today, Jimmy. How else are we going to go through it? If you want this to be a quick process, you'll just have to trust me with it."

He pushed the box toward her. "I know. It just feels weird; like I died and now other people are going through my stuff."

"Are you expecting me to be finding anything—private?" Christie asked, sounding gentle. "Why is this bothering you so much?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember what all is in these boxes, just that I couldn't bring myself to throw it away at one point or another—or maybe I just didn't have time to go through it and it's all junk. There will be old birthday cards and letters and—pictures. Oh God, Christie. Several of these boxes are full of old family photos I had meant to organize into albums."

He had thought mention of the photos would make Christie take that gentle tone again. Bracing himself for more sympathy, he was surprised when Christie laughed.

"You were going to make little picture albums?" she asked. "You?"

Shaking his head, he felt around for another box. "Obviously when I could see," he said irritably.

She didn't seem at all fazed by his answer. "I know that. Of course I didn't think you were planning to do that now. I'm shocked you ever wanted to do it at all. I just can't picture you sitting at a craft table with your little scissors, artfully arranging photos and mementos into scrap books and adding little sticker thought bubbles to the—"

"I wasn't gonna make that kind of album," he said, unable to resist smiling over the visual Christie had just provided. "My parents never put anything into books and I thought—somebody should. I took all the pictures and planned to sort them and arrange them into albums. Normal, plain albums. No lace or borders or little butterflies in the margins."

"Still," she said, her laugh mellowing into a companionable feeling coming out through her words. "It's nice that you wanted to do that. Thoughtful. Maybe I can—"

Jim shook his head. "No. Thanks, but…you wouldn't know who anyone is or when things happened and—you're about to be way too busy to even think about doing anything like that. I do appreciate the offer, though."

"Okay," she said. "So, these first two boxes really do seem to be junk. This second one is full of appliance owner's manuals—for things you no longer own. Trash? And do you want to start a shredder pile for the bills in the other box?"

Relieved to have that other subject dropped, Jim dedicated himself to the task at hand, glad Christie hadn't been able to pry out of him that the thought of those photos being organized right here in the apartment had made him feel a little sick.

That happened from time to time. Jim could be having a perfectly normal day, not even consciously aware of his blindness, only to find himself faced with a dramatic reminder that sickened him with loss as he thought about something he would never do again or something he would be forever missing. The big picture was fine. He was blind. He had dealt with it. It was the little things that could eat away at the façade.

Like the photos.

He never had taken the time to go through them, allowing his mind to wander around in his past, recalling long-forgotten events. Clothes he used to have. Games he used to play with friends he hadn't thought about for years. His parents, younger than he was now. His dad, big and tough—mean, but in an affectionate way that drew children to him almost as much for the danger as for the fun. His mom, blonde and pretty, wearing the tacky clothes Jim could still remember from his childhood. His younger brother Sean, who had drowned when Jim was nine years old. Was that when his dad had started to spend more of his evenings at that bar? Tiny baby Shannon. There was a photo somewhere of ten-year-old Jim holding his sister in his lap the day she first came home from the hospital. He could still remember his face in that picture as he had held her for the first time, smiling, but with a puzzled scrunch to the eyebrows that clearly showed his doubts about the little interloper.

The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach felt like a recent loss because it was of something that hadn't occurred to him until now. He had lost any link to his past self. Hundreds of photos existed here in this room, but he was denied even a peek at them. The Dunbar family photos may as well have burned in a fire, for all the good they could do him.

Most of it was junk. Jim made countless trips to the trash shoot until old files and records and cards had been cleared out, leaving only consolidated piles that fell into a few categories. Three boxes of family photos were stacked in a corner, then there were souvenirs Jim had picked up throughout the years; worthless, but still able to evoke memories when Jim touched them. Items he had saved from Iraq. Shot glasses he used to steal when he was out drinking with his buddies. One box contained some old toys Jim had played with as a child. The stuffed elephant his grandma had crocheted felt much smaller than he remembered, but he smiled as his fingers traced the wide ears he used to play with in the dark as he had drifted off to sleep so long ago. One box contained mementos of his relationship with Adrienne, the woman he had dated just before meeting Christie. Letters. Lingerie. Props. Photos. What were those photos of again? He whisked that box away from Christie before she had a chance to see too much of Adrienne. Literally.

"I know I wasn't your first girlfriend," she said. "Would it be so horrible for me to see what's in that box?"

He flushed. "I don't think it needs to be seen—by anyone."

"So…you gonna throw it away?" she asked with a kind of sarcasm she acquired when she was only partially amused. "Or maybe you can get Marty to go through it with you. Would that make you feel more comfortable?"

Oddly enough, the same thought had occurred to Jim, but he dismissed it with a laugh. The box contained items and photos that would probably make Marty a little envious. As tempting as it was for Jim to elevate himself in Marty's eyes in that way, these were things he had never wanted to exploit. No eyes but his had ever been meant to see them. What if he had been killed in that shootout and Christie—still hurt and furious about Anne Donnelly—had come across this box?

He hadn't thought about the box in years, but an awareness of it had lingered in the back of his mind, reminding him of the way he used to be and the things he used to do. Maybe it was better to get the contents of that box out of his home and out of his head. Soon he would have children—his future taking the place of his past.

"I'm gonna take it straight to the trash shoot and toss it," he said firmly. "Now."

Things were winding down for the day. Marty needed a shower and Jim offered to lend him some clothes but Shannon had managed to stay relatively clean.

"It's because I'm a pro," she said as they all gathered to eat the Chinese food Jim had ordered for them. Even Christie was there, lounging on the couch as the others sat on the floor around the coffee table.

"Or maybe it's because I did all the work," Marty pointed out.

"That could be it," Shannon said amiably. "By the way, you still have paint in your hair."

"Where?"

"Here, let me get it."

"What do you mean, 'get it'? Leave me alone."

They were both laughing and, from the sound of it, maybe even engaging in a flirty kind of wrestling match. It didn't sicken Jim as much as he had thought it would.

"The color is much better when it's dried and on the walls," Marty assured Jim. "You might have liked it."

"Yeah," Shannon seconded. "It's almost as pretty as the way it looks in Marty's hair. You might have even agreed to it if you could still see."

Was that a dig? Was Shannon teasing him about being blind? Making jokes about Christie sneaking pink into his home because he couldn't see it? He turned toward his sister as the corners of his mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile. This was something that hadn't occurred to him; that Marty's acerbic attitude might rub off on Shannon rather than Shannon's pitying attitude rubbing off on Marty. For the first time since the shooting, Shannon was starting to behave like his sister again. Jim raised his chopsticks to his mouth and ate the chunk of orange chicken he knew was clamped between them.

"Now that's something I don't get at all," Marty said. "A blind guy eating with chopsticks."

Everybody laughed and Jim easily grabbed another piece of food between those chopsticks and held it up for Marty to see. "You think blind people in China don't use them? It's not that hard, Marty. Maybe even easier. I can feel around for the food with these and then, once I have it, it's not going anywhere. Food has a way of sliding off of a fork or spoon, but not these."

"But rice?" Shannon asked.

Jim shrugged. "Sometimes a challenge, but no big deal."

"Jimmy can always find his food," Christie said with a smile in her voice. "Nothing will ever get between a Dunbar and his food."

"That's actually true," Shannon said in an aside to Marty.

"What all did you get done today, Jim?" Marty asked. "You seemed really busy with all those boxes."

"Yeah," Jim said, nodding. "I was. We went through the stuff that had been stored in the other room. That reminds me. Shannon…we came across something you might be interested in. I have some boxes of family photos and I thought that you…"

"You have them?" Shannon said, raising her voice slightly. "I looked all over for those a year or so ago and the parents didn't have any idea where they had gone. I let them have it for being so careless. I've been wanting to organize them."

Jim shrugged. "Go to it. They're in the bedroom. Take them."

"Thank God," Christie muttered. "Can you take them today? Once those are out of the way, poor Hank can start to feel at home again."

"Where is he, anyway?" Shannon asked.

Jim always got a special smile when he was thinking about Hank. He felt it now. "He's cowering somewhere. All this disruption is making him a little tense."

"There you go again," Christie said. "Projecting your feelings onto Hank. You're the one who's tense."

"He's tense too," Jim insisted. "He's a very sympathetic dog."

"I wouldn't mind having one like him," Marty said, obviously while chewing. "Cool dog."

"I know how you can get one," Jim said with a wry smile. "No big deal. First you have to go to a bank and wait for someone with an assault rifle to show up. Then—"

Something big but soft slammed against the side of Jim's head.

"You know," Jim said, calmly turning toward Shannon and Marty, "that is one of Christie's good pillows."

Marty roared with laughter. "Who do you think threw it?"

Jim's eyes widened as he turned to face his wife. "I see how it is now. You're allowed to throw pillows but I'm not." He turned toward Marty. "See, I get in trouble for doing that."

"Pregnant ladies get to make the rules," Shannon observed.

Marty's laugh grew sardonic. "Even I know that."

"Is all this wisdom rubbing off on you, Jimmy?" Christie asked.

Jim could tell by the smile in her voice that Christie was relaxed and having fun with Shannon and Marty. It hit him suddenly that this felt exactly like a double date; like the kind of evening he and Christie used to spend with Terry and Annie, the four of them lingering over dinner and talking about nothing.

Christie had always liked the concept of the double date but none of the couples they had "auditioned" had ever made the final cut—except for Terry and Annie. Christie had missed what they were enjoying now…this casual camaraderie and easy laughter. Jim had often wondered if they would ever have this kind of evening with Tom and his girlfriend or if Karen would ever be in a position to do it, relationship-wise. The last thing Jim had expected was for Marty to come into his home and fit. Marty…and Shannon.

"Do you think they'll get together?" Christie asked groggily after she had settled into bed for the night.

Jim crossed the floor—now almost clear of junk—and climbed in beside her. "I have no idea."

He moved in close until they were face to face and then he kissed her mouth, her chin, her cheek, her ear. He had discovered that the lips were even more sensitive than the fingers when it came to picking up visual images, so he sometimes kissed Christie just so he could look at her. The sweet part was that this usually happened in the dark so Christie ended up doing the same thing back in a way that made things feel equal between them again. They never talked about this, but Jim knew Christie liked to explore his way once in a while to try and understand Jim's experience the only way she could.

"You did good today," she muttered when Jim had settled back onto his own pillow.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Having other people painting the room, going through those boxes I've been telling you to get rid of for years, not freaking out because your sister seems to really like Marty…"

"You think so?" Jim asked, leaning on his elbow.

Christie was so tired she could only half laugh at that, but her point was clear. "Think about it. Her dad was a cop. Her brother is a detective—and she looks up to you, Jimmy. Always has. Of course she would be drawn to Marty. He's—you. Well, you, before…"

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "Before. That has occurred to me. As much as he rubbed me the wrong way in the beginning, I couldn't quite hate the guy because I understood him. He did everything I would have done in his shoes. I like to think I would have handled it with a bit more maturity, but…"

She laughed and stroked the stubble along Jim's jaw. "But you wouldn't have."

"I don't think I'd've been so mean, though," he muttered. "But I understood him."

"He's a handsome, cocky, bad-boy homicide detective—with a good heart. Like you."

"What does he look like?" Jim asked, feeling shy. He asked Christie for descriptions all the time, but not usually of people he knew better than she did.

"No one's told you?"

He shook his head, and then wondered if Christie had been able to see it in the dark. How often did that happen when people spoke to him? He smiled and responded verbally.

"No."

"Well, he's about your height, lean but strong, dark hair, dark eyes, good-looking."

"Thanks," Jim said, but he wasn't satisfied. Nothing Christie had just said had even surprised Jim because he had already figured out most of it on his own. He had learned that very few people were capable of saying something that gave him a clear visual image of a person. The shape of the face, the way a mouth moved when the person talked, a mannerism that pulled it all together and gave someone character. All this was missing. When Jim could see, the last thing he was likely to notice or care about was eye color and the exact shade of a person's hair was not what made them stand out. He remembered expressions, body language, smiles.

"What else do you want to know?" Christie asked.

"What?"

"That wasn't a very good description, was it?" she said. "Um…he talks with his hands a lot. He has a very expressive face. Easy to read. He does that shruggy frown that you do when you're thinking of how to respond to something. He can seem like a teasing big brother but there's genuine warmth when he smiles. Nice teeth. Nice butt—"

"Christie!"

"You want me to pretend I didn't notice? Shannon sure did. I caught her checking him out a few times. But he couldn't fill out the clothes you loaned him."

Jim smiled. "No, I didn't think he could."

"So, how bad would it be if Shannon were to date him?"

Jim thought about it a moment. "That depends on how he treats her. If he's too much like how I was before…I might have to kill him."