Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

I thought about Betty, about her warm smile and her welcoming heart, about how she flitted around the B&B like a bird herself, attending to everyone, making sure each one of us felt important. “She is,” I said. “Honestly, Burt? It’s a good thing you’re blind because otherwise, you’d never have worked up the nerve to make a move.”

Impossibly, his smile widened. “I had the same thought. Damn lucky I went blind; my old self would have fallen over in shock to hear this version of myself say it.” He laughed. “Life sure can change quickly and in unexpected ways. Don’t you agree, Chief?”

“I do, Burt.”

For a few moments we sat in companionable silence, me staring out at the water, Burt staring inward at whatever sights were there.

“Betty used to be a writer,” he said.

“Did she? I didn’t know.”

“It was a long time ago. Stories are her passion.” His expression grew solemn and I cocked my head, curious about where this was going and why he’d brought it up. “But she had an accident and suffered a head injury that causes her to lose words.” He paused for a moment. “You’ve probably noticed it happen. It distresses her. Writing became frustrating and upsetting and so she gave it up, turned her family home into a B&B to support herself . . .” He trailed off, the weight of Betty’s pain obviously a burden he now carried too.

And I suddenly realized something. “She narrates for you,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d watched Betty describe something that was going on so that Burt might picture it, watched the focus and the wonder on his face as he obviously did just that.

“She does.” He smiled. “And she does it so beautifully, and with such detail, it’s almost like, for those moments, my sight has been returned.”

Wow. A fish jumped and the water rippled out around the spot where it’d returned to the water.

“As for me,” he went on, “I spent my life as a fisherman. There’s no place on a fishing boat for a man with no sight. It was part of the reason I felt my life was over when I went blind.”

“I’m sorry, Burt.” He’d lost everything that meant anything to him. That’s how it must have felt.

“Being a fisherman provides some amount of down time, often quite a bit depending on the weather and other factors. I filled that time with crosswords. I got pretty damn good at them too, moving from one level to the next. I even entered and won a few contests. Words. They’re all about words. Name six different words that mean congenial.”

I chuckled. “I don’t think I can. Not off the top of my head.”

“Affable, convivial, cordial, jovial, pleasant, sociable. If you know enough words, you can solve any puzzle out there.”

And it dawned on me.

Betty had lost her words, and Burt had spent years collecting them.

I’d watched her become upset when the one she’d meant to use suddenly became unavailable to her, tapping her head in distress, trying to bring back what had once been hers. Batty Betty. No wonder Burt always seemed to provide just the one she wanted. He knew so many words. Right off the top of his head.

And Betty, his storyteller, drew such vibrant pictures in his mind, that in essence, she’d given him back his sight.

I swallowed down a sudden lump.

“It’s meant to work that way, isn’t it?” Burt asked. “All the things that have brought us pain, carve a distinct hole in our heart, and there’s someone else out there with the perfect something that will fill the void. And in turn, we get to do the same for them. And suddenly, it all makes sense. It all fits. Because we haven’t been forsaken. We’ve been prepared.”

Haven’s words from the night before came back to me. Maybe the terrible truth about love is that when it’s gone, it leaves a hole in your heart so big it feels like nothing will ever fill it.

Something expanded inside me, something nameless that made my ribs ache. I moved my eyes and my mind back to the man sitting next to me. “Burt . . . that head injury Betty suffered . . . did it have anything to do with her deceased husband?”

Burt paused. “Well now . . . perhaps. But that part of the story is Betty’s to tell.”

I nodded, his meaning clear, a sharp pang joining the internal ache. Batty Betty. The screen door opening on a squeak broke the moment and a breath whooshed from me, relieving some of the building pressure. I turned, looking behind me to where I could see Haven exiting the house.

“That’d be your cue,” Burt said, smiling and bumping his shoulder to mine.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, it is.” The dock swayed slightly as I pulled myself to my feet and tapped his shoulder so he knew I was offering a hand.

But he shook his head. “I’m going to sit out here a while longer. I promise not to fall in.”

I hesitated. “You sure?”

“Very much so.” He nodded in Haven’s direction. “Go on now and enjoy this beautiful day with that lovely girl.”



**********



We drove to the antique fair with the windows down and the radio on, talking about the area, and laughing and fighting over which songs should be turned off immediately, and which ones were classics.

She had terrible taste in music.

But I was willing to look past that, considering she had the smile of an angel and the hair of a goddess. And other things I didn’t want to think too intently about at that moment and make it tempting to pull my truck over and do lewd things to her on the side of the road.