Reacquaintance by Barry Garelick

Reacquaintance by Barry Garelick

Claudine lost her vision when she was four, starting with blurring and dimming, gradually worsening until she saw nothing. When she was told that she would eventually be blind, she made a point of looking at the world as if for the first time, knowing that what she now saw would be how she remembered what the world looked like.

She came to believe that her blindness gave her greater perceptions of peoples’ feelings and intentions than sighted people, which eventually led her to become a social worker. Now in her seventies, she was an outside therapist for a counseling service where she had worked for many years.

She and her husband Jim lived in the San Fernando Valley for more than thirty years, having left Michigan where she was from. She had been sad about leaving Michigan and still missed it occasionally. But she no longer knew anyone there; people with whom she grew up there had either died or had left.

From a small room in her home she conducted her therapy sessions by video – a holdover from the Covid days which, like many things, remained the new way of doing things. She now sat listening to an AI enhanced text-to-voice transcript for a new patient named Martha, who said she was experiencing “depression and anxiety”.  Martha was also from Michigan and the same age as Claudine. In fact, Martha had requested Claudine. Under “other information” she said she had played trombone in a symphony orchestra. This last item stood out to Claudine as something Martha wanted known.

& & &

“There’s something vaguely familiar about Martha,” Claudine said that night. She lay in bed while Jim worked on his laptop next to her, murmuring numbers, variables and an occasional swear word. Her seeing-eye dog, Berkeley, lay at the foot of their bed in her blanket-padded dog bed.

“Who’s Martha?”

“The woman I have a session with tomorrow. I thought I told you.”

“You may have,” he said. “What about her?”

“I feel like I know her. Or should. She went to University of Michigan when I did. She requested me.” Claudine thought a moment. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

“Anything else you can tell me about her?”

“She plays the trombone. Or played it.” 

“So did you know anyone from school who played the trombone?”

“No. I just can’t place her.”

“That happens,” he said. “I heard from someone once who knew me from school. He wanted me to write something for some ‘alumni notes’ kind of thing. I remembered his name, but not him. He mentioned something I told him having to do with my philosophy of pinball. That was something I definitely talked about back then, but I don’t remember talking to him.”

Claudine met Jim when she was in her thirties, and he was in his twenties. He talked about many things; she even faintly recalled him talking about the philosophy of pinball. What she mainly remembered from the time when they first met was how he helped care for his mother when he was a teenager; she had multiple sclerosis and had gone blind.

Claudine was still slender and had long flowing reddish-brown hair. She had always looked younger than she was; Jim had always looked older. “It evens everything out,” she would say to others when they were first married. She was right; now it was never mentioned. They moved to California where Jim took a job as a software engineer at a large aerospace firm. At the time, the world was relatively peaceful, the internet was new and software and computer specialists were in short supply. The common belief was that software people would be employed for a long time.

Now as she lay in bed she heard the faint roar of cars on Highway 101 about a mile away above the sound of Jim clicking on his laptop.

“What are you working on?”

“Same stuff I’ve been working on for a while. Going through various programs and spreadsheets that we use and automating them with AI.” He had been talking about this for the last several weeks, starting with the premise that AI and loss of jobs is inevitable – there were already firings. He would help to design the AI systems that would ultimately render him redundant while initially extending his time at the engineering firm “It buys me some time until I’m forced to retire,” he would say.

Jim was talking getting into the olive oil business. They had purchased a share of an olive orchard in Calabasas in Ventura County from a friend of his a few years ago. “We can move to Calabasas; it’s beautiful there,” he would say – usually followed up with “Calabasas is just outside the gravitational pull of LA.” He would then joke how LA didn’t exist outside of Dodger Stadium and the LA Airport – everything else was an unforgiving traffic-gorged suburb.

“How much time do you think we have before we’re in the olive oil business?”

“I’m guessing about a year. But it could be less. They’ll still need people to correct the mistakes AI is making. It does odd things with data. Unexplainable things, sometimes. They’ll probably have me train some young person to correct the errors AI makes before they give me my going-away party. Eventually, someone will train AI to look for mistakes.”

“I feel sorry for young people,” she said. “At least the older people have had a chance to work. Younger people can’t even get in the door.”

“Do you think AI will replace therapists?

“Not too worried about that at my age,” she said.

“I was thinking about therapists in general, not you.”

“Some things AI can’t do well. Like sense emotion.”

“Seems to me it can be trained to look for certain signs of emotions.”

“Maybe,” she said, pulling the covers up around her as a cool breeze came through the window. “But not the emotions of the therapist.”

& & &

The next day Claudine had two sessions; her first was with Martha. Claudine positioned herself in what she estimated to be the camera’s line of sight. An electronic voice announced when Martha had joined the session.

“Hello Martha,” Claudine said. “Can you see me?”

“Yes, I see you.”

“Good. Forgive my sunglasses; I’m blind.”

“I know,” Martha said. “Do you remember me? I read for you when we were in school. We were in the same dorm.”

Claudine still didn’t know who she was but felt it best not to mention it. “I didn’t recognize your last name. It’s been a while. I see that you requested me. Any particular reason?”

“You’re someone familiar,” Martha said.  

“Yes; it’s nice to feel comfortable. When did you move here?”

“About five years ago. We moved from Ohio. My partner and I.” Martha paused; Claudine remained silent, suspecting more.

“She died last year,” Martha said.

“I’m so sorry. How long were you together?”

“About twenty years.”

“Long time then. What did she do for a living?”

“She was an artist,” Martha said. “A painter. We met when I moved to Toledo. I was in the Toledo Symphony. I play trombone. I wanted to be in the Cleveland Symphony, but I didn’t make it. I’m not that good, I guess. I thought I was.  After a while I quit Toledo Symphony and got a teaching certificate; I taught band at a junior high. Then Covid hit and things fell apart. Pretty hard to teach band remotely. I retired and gave some lessons. Eventually we moved out here. She knew a lot of people in LA and was able to get some exhibitions. After she died, I became a recluse.”

“A recluse?”

“I avoided people. Except for everyday things like shopping. I spend a lot of time online. I sometimes connect with people I once knew. We don’t have much to say that’s worthwhile, usually. It feels like we’re all sheltered in place, sometimes.”

“Do you feel lonely?” Claudine asked.

“Isolated is more accurate, I think. Disconnected.”

Martha hesitated before answering questions, Claudine noticed. “A persistent sense of apprehension” as she would later describe it in her dictated notes.

“People who retire often feel isolated,” Claudine said. “Especially if they’ve lost a loved one.,”

“I felt isolated even before. Only now it’s increased; or feels that way anyway. People I knew have migrated, like me. Living far away from where they grew up. I know people who never moved very far, still friends with people they grew up with. I envy them sometimes.”

“Why do you envy them?”

“They seem happy and connected,” Martha said. “The world doesn’t bother them like it does me. I’m resentful most of the time. Everything irritates me. I know I’m old, but young people seem consumed with things that don’t interest me; part of a world I’m not part of. I’m glad I’m not that young on the one hand. But I’m still envious in some ways.”

The sound of a truck on Claudine’s street could be heard. Both were silent as if waiting for it to pass. When it did, Martha remained silent.

 “What are you thinking about?” Claudine asked.

“I wish I didn’t hate so much. I’m full of hate.”

“Is there anything that gives you relief from that hate?”

Martha was silent, thinking. “I play the trombone. Usually at night.”

“Nice. What do you play?”

“Various things. Sometimes Saint Saens’ Cavatine for Trombone. It’s a solo piece. I played it once when I was in the symphony orchestra at Michigan.”

“What do you think about when you play?”

“Various memories,” Martha said. “Happier times mostly. I was first chair in the orchestra. It was a nice time in my life. It seemed like the world was full of promise.”

“The past is important to you?”

“I guess. Yes.”

Claudine thought she heard Martha giggle. She waited a bit. “Were you laughing just now?” she said.

“Yes, sorry. I didn’t think you heard. I was thinking you were going to ask me to play my trombone as part of my therapy.”

“Don’t worry,” Claudine said, laughing. “Trombone therapy is not something I do. Anyway, you don’t have to apologize for laughing. It’s nice to hear you laugh.”

A soft bell sounded from the computer.

“We’re going to have to stop now,” Claudine said. “This was a ‘get to know you’ session. For next time I want to go deeper; I’d like you to think about what you’d like to accomplish in our time together. You’ve given me some things to work with. We’ll meet next Tuesday, the same time.”

No response.

“Next Tuesday, same time; is that OK?”

“Sorry,’ Martha said. “Yes. Next Tuesday. Same time.”

& & &

A few minutes after the session ended, she heard the “tee-he, tee-hu” chirp of what she knew to be a Black Phoebe; there were many in the area. She felt slightly dizzy; when it passed, she began dictating her notes. She then sat on the couch in the living room, listening to the sounds outside. After a few minutes she fell asleep.

Ten minutes later she awoke and recalled with remarkable clarity Martha in Claudine’s dorm room. A surge of memories of that time came quickly and unexpectedly. She grabbed her dog, placing her face in Berkeley’s furry neck and wept a tearful gasp that lasted no more than a few seconds but seemed longer.

Martha was one of two readers who read Claudine’s assigned readings from her textbooks; they were paid a small hourly wage by Institute for the Blind. Martha had only read for Claudine a few times towards the end of the school year. The other reader was Daniel who started reading for her in the fall. She remembered Daniel and occasionally thought about him over the years. He was a senior who wanted to be a playwright and sometimes would read her parts of plays he was writing. Like many students at that time, Daniel had no definite plans other than maybe stay in Ann Arbor or possibly move to San Francisco, or perhaps Canada.

Martha was a senior as well; she didn’t talk much about herself and seemed troubled and morose. Claudine now recalled Martha mentioning that she played trombone.

They all lived in the same dorm but lived separate lives, though Martha seemed to know things about Daniel that Claudine did not. Martha knew that Daniel had broken up with his girl friend – a common event among seniors as graduation came near. Claudine liked Daniel and upon hearing the news about the break-up, asked Martha what he looked like.

“He’s tall and kind of skinny.”

“Is he good looking?”

Martha hesitated as she usually did, this time longer than usual.

“Well, is he?” Claudine said.

“I would say so, yes.”

A week later, Claudine invited Daniel to a hall party she was organizing at the end of finals week. “Please come,” she said. “And bring lemonade.” As a hedge against disappointment she told herself that nothing would come of it.

The party was in a small lounge at the end of Claudine’s hallway. It was growing late and Daniel had not shown up. Her hallway intersected with a corridor connecting two sides of the dorm and carried the sounds of footsteps and many voices within which, at one point, she thought she heard Daniel’s.

“Daniel?” There was no answer. She heard footsteps that stopped at the entrance to the hallway.

“I know you’re there,” she said, waiting. Finally Daniel spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”

“Is somebody with you?” Again, no answer. “Who’s with you?” she said.

“Martha,” he said. “We were talking and I just forgot. I’m sorry. Is the party still going on?”

Claudine turned her back to them. Daniel called her name and followed her, but she continued walking to her room and slammed the door.

Both Martha and Daniel graduated that year; Claudine never saw them after that night and harbored anger against them, then hatred, and eventually forgot about the incident until now. She wondered if Martha remembered it, and if she would bring it up.

& & &

It had been warm that day but was starting to cool off when Jim came home. Claudine now sat on the couch once more, feeling the sun on her face; a beam that she imagined was illuminating dancing dust particles. Berkeley lay at her feet.

“How was your day?” she asked. “Are we going into the olive oil business yet?”

“Not yet.” Jim sat in a chair across from the couch and leaned his head back. “You look pensive,” he said.

“Just thinking. Pensively.”

“About?”

“Martha. The patient I told you about yesterday. From Michigan.”

“The one who plays the trombone?”

“Yes. I finally remembered her.”

“And? Who is she? Or can you not tell me?”

“I can talk about who she was when I knew her back then; just not Martha now, as a patient.”

“OK. Tell me. Wait, I want to get a beer.”

When he was in the kitchen Claudine called, “Could you bring me one?”

“You never drink beer.”

“Sometimes I do. Like now.” She waited for her beer and then told him what she had remembered.

“Are you feeling sad about it?” he asked.

“No, not really. It just caught me off guard; I forgot all about it, and then it came back in a rush. I was overwhelmed with memories of that time; 1971. It was such an exciting time in my life. I felt independent and confident; like I could do anything. I mean I know I wasn’t going out with Daniel or anything. But I thought I actually had a chance with Daniel and could somehow convince him to stay in Ann Arbor. The whole thing brought back how hard it was to have any kind of relationship. Always wondering if I was pretty enough or considered to be damaged goods; a burden. I had forgotten those feelings.”

“Do you think Martha remembers the event? The party and you asking about Daniel”

“Hard to say. I guess I’ll find out.”

“Are you angry with her?”

“No. I hated her when it happened. And Daniel too. Sometimes it feels good to hate. But it’s in the past.” She stroked Berkeley’s back with her stockinged foot. “All is forgiven.”

“Forgive and forget,” he said, and went back to the kitchen. He peered into the refrigerator. The sound of objects being rearranged, taken out, and Jim grumbling, could be heard.

“What are you looking for?” Claudine asked.

“The rotisserie chicken. I was going to make that Mexican chicken and rice dish for dinner.”

“We finished it the other night. Remember?”

“Right. I forgot. BLTs then. Sound good?”

“BLTs sound fantastic.” She heard things being put back in the refrigerator.

“Jesus!”

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing. Just thinking. Do you realize that in 1971 I was ten years old?”

“Yes.”

“Little knowing that someday I would sweep you off your feet.”

“You certainly did do that.”

“Daniel’s loss,” he said.

They said nothing else while he made dinner.

She thought about her recent reacquaintance with the past and then about Martha and her fixation on how things once were. She would help Martha see the past like a visitor from the future and take what she needed from it. Something we all needed to do; it’s what makes us human, she decided.

The ocean-like roar of cars on the 101 was becoming quieter while the sound of katydids and tree frogs grew louder. Beyond the smell of bacon frying in the kitchen, Claudine could smell the blooming Datura coming in through the open window. It must be getting dark outside, she thought and pressed the button on her talking watch to see if she was right. It was seven fifteen. Yes.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Barry Garelick 2026

Image Source: Spencer Plouzek from Unsplash.com