Chapter 2
Matt sends an invitation via Foggy: meet me at Clinton Church after work. Marci accepts, because it’s the least she can do after waking him up at who-knows-what-time of night.
She spots a vaguely Matt-shaped person sitting on a bench outside the church. As she gets closer, she sees that it is, in fact, the man she’d come to see. She keeps her blind spot on his left and looks at him with her peripheral vision. It’s awkward, but it works.
Matt is wearing a rumpled suit. His tie is crooked. His cane rests next to him. He’s got something in his lap, and one of his hands is curled into a fist.
“Faces are the hard part,” he says.
“...what?”
“To, um. Not see. Or be seen. There’s Braille for reading, there’s audio for most things on a screen. But. Sighted people bond with each other by looking at faces. It’s just… a barrier.”
Marci remembers the horror movies she’s seen where the demons/ghosts/what-have-you look like people, until they take off their blindfolds and reveal they don’t have eyes. Is that what Matt feels like? Is that what she is going to feel like?
“I like your new glasses,” he says.
Marci’s hands fly to her face and the gold-mirrored sunglasses Foggy had just given her this morning. “How did you…”
“Lucky guess. It’s one of the things people expect, when you’re blind. Braille, white cane, sunglasses. Even if you don’t technically need them.” He taps on his own lenses. “And speaking of expectations… hold out your hand.”
He unfolds the thing in his lap: it’s a second white cane. Marci takes it, swinging it around a bit.
“I’m not sure I need this,” she says.
“Well, even if you don’t need it now, the cane does more than just help you get around. It lets people know you’re blind, for one -- and it’s very useful for tripping people who might need some… instant consequences.”
This makes her laugh. “Alright. Teach me to use it.”
They walk together. Matt sticks to simply giving her advice at first. (“When you’re visibly disabled, people will think they can grab you without permission.” “I’m a woman, Murdock. People grab me without permission already.”)
Then he tells her about Saint Lucy, a stubborn young woman who became the patron saint of the blind. (“I grew up in a Catholic orphanage, I have a box full of medals with her face on them. I can give you one, if you want.”)
Then he asks about Foggy.
“...he’s doing fine. He could do without the stress from your new firm, though.”
Matt pauses, but only for a moment. “At least he’s eating well, right? Sleeping well?”
The innuendo is pretty clear, but Marci dismisses it in favor of the literal question. She remembers all the sleepless nights when Matt was quote-unquote gone. A burning anger comes to life in her chest.
“He has nightmares about you, you know.”
“What?”
“When you were gone, he had nightmares. He still does. He dreams about you. He dreams about finding your body. You were gone for months and he had no idea what happened to you. I had to watch him go through that, Matt. He was a wreck! Where were you all that time?”
Then she whacks his shins with her cane, because he deserves it.
Matt goes quiet. He does something with his face, but Marci can’t see the specifics.
“Let’s go sit down,” he says.
They go back to the bench in front of the church. Matt collapses onto it. He curls his hands into fists, bringing them to his mouth as though he’s physically keeping himself quiet. Marci decides to give him two minutes and silently starts counting to one-twenty.
She’s counted seventy-three when Matt says, “I tried to kill myself.”
He continues, rushed and soft: “Someone found me, brought me somewhere to get help. I was — I was badly injured. In and out of consciousness for a while. No ID, nobody to call.” A humorless laugh. “I was dead in every way but the one I wanted to be.”
Foggy’s voice echoes in her head: Matt is gone.
She had always expected “gone” to be a euphemism for “dead”, from the way Foggy seemed to be in so much pain when he said it. Matt’s explanation about suicide answered some questions. Foggy thought that Matt had killed himself. Foggy felt guilty because he didn’t stop it. Foggy wouldn’t tell anyone what happened out of a misguided attempt to protect Matt’s memory. Not the smartest decision, but… she could understand it.
And then, as if the scene wasn’t dark enough, it starts raining.
Well, drizzling, really, but it’s more than enough. Marci stands. “Okay, we’re getting out of here.”
“What?”
“Listen, Mur-- Matt.” She faces him, head tilted down so they’re sort-of looking at each other. (It’s pointless: his face is completely blocked by her blindspot, and it’s not like he can tell she’s trying to make eye contact. Sighted habits are hard to break.) “I admit, I get jealous sometimes about how much Foggy loves you. And I hate how much pain he goes through because of you. For a long time I thought you were the biggest asshole in Manhattan.”
“Oh, no argument there.”
“I’m not done yet. As I was saying: I’m still not sure that you aren’t the biggest asshole in Manhattan. But knowing what I know now… I’m willing to give you a chance. To recover. To get better. Foggy’s much happier with you around, you know. And. It’d be nice, personally, to have a blind friend that I can vent to when my eyes finally give up.”
“...thanks, I love you too.”
She turns and starts walking away. “Save the sarcasm. It’s cold out, I’m going to a warm cafe where I’ll buy a fancy drink with a dozen ingredients. If you come with me, I might buy you one, too.”
They walk together. Out of the corner of her eye, Marci sees Matt smile.