“Okay,” he continues, “you are going to focus directly on the dot for the duration of the test. Don’t let your gaze wander. Whenever you see a point of light enter your field of vision, click the button.”
“Well, I usually prefer a virtual reality headset, but I’ll give it a try,” I say, attempting to be cute, but I get no response. The bowl starts to hum. In a second I see what looks like a laser pointer light out of the corner of my eye. It’s hard not to look directly at it, to keep focused on the center dot. I click. A few seconds later another light comes wandering down from the top. I click again.
The clicking goes on for another ten minutes. I forget thatthis is a diagnostic test to get an accurate understanding of my vision. The overachiever in me takes over. I just want to do well. I want to catch all the little lights as soon as possible, which makes it hard not to look around, so every few seconds, I have to rededicate myself to the center dot.
In the middle of the test, the timing changes. There are a few long stretches where I don’t see any lights. I get the distinct impression that the technician is holding his breath. I decide to click anyway, even though I can’t see anything, because there is definitely something out there that I’m missing. I know I’m messing up the results, but I can’t help myself.
Whatever cheating I did doesn’t help, though, because when the technician walks me out of the room, his face looks forced, like he’s making an effort to be neutral. I failed that shit so hard.
We go into a bright little room and I’m left with a new babysitter.
“I’m going to put two sets of drops in your eyes now,” she says through smacks of gum. “The first set is to numb your eyes so the dilation drops don’t sting.” Turns out both sets of drops sting, so thanks for nothing. Then she deposits me in yet another, smaller waiting room for people already dilated. The lights are off here, which I appreciate, because I can already feel how sensitive my eyes are getting.
I mentally dub this place “The Holding Cell of Pathetic Blobs” because our eyes are all out of focus and we can’t really do anything that a person would normally do in a waiting room—can’t read, can’t look at our phones. Even looking at theTV mounted near the ceiling gives me a headache. My brain is trying hard to adjust pupils that are now completely out of its control. I feel nauseous. I look around to see how the other pathetic blobs are feeling. There’s an old man with a cane between his knees that he taps on the floor whenever he clears his throat, which is often. The slowest purse gatherer from the outer waiting room is here, too, wearing dark glasses and sitting motionless with her hands folded in her lap.
Now the purse lady hasn’t moved in the last five minutes.I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s dead, I think, then feel bad for it. We, the dilated, are silently bonded in our uncomfortable prison. We should be on the same pathetic team. I almost reach out to touch her hand. I want my mom like I’m five years old. But she’s still out front, where I told her to stay.
And where is Richard right now? When I left the first waiting room it was already after two, so the dismissal bell probably just rang. He might be hanging by his locker, loitering until the river of pimply humans eases up at the front entrance. Or he might be climbing onto the bus, doling out smiles to all the girls already in their seats. Or—I can’t even—Amanda might be giving him a ride home again. The helplessness that overwhelms me makes me stand up. But there’s nowhere to go, so I sit back down again. The other blobs don’t seem to notice.
Another person in scrubs calls my name. We recently watchedA Clockwork Orangein my film criticism elective, and as I follow her to a third exam room, I wonder if this is when they’ll pin my eyes open with claw clips. But this room is the mildest yet. I’vebeen wearing glasses or contacts since third grade, so I recognize the equipment as the same as at the optometrist’s office. It looks like the coin-operated telescopes they have at Niagara Falls, except you can look in both sides. An energetic lady with a bouncy bob and a white coat comes in, pumps the hand sanitizer, and smiles at me while she rubs it in between her fingers.
“I’m Dr. Porter,” she says. She picks up a tablet off the counter and scrolls a few times. “How are you today, Henrietta?”
“It’s Hattie,” I say. “I’m fine, I guess. A little blurry.”
“Oh, I know. Dilation drops are the worst, aren’t they?” She sits opposite me. “But hopefully they’ve done their job, and I can get a really good look in there. Lean forward and put your chin on the pad and let’s see what we see.”
She leans forward, too. “Look straight ahead.” A painfully bright vertical line of light passes over my eye. I succeed in not blinking. “Look left.” Again with the light. “Look right. Now down.” This doesn’t seem healthy. If I’m not already going blind, I will be by the time she finishes examining me.
Finally, she sits back. “I am seeing some sunburst patterns,” she says, half to herself. “Your dad has RP?” she asks me, picking up the tablet again.
I swallow and nod.
“So you’re probably pretty savvy about these things, hmm? You know how it works?”
“Uh, well, I don’t really know the science,” I admit. “I just know the results.” Did my dad never tell me or did I never ask? Does it seem like I was too busy doing my nails to care?
“You’re here with someone?” she asks. I nod again.
“My mom,” I say, almost a whisper.
Dr. Porter stands up and steps into the hall, stopping the first person who passes by. “Can you bring in Henrietta—Hattie—Murphy’s mom from the waiting room?” Then she turns back to me and smiles again, hands in her coat pockets, and starts asking me about my classes at school.
Oh God. This is not good. All of a sudden I feel like I’m in trouble, like my mom is coming back so that the doctor can tattle on me.She totally failed her peripheral vision test. It’s like she wasn’t even trying. Or maybe they just need my mom to blow my nose when I burst into tears.
My mom appears, face drawn tight, her hands strangling her purse strap, her lips pressed thin. She tries to smile at the doctor as she sits on the only other seat, a small black stool. It looks like she is baring her teeth.
“Hi, Mom, thanks for joining us,” Dr. Porter says. “I wanted you to be here while we talk, just so we’re all on the same page.”
“Of course,” my mom says, but it sounds like,Hurry up and say it.
“Now, I know a little about Dad’s eyes. Do you have vision loss on your side of the family?”
“No, I mean, I wear glasses, but that’s it.” Everything my mom says sounds like something else to me, like I have a mom translator implanted in my skull. This particular statement sounds like,No, thank God, he’s dirty and defective, but I’m clean.I look away.
“Hmm, well, RP is usually recessive and therefore when it’s expressed, it’s carried by both sides of the family. But not always, not if it’s the autosomal dominant type, which could be what we’re seeing here. I’ll want to do a blood test today, too, if that’s all right,” she says to me.
“So—I have it?” I croak. Why am I asking?! There’s no taking it back once she says it. Once she puts the words into the air, that’s it. It will be true forever, and any chance of everything turning out fine for me will be gone.
