“I am seeing some physical signs inside the retina, yes. And the imaging we’ve done backs that up.”
I must look like she slapped me, because she backs away from the diagnosis and into an anatomy lesson. “Your retina is made up of rods and cones.” She gestures to a big eyeball diagram on the wall behind her. “Rods tend to break down first with RP, and they’re the ones that are responsible for seeing in low light. They also tend to be more concentrated on the edge of your retina, with more cones in the center. That’s why the peripheral vision suffers. Later the cones get involved, too, but we’re a long way away from that.”
I stare at her. My brain is stalled. I can’t move past this moment, and I don’t want to. I want to go backward, to yesterday, when I was still telling myself that I was normal, or to years ago, when I stillwasnormal. Dr. Porter seems to be waiting for something. I open my mouth and close it.
“It’s a difficult thing. I wish I had better news,” she says. Her smile is full of tsking sympathy now.
“What’s, I’m sorry, what’s her prognosis?” my mom asks. “I mean, how will this progress?”
“It’s hard to say. She’s doing great now, and we’ll meet with her once a year to track it. And also to keep you up to date on any advancements. Currently, there isn’t a cure, but a lot of exciting research is coming down the pike. Clinical trials in the works. Really groundbreaking stuff.” Her voice sparkles when she says this, as if she’s talking about a new roller coaster at Six Flags.
“So I have RP, and there’s no cure, and I have to come back every year just, what? Just to remind everyone how it’s getting worse?” I’m angry now, angry at the other two people in the room who get to have a regular conversation while my life is falling apart, angry at the powerlessness filling my limbs.
Dr. Porter doesn’t flinch at my tone. Clearly, she’s been through this before. “This is a lot to take in, I know, but there’s no reason to think you don’t have many years of functional vision in front of you.” Functional vision? What the hell does that even mean?
As if reading my mind, Dr. Porter adds, “The only major impact right now, unfortunately, is that I’m afraid you won’t be eligible for a driver’s license.”
Whatever hope I had left falls right through the floor.
“Even Dad got to drive for a few years. EvenDad.” We’re back in the car and all I can think of is how I’m sentenced to the passenger seat forever.
“Oh, honey,” my mom says, plaintive, almost whining. She’s not equipped to handle me when I’m this upset. She puts her hand on mine. I push it away.
“Hatts,” she continues, trying a different angle, “after hearing what the doctor said, about how you don’t always know what you’re not seeing, how your brain will just fill in the gaps, do you evenwantto drive? Do you realize what could happen?”
She’s sniffed out the selfish. How can I think about putting others at risk? But it’s not fair. “I just want to be regular and do regular things.” I slump down low and put my feet up on the dash, even though I know my mom hates that. To get words out at this angle, I have to practically spit them.
“Guess that frees up the money I’ve been saving for a car. Maybe I’ll go blow it all on a bunch of canes. So everyone can see what’s wrong with me. Except for me, of course. Ha.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mom says. “I wanted a normal life for you, too. I didn’t know the doctor was going to say that. I really didn’t.”
She wants me to let her off the hook, but I don’t. I just sit there.
Then she says, “Sometimes, I think about how I should have known better. About what effect your father’s vision would have on you—on our children.” She squints through the swishing wiper blades as rain pounds on the windshield. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have married him.”
The car is suffocating. It reeks of old road trip snacks groundinto the seat cushions. I crack my window and let the coolness of stray raindrops hit my face. “Great, Mom. Thanks for the heads-up. Now I’ll know why no one wants to marry me when I’m older.”
“Oh, no, Hattie, that’s not what I meant. Of course people will want to marry you!”
“Whatever. What do you expect me to do with all of that? I mean, Nate and I wouldn’t evenexistif you hadn’t married Dad. So you’re basically saying you regret my existence.” I want to scream at her,I’m the one going blind! This isn’t about YOU!
But Mom is crying. I should lighten up, apologize, show how accepting I’m going to be, how well I can cope, but I can’t talk anymore. I threw up all my bad feelings on her and now I’m numb. I stare out the window, not really seeing anything, my eyes still dilated. The world is green-and-gray fuzz.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the storm has passed and the dilation drops are finally wearing off. Instead of following my mom up the front walk to the house, I go in the opposite direction, back toward the road.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me, sounding tired.
“For a walk.” I say it mildly, like it’s no big deal, like we haven’t said things to each other that can’t be unsaid.
“Why don’t you come in and talk to your father first? I’m sure he’s anxious to hear what happened. Maybe he’ll have some insights.”
There’s no way in hell I’m going to watch my dad detachfrom reality by quoting another dead white guy to me. Not today.
“Later,” I say over my shoulder, starting to jog.
When I hit the end of the driveway, I break into a sprint. I’m going to run until I forget about this day, or who I am, or both.
I head downhill so that my feet can be on autopilot, the rhythm of my pace beating in my ears like a train clicking along a track. Our street is on the edge of town, just one super long block lined with houses, but at each end it meets country highways that lead to other small rural towns. There are no sidewalks, but the shoulders are wide and covered with gravel that spews out behind me. At the corner, the houses give way to the first farm as I turn left. In the summer, this stretch is like running through a green tunnel, with cornstalks rising high on either side to give shade, but now the corn has all been harvested and the fields leveled, brown and barren. With the dark storm clouds still rolling in the sky, the place looks like some dystopian postapocalypse.
