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“Oh. Right. I call the specialist. I make an appointment. I count on my left eye and ride it out for the few days it takes for the right-side vision to come back. I take a great deal of carefully-regulated prescription pain medication.” I smile. “No driving for me.”
“Can you…” Ginger seems shy about asking whatever she wants to ask.
“It’s fine. I can handle all the things I need to do.”
Her voice is as quiet as I’ve ever heard it. “I mean, can you see well enough to teach? To teach art?”
The word comes out of my mouth like a reflex. “Sure.” But the real answer is never so easy. One of the nefarious side effects of optic neuritis is color loss: my right eye sees color far less clearly than my left. Reds wash out to light pink. This is, obviously, not awesome when gauging effectiveness of color in composition. The other thing I am certainly not going to talk about is the MS. If I never mention it, it probably won’t become a thing. I hope.
So I never mention it. But it lurks there, in my statistically possible future.
“I’m good,” I tell Ginger. “I mean, I’m not going to lie, it would have been better if this hadn’t happened.” I do a little rewind of the afternoon. “If none of this had happened.” I think of the moment I opened my eyes, there on Dexter’s couch, of the punch of pain, the darkness closing around me. I must have looked horrible. Well, at least I don’t have to worry about that particular complication anymore.
He is certainly not going to stay interested after that little display. I definitely walked out on him. Classy.
But I can’t pretend it wasn’t a pretty remarkable kiss. I wonder if he noticed how perfectly we fit together. How void of awkwardness the whole interaction was. How excellent . . . no.
No. I don’t want to think about it.
Ginger chooses that second to say, “So do you want to talk about the magnificent lead-up to your terrifying medical moment? Dexter Kaplan?” She wiggles her eyebrows and leans across the coffee table.
“I really, really don’t.” I slide down into the cushions and cover my face. “Maybe,” I mumble through a pillow, “everyone involved will just forget about it.”
Ginger’s laugh cuts through the pillow barrier. “Right. That’s going to happen. He’s certainly not going to forget you. And I kind of pictured you as a Hank kind of girl. You know, that lanky, tweedy, literary type. And the hair. You have to admit that Hank has great hair.”
I appreciate Ginger’s attempt to steer the conversation, but I really need to get some pain meds into my body. Now. I need it enough that it makes me unable to mention Dexter’s own version of excellent hair.
I sit up. “I’d better call the doctor and get started making appointments. This part can take forever. But thank you, for real. Thank you for everything.” I reach for her hand and squeeze.
Ginger doesn’t fight me, and again I am grateful. She stands.
“I’ll bring a sandwich by in a couple of hours. Take it easy.” She steps around the coffee table and runs her hand down my hair, a little gesture of tenderness. I pat her leg as she turns away.
“Thanks. I’ll take it. And maybe you could keep this just between the two of us?”
Ginger pushes out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Just us and the entire medical team that’s going to fix you up.” She lets herself out the door and closes it gently.
I fall back into the cushions. Ouch.
