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“Neither do I,” I say. He returns my grin, and we stand there, a hand on each other’s shoulders, smiling fiercely.
“Two years,” he says.
“Two years,” I confirm.
“You should have told me.”
“It took me a long time before I could bear to hear the words spoken out loud.”
He nods, once, and lets his hand fall from my shoulder. “Well,” he says. “I know now. Do you want to talk about it?”
I find, to my surprise, that I do. His advice has steered me right on countless business decisions before, just as mine has done for him. I remember sitting next to him, devastated, when he told me about the news of his sister’s death. Of his decision to adopt Joshua.
I hadn’t run away then.
He won’t now.
* * *
I crawl into bed that night, exhaustion like a thick fog around me. The headache is back. I’d succumbed to takeout for dinner. But I fall asleep without a glass of scotch, without a painkiller, and without Summer beside me in bed.
Small signs of progress.
It gives me false confidence. After working for a few hours the next day, I surf the web for resources on how to live blind.
It’s the first time I’ve voluntarily sought out the information. The first time I haven’t run from my fate.
It starts good. Confidence-building, even. Ways to color-coordinate your clothes. Testimonials from people who lost their vision later in life and learned to compensate, to prosper. To evolve. There’s a quote about how blindness can be a gift that makes me laugh. Yeah, no matter how you try to make lemonade from these lemons, it’ll always taste bitter.
There’s a link to a documentary about a man who lost his vision later in life. Went completely blind, without the bright pinpricks of light I might expect, to use Dr. Johnson’s optimistic view of things.
My finger hovers over the play button for the trailer, but I hit play.
It’s a mistake.
The trailer is beautifully shot. But as his raspy voice starts to speak, and as he narrates his descent into depression upon waking up blind… my blood turns cold.
He describes forgetting what people look like. Visual memories started to fade, until they became memories of photographs, memories of having once had visual memories. And as the years passed, he could no longer remember what his wife looked like. His parents. His children.
Himself.
I barely make it to my bed before the floor gives out beneath me and despair washes in, the taste of fear like ash in my mouth. I reach for my bedside table, not sure what I’m looking for. My phone to call Summer. My painkillers for the headache.
I choose neither, but I don’t get out of bed for the rest of the day, either.
My self-imposed exile from Summer lasts for three more days. I call her after an hour of deliberation. Lie back on my bed and close my eyes, ready for the wonder of her voice on the other end.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“How are you?”
“Good. Working.”
“On Acture?” she asks. “Opate?”
“On myself,” I say. “And a bit on Acture.”
