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When I arrived home that night, he was awake on the couch, eating a burnt pizza and watching the news.
I dropped my backpack on the recliner in the living room and nodded his way. “Hey.”
He grumbled a little and gave me a nod back.
“I need my insurance card,” I told him. “I have to set up an eye appointment.”
“Yeah, okay.” He scratched at his messy hair before scratching his beer gut. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Do you know what eye doctors are covered? I’ll call and set up an appointment.”
He narrowed his eyes in thought and shook his head. “No. Your mother normally…” It happened again—his words getting tangled up in his grief. “I’ll find the card and figure that out,” he said.
“Thanks.”
I stood there for a minute, staring at a man who hardly resembled my father, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate him…I felt bad for him. It was clear that life had raked him over hot coals, and he was barely breathing.
Maybe I’d expected too much from him.
Maybe I’d thought he was stronger than he’d actually been because, for my whole life, I’d always looked up to him.
Yet at the end of the day, our parents were human, too. Their hearts had probably been through a lot more trauma than our own.
I didn’t know what it would be like for me if I’d lost the love of my life.
I didn’t know how I’d be able to recover.
So that night, I gave him a break. I didn’t push for him to be the father I once knew. I didn’t tell him how shitty he’d been doing in his parenting role.
“He’ll be okay,” I muttered in my room after applying to fifteen different locations. “Just make sure he’s okay, Mom,” I begged.
I didn’t know if I believed in God, but I did believe in my mother. So if I prayed, they’d be sent straight to her. If anyone could’ve answered my tainted prayers, I knew she could.
One moment.
One situation.
One sentence.
That was all it took for a person’s world to turn on its head.
A few weeks later, I was able to set up an appointment to get my vision checked out. I wished it were getting better over the past few weeks, but it hadn’t improved in the slightest. At least I had no more blackout moments in Mr. Slade’s class. I didn’t want to hear more shit from him about how I was faking my sight being screwed up.
“So you’ve had a few eye issues?” the optician asked me as I sat in front of a table with a machine that was going to blow a puff of air into my eyeballs.
“Yeah. I was looking into glasses.”
“Wonderful. You came to the right place. We’re just going to run a few tests for you, and then we can have you out on your way.”
I’d never been to a doctor’s appointment of any kind on my own. Mom always dragged me to them, and Dad wasn’t in the best shape to attend an appointment with me. I was still somewhat shocked he was able to find the insurance card for me to use.
The tests were painless. I was certain I’d want contacts over glasses, but they still had me look around at different frames. As I was doing so, I couldn’t help but wonder which frames Starlet would like on me. When did I become the asshole who cared what a person thought about his appearance? Shit was getting weird lately when it came to my feelings for Starlet.
Even though we hadn’t been able to touch one another, kiss, or do all the things I’d daydreamed about doing with her, I still felt as if our connection was growing more and more. Never in my life did I want to be with another person. We didn’t have to do anything at all. Being in the same space as her seemed to be enough to calm the loudest parts of my mind.
“Milo?” the optician called after going over all the tests. “You can come back with me to finish up.”
I followed her into one of the exam rooms. She smiled at me, but it felt like a sad smile. The kind of smiles people offered when they were giving condolences.
“How blind am I?” I joked as I took a seat across from her desk.
Her smile fell to a frown.
My gut dropped.
She cleared her throat and turned her computer to face me. “Do you see this photograph? This is what it should look like versus this image.” She switched the photo. “Which is yours.”
The difference between the images was shocking. I didn’t know what it meant, but from her reaction, I knew it wasn’t good.
“So how strong a pair of glasses do I need?” I asked her.
Her frown deepened as she clasped her hands together. “Milo, I believe this is a condition called retinitis pigmentosa. It’s a rare eye disease that—”
