I can’t seem to focus. My mind is wandering all over the place, and I can’t get a handle on my thoughts. I can’t sleep. I tried to rest and calm my fretful brain, but after anxiously rolling around in bed for what felt like hours, I can no longer stand the discomfort of this new information. The words are gnawing at my skin like a sudden rash that has covered me from head to toe; neither scratching furiously nor lying completely still does anything to easy my agony. Gene therapy. It sounds too good to be true, which means that it probably is. I’m not foolish, and I’m not going to fall for pretty words. Still, the itch has gotten under the protective layer of my skull, and I can’t manage to get at it. It’s burrowing deeper, and infecting me with promise. There’s a chance that we might be able to give you the ability to see. Standing up, I begin pacing in my small cabin, moving back and forth across the creaking floorboards.
How dare that arrogant doctor come to my front door and tell me what’s wrong with my life? I have carefully designed it this way. I am comfortable in my small, secluded little world. I already tried life in the big city, going to college, and socializing. I tried to be like everyone else, and ignore my disability; but they could not ignore it. They were all either too kind and condescending or too sadistic and brutal—there never was anything in between. Why would I want to subject myself to that again?
My cabin begins to feel unusually small. Within a few minutes, I have paced from one end to the other dozens of times. Every lap I complete seems to make the tiny enclosure shrink even further. Now that the doctors have left, it feels achingly desolate here. The once-comfortable silence is now ominous and depressing. I pause in my pacing, as an alarming thought makes my blood run cold.
Am I going to die here? All alone in the middle of nowhere?
Lifting a hand to touch my forehead, I exhale slowly. I’m only twenty-five, but from the way I live, you would think I was an old woman. I bought a hideous, small house in the backwoods of New Hampshire—where no sane person would want to reside. I told myself that this was what I wanted, but if I were to be achingly honest, I would admit that I do miss my family. I miss people. I miss their voices. I miss the simple, comforting sensation of a hug. I haven’t had a hug in over three years.
And I just missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime, because I was too scared to open my door.
Suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of what I’ve lost, I move over to my desk and fall into my chair. My aim is slightly off, and my thigh collides painfully with the arm of the chair before I can find the cushion. I barely notice this injury as my hands begin to scramble over my desk, searching and rummaging for an item that I generally try to avoid using. Then my fingers brush against it; the cool metal surface of my cell phone. I clasp it victoriously in my hand, and rip it out of the wall socket, where it sits perpetually charging in case of an emergency.
Holding the phone close to my lips, my hand shakes slightly. I have been tempted to contact my family in the past, but I have never broken my vow of solitude. However, I don’t think I have ever needed human contact as much as I do right now. I need to hear the voice of someone I love. I jab my thumb down on the large, circular button on my phone.
“Dial Carmen,” I command. I wait for the cell phone to follow my instructions.
There is a beep of acquiescence. “Calling Carmen! Please stand by.”
I take a deep breath. I press the phone against my ear as it begins to ring. I’m terrified that my sister will hate me. I abandoned her without a word. We had been so close, but I had needed to get away with an undeniable urgency. The ringing stops and a rustling noise is heard. I imagine that she might be pulling her phone out of a purse cluttered with random accoutrements. Finally, there is a voice on the other end of the line.
“Carmen Winters speaking! How may I help you?”
For a moment, I am too emotional to respond. A thousand fond memories come rushing back to me, without warning. Her tone is upbeat and perky, with a feminine cadence. There is just a touch of sophistication in her enunciation, so subtle that it might go unnoticed. I’ve missed her more than I can say.
“Helloooo?” she says again. “Is this some creepy-ass stalker? Because I’m not in the mood...”
“Carm,” I say softly. My own voice comes out in a clumsy croak. “It’s me.”
There’s a silence on the other end of the line. I hear her breathing become louder and more erratic. Finally, she releases a sound that is half-sob, half-laugh. “Hel—Helen...” A whimper filters through the line that is somewhere between a gasp and a sniffle. I recognize these sounds. She is trying desperately not to release a torrent of tears.
“Oh, Carm. Please don’t cry,” I beg her. “Please.”
“I knew you’d call me,” she says, and her voice breaks. “I knew it! I knew that I’d somehow get in touch with you again, before it was too late.”
“Too late?” I ask with worry, my face immediately contorting into a frown. Is something wrong? Is she okay? Dozens of dangerous situations dance across my mind, and I temporarily forget my own issues.
There is another silence on the line.
“Helen... I’m getting married tomorrow.”
Now I’m the one making a strange sobbing-laughing sound. “Oh my god! Carmen, really? Tomorrow? To Daniel?”
“No, no. Oh, Helen, you’ve been gone so long. Daniel and I broke up a few months after you disappeared. I was so depressed, and he just couldn’t handle it...”
This news upsets me, and I bite down on my lip. Daniel was a decent guy, and I had liked him. “I’m so sorry, Carm.”
“Well, you know. After mom’s death—none of us were in good shape.” Carmen laughs a little. “What guy wants to date a girl who’s crying and moping all the time? And always going on and on about how much she misses her baby sister? But I got past it. Shortly after that, I met Grayson, and he’s an absolute angel—not to mention a total hunk. He’s really been there for me.”
“Are you sure about him, Carm?” I ask her with worry. She used to have a miserable track record with men. I know how she has a tendency to cling to anyone who shows her a bit of kindness. “You’re not rushing things?”
“Honey, I’m 29!” Carmen reminds me, putting emphasis on the number as if it is a critical turning point. “I feel like an old bat. Most of my friends have already gotten married.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I tell her with a frown. “Is Grayson a good guy?”
“Heck, yes!” she says, almost a little too enthusiastically. “He’s the one—I’m sure of it. It’s going to be an amazing wedding! Daddy is paying for everything.”
We haven’t even been talking for a full minute, and I am already developing a headache. I am already beginning to remember why I left. I have always felt so inadequate compared to Carmen. She is so dazzling and vibrant, even in her lowest moments. When we were teenagers, and she temporarily experimented with being a blonde, she had decided it simply would not work for her because she appeared “too bubbly.” I was confused about how a change of hair color could be so significant, but I never asked for clarification. Most of her fashion-obsessions and idiosyncrasies completely escaped me. Not just because I could not see, but because I could not bring myself to care.
“Helen,” she says softly, and her voice is suddenly serious. “Please come to my wedding. Please come home.”
I hesitate. There is an odd undertone of fear in her voice, which piques my curiosity and concern. Could something be wrong?
“Please, Hellie,” she begs, using the old childhood nickname that had always irked me so much. “It’s the most important day of my life, and I need you to be there, standing beside me. I need my baby sister. Will you come?”
I am acutely aware of the fact that she has not asked about me. She has not asked about my whereabouts or my health. Although it’s on the tip of my tongue, I find myself unable to spill my own guts to tell her about my infuriating experience with the doctors. I had hoped she would offer a l
istening ear, but as usual, she is too focused on her own events. Of course, she would be; they are far more momentous and dramatic than anything that could ever happen to me.
“You should be my maid of honor,” she tells me. “Please? Helen? I’ll get you a bridesmaid dress. There’s still time. Have you gained weight?”
I smile. It’s the first question she has asked about me, and it is completely ridiculous. “How would I know?” I answer, reaching down to check how much fat I can pinch on the side of my stomach. It’s not very much. “I don’t own a scale—and even if I did, I couldn’t read the numbers.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re just as gorgeous as ever, sweetie! Will you come? Please say yes.” She pauses, and her voice takes on a somber note. “Please...”
Hearing the wavering sound in her voice, I sense trouble. Scowling, I reach up to scratch my head in disorientation. “I—I don’t know, Carm.”
“I’ll only have one wedding, Helen.” Carmen sounds dejected and upset. “It’s hard enough knowing that Mom can’t be there... but you’re still alive. Do I have to accept that I’ve lost my sister, too?”
This guilt trip is working very well. Even though I’m frowning, and trying to be strong and maintain my ground, I feel myself caving. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll try to make it, but...”
“Great! Thanks, Helen! I’ll see you soon. Come home as soon as you can, because I’ll need plenty of help getting ready.”
The phone went dead.
I groan, clenching my fist around the little metal box. “I’m doing fine, by the way. Thanks for asking, Carmen. All that horrible shit that happened to me? Dropping out of school? Oh, yeah. I’ve gotten over it, and I’m living a happy and well-adjusted life. I’m living life to the fullest, really. I have tons of friends. Boys? Sure. There are plenty of men in my life. Most of them are chipmunks, but I wouldn’t discriminate.” Slamming the phone down on my desk, I roll my eyes and rise to my feet. I march over to my kitchenette and begin ripping cupboard doors open, rummaging around for a bottle that I had tucked away for a special occasion. Or a dismal one. When my fingers collide with the smooth, cool glass surface, I grab the neck of the bottle and yank it from the cupboard. I quickly find my corkscrew, and retire to my small bed to comfort myself with some good wine.
“Oh, you really enjoyed my latest book? Thanks for telling me, Carmen! It’s so thoughtful of you to keep reading my work. I haven’t been insecure at all. It’s not even slightly difficult being a blind writer.” I can’t be bothered to get a glass, so once I remove the cork, I drink directly from the bottle. The rich, robust flavor of the liquid smothers my tongue, and I lean back against the wooden wall in satisfaction. “By the way, I’m making tons of money. That’s why I bought a rundown cabin in the wilderness. Because of the hot location—I’m sure my property value is doubling, as we speak. Thanks for asking.”
I know that it might not sound this way at the moment, but I love my sister. Everything about her is just so flawless that I can’t help but be frustrated; her personality feels radiant—almost luminous. Even her name! Carmen makes me think of the legendary heroine in an opera. Helen just sounds like a boring scientist. That’s why I tried to change my name and leave my old life behind me. But today, the past won’t stop hunting me down. I take another swig from my bottle. “Of course I’ll come to your wedding! Tomorrow? Sure, that’s not inconvenient at all. Let me just get in my fancy car and have my chauffeur bring me over there. It’s only two states away—not much of a trip or anything.” I take another drink.
I’m in the middle of talking to myself, yammering on like a crazy person, when I hear the crunching of footsteps again. In my surprise, I nearly drop the wine bottle I’m cradling against myself. More visitors? A determined knock echoes against the wooden door of my cabin. I look up sharply, glaring in the direction of the sound. I remain motionless for a moment, staring into the dark expanse of my oblivion. It may be black, but my imagination has never failed to paint fantastic images in every direction I gaze. Even when my eyes are closed, my mind creates whimsical shapes and patterns, dancing and spinning in the empty darkness.
But in this moment, my imagination falters. There is only obscurity.
A stronger knock is heard on my door. “Miss Winters!” says a demanding male voice. “Open this door. We need to talk.”
I hug the wine bottle closer against me. I recognize the irritating doctor’s voice from earlier. I am not sure whether I should be relieved or upset that he returned. It is true that I had been clinging to a sliver of hope that I could get a second chance to accept his offer. But now that he is here, I am not sure how to tell him that I might like to try. I have spent so much time running away from people that it is difficult to accept help. Long ago, I promised myself that I would lock myself up and never open the door to anyone. If I were to turn the knob and crack the door open even a few inches, I know that all kinds of danger would pour through that crevice and surely ruin my life.
People can never seem to walk into my world without walking all over me.
They also leave their filthy, muddy footprints all over the floor, which I simply hate cleaning. I realize that most people hate housework, but it’s actually very difficult to clean when you’re blind. I would like to believe that I have more justification for hating cleaning than the average person.
He knocks again.
“Come on!” he shouts through the door. “I’m a doctor, Helen! You can trust me. I know that you want to be a part of this study. Who wouldn’t? Let me in. Let me in so we can discuss this like adults.”
Scooting my body into the corner of my bed and the wall, I arrange my pillows around myself so I feel safe and protected. If this is a siege, then I’m willing to wait forever. I am not going to open that door. I take another large drink of my wine.
“What is wrong with you?” yells the doctor. “I won’t let you miss out on this opportunity. My colleague gave up on you, but I haven’t! Don’t you understand how expensive this procedure is, and how valuable it could be? You could have a life, Helen! A real life!”
I frown deeply. He sure is charming and polite, I think to myself sarcastically.
“You could see the sunrise,” he tells me. “You could see the sunset.” He pauses. “Do you remember that scene near the end of Blind Rage, where the couple is standing and talking on the balcony in Greece, at sunset? You described such a breathtaking sky, and it just broke my heart to think that your readers were all getting to see the picture in their minds—but you, the writer, could not. Wouldn’t you like to know what a sunset looks like? I could show you.”
I squint a little, making a face of displeasure. He’s using my books as a weapon against me. That is not fair. A sunset is the natural phenomenon that I most desire to see.
“The aurora borealis,” he continues. “You’ve written about that, too. You have no idea what it looks like, Helen. These crazy, mystical lights dancing all over the northern sky. It’s mind-blowing. Wouldn’t you like to see that?”
I would. I would very much like to see that, and so much more. I clamp my lips together tightly to keep from responding and betraying my eagerness and apprehension. The conflicting emotions are giving me a headache. “Just go away,” I whisper. I speak so softly that I am sure he cannot hear me. “Just go away.”
“Helen, I can help you. For god’s sake, woman! Have a little faith.” He hesitates, speaking a little quieter. “I don’t know what people have done to you in the past that have made you so guarded, but you need to trust me. I became a doctor so I could take care of people. If you let me, I’ll take care of you.”
His voice has a strange quality that gives me a tiny shiver. I feel the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck standing up. It feels like my body is trying to tell me something; is it trying to encourage or warn me? Should I trust this man? I want to. I want to just throw caution to the wind and shout, Yes! Yes! Fix me! Please make me normal. However, a nagging negativ
e feeling restrains me. I know that if I accept this offer, something terrible will happen. Something terrible always does.
“Okay, look.” The man sighs. “You don’t have to agree to participate in our study. But I was really excited to meet you. I came out all this way... and I would hate to leave without something to remember you by.” He begins to fiddle with my door. The sound of rusty metal grating against rusty metal is heard.
My entire body tenses up. Is he trying to break into my cabin? I feel my heart rate quicken, and my hands clamp tightly around my wine bottle. The muscles in my thighs become so taut that they hurt. I shrink even further back into my corner, reminding myself to breathe. Finally, a dull thump is heard. The metal noises abruptly stop.
“I just slipped a copy of Blind Rage through the mail slot,” says the doctor. “Do you think you could autograph the book and pass it back to me? It would mean a lot.”
My face contorts in puzzlement. A small laugh escapes my throat. I place my wine bottle down on my nightstand and move over to the door. Stooping down to the ground, I feel around for the paperback novel. My hand connects with the soft, familiar pages. I smile. I can almost feel that it’s my book, even before brushing my fingers over the raised lettering.
“Who should I make this out to?” I ask softly.
“To Liam,” he responds.
I move over to my desk, and begin pulling out drawers in search of a pen. My hand finally touches a slender cylinder—I do not have much use for pens, so I am surprised that I even have one. I quickly scrawl a few words over the inside cover of the novel. I do not write often, but I have done this many times for book signings. My handwriting is probably not that attractive, but it’s the best I can manage. Using my finger to guide my lines, I write a personalized inscription: