Chapter 8

“Can you see anything?” Dr. Woolworth asks.

“No.” Goose bumps cover my arms, and I shiver. “Should I be able to see?”

“No worries. I’ll connect my tablet to the prosthetic.” Under her breath, Dr. Woolworth adds, “Great.”

“Is something wrong?” I ask, my voice rising an octave with every word.

“I just need to try something,” Dr. Woolworth says.

“I hear you’re a Sounders fan,” James says. “Did you hear about their win over the Portland Timbers?”

“My dad and I listened on the radio.”

“My son and I are huge Sounders fanboys. He wants to play for them. He’s only six. Oh, Dr. Woolworth is ready.”

“Sorry about that,” Dr. Woolworth says. “The prosthetic’s wireless is finicky. I sent the command for the prosthetic to run a diagnostic. It will only take a minute. Could be something got jostled in transport or installation.”

“So if I jump up and down, my eyes will stop working?”

“No, no. If you get hit in the head with a soccer ball or…” Dr. Woolworth says and sighs.

I bite down on my lower lip until I wince.

“Are you okay? Are you having pain?” Dr. Woolworth asks.

“All good,” I lie.

“James, hold my tablet. I’m going to try a hard reset,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Allison, I need you to stay still. You’ll feel pressure against the prosthetic.”

“Hard reset?” My throat is constricting. A hard reset? That’s like something you do to a phone when it’s totally screwed up, and you’re one step away from sending it in for repair.

“The prosthetic isn’t detecting a connection to the neural filament,” Dr. Woolworth says. “I know the filament is functioning. I tested it before installation. A hard reset should resolve the issue.”

My dreams flicker and fade like lights during a brownout. If I can’t see, I can’t pursue photography, my first and greatest love. I’ll always be the blind girl, the disabled girl, the girl who was assaulted. I’ll need to learn to read braille.

I feel pressure against my eye socket.

“Okay,” Dr. Woolworth says. “It will take five minutes for the prosthetic to reset.”

James talks to me about the Sounders. He knows way more about soccer than I do, and I’m glad for the distraction. Dr. Woolworth interrupts his analysis of the Sounders’ midfield. Perfect timing on her part. I’m a fan, not a superfan.

“Can you see any light?”

Electric tingling shoots through my body. “Yes. Yes. I see the light. I see it.”

In the center of my vision is a bright pinprick in the black. It’s not much, but it’s enough to give me hope that Dr. Woolworth isn’t a snake oil salesperson. My dreams stop waning and come back into razor focus.

“Excellent,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Your eyesight will continue improving. It will clear up in a couple of hours.”

Dr. Woolworth and James leave. Dad is allowed back in the room.

“How is your oculus dexter?” Dad asks.

“I can see light and dark,” I say. “The prosthetic gave Dr. Woolworth some trouble, but it’s working now.”

“That’s wonderful, Allison.”

My field of vision is progressively becoming brighter with more gradation between light and dark. It’s like staring through a thick fog just after sunset when you can tell there is stuff out there in that gray soup, but you can’t tell what.

“Do I look dope?” I ask.

“Of course,” Dad says.

“Can you tell which eye is the prosthetic?”

“Let me look. Hmmmm. Honestly, I can’t tell.”

“I don’t look disabled?”

“No.”

“Good.” I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. At first, I wanted to know why I was assaulted, to understand why I suffer blindness. Now that my vision is being restored, I couldn’t care less why I was attacked. “I look normal? I don’t look like a dork?”

“You look like you, Allison. Perfect.”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

“You look perfect to me. You’ll see. Once your vision clears up, you can look in the mirror.”

“Did you just move? I saw you move.”

“You did? That’s great.”

“You moved?”

“Yes, I walked from your bedside over to the chair.”

“Oh my God, I saw you move.”

I squeal like a little girl who finds every present she’s ever wanted underneath the Christmas tree. I giggle as smudgy colors and blurry shapes materialize around the small hospital room. It’s like I’m looking through a semitranslucent shower curtain into a bathroom shrouded in steam.

“I can see you in the chair, Daddy. You’re wearing a maroon shirt.”

“That’s great. It’s really working.”

I gaze around the room, observing the indistinct medical equipment and nondescript walls. There is something rectangular and black attached to the wall near the ceiling across from the foot of the bed.

“Is that a TV? Where is the remote?” I ask.

With a ten-gigawatt smile plastered on my face, I watch my maroon blob dad rise from the chair and lumber toward the TV. He retrieves the remote, and the TV comes to life.

“Thanks a billion,” I say when he hands me the black, rectangular remote.

I channel surf as my vision sharpens. It’s wonderful. It’s fun. I settle on watching a Mariners’ game. I’m soon disabused of the notion that I’m watching the Mariners. In reality, it’s a playoff game between two teams from back east. Once I can read the players’ names on their jerseys, I know it’s time to look in the mirror.

I swing my legs off the bed.

“Don’t you want to call a nurse?” Dad asks.

“No.”

I slip from the bed, and my feet touch down on the cold floor.

“Do you need help?”

“I can make it on my own.”

I cross the ten feet or so to the bathroom, the IV pole’s casters squealing as I pull it along. There is a mirror above the sink. I stare at my reflection. I’m blown away, and in a good way. I smile. Dad is right. I can’t tell the prosthetic is fake. Even the iris is the same brown as my left eye. Normal. Such a relief. I was so sure I’d look strange and that everyone would remember I was assaulted when they saw my eyes or at least wonder what had happened to me.

Closer inspection reveals that I can’t see any blood vessels in the prosthetic’s sclera. I shrug. After the novelty of my prosthetics wears off, I doubt my peers will pay enough attention to me to notice.

Otherwise, I don’t look terrible, considering. That’s not to say that I look snatched either. The right side of my head around the eye socket is swollen and bruised. A red scar runs from somewhere beneath my hair down the left side of my forehead to terminate just above my eyebrow. I make a disgusted ugh and crinkle my nose. That’s from being hit on the head.

I try to remember what happened that stormy night. I shake my head. Nothing. It’s frustrating and comforting at the same time. I don’t want to feel the abject fear that I must’ve felt, but I don’t like having a blank space in my past like someone erased the security footage. Anything could’ve happened. Anything, and I’ll never know.

“Do you want to video chat with your grandparents?” Dad calls.

“Sure,” I say and head back to the bed.

Dad turns off the TV and makes the call. Granddad answers after the second ring and calls over Grandma. The small phone screen is blurry, but I can see by the smiles lighting their crinkly faces that they’re thrilled I’m recovering. I don’t really track the conversation. I’m already looking forward to seeing my friends, and my head is starting to throb. I lie back in the bed and hit the call button for the nurse.

James enters the room about five minutes later, and Dad makes for the exit.

Dad says, “No, Dad, don’t buy any tickets until she’s out of the hospital. I don’t know when that will be.”

James ambles over to the bed. He is short and barrel-chested with a bald head and a bushy red mustache.

“You can see?” James asks.

“Sure can. My head is throbbing, though.”

James looks at me and the nearby medical equipment. “Looks like the IV tubing is kinked. Move your arm to the left. Good. Let me adjust this. There. The medication is flowing. You should start feeling better soon.”

“Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”

“I aim to please.” James saunters to the foot of the bed. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“None.”

“Good,” he says, smiling. “And now?”

“Five.”

“I’m going to page Dr. Woolworth. She’ll want to know your vision has returned. If you don’t start feeling better in twenty minutes or so, buzz me again. Okay?”

Dad is in the chair reading when Dr. Woolworth comes to check on me. She’s a tall woman, willowy, with curly brunette hair chopped off at the midpoint of her neck. She wears glasses with thick circular lenses. She doesn’t look like she wears any makeup, or at least not much. The sparse makeup, dorky glasses, and poor hairdo don’t detract from her natural good looks. I can’t tell how old she is. She possesses an ageless beauty like an old-time movie star.

Her gaze lingers on my father for maybe a half-second longer than a mere glance as she enters the room. He is too engrossed in an academic journal to do more than nod his head in acknowledgment of her presence. While she examines me, I admire her long, graceful fingers that are devoid of rings. Dad is always helping Dr. Woolworth with her research at the university. What is the nature of the research? Hanky-panky? That hardly seems possible.

Dr. Woolworth gives my right eye the all-clear and leaves, promising to schedule the surgery for my oculus sinister as soon as possible. My dad and I discuss my hopes and dreams now that my eyesight is restored. Photojournalism, of course! Despite my excitement, I’m soon yawning. It’s late, and I’m exhausted. I think my dad is too.

“Thanks for being here,” I say, my eyes fluttering.

“I’ll always be here for you, baby.” He stands and kisses me on the forehead. “Try to get some sleep.”

The next morning, I wake up more rested than I remember feeling since I entered the hospital. I order up eggs with all the sides for breakfast, and I’m able to eat by myself without any spillage. It’s so great to be able to see. It’s amazing how much easier it makes everything. Now, if only my eyesight made the food taste better…oh well, can’t have everything.

Dad is munching on a bagel and sipping hospital coffee. I’m so jealous. I’d do almost anything for a cup of brew. A good cup. I’m not quite desperate enough to try the hospital coffee yet, but I’m getting close.

I ask Dad about my phone. It’s at home, so I ask him to message Dalia, which he does. Turns out it’s a Saturday morning. It’s easy to lose track of time in the hospital. His phone pings with her response that she will be over in an hour or less with Haji in tow.

“Is it okay if I go for a run? I figure you don’t want me around when your friends show up,” Dad says.

“Sure. You haven’t been running for a long time.”

“Only once since you were hurt. When you went in for surgery. I couldn’t just sit around and read or do nothing. I was too worried. I can make a quick stop by my office too. I have some paperwork to sign.”

“Enjoy yourself. Don’t rush back,” I say.

I channel surf while waiting on my friends to show up. Nothing engaging is on, so I keep channel surfing, but my head still throbs, and I have mild vertigo. I decide watching TV isn’t helping with my vertigo, so I kill the flatscreen.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Maybe closing my eyes will help me feel better, but I’m too thrilled to see again to do that. I space out, my mind a blank slate, until I hear a knock on the door.

“Allison?”

It’s Dalia’s muffled voice. I smile and sit up in bed. “Come in.”

The door opens, and Dalia rushes inside. I’ve never been so overjoyed to see her neon pink hair.

“Allison!” she squeals and runs to the bedside with her arms wide open. “Can I hug you?”

“Yes,” I say, and we embrace.

She is gentle and careful, and I’m awkward and clumsy with the IV dangling from my arm. It’s the best hug I’ve had in a long time, maybe ever. Haji is in the room holding a cup of coffee, along with another person I didn’t expect. My breath catches in my throat, and I glower at Jason.

“Sorry,” Dalia whispers. “He was working with Haji on that dorky school blog and insisted on tagging along.”

Dalia and I break our embrace. My head swirls like a dinghy bobbing on a violent sea.

“Your dad said you can see. Can you? Can you?” Dalia says.

“Yeah, can you?” Haji says. “Your dad filled us in on the surgery. A prosthetic eye! That is far out. This coffee is for you––from The Obsidian Roast.”

I grab the proffered cup. “Thank you. I’m dying for a coffee.” I take a sip. Ambrosial. “So good. Thank you, Haji.” I set the cup down on the bedside table. “I can see.” I gesture to my eyes. “Can you tell which one is fake?”

“Your eyes look identical,” Haji says.

Dalia and Jason peer at my orbs and shake their heads.

“It’s my right eye. The oculus dexter,” I say.

I give them a rundown of my painful recovery and the upcoming surgery.

“Geez,” Haji says.

“Ouch,” Dalia says and winces.

“I survived one surgery. I’ll survive the next,” I say. “Next time Leslie sees me, she can bully me for having fake eyes.”

I laugh at my joke, and so do Dalia and Haji, bad taste or not. Jason, though, flushes and stares at the floor. His reaction tells me all I need to know. I’m tempted to call him out for going to the dance with a racist hater. Instead, I clench my jaw and keep my lips sealed.

“Leslie is really sorry about what she did,” Jason says, the words coming out in a torrent. “She’s not racist. She doesn’t hate you. She’s just jealous. That doesn’t make up for what she did. She knows it, and I know it.”

Jason stares at me. His expression is stricken. Dalia and Haji both look like they’d rather be somewhere else.

“So you’re an apologist for a racist hater,” I say. Jason’s face turns bright red as I speak. I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or anger, and I don’t care. My head hurts, and my heart is broken, and the triumph of my returning vision wanes. “Get out. Go tell her the girl with the ugly slanted eyes doesn’t want to see you again.”

“I’m not dating her. I went to homecoming with her, but that’s it. I told her I couldn’t date someone who hurt one of my friends like that,” Jason says and turns for the door. He opens the door and pauses in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean…it doesn’t matter.”

Jason leaves. My friends stare at me. I turn away from them and gaze at the ceiling, wondering if I even care that he is not dating Leslie. He went to the dance with her, and that was a betrayal.