Love and First Sight(14)

My bedspread is covered in wispy threads like the fur of a freakishly fluffy pet. Lying on my back, I rub the pine-scented sticker on the wall and inhale through my nose. I moved away soon after we put the stickers up, so they’ve just been chilling here for ten years, waiting for their fragrance to be scratched open. The softness of the bed and the whiff of the sticker, however, keep getting interrupted by the echo of Cecily’s laugh. I keep thinking about how much I liked being with her at that gallery. Which is annoying, because I’m still mad about what she said. I claw at a grass-scented sticker in an attempt to drown her out with olfactory overload.

Seeking a different distraction, I open my laptop to write my article about the van Gogh exhibit. I don’t include anything about what it felt like to touch Cecily’s arm or how it felt to be insulted by her at the end, of course, because that’s not anyone’s business, but I do write about how the owner has a special-needs child, which meant I was allowed to touch the paintings. I describe the feel of the crackled paint under my fingertips. As for the museum itself, I note the way our footsteps reverberated through the museum’s reverent silence as we walked through its heavily air-conditioned and dehumidified climate.

The garage-door opener downstairs cranks to life. Mom and Dad must be back from their errands. I used to hear the car engine before the garage opened. Now it just starts to lift with no warning. Stupid Tesla.

A minute later, I hear Mom climbing the stairs and then there’s a knock at my door.

“Will, come down to the family room!” she says. “We have a surprise for you!”

“I’m doing homework.”

“Just finish it later.”

This is quite possibly the first time my mother has ever encouraged me to procrastinate on my homework. (Even at boarding school, the long arm of the mom-law followed my studies and grades with the utmost care.) So I leave my laptop and walk downstairs.

In a voice more appropriate for giving a speech to hundreds, she announces, “Your father and I wanted to be able to start going on family bike rides. So after your dad got home from the operating room today, we purchased a tandem bike for you and me to share!”

Great. Just what I’ve always wanted.

We go out to the garage, where I find Dad has been checking the tire pressure and lubricating the gears on the bike.

“Guys, I’ve never even ridden a bike before,” I say.

“It’s all right,” says Dad. “As the front rider, your mother can keep you balanced as long as you maintain speed.”

“If you say so,” I mutter.

“You have to pedal at the same time,” instructs Dad. “Sydney, warn Will before you turn or brake so he is prepared. Be careful.”

We push off, and Dad gets on his bike to follow us.

“Stop sign,” warns Mom. I feel the bike decelerate. Before we tip over, she puts a foot down on the pavement to steady us.

We’ve gone only one block, and I already officially hate Dad’s beloved sport of cycling. I mean, yeah, the breeze feels kind of nice, but I can replicate that sensation by putting my face in front of a house fan. Riding on a tandem bike mostly makes me feel like a prisoner. The rider in the back has no brakes, no steering, no choice.

We ride mostly in silence for a few minutes, aside from Mom’s occasional outbursts (“Isn’t this great!”).

Then she says, “I have something else exciting to discuss.”

Because of course she does. There had to be a reason to trap me on this bike other than the ride itself.

She continues, “There’s an experimental operation being tested at your dad’s hospital. It has to do with retinal stem cell transplants. If you are accepted as a candidate, it could give you eyesight! Full eyesight! Can you imagine?”

Unwittingly, my pulse quickens. “Dad, is this true?”

His tone is far more sober. “It’s not even a stage-one clinical trial yet. Still completely experimental. Honestly, there’s a very small chance of success.”

“But if it did work, I mean—it could give me eyesight?”

“I would wait for them to test the procedure on other patients first. There are so many risks associated with an operation. People don’t even realize—every time a surgeon opens an incision, you are subjecting yourself to risk of infection, physician error, complications—”

“But just think, Will,” counters Mom. “If it was successful, you could have twenty-twenty vision. Isn’t that worth at least considering? Just go in for an initial consultation. I’ve already made the appointment for you next Thursday.”

Hold up. She already made the appointment?

I’m tempted to say no just out of principle. I’m sixteen years old. She can’t go around making appointments for me without asking me first.

But on the other hand, what if it worked? What if I could… see?

“I guess it can’t hurt to talk to them,” I say. “I’ll go to the consultation. But under one condition.”

“What?” asks Mom.

“I go by myself. This is my decision, and I don’t want you or anyone else making it for me.”

“Well, sweetie, of course it’s your decision, but you’ll need me in the room—”

“No,” I say. “Not even in the building. You drop me off, I go in by myself. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”