Love and First Sight(31)

“But?”

“But nothing. It sounds great.”

We walk through a set of doors.

“I can hear it in your voice. You think it’s a bad idea.”

“Not bad, just risky.”

“There are risks, true,” I concede. “Including a risk I could see for the first time.”

“That was the risk I was talking about.”

This surprises me. “Wait. You don’t want me to see?”

“It’s not that. More like… I think there could be unintended consequences to being able to see. Side effects, you might say.”

“Such as?” I ask.

“It’s like how people often feel worse about themselves after they have plastic surgery,” she says.

“Because the surgery went wrong?”

“No, because the surgery went right. They look better on the outside, but inside they have the same self-image issues as before. And that’s a problem no operation can resolve.”

I’m about to ask why she knows so much about plastic surgery when she stops our movement.

“We’re here,” she says.

She opens a door to the outside and greets the bus driver, who is waiting for us on the sidewalk. He’s friendly. And old. I can feel his age when I shake his hand, and I can hear it in his voice. Also, there’s the fact that he’s been driving a bus for our school system for forty-two years. He’s finally retiring. That’s what my article’s about.

I listen to Cecily pose him a few different ways around a bus—leaning up against it, sitting in the driver’s seat, that sort of thing.

After the photo shoot ends, he asks, “Either of you want to take her for a spin?”

“No thanks,” says Cecily.

“I’m blind,” I say.

“No problem by me,” he says. “I can direct you.”

“Really?” I say.

“Today is my last day. What are they going to do, fire me?” He laughs heartily.

“All right, sure,” I say. I’ve always wanted to try driving, and a school bus seems as good a vehicle as any.

“Will, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” says Cecily, tugging at my arm. I shake off her hand and reach forward to locate the entrance to the bus. I climb the stairs. The driver stands and helps me find the seat.

“Put your hands out like this—there you go, that’s the wheel. Now use your right foot to find the pedal. Nope, that’s the brake. A little to the right. Very good. Okay, that’s your gas. You’ll press very slowly on that when I say go. You coming to join us, missy?”

“No, thank you,” Cecily says, obviously displeased with this plan.

“Take some photos of this!” I say.

“I will do no such thing,” she says.

“All aboard!” says the driver. I hear a sound of air hissing and then the noise of the outside is gone. He’s closed the door.

“You sure this is a good idea?” I ask.

“We all got to start somewhere. Forty-two years ago, I had never driven a bus, neither.”

“But you could see.”

“That’s true, that’s true. We’ll just go slow. And I’ll keep a hand on the steering wheel so you don’t hit anything. Okay, now press real gentle with your foot like I talked about.”

I do, and the rut-rut-rut of the engine rumbles all around us.

The bus driver laughs.

“Are we moving?” I ask.

“Yes! You’re driving a school bus!” he says.

I laugh, too.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, a little less gas.”

I let up a bit.

“Turn coming up. This is the hard part. Let up all the way on the gas. When I tell you, turn the wheel to the left. Ready… now!”

I spin the wheel a little. “More! Turn it more!” I do. “Hold it there!”

The force of the turn pulls me slightly to the side, like when I’m riding in a car and it’s going around a corner. But now I’m not riding in a car. I’m in a bus. Also, I’m driving. That’s kind of different.

It’s way different than a tandem bike, where, sure, I have the sensation of movement, but the front rider is steering. Here, I’m in control. I’m moving fast and I’m driving a big heavy machine and it feels amazing. It is freedom and independence and control, not just of myself but of something much bigger than myself.

People with driver’s licenses must feel this way, like, every day. They probably don’t even notice how cool it is. And if I have the operation, I could get a driver’s license. I could drive a bus or a car or the front side of a tandem bike. And if I did, I would never forget to notice how good it felt. I would always remember what it was like to be without that freedom, and I would appreciate it every time I grabbed the steering wheel or the handlebars and looked at the open road ahead.

After we complete a lap around the parking lot, he takes over at the seat to put on the parking brake and cut the engine.

“That was real good,” he says. “You’re a natural!”

“Thanks.”

“I hear there’s a job opening up around here. Maybe you should apply?”

I laugh.

The hissing sound comes again, letting in the outside air. I walk down the stairs.