Love and First Sight(36)

“Fine, you can come in,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding genuinely appreciative.

I sit down on the crinkly paper of the examination table, and we wait in silence for Dr. Bianchi. After about ten minutes, I hear the door swing open, and he says, “How is my star patient feeling?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “But there’s a lot of weird stuff going on.”

I tell him about the pounding darkness, about what I assume are the first transmissions from my upgraded eyes to my brain.

“That means it worked, right? I will be able to see?”

“Possibly, possibly. Although this will take time to develop. You will come back to see me on Monday and we will begin your therapy. For the weekend, just rest and take note of what you experience.”

I hear him scrubbing his hands in the sink. He walks over to me and starts to tug at the tape gripping my temple.

My mom is quiet. Too quiet. “Mom, are you videotaping this on your phone?”

She says nothing, which tells me I’m right.

Dr. Bianchi pauses.

Annoyed, I say, “I don’t want all your little friends at the country club crying tears of joy while watching a video of me on endless loop. Turn it off.”

“William, this is a moment you will treasure forever. You will want to show it to your own children someday! And your grandchildren!”

I know that “you will treasure” is Mom’s code for “I will treasure,” but hey, in the history of the world, fewer than twenty mothers have seen their blind child gain sight. Why not let her enjoy it the way she wants to?

“Fine,” I say. “Keep filming.”

“All right. But I am starting a new recording now. I don’t want that little, um, altercation on the video.”

“Whatever,” I say.

Dr. Bianchi removes enough of the bandages that I am able to lift my eyelids. But my view still seems to be blocked by the remaining gauze.

This is it! I’m about to see!

I try to slow down my excitement so I can soak in every detail. This is a moment I want to remember forever. This is the moment I go from blind to seeing. This is the moment I step into the light.

Dr. Bianchi has stopped peeling back the bandages. I feel his face move very close to mine.

“Why did you stop?” I ask. He says nothing. “Dr. Bianchi?” Still he doesn’t reply. “Can you finish taking off the bandages, please?”

He steps back. “I’m sorry, Will,” he says.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“The bandages are already removed several moments ago. Your eyes are open and blocked by nothing.”

I blink. I feel my eyelids move up and down, just as they always have done when I blink. And I sense that raging current of black noise that I have felt since yesterday. But there is nothing more. There’s nothing else that signals of color or movement. I close my eyes and press them tightly shut. Then I open them. Nothing different: It’s the same sensation whether my eyes are open or closed.

“Turn it off!” I say. “TURN IT OFF!”

“Do you hear the noise again?” asks Mom. “It’s quiet in—”

“No, the camera! Turn it off!”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” she says quietly.

I grab at the paper cover of the examination table with both hands, fingernails clawing through it, ripping it, balling it into my fists.

“Delete it, Mom! No one can ever see that video! Ever!”

“I already did.”

I feel my lower lip quiver. I’m about to cry. (My eyes may have never performed their primary function, but my tear ducts have always worked just fine.) No, I will not cry. I’m sixteen years old. I won’t cry in front of my mother and my doctor.

“Let’s go,” I say. I have to leave. I have to leave immediately and go home and lock my door and sit in the darkness and never come out.

“Wait for one minute, please,” says Dr. Bianchi. “You must allow me to examine you.”

“It didn’t work, can’t you see that?” I spit the words at him. “Can’t you see that with your eyes?”

“Will, I gave you the warning about how the cortex must take time—”

I stand and put my hand out, a signal for Mom to give me her arm as a guide.

“We’re leaving,” I say.

Mom is as upset as I am. I can hear it in the way she snatches her purse and jumps to my side, ready to lead me out of the office.

In the car ride home, I hear her sniffle.

“Are you crying?” I ask, rank hostility in my voice.

“Of course I am.”

“I’m the one who can’t see!” I say. “What are you crying about?”

“Don’t you know how hard this is for me?”

“How hard it is for you?” I demand. “For you? Why is everything always about you?”

“No, Will, it’s about you. It’s hard because I can’t do anything for you. It’s hard because I would give anything to be able to switch eyes with you, but I can’t.”

That wasn’t the response I expected, and it shuts me up. I want to be angry at Mom, but I can’t be. It’s not her fault. The surgery was her idea, sure, but I chose it. I wanted it.