Love and First Sight(40)

It’s not as pleasant as the “darkness” of being blind, of course. Now that I’ve had the operation, there is a constant broadcast from my eyes to my brain, even in pitch-black. But at least in my lightproofed room, that communication is relatively simple. At any rate, sitting alone in the dark like this is the closest I can come to the life I am accustomed to, the life that feels most familiar, the life of a blind person.

I check my phone. Texts from everyone on the academic team asking how I am doing. I compose a group text: “Recovery is going well. But I can’t really see much yet. Sight is very confusing. I don’t know how you guys handle it.”

Cecily is the first to respond: “Can you see this?” I observe a yellow color beside her text, but I have to have Siri read to me to figure out that it’s an emoji. A smiling face.

Nick adds, “Can you see… YOUR MOM?”

Whitford: “LOL”

I do some homework for a bit, then I get another text from Cecily. “Just dropped something off for you.”

“Why didn’t you come in?”

“Your mom. That’s not a Nick joke btw.”

At that very moment, Mom knocks on the door.

“Cecily just dropped this off,” she says, setting a cardboard box on the floor beside my bed with a thud.

“You didn’t let her in?” I ask.

“Sorry, I figured you were probably asleep. You need to rest, Will.”

After Mom leaves, I open the box and reach inside. It seems to be filled with a disorganized pile of small paper. I pick one up. It’s the size of a greeting card. I rub it between my fingers. It’s so smooth that it’s almost sticky to my touch. My phone vibrates. Text from Cecily. “Come to the window.”

I open the window and stick my head out.

“Cecily?” I say in a loud whisper.

“Hey,” she says, and I can hear a smile in her whisper. “How you feeling?”

“Okay,” I say, angling my ears down to hear her better.

I’ve been so caught up in all the Skittles and colors and dizzying sensory overload that I had forgotten how nice it is to hear Cecily’s voice.

“Did you get the box?” she asks eagerly.

“Shhh, keep it down,” I say. “I don’t want Mom and Dad coming in and finding us acting out Romeo and Juliet.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“So what’s in the box?” I ask.

“They’re photos,” she says. “Of everything we’ve done together this fall. So, like, our trip to the museum, homecoming, the sunrise. Every picture I’ve taken when I’ve been with you.”

I don’t know how to respond.

She says, “I know you probably can’t recognize stuff in photos yet. But when you can, I want you to be able to go back and see everything we’ve done together.”

“Wow,” I say. “Thanks. That’s really cool. Are there any photos of you?”

“I do my best work on the other side of the camera,” she says.

“What about that one I took?” I ask.

“Oh, that one… turned out blurry,” she says uneasily.

“Don’t worry, I’m neither insulted nor surprised to discover a photo I took didn’t turn out,” I assure her. “As a photographer, I’m really more of an impressionist.”

She laughs a little.

We say our good nights. She says she’ll see me at school Monday. I say I will see her then. What I don’t tell her is that I have a surprise planned: I’m going to practice all day tomorrow, and if my skills have progressed to board game readiness, I’ll be seeing her at Settlers Sunday tomorrow night.





CHAPTER 19


I wake up the next morning alone in my dark room. I sit there for a while, not moving. Then it hits me: Today is Sunday. Settlers Sunday. For the first time in my entire life, I have the chance to play a board game like a normal person. If I can learn some basic shapes today, I can play this very night.

I would be able to move my own pieces, make my own decisions. I mean, I wouldn’t be able to read the words on the cards, not tonight and maybe not ever—Dr. Bianchi said that people like me rarely learn how to read printed text, which was disappointing to hear. But other than that, I should be able to play in the game independently. Without assistance. On my own.

I walk downstairs and sit at the table where Mom and Dad are eating breakfast.

“I want to learn the other colors,” I say. “More than the five basic Skittle flavors I saw yesterday. All the other flavors of Skittles—you know, tropical, sour, darkside—they’re all different colors, since they’re different flavors, right?”

“Yes,” says Dad. “I think so.”

“Can you go to the store and get those? So I can learn them, too?”

“Of course.”

“And, Mom, can you get out my baby toys from the attic? I want to learn shapes.”

She agrees. After they finish eating, Mom and Dad depart on their errands, and I eat breakfast alone with my eyes closed. Soon Mom returns, smelling of dust and old cardboard.

“I’m not sure if you remember this toy,” she says, setting a box in front of me. I hear the box opening. Plastic pieces tumble out on the table. “Each shape fits with a corresponding hole in this board. You have to match the shape with the hole, and then you can push it through. Make sense?”