Love and First Sight(53)

But what hurts even more is that she assumed if I knew, I would think less of her because of something she was born with. I mean, seriously? Me, a guy who was born blind? Did she really think I was that shallow?

I liked Cecily. I really did. And if I’m being totally honest with myself, maybe someday I could’ve even loved her. But I don’t think you can have love without trust, and I don’t see how I could ever trust her again.





CHAPTER 27


I spend the weekend alone in my room, coming out only to partake in the absolute minimum levels of eating and bathroom use. I pace around, clenching and unclenching my fists, scratching random stickers with noisy aggression. Anger. Scratching. Pacing. Thoughts of Cecily, and how she withheld such a large part of herself from me when I was showing her everything. Indignation. Humiliation. More scratching. More pacing.

On Saturday, I delete all the messages I’ve ever posted on her wall and defriend her on Facebook. Reaching under my bed, I pull out the box of photos Cecily gave me. I march the box downstairs and dump out its contents unceremoniously on top of the food scraps in the kitchen trash can.

“What are you doing?” asks Mom suspiciously.

“Nothing,” I say flatly.

Not including the angry mutterings to myself, it’s the first time I’ve spoken all weekend.

I realize Mom is now likely to examine the contents of the trash can, so I grab a jar of mayonnaise from the fridge and pour it on top of the photos. Mom can’t stand the smell of mayonnaise. That will keep her away.

On Sunday afternoon, I flop across my bed listening to music. The melody reminds me of something about Cecily, I’m not even sure what, and all of a sudden, tears roll out of my eyes. Actual tears. Hot, salty beads of confusing emotions.

At the same time I’m fuming at her, I also miss the warmth of her elbow in my hand and the scent of her body nearby as she guides me. I desperately want her in my life. But how can I be around someone who has made me so angry? Why would I want to be around someone like that? Does that make me crazy?

The conflict rages on for a while, and eventually my thoughts turn to my semifunctional eyes. I can only hope the tears won’t hurt them. Now that I think about it, they have been hurting a little more than before. But I’m pretty sure that’s been going on for several days. The physical pain and emotional pain are starting to swirl together. The eye discomfort began well before this crying episode, so I don’t think the tears are doing any more damage. Other than the emotional kind. The damaged emotions that are now all that’s left of what was once a friendship—and maybe a little more—with Cecily.

But as my tears start to dry up, salty on my face, they show me something interesting. Before this weekend, I always thought my vision was kind of perpetually blurry. Turns out it was just confusing. Not blurry. The lines were actually crisp and clean; I simply didn’t know what they meant. When I cry, the confusing-yet-clear world fogs over into an indecipherable mix of colors. That’s what blurry looks like.

That’s pretty much what the next four weeks feel like: blurry. I float inside a dense cloud of stormy emotions. Sometimes frustration with my limited progress, sometimes joy at how many new things I’m able to see each day. Sometimes anger at Cecily, sometimes regret about losing her. Because yeah, we don’t talk anymore. It’s awkward for our friends, because they can’t hang out with both of us at the same time. An uneasy truce of joint friendship custody forms. She gets the friends Sunday, because I can’t really play Settlers anyway. I get them Saturday. And so forth. It’s weird. And sad.

? ? ?


Just like that, my first semester at a mainstream school is nearly over. There are two days of exams left before school lets out for winter break. After I finish on Monday, I wait for Mom to pick me up for my next therapy session with Dr. Bianchi. I’ve been going three times a week. Mom picks me up after school to drive me to the PU medical office building.

“How were your exams today?” Mom asks.

“Fine,” I say in a tone meant to convey as little emotional revelation as possible.

“Did you see her?” she asks.

“Who?” I respond, playing dumb. This is none of Mom’s business. If she really wants to know, she’ll have to draw it out of me.

“Did you see Cecily?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, maintaining complete flatness in my voice for each one-word sentence.

“And?” she asks.

To this I say nothing, because and isn’t even a question.

“Well, how did it go?” she prods.

“What?” I reply.

“You and her. Was it, you know, uncomfortable?”

“No,” I say. Which isn’t entirely true. It was uncomfortable being in class and knowing she was in the room. It was uncomfortable walking the halls without her. But we didn’t technically have any interaction, so there’s nothing to measure the awkwardness by. Not with Cecily, at least. But with my friends at lunch, yeah, pretty weird. But Mom didn’t ask about that, so I don’t elaborate.

“Not at all?”

I say nothing, a move meant to strongly suggest this conversation is over.

Inside the medical office building, I make Mom stay in the car while I go in for the appointment. As usual.

It’s been about six weeks since the second operation, so by now I’m pretty familiar with how these sessions go. There’s a lot of poking and prodding, a lot of metal gadgets that measure this or that, a lot of pinching my eyelids and lifting them off my eyes and shining a light underneath. It’s a dizzying spectacle of blinking lights and spinning colors, like a rave party with an opera soundtrack.