Love and First Sight(58)
“Thanks, Mom.”
“And that’s also why I want you to see the Grand Canyon before it’s too late. I want you to see the whole country. Now, while you still can. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah, I will.”
She kisses me on the forehead.
“This is your journey. I can’t guide you anymore.”
At first I think she’s saying this to herself: time to let her son go. Then I realize this is the moment she was training me for my whole life. This is why she always insisted on guiding me instead of holding my hand when I was little—so I would be able to let go when I was ready.
“No time to waste,” Mom says. “Now, get out of here before your father comes home!”
CHAPTER 29
Being in a car with other people is the opposite visual experience of being in a building with them. In a room or hallways, the background of the walls and floor remain stationary while people walk around in front. In a car, however, the heads and bodies of your fellow passengers stay still against a backdrop of constant motion as the world zooms by out the windows.
I notice this as I sit in the backseat with Nick. Ion is up front while Whitford drives.
The four of us made it out of Toano within two hours of Mom’s giving me the money—an impressively quick mobilization.
We were even able to leave before Dad got back from the hospital. Our goal is to put enough distance between our homes and our hotel tonight that by the time the lies and half-truths start cracking under the scrutiny of our respective parental units, we’ll be too far into our quest to turn back.
It’s nighttime as we head west on Interstate 70. Most of my field of vision is dark or nearly so. I motion with my hand over light sources so Nick can identify them for me. The large but stationary glow is the dashboard. The fast-moving dots are car lights. White are headlights, red are taillights. And the tiny bluish spots overhead are stars.
“We’re outside the city now, so you can see them really well here,” says Nick.
Stars. Everyone talks about their beauty and ability to inspire the spirit. I roll down my window and stick my head out to gain a better view. I find a tapestry of dark sky with tiny bluish-white specks. And in between the brighter stars are many points so small and faint I can barely see them.
I bring my head back in the car.
“How many are there?” I ask, the pounding wind decreasing in volume as I roll up the window.
“Stars? I don’t know,” says Nick.
“I know there are like a gazillion stars in the universe.”
“Sextillion,” corrects Nick. “One with twenty-one zeros after it.”
“Okay, but I mean just the visible stars you can see right now without a telescope or anything. Can’t you just count them?”
“Uh, not really. You’d need a computer or something. There are way too many. It would be impossible to concentrate that hard.”
So even for a person with normal eyesight, there’s an upper limit to counting. A problem with concentrating simultaneously on the number of objects and the visual tracking of them. In fact, it’s the exact same problem I have with counting, albeit with much smaller quantities.
Nick waves his hand over various constellations, which according to tradition connect together in shapes like Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper, and the Little Dipper. I can’t see the images, and it’s difficult for me to imagine how anyone could.
Honestly, I find more pleasure in looking at the dashboard than I do the stars. First of all, the dashboard lights are much bigger and easier to see than the stars. Second, they come in a variety of shapes. There are square buttons and several half circles. The stars, on the other hand, are only available in one model: the tiny dot. And third, unlike the monochromatic stars, the dashboard features an array of luminescent hues. Nick tries to tell me one star is actually Mars and it’s red, but to me it looks like pretty much the same bluish-white as the other dots in the sky.
I think for a moment that maybe this could be the New Year’s resolution I’ll share on the announcements, something about appreciating all the lights and colors and sounds, about enjoying the view as we drive through life. But what is there to enjoy right now? I fell for a girl, then pushed her away. And now she’s gone from my life, maybe forever. After three hours of driving, we stop in Colby, Kansas. I shell out some twenties for two rooms at the Holiday Inn Express. There is a discussion as to how to divide sleeping arrangements; surely, we agree, Whitford’s and Ion’s parents would not allow them to share a room. But Nick points out that their parents aren’t here, so they should do what they want. I lie in bed awake for a while thinking about Cecily, wishing there was a way to get to her faster.
The next morning we hit up the free continental breakfast in the lobby and get on the road. I have a number of missed calls on my phone from my dad last night. None, however, from Mom. I assume Dad is upset about the almost-new car being sold for a lot less than they paid for it, and about me being gone, but that Mom hasn’t changed her mind about it being a good idea. So I don’t call back.
As we get back on the road, I roll down the window again and look at the sky. It’s quite different from last night. Where, I wonder, does the blackness go? Where do all the stars go? The galaxies have been replaced by a single star, the sun, and the black sky is now lit up in bright blue. The color of my eyes before the operation, I think. The color of my eyes when I was blind.