Clarity (3 page)

My books are my soft spot. I find it very difficult to be upset with people when they compliment my work. I pour so much of myself into those pages, that I cannot help being super sensitive to all acclaim and critique. I press my ear closer against the door as he continues.

“Heck!” exclaims Dr. Larson. “She even gave me one of your books, and it was spellbinding. I’m not a fiction-person usually, but I couldn’t stop reading. You’ve accomplished so much more than most other people, period! People who haven’t had to face the obstacles that you’ve had. You’re an incredible girl, and you really deserve this more than anyone. Just have some faith in me, Miss Winters. I promise that I can help you.”

I am a little annoyed with him, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “You read one of my books?” I ask him, putting my hand flat against the door. I find myself listening keenly for his answer.

“Yes,” he responds. There is a pause. “
Blind Rage
. The revenge thriller. I loved it!”

His words manage to draw a small smile from me. “Thank you, Dr. Larson.” My smile spreads through me quickly, and I finally understand what people mean when they describe
fuzzy
feelings in their stomach. It’s silly, but the doctor has made my day. Now, if he would only go away before anything more can be said which might ruin my day, that would be ideal.

“You’re a smart girl, Miss Winters,” he says softly, through the barrier of my front door. “You must know that in 2008, for the first time, there were three research trials done where patients with your disease saw vast recoveries of their vision. My partner, Dr. Philips, is a jerk—but he’s right. There’s only one gene therapy drug approved for use anywhere in the world, so far. In Europe they recently started making…”

“Glybera,” I finish for him. “I know.”

“Yes,” he responded. “And it’s the most expensive drug in the world, costing $1.6 million for treatment. I anticipate that once this drug becomes approved and available, it will be in a similar ballpark.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him, leaning my shoulder against the door. “I’m going to be a rich and famous author someday. I’ll be able to afford it, eventually.”

“But what about the
time,
Miss Winters?” he asked, his voice pleasing. “You could learn to drive a car! You could get married and have children, and see their faces. See them grow up. That’s what everyone with LCA really wants most of all. You could stop hiding away from the world, and get back to society—you could be comfortable around people again. It’s easier to communicate and form connections when you can see facial expressions…”

He should have stopped talking when he said he liked my book. This is making me upset. “Dr. Larson, if I wanted to form human connections, I would live in a location that facilitated more interaction. A city or town. Maybe I’d even stay in a nunnery or a brothel. But I am in none of those places. I am in the middle of
a forest
. In
the mountains
.”

“That’s exactly the problem! This isolation simply isn’t healthy for you, Miss Winters. You need to…”

“No!” I shout, pounding my fist against the door for emphasis. “Do
not
tell me what I need. I was perfectly fine before you came, and I will be perfectly fine after you leave. My life is wonderful, and I love my privacy. There are plenty of other deserving people my age, with my disease, who would be overjoyed to be selected. Go find them, and please get off my property, Dr. Larson.”

He sighs again. This man sure does sigh a lot. “Okay,” he responds, after a moment. “Sorry to bother you, Helen.”

“That’s not my name anymore,” I whisper—so softly I hope he cannot hear me.

This time, I do hear his footsteps departing. They are not as loud as before, and I imagine he must be stepping in the tracks left by his partner in the snow. I wait until I can no longer hear his marching, and finally bow my head in misery at my own self-sabotaging ways. I am acutely aware of the fact that I just lost the opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity to have my vision returned and be a completely normal person. All because I was too scared to open my door to a strange man.

I had been blissfully lost in my writing only a few minutes earlier, but after this unexpected turn of events, I am in no mood to continue. I consider reading instead. Once a month, I have a few books shipped to my little cabin, and I have accumulated quite the library. However, as I walk over to my bookshelves and caress the braille titles, I feel dissatisfied and disappointed. Reading with my fingers is natural and easy, having done it my whole life, but I have always been curious to see what text looks like. I have always wanted to read a book with my eyes. I have always imagined that the first book I would read, if I ever regained vision, should be one that I had written. But now, I’ll never even see what my own books look like in print. I’ll never see the images on the cover, which are “hauntingly beautiful,” according to my publisher.

I stumble over to my bed, and curl up under the blankets. I think I will just lie here and call myself
stupid
, over and over again, for several hours before getting back to work.

I can’t seem to focus. My mind is wandering all over the place, and I can’t get a handle on my thoughts. I can’t sleep. I tried to rest and calm my fretful brain, but after anxiously rolling around in bed for what felt like hours, I can no longer stand the discomfort of this new information. The words are gnawing at my skin like a sudden rash that has covered me from head to toe; neither scratching furiously nor lying completely still does anything to easy my agony.
Gene therapy.
It sounds too good to be true, which means that it probably is. I’m not foolish, and I’m not going to fall for pretty words. Still, the itch has gotten under the protective layer of my skull, and I can’t manage to get at it. It’s burrowing deeper, and infecting me with promise.
There’s a chance that we might be able to give you the ability to see.
Standing up, I begin pacing in my small cabin, moving back and forth across the creaking floorboards.

How dare that arrogant doctor come to my front door and tell me what’s wrong with my life? I have carefully designed it this way.  I am comfortable in my small, secluded little world. I already tried life in the big city, going to college, and socializing. I tried to be like everyone else, and ignore my disability; but
they
could not ignore it. They were all either too kind and condescending or too sadistic and brutal—there never was anything in between. Why would I want to subject myself to that again?

My cabin begins to feel unusually small. Within a few minutes, I have paced from one end to the other dozens of times. Every lap I complete seems to make the tiny enclosure shrink even further. Now that the doctors have left, it feels achingly desolate here. The once-comfortable silence is now ominous and depressing. I pause in my pacing, as an alarming thought makes my blood run cold.

Am I going to die here? All alone in the middle of nowhere?

Lifting a hand to touch my forehead, I exhale slowly. I’m only twenty-five, but from the way I live, you would think I was an old woman. I bought a hideous, small house in the backwoods of New Hampshire—where no sane person would want to reside. I told myself that this was what I wanted, but if I were to be achingly honest, I would admit that I do miss my family. I miss people. I miss their voices. I miss the simple, comforting sensation of a hug. I haven’t had a hug in over three years.

And I just missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime, because I was too scared to open my door.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of what I’ve lost, I move over to my desk and fall into my chair. My aim is slightly off, and my thigh collides painfully with the arm of the chair before I can find the cushion. I barely notice this injury as my hands begin to scramble over my desk, searching and rummaging for an item that I generally try to avoid using. Then my fingers brush against it; the cool metal surface of my cell phone. I clasp it victoriously in my hand, and rip it out of the wall socket, where it sits perpetually charging in case of an emergency.

Holding the phone close to my lips, my hand shakes slightly. I have been tempted to contact my family in the past, but I have never broken my vow of solitude. However, I don’t think I have ever needed human contact as much as I do right now. I need to hear the voice of someone I love. I jab my thumb down on the large, circular button on my phone.

“Dial Carmen,” I command. I wait for the cell phone to follow my instructions.

There is a beep of acquiescence.
“Calling Carmen! Please stand by.”

I take a deep breath. I press the phone against my ear as it begins to ring. I’m terrified that my sister will hate me. I abandoned her without a word. We had been so close, but I had needed to get away
with an undeniable urgency. The ringing stops and a rustling noise is heard. I imagine that she might be pulling her phone out of a purse cluttered with random accoutrements. Finally, there is a voice on the other end of the line.

“Carmen Winters speaking! How may I help you?”

For a moment, I am too emotional to respond. A thousand fond memories come rushing back to me, without warning. Her tone is upbeat and perky, with a feminine cadence. There is just a touch of sophistication in her enunciation, so subtle that it might go unnoticed. I’ve missed her more than I can say.

“Helloooo?” she says again. “Is this some creepy-ass stalker? Because I’m not in the mood…”

“Carm,” I say softly. My own voice comes out in a clumsy croak. “It’s me.” 

There’s a silence on the other end of the line. I hear her breathing become louder and more erratic. Finally, she releases a sound that is half-sob, half-laugh. “Hel—Helen…” A whimper filters through the line that is somewhere between a gasp and a sniffle. I recognize these sounds.
She is trying desperately not to release a torrent of tears.

“Oh, Carm. Please don’t cry,” I beg her. “Please.”

“I knew you’d call me,” she says, and her voice breaks. “I knew it! I knew that I’d somehow get in touch with you again, before it was too late.”

“Too late?” I ask with worry, my face immediately contorting into a frown. Is something wrong? Is she okay? Dozens of dangerous situations dance across my mind, and I temporarily forget my own issues.

There is another silence on the line.

“Helen… I’m getting married tomorrow.”

Now I’m the one making a strange sobbing-laughing sound. “Oh my god! Carmen, really? Tomorrow? To Daniel?”

“No, no. Oh, Helen, you’ve been gone so long. Daniel and I broke up a few months after you disappeared. I was so depressed, and he just couldn’t handle it…”

This news upsets me, and I bite down on my lip. Daniel was a decent guy, and I had liked him. “I’m so sorry, Carm.”

“Well, you know. After mom’s death—none of us were in good shape.” Carmen laughs a little. “What guy wants to date a girl who’s crying and moping all the time? And always going on and on about how much she misses her baby sister? But I got past it. Shortly after that, I met Grayson, and he’s an absolute angel—not to mention a total hunk. He’s really been there for me.”

“Are you sure about him, Carm?” I ask her with worry. She used to have a miserable track record with men. I know how she has a tendency to cling to anyone who shows her a bit of kindness. “You’re not rushing things?”

“Honey, I’m
29!”
Carmen reminds me, putting emphasis on the number as if it is a critical turning point. “I feel like an old bat. Most of my friends have already gotten married.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I tell her with a frown. “Is Grayson a good guy?”

“Heck, yes!” she says, almost a little too enthusiastically. “He’s the one—I’m sure of it. It’s going to be an amazing wedding! Daddy is paying for everything.”

We haven’t even been talking for a full minute, and I am already developing a headache. I am already beginning to remember why I left. I have always felt so inadequate compared to Carmen. She is so dazzling and vibrant, even in her lowest moments. When we were teenagers, and she temporarily experimented with being a blonde, she had decided it simply would not work for her because she appeared “too bubbly.” I was confused about how a change of hair color could be so significant, but I never asked for clarification. Most of her fashion-obsessions and idiosyncrasies completely escaped me. Not just because I could not see, but because I could not bring myself to care.

“Helen,” she says softly, and her voice is suddenly serious. “Please come to my wedding. Please come home.”

I hesitate. There is an odd undertone of fear in her voice, which piques my curiosity and concern. Could something be wrong?

“Please, Hellie,” she begs, using the old childhood nickname that had always irked me so much. “It’s the most important day of my life, and I need you to be there, standing beside me. I need my baby sister. Will you come?”

I am acutely aware of the fact that she has not asked about me. She has not asked about my whereabouts or my health. Although it’s on the tip of my tongue, I find myself unable to spill my own guts to tell her about my infuriating experience with the doctors. I had hoped she would offer a listening ear, but as usual, she is too focused on her own events. Of course, she would be; they are far more momentous and dramatic than anything that could ever happen to me.

“You should be my maid of honor,” she tells me. “Please? Helen? I’ll get you a bridesmaid dress. There’s still time. Have you gained weight?”

I smile. It’s the first question she has asked about me, and it is completely ridiculous. “How would I know?” I answer, reaching down to check how much fat I can pinch on the side of my stomach. It’s not very much. “I don’t own a scale—and even if I did, I couldn’t read the numbers.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re just as gorgeous as ever, sweetie! Will you come? Please say yes.” She pauses, and her voice takes on a somber note. “Please…”

Hearing the wavering sound in her voice, I sense trouble. Scowling, I reach up to scratch my head in disorientation. “I—I don’t know, Carm.”

“I’ll only have one wedding, Helen.” Carmen sounds dejected and upset. “It’s hard enough knowing that Mom can’t be there… but you’re still
alive
. Do I have to accept that I’ve lost my sister, too?”

This guilt trip is working very well. Even though I’m frowning, and trying to be strong and maintain my ground, I feel myself caving. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll try to make it, but…”

“Great! Thanks, Helen! I’ll see you soon. Come home as soon as you can, because I’ll need plenty of help getting ready.”

The phone went dead.

I groan, clenching my fist around the little metal box. “I’m doing fine, by the way. Thanks for asking, Carmen. All that horrible shit that happened to me? Dropping of school? Oh, yeah. I’ve gotten over it, and I’m living a happy and well-adjusted life. I’m living life to the fullest, really. I have tons of friends. Boys? Sure. There are plenty of men in my life. Most of them are chipmunks, but I wouldn’t discriminate.” Slamming the phone down on my desk, I roll my eyes and rise to my feet. I march over to my kitchenette and begin ripping cupboard doors open, rummaging around for a bottle that I had tucked away for a special occasion. Or a dismal one. When my fingers collide with the smooth, cool glass surface, I grab the neck of the bottle and yank it from the cupboard. I quickly find my corkscrew, and retire to my small bed to comfort myself with some good wine.

“Oh, you really enjoyed my latest book? Thanks for telling me, Carmen! It’s so thoughtful of you to keep reading my work. I haven’t been insecure at all. It’s not even slightly difficult being a blind writer.”
I can’t be bothered to get a glass, so once I remove the cork, I drink directly from the bottle. The rich, robust flavor of the liquid smothers my tongue, and I lean back against the wooden wall in satisfaction. “By the way, I’m making
tons
of money. That’s why I bought a rundown cabin in the wilderness. Because of the hot location—I’m sure my property value is doubling, as we speak. Thanks for asking.”

I know that it might not sound this way at the moment, but I love my sister. Everything about her is just so flawless that I can’t help but be frustrated; her personality feels radiant—almost luminous. Even her name!
Carmen
makes me think of the legendary heroine in an opera.
Helen
just sounds like a boring scientist. That’s why I tried to change my name and leave my old life behind me. But today, the past won’t stop hunting me down. I take another swig from my bottle. “Of course I’ll come to your wedding! Tomorrow? Sure, that’s not inconvenient at all. Let me just get in my fancy car and have my chauffeur bring me over there. It’s only two states away—not much of a trip or anything.” I take another drink.