Innocence

by Samael Wolf

  But toward the end of its run, two of the show’s writers approached the producers and pitched an idea. They were tired of the carnival showmanship nature of the series and wanted to try a different approach, one which ‘paid homage to the miraculous among us.’ Rather than half an hour of sensationalism, they wanted to try hour-long episodes each showcasing a single person at a time. Backed by the marketing department’s viewer retention data and a binder of letters, e-mails, and a petition with 8000 signatures, they secured a tentative agreement with the producers that something had to change, and soon, so why not give them a shot. They were quite persuasive, not only securing the role of Creative Lead for the new season, but also the funding to better compensate the—exclusively living—people who would be appearing on the show.

  After several months of focus groups and online surveys, the newly established leads put together a list of candidates to invite back to the show. The premise of a little girl who could see-without-seeing proved irresistible to test audiences, so they reached out to my father, who in turn discussed it with me. I was eleven years old by this time and starting to get really serious about finishing school as quickly as possible—I was already a sophomore in high school—and remembered my last appearance on the show all too well, but when they promised ongoing compensation in the form of royalties for the use of my story… well, you have to understand what was going through my mind at the time. We’d just had to move out of the only home I’d been in more than a year since I was abandoned and I was scared that someone was going to start pressuring Dad to put me back in the foster system. When they mentioned money, my only thought was that I’d do anything to help him keep me.

  By this point some of the mysteries surrounding my condition had been solved, even if the conclusions were just as mystifying. The show covered the chain of events with careful detail. I had woken up one morning shortly after my ninth birthday in agony, every sound, touch, scent and taste completely unbearable. Dad rushed me to the emergency room and they ran tests, but couldn’t find anything wrong with me at first, so they kept me for a few days. Every day, the pain got less and less, but we had no idea what was causing it in the first place.

  Then Dad noticed that my eyes had changed color. They used to be an ordinary brown, but somehow they had turned a pale golden yellow over the past couple of days. The doctor certainly thought this was odd and checked my eyes with a light, only to discover that my pupils weren’t dilating or contracting. That led to an eye exam, then to the doctor frantically pulling up my fMRI results for clues, where he discovered that my optic nerve was severely underdeveloped and couldn’t possibly be functioning properly. Every test confirmed that I should be blind, but obviously I wasn’t, right? Except that the more tests they did, the stranger the results looked, until finally the doctor put his hand over my eyes and asked me how many fingers he was holding up.

  I still remember how frightened he was that I could answer. I’d thought he was playing a game.

  As near as we were able to figure out over the next few years, I have two things going on: first that I have extremely sharp senses, and second that I have synesthesia. Synesthesia is a condition where the brain doesn’t process sensory information properly, so it confuses one sense for another and processes them simultaneously. People with synesthesia might see music or feel a smell, or feel like they’re physically touching something when they look at an object.

  I was able to see the sounds, sensations, tastes and scents of the world around me. My sharp senses drew in an immense amount of information, and my synesthesia-addled brain interpreted it as visual, creating a picture I could see and understand. Because my senses were so keen, the picture I got was so accurate that no one, including me, had ever suspected anything was wrong. I grew up with other children in the foster system, playing the games they were playing, learning the things they learned, and no one ever picked up on the fact that I was learning them differently than they were. They thought I’d been slow to pick up reading and writing, but the truth is that I was learning how to read using my juxtaposed senses. My senses of touch, smell, and even taste allowed me to detect the ink or lead on the pages, and eventually it all came together and then I was reading without a problem. No braille, just a brain having learned to do something that should have been impossible.

  The first time I appeared on the show, we’d settled on what I was doing, but not how. The second time, with a full hour dedicated to telling the story and the benefit of a few more years of tests and diagnoses, it was a lot clearer. The film crew shot footage of me going about my day, doing chores, going to school, cheerleading and performing ballet, cut it down into enough material to fill an hour long show, and hired an expert to study my case and then provide narration explaining how my condition allowed me to function in a way few other blind people could. I was the girl with golden eyes who could see even though she was blind.

  Unfortunately, the show was cancelled immediately after the premier episode featuring me aired on television. The producers waited until they saw the viewership analysis and were happy by how much it had increased, but the cost of doing the show like this outweighed what they could expect from advertising revenue, so they pulled the plug. They rebranded the episode as a stand-alone documentary featuring the ‘most requested medical mystery’ in the show’s history and it featured on video streaming sites for months afterward. Little did I or anyone else realize how popular that one episode would turn out to be, and how many people would see my story and wind up remembering it for years to come.

  “That is so cool!” the boy declared before long, thoroughly impressed with what little I had to confirm in order to prove I really was the same Sanmei from television land. Nonetheless, he thrust his hand under his shirt. “Can you see how many fingers I have?”

  “Two,” I answered gamely, spreading mayonnaise. People often wanted demonstrations and this was old hat for me. “And now it’s four. Do you want mustard on your sandwich too?”

  “Uh-huh. What else can you see? Can you see inside me?”

  “Jeffrey, don’t bother her while she’s working,” his mother tried to protest, looking bewildered. I suppose there’s no hiding the fact that I could ‘see’ her expression. I’m still not entirely sure how my brain decodes subtle things like that. It doesn’t seem like something I could hear or smell, much less taste, and I certainly wasn’t touching her face at the time, but my brain obliged me with the image all the same.

  “It’s all right,” I assured her, “we’re just talking about something from TV. I was—“

  A thunderous cacophony interrupted me, droning on long enough that I had plenty of time to realize it was a car horn being deployed right outside the building before it finally cut off, the sound blasting through the open door. A chorus of annoyed complaints resounded around the dining room, and the outline of the car momentarily appeared behind my eyes as the sound seemed to physically press against my head and shoulders. The strongest reaction, however, belonged to the woman. She turned pale, the blood rushing from her face so quickly that I could actually feel the chill of her flesh.

  “I have to go.” The words tumbled leadenly from her mouth and she grabbed at the only completed items on the table: the coffee and one of the ham and cheese sandwiches. She was in such a hurry that she nearly squeezed the coffee lid off and had to juggle the sandwich box to force the lid back down, nearly spilling it on herself in the process.

  “It’ll be ready in just a minute, I promise,” I protested, surprised. I was nearly done with the turkey and the second ham and cheese sandwich was already in the toaster oven. I could ‘see’ the cheese softening and the bread browning—even though the toaster oven was behind me—and was keeping tabs on it to get a perfect toasting. I know I’d spent a little extra time entertaining her son, but it hardly seemed like she’d been delayed an excessive length of time. Whoever was outside was being a jerk.

  “I can’t stay,” she said, repeating it several times like a ma
ntra. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t.” She put a $20 bill down on the counter, grabbing her protesting son by the hand and dragging him toward the door without waiting for the change. I waved the turkey sandwich at her in an effort to flag her down long enough to at least take that much, but she wouldn’t stop even long enough to grab it. Bewildered and not wanting to make an even bigger scene in front of the other customers, I let her go.

  What did I do wrong? I wondered helplessly. Realizing I was still holding the sandwich, I put it down on a plate and busied myself with getting the second ham and cheese out of the toaster oven before it burnt. I had no idea what I would do with the abandoned sandwiches. Maybe I could give them away before they went stale. If it weren’t for the fact that the homeless population typically retreated to what shelter they could find, I’d save them to take with me on the way home. Maybe I’d eat them for my own dinner. It was an easier problem to solve than figuring out if there was something I should have done that I hadn’t. Now that I was thinking about it—or rather, trying not to think about it—it seemed obvious in retrospect that the woman had been deeply afraid of something. Or someone.

  As if in response to my response, a commotion sprang up outside. It sounded like voices, but they were too indistinct to make sense of the words. I cast my attention around the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention. It was possible they couldn’t even hear it. Feeling a frown crease my brow with unwelcome tension, I focused on the yelling, apprehension creeping up my spine. I had a bad idea I knew what it was, and I didn’t want to be right.

  Luck wasn’t on my side tonight. I could hear two voices, and I recognized one as the woman I’d just been serving. The other was masculine and I didn’t recognize it, but I could tell he was doing most of the yelling, and while I still couldn’t make out what they were saying, I had a strong suspicion I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of it. Someone was getting chewed out, and I still wasn’t sure it wasn’t my fault.

  Wait, if they haven’t left yet—

  I all but threw the sandwiches into a box and grabbed my cane for good measure. Ordinarily I don’t like leaning on my blindness as an excuse for anything—for obvious reasons—but if I could defuse an argument with it, I’d count that as using my powers for good. It probably would have helped if I’d unfolded it first, but I was in a hurry to get there before they left.

  My skin dimpled with goosebumps the moment I stepped outside, and not just because of the late afternoon having cooled more than I’d noticed behind the counter. The car’s doors and windows were closed, but away from the insulation of the walls and the soft din of customer voices, I could hear more of what was transpiring and I didn’t like it. This wasn’t just an argument; it was too one-sided and far too hostile. I stepped closer, hesitant. I was suddenly feeling a great deal more trepidatious about interrupting them. I didn’t have much experience with conflict, and I was starting to hear words that made my heart quail.

  And then suddenly I didn’t have a choice.

  “That’s it, I am sick of this shit!” the man screamed so loudly that I could ‘see’ him light up distinctly inside the vehicle, ‘see’ his silhouette grab something at his waist, and suddenly there was enough screaming that I had no trouble at all making out what was going on as the man forced a gun at his wife’s head and pulled back the hammer.

  Chapter Two

  I froze, the box tumbling from my hands. My cane would have followed suit if it weren’t for the wrist strap snagging a finger. I didn’t even notice it unfold until the tip swung on its elastic cord and hit my ribs, nearly making me shriek. Move, I had to move, I told myself, but my body betrayed me. I’d never been so terrified before and I didn’t care for it one bit. I felt like if I managed to take another step forward, something inside me would break and I would only be able to scream and scream. Time seemed to slow, giving me minutes to ‘stare’ helplessly at the horrible tableau. The unthinking rage of the man seemed to fill the cabin of the car with heat, light, I don’t even know, but I swear I could ‘see’ it just as clearly as I ‘see’ anything at all.

  And then the door opened, shattering the moment into real time again. “Jeffrey, run!” the woman screamed, but the boy was already scrambling out of the car. His father was yelling at him to stop, but the gun still pressed against his wife’s temple didn’t move. Somehow I knew he wasn’t making an empty threat. He’d already committed to pulling the trigger; now he was just feeding off his own anger until it happened. If nothing stopped him, she was dead, and I saw nothing I could do to prevent it. At least the boy—at least Jeffrey—wouldn’t have to see it happen in front of him.

  The boy. He was running straight for the ramp, thankfully empty at this time as far as I could tell, but the street below, a main thoroughfare, wouldn’t be. He was running straight down the middle of the ramp, so intent on getting away that he was about to charge straight out into traffic.

  I didn’t have time to let myself think. My limbs unfroze and I acted entirely on instinct. I threw my cane at the car as hard as I could and started running, certain there was no way I’d get there in time. Everything seemed to slow again, every physical detail suddenly of monumental importance. My feet seemed to hit the ground harder than they should have and I had a brief moment to wonder, had I ever run that fast before? Had I ever had the chance to push myself as hard as I could for any reason? Even when I’d been young, and didn’t know how different I was from the other children, had I ever engaged in games that let me run like this?

  Thud. I heard a crack as my cane hit the side of the car, a startled shout from the man. Thud. Each step felt like it should have left cracks in the pavement behind me. Thud. A door opened behind me, but I was passing out of ‘sight’ and had no time to spare to see if I’d given the woman a chance to get away or not. I had no idea how fast I was running, but I’d had further to travel than Jeffrey, and he’d had a head start. I wasn’t going to make it. Thud…

  Horns blared and suddenly I could see the traffic in precise detail. Time seemed to slow down even more. Jeffrey was going to miss the first car; it passed just in front of him. The boy blindly ran into the street and nearly reached the center margin before realizing his blunder. He turned to run back, but that put him directly in front of the next car. Brakes screeched. Jeffrey screamed.

  And then I was there. I don’t even know how I crossed the remaining distance so quickly. It was like I had all the time in the world to wrap my arms around him, and then I simply stepped and turned, as easily as if I were practicing my ballet steps. Suddenly detached from myself, I watched a stranger I’d only thought was me gracefully lift and pivot her dancing partner, which swung Jeffrey out of the way so that his feet just barely missed the front bumper. The car behind us had seen us and was now trying to brake and swerve left into the wrong lane, but it was going to hit us where we were now standing. I stepped again, lifting the boy under his arms and performing something like a pirouette with two long steps backward.

  The air was abruptly still and I realized, stupefied, that we had managed to get out of the road. Then one of the drivers laid on their horn and sped off, cursing us soundly as they drove into the distance. The other driver, the one that had tried to swerve out of the way, lingered until cars behind them honked too and then they took off as if eager to forget the whole incident. I wish I could have done the same. I was afraid if I caught my breath, I’d break down laughing at the absurdity of it all. We could have been killed and a handful of drivers were going to take home a story about two kids playing in the street. If I ever saw the driver again, I guess I’d owe him an apology for being such a darn inconvenience, huh?

  “Superhero,” the boy mumbled, and the urge to laugh got even stronger.

  “Thank Madame Picoult. She was my dance instructor,” I got out between gasping breaths, a hysterical giggle escaping me. I put Jeffrey down, although I had a sudden and somewhat misplaced maternal urge to cling to him with relief. He wobbled unstea
dily, but thankfully it didn’t seem like he was injured, and if he was scared out of his wits, it wasn’t without good reason. I wasn’t doing much better. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stay and hug him like I wanted. I had to find out what had happened between his parents.

  It occurred to me at about that moment that I should really call the police. I’d seen a gun and there was a credible threat of violence. I fished out my phone and was unlocking the screen when I realized an officer was walking with purpose down the ramp sidewalk. My heart leapt before I could process what I was ‘seeing,’ and when I did, it felt like my heart clattered to a halt. Today just couldn’t be my day, could it?

  “Jeffrey!” The cop shouted as he stalked up, rage and violence burning off of him. Again I swore I could almost see it glowing in my mind’s eye, but there wasn’t time to wonder at it. I wanted to shrink away in the face of his barely restrained anger, but I forced myself to stand between him and Jeffrey. I didn’t think he had any idea I’d just saved his boy’s life. The fact that I wasn’t sure he’d have even cared if he did made me angry enough to stand my ground. I didn’t know what kind of fight I could put up against a cop, but I wasn’t about to stand by and let him—

  Jeffrey spoiled my heroic stand by bursting into tears and darting past me to throw his arms around his father’s waist, clinging as I’d wanted to cling to him mere moments ago. The man hesitated, his dreadful expression melting away to one of uncertainty, at least while he looked down at the boy. When his eyes came back to me, a ghost of that imminent violence immediately rose up again and I almost expected him to thrust the boy away and come at me. Then the moment passed. He looked almost ashamed as he knelt down to embrace his son, murmuring words of reassurance. I chose that moment to sidle away, taking a calculated risk that the danger had passed for now. I didn’t trust the man any further than I could throw him, but he didn’t seem to be as eager to abuse his son as his wife. Again, for now.