Clarity

by Lost, Loretta

  “I don’t think she understands what you’re saying, Liam,” said the man named Owen. He cleared his throat. “Look, lady. We have a great opportunity for you! This gene therapy stuff? It’s astronomically expensive. So, if you help us now, we’ll help you. You can get your eyes fixed for free. You could wait a few years for the drug to be approved for general usage—it could be decades—but it will probably cost millions of dollars to get the treatment, and be inaccessible to most people. So, if you let us in, you can ask us questions and sign these papers. We’ll be out of your hair in no time. If you’re not interested, please tell us so we can leave.”

  I am not sure why this man seems so rude. Crossing my arms over my chest suspiciously, I am reminded of all the false promises and misleading statements that people have ever said to me. I am reminded of why I left the city in the first place. Dealing with men like this on a daily basis was far more headache than it was worth. Why should I bother? What if I spend months undergoing trials, only to find that it doesn’t work for me? What if I never see even the tiniest glimmer of light, even after these doctors have convinced me to be optimistic and to even believe that it is highly likely? Why should I overthrow my quiet, tranquil existence for a potentially devastating letdown?

  “I don’t need your help,” I say sharply through the door. I immediately regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but my pride is like a snowball being pushed down a hill. “Thanks for offering, but I’m perfectly happy being blind.”

  “See?” Owen says with annoyance. “I told you this was a waste of time.”

  The snow begins crunching again as he starts walking away, but I do not hear the second set of footsteps leave. I move closer to the door, and press my ear against the surface. I hear a quiet sigh.

  “Please excuse my partner’s bad manners,” says Dr. Larson. “It’s really cold out here and we’ve been driving for hours. Dr. Philips is just… grumpy.”

  A warmth and sense of comfort begins to spread through my chest at the sound of his voice. I open my mouth, tempted to apologize. I feel a strong desire to open the door and invite him in for tea. I have not had a conversation with another human being in a long time. I occasionally talk to my publisher over the phone, but it is usually concise and strictly business. Chatting face-to-face could be nice. My imagination starts to run away again, but this time, I keep it in check. The muscles in my forehead have pulled taut in yet another frown. Experience has taught me how this goes; to be fooled by a kind voice and soft words. Buried memories of a haunting deception begin to push into my consciousness. It is always there, chewing at the edge of my mind. Long ago, I promised myself that I would be wary of strangers, and stop trusting my own flawed perceptions.

  “How did you get my address?” I ask him angrily. “How did you get my medical records?”

  “Your old specialist recommended your name for the trial. Do you remember Dr. Howard? I admit, it was difficult finding you—but I pulled a few strings, and saw that you had some prescriptions sent to this address a few years ago…”

  For a moment, it escapes me. Then I remember and swallow in embarrassment. “My anti-depressants,” I say, with silent fury. They had been prescribed to me when I suffered a small breakdown after my mother’s death. That was absolutely no business of his! Also, unfortunately, the infernal things had not worked.

  “Yes. Please, Miss Winters! This treatment could change your life.”

  I grit my teeth together angrily. “You should not be looking into people without their permission, Dr. Larson. I’m sure you could get in trouble for this.”

  “Maybe.” He sighs again, and I can hear a soft noise, like he is scratching his head. “I only came all this way because Dr. Howard said that you were a really bright girl, and a lovely person. She said that if anyone would benefit from this research, it should be you. She also said you were a writer—she’s read some of your books, and was amazed with how much more you’ve accomplished than most other people with your disease.”

  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 wo
rk 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…”