Second Sight

by George D. Shuman

  Well, I’ve got to go, Captain Merritts says we have to listen to some Washington armchair commando who’s just arrived at the front. Probably bringing us news the Chinese have joined the war, as if we didn’t already know. The Captain says the 7th Division has been seeing them for a year and if they ever do come in force we’ll have hell to pay. They say you kill a hundred they’ll send a thousand more. You kill a thousand they send ten thousand.

  I’ll write tomorrow if I get a chance. If not it may be a while till we get dug in again. Hopefully on top of that hill.

  September 29th, 1950

  We made it! It’s hard to believe, but we really made it. We are here. Back in the good old US of A. You can’t know this of course, not for another three months and I won’t be able to tell you everything, but it will be around Christmas by then and I’ll be home for good this time. Papa won’t need to worry about his leg any longer. I’ll be there for planting when spring comes around.

  I am so glad now that I wasn’t able to get mail out to you in Korea. I know now my last letter would have worried you terribly. You might have read something about the battle on Hill 105 and thought I was there.

  I was last telling you about an officer from Washington coming to the front line. Well he came all right and he was a bird colonel at that. He was looking for volunteers for a special but dangerous assignment he told us, and there we are in our field jackets loaded down with ammo and grenades wondering what in the heck could be worse than going up that hill in the morning. Next thing I know Captain Merritts grabs Tim Pollock by the shoulder and pulls him out in front of us. Then he looks at me and grabs my web belt and pulls me out of line. “Talk to them two,” he told the colonel and then growled, “Dismissed!” to the others. Last I saw was his sandy colored crew cut as he knelt by the phosphorous fire we’d built to keep warm.

  The colonel took us to the CO’s tent where no one could hear and asked us if we would be interested in returning to the States. He said that the army was conducting secret tests that might help us win the war and I know it sounds crazy, but we would get honorable discharges after just three months if we volunteered to act as guinea pigs.

  I don’t have to tell you with Hill 105 looming overhead what we said to him.

  And here we are. Just like he said.

  We’ve all been encouraged to write on pads they gave us, or in my case my diary, to help pass the time, even though we probably won’t be allowed to keep them after we are discharged. Everything here is top secret they told us. They have civilians walking around and I’ve never seen so many medals on uniforms like these officers have.

  There isn’t much to do with our days, we read and play checkers and there is a ping-pong table in the mess. The tan I had from basic training is all but gone, Korea was cold as a Chesapeake shad, but here we live underground and it’s a constant 66 degrees because of how deep it is, somewhere in the Northeast or by the Great Lakes from what we can put together from our collective experiences.

  It may seem odd, all this work to write down our thoughts and then not be allowed to share them, but I find it helps get things out of my system. Things I’d rather not bring home when I’m discharged in December.

  I admit that I sometimes feel guilty about leaving friends behind in Korea. I know the 32nd was going into battle while I was being driven back to the harbor at Inchon. After that we were launched to the carrier Valley Forge and were hustled into a Douglas Skyraider bound for Tokyo.

  Maybe, as Mom says, the Lord decides our fate. I can only hope to do my country proud, as I would have tried to do in Korea.

  Well it’s suppertime and I best go. The meals are pretty good, we have a cook who is Italian and speaks no English. We pretty much have to make sign language to tell him we like his food. The table might be light again tonight. Two of the guys taking radiation shots got the flu. Now we’re all worried ’cause some of us had been in the Orient, but the doctor here said he’s sure it’s not the Asian flu. Whew. That’s a relief. Tomorrow I’m going to try to hear radio waves in the R-lab. They say they are like radar pulses only stronger.

  Sherry laid the journal open across her stomach, closed her eyes, and felt the tickle of cool air from the ceiling fan. A horn honked outside the window, then a door opened and she heard a car radio and loud, drunken voices before the door slammed and the car drove away. Boys—maybe eighteen, maybe twenty, not much younger than Thomas J. Monahan had been when he penned these words.

  She tried to appreciate the mind-set of the Cold War era. Especially the early years, as Brigham had explained. She tried to imagine the threat of a weapon capable of destroying the United States in one blow. It was real to them, Brigham had said. They knew that a hydrogen bomb had been tested in the Philippines in 1947—one thousand times more powerful than the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Brigham said that not long afterward, the Soviets detonated a bomb that eclipsed all bombs dropped in World War II.

  He had reminded her that the youth of 1950 had not grown up in a nuclear world. They remembered Roy Rogers and gangsters and tommy guns, not missiles, Al-Qaeda, and dirty briefcases.

  What could one make of it? Under the circumstances, how many citizens would have cried out for a ban on testing weapons of any kind? How many would have insisted on months, years, even a decade of trials before new drugs were introduced in order to save a soldier’s life? Few, she thought. Few would quarrel with the research and development of new weapons and the age-old solution of using volunteers.

  What, she wondered, had been done to that boy’s brain to silence him for half a century? She thought about the device on the far side of that table she had seen…. “Can’t…on, can’t…on,” she whispered. Had she actually felt her temperature rising when she was holding his hand, or was it only a memory? And what was can’t…on?

  Had Monahan been brainwashed, controlled by some remote means, and could that neurological aberration have triggered a response in her own brain fifty-eight years later? Sherry had no idea how memories were conveyed to her mind, only that somehow they were, and that they must travel through a conduit between the deceased person’s central nervous system and her own.

  Her alarm went off far too soon the next morning. Sherry saw bags under her eyes in the mirror and wondered how many mornings of her life they had been there. They checked out at nine and headed out to the diner for breakfast.

  “I’m having company for dinner tonight,” Sherry told Brigham, sliding into a booth.

  “Who?” he asked, unconcerned.

  “A guy,” she said, watching him.

  “What guy?” he asked, now suspicious.

  “Just a guy,” Sherry said.

  Brigham just looked at her. “What do you mean, just a guy?”

  “You know, a guy.”

  “I know you’re seeing Brian Metcalf. Since when is there just another guy in your life?”

  Something was going on with her, Brigham thought. She was waging a war within herself. She was trying to hide from her own future. Trying to hide from the results of gamma ray tests that might show radioactivity in her bone marrow or lungs next week. Trying to hide from not knowing—or knowing—whether she would develop cancer, whether she would retain her sight.

  It was rationalizing, in a way. Rationalizing that her life was at best uncertain, and what the hell, she’d make new friends, find new ways to forget about the future—except that Sherry understood the difference between right and wrong.

  “He’s nobody. Someone I bumped into. It’s nothing, really, nothing at all.”

  “It’s something if you’re inviting him to dinner.”

  “What? Can’t I have friends now?”

  “What about Brian?”

  “What about him?” Sherry said defensively.

  “Does he know about your new friend? I thought you two had something going on.”

  “I only met him six months ago.”

  “And you went to meet his family three weeks ago.”

&nb
sp; “Coffee?” A young woman stood in front of the table with two pots, stifling any response.

  “Please,” Sherry said, and he pushed his cup forward as well.

  Brigham continued to watch her face intently. “You haven’t even told him yet, have you? Brian doesn’t even know you can see.”

  “There hasn’t been a good time.”

  “So you’ve talked,” he said.

  “He called,” she said guiltily.

  “And you’ve talked?” He didn’t try to hide his concern.

  “He left messages.”

  “Why didn’t you answer them? Why didn’t you tell him your sight came back?”

  “I’m not ready,” she said emphatically.

  “Ready for what?”

  “To talk about it. It’s too early.”

  Sherry looked down at the table and turned the cup around on the saucer. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to getting grilled by you.”

  “And I’m not used to strangers waltzing into your life.”

  “You worry too much about me.”

  He nodded. “And there you are probably right, young lady.”

  The waitress brought ice water and menus. “Need a minute?” she asked, and Sherry shook her head. “Pancakes for me.”

  He ordered an omelet and the waitress left them alone.

  “It’s none of my business, I suppose.”

  Sherry remained silent.

  “Still, you should tell Brian. And if you’re going to see someone else, maybe you should tell him that too,” he said gruffly.

  “It’s none of your business, remember?”

  “What does this guy do?”

  “He’s a scientist.”

  “A scientist,” Brigham said dully.

  “Case and Kimble.”

  Brigham nodded. “Big company.”

  “Huge,” Sherry retorted.

  “I’ll be home all night.”

  “As in, you’ll be home if I need you?” Sherry laughed.

  He shrugged.

  “I’ll be perfectly all right, Mr. Brigham. Would you like me to call you when he’s gone? You could come over afterward and we’ll go over the journal again. You could read so I wouldn’t have to use my machine.”

  “Not if it’s after ten.”

  “I’ll be in bed myself at ten. He’s coming for dinner and then he’s out the door. I’ll call you the moment he leaves.” She stopped suddenly and tried to focus as the room began to blur.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded, taking deep breaths. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s the Prussian blue. It makes me nauseous.”

  “One more week, Sherry,” he said. “Just one more week. You should remember that.”

  “Let’s not rush it,” she said. “This week at least I still have the luxury of not knowing what the test will show.”

  22

  “Can we do two more entries?” Brigham asked.

  Sherry nodded, trying to get herself together. “Two more,” she said, “then I’ve got to shower.”

  Brigham flipped open the journal and pushed on his reading glasses.

  October 27th, 1950

  Something is wrong. One of the guys, Henry Wade, left last week. He was supposed to have been sent home. He was in C-lab where they take the radiation shots. The captain told us he completed his trials, but Sandy found his wristwatch last night. It was under his bunk and we all know he wouldn’t have left it because his fiancée bought it for him before he shipped out to Korea. He was getting pretty sick, like he had the flu real bad. Sandy was in his group, three of them had it, but Henry was starting to lose his hair as well.

  We don’t know what to think. Tim Pollock—he’s on trials in the R-lab with me—wanted to give the watch to the commanding officer here.

  I told them to give it to one of the doctors when they came back, but Sandy said we should keep it as evidence in case something happened to Henry.

  We aren’t supposed to talk to each other about what we’re doing here, but that seems kind of silly now. Sandy’s been bleeding in the toilet and the doctor gave him something to stop it, but he should be in a hospital.

  I don’t think that anyone will ever get to read this. They’ll likely search us when we’re discharged in sixty days. We’ve decided to meet near Baltimore after we get out. Baltimore is between where Tim and I live. We want to find out if Henry is all right before we come home. Don’t worry about me. Tim and I were told to do some pretty weird things here, but at least we don’t have to take the shots yet. Seems like an easy way out of the war, listening to voices in our heads, but the doctor here says its important work. Who are we to say it’s not?

  November 2, 1950

  Sandy was taken to the hospital yesterday. He won’t be coming back they say. The captain came by and picked up all his stuff. I don’t know why he thought he’d have to wear gloves. It isn’t like the rest of us are protected in any way.

  Anyhow the Captain said that he contacted Henry and that Henry was home safe with his parents. Henry said that he’d left his watch behind and asked that we keep it for him. We don’t know if it’s true or not or if they can somehow overhear us talking.

  It’s confusing here. You can’t tell by their expressions if they want you to do well on their tests or not. Sometimes they seem happy when you do and sometimes not.

  All I know is fifty-some days and I’m coming home. We were told they sent letters to all of you telling you we were all right. We’ll be able to write our own letters home the week before we leave as well. I’m going to ask you for a special favor this year. I want you to hold Christmas when I get home. I know that’s a bit selfish, but Sam and Sophie are old enough to wait for their presents. Anyhow, if you can’t wait I’ll understand. Just save me some giblets and gravy.

  Brigham returned the journal and Sherry walked him to the door. He was upset, she could tell. Upset about what he was reading. Upset about her relationship with Brian Metcalf. Upset with her, for all she knew. He had really wanted Sherry and Brian to work out.

  She turned the lock when he was out.

  Well, she also had wanted it. That was life, wasn’t it? If she lost her sight again tomorrow, well, that would be a shame too. If all her hair started to fall out like the boy’s in the letter, what would Brigham and Brian have to say about that?

  They weren’t children anymore. Life came with tough choices and right now she intended to do what was best for all of them. There was no future. There was only today.

  She looked at the second wine bottle and grinned, seeing that it was empty. Sherry had never opened a second bottle of wine in her life. It wasn’t that she didn’t like to drink. She just didn’t like wine all that much. Maybe that was part of her newfound boldness. Maybe she’d gone a little heavy on the wine since she’d been thinking the entire afternoon how wonderful it would be to forget about Brigham and Brian and Monahan and secret weapons and gamma rays. How wonderful it would be to try something entirely new, to get comfortably drunk.

  Sherry knew it was almost midnight and the remains of dinner were piled high in the kitchen sink. She had never done that before either. Never dared to prepare a candlelight dinner for a man. Not that there was anything complicated about making steaks on a countertop grill and vegetables in the microwave, but the idea, the accomplishment was out of character.

  She was taking on a new role these days. She was acting out a fantasy she’d always imagined the rest of the world was playing. As long as she could see, she would decide what was worth having and taking. The world wasn’t as complicated as she’d made it out to be when she was blind. There was just today and everyone knew you were supposed to live in the moment, live for today.

  She considered that idea for a moment, wishing she had more confidence in it. Wishing she was relieved by her newfound liberation.

  It felt uncomfortable, unsuitable to her, making her think it was dangerous right now to take chances, but that might go away with time. She could ease back
into life a little bit at a time.

  “I really should get to bed,” she said.

  “What, you don’t like the company?” Troy pretended to be offended.

  “The company is just fine,” she said smoothly. He was sitting on the couch and she was lying on her back, head on his lap.

  She reached up to touch his hair, brushed it aside on his forehead. “You know I’m not looking for a relationship.” She slurred the words badly.

  He nodded. “That’s okay,” he said.

  “Really okay?”

  “I’d be flattered if you thought otherwise, but no, it’s really okay.”

  She nodded. “Good, I think that’s best.”

  The only light in the room came from the dinner candles. She had CDs in the Bose, and the empty wine bottle was listing badly in a bucket of melting ice.

  He leaned down and kissed her again, this time pulling her shirt from the waist of her skirt and putting his hand on her stomach.

  “Your hand is hot.”

  “Your body is cold.”

  “Better leave me dressed then,” she whispered softly.

  He removed his hand and traced her lips with his finger.

  “You are truly beautiful,” he said. “More beautiful than any woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Silly,” she managed to say, but her head was spinning, and his hand felt good.

  “Are you sure the front door is locked?”

  “I checked it twice,” he said. “Who are you expecting?”

  “No one.” She glanced guiltily at the clock, reaching up to undo the buttons of his shirt.

  “I missed you yesterday,” he said. “I called you at the house, before I tried your cell phone.”

  “I went back to Stockton.” Sherry tugged his shirt out of his pants and pulled it open and just stared at his chest.

  “Another reading,” he teased.