Great. Just what I’ve always wanted.
We go out to the garage, where I find Dad has been checking the tire pressure and lubricating the gears on the bike.
“Guys, I’ve never even ridden a bike before,” I say.
“It’s all right,” says Dad. “As the front rider, your mother can keep you balanced as long as you maintain speed.”
“If you say so,” I mutter.
“You have to pedal at the same time,” instructs Dad. “Sydney, warn Will before you turn or brake so he is prepared. Be careful.”
We push off, and Dad gets on his bike to follow us.
“Stop sign,” warns Mom. I feel the bike decelerate. Before we tip over, she puts a foot down on the pavement to steady us.
We’ve gone only one block, and I already officially hate Dad’s beloved sport of cycling. I mean, yeah, the breeze feels kind of nice, but I can replicate that sensation by putting my face in front of a house fan. Riding on a tandem bike mostly makes me feel like a prisoner. The rider in the back has no brakes, no steering, no choice.
We ride mostly in silence for a few minutes, aside from Mom’s occasional outbursts (“Isn’t this great!”).
Then she says, “I have something else exciting to discuss.”
Because of course she does. There had to be a reason to trap me on this bike other than the ride itself.
She continues, “There’s an experimental operation being tested at your dad’s hospital. It has to do with retinal stem cell transplants. If you are accepted as a candidate, it could give you eyesight! Full eyesight! Can you imagine?”
Unwittingly, my pulse quickens. “Dad, is this true?”
His tone is far more sober. “It’s not even a stage-one clinical trial yet. Still completely experimental. Honestly, there’s a very small chance of success.”
“But if it did work, I mean—it could give me eyesight?”
“I would wait for them to test the procedure on other patients first. There are so many risks associated with an operation. People don’t even realize—every time a surgeon opens an incision, you are subjecting yourself to risk of infection, physician error, complications—”
“But just think, Will,” counters Mom. “If it was successful, you could have twenty-twenty vision. Isn’t that worth at least considering? Just go in for an initial consultation. I’ve already made the appointment for you next Thursday.”
Hold up. She already made the appointment?
I’m tempted to say no just out of principle. I’m sixteen years old. She can’t go around making appointments for me without asking me first.
But on the other hand, what if it worked? What if I could… see?
“I guess it can’t hurt to talk to them,” I say. “I’ll go to the consultation. But under one condition.”
“What?” asks Mom.
“I go by myself. This is my decision, and I don’t want you or anyone else making it for me.”
“Well, sweetie, of course it’s your decision, but you’ll need me in the room—”
“No,” I say. “Not even in the building. You drop me off, I go in by myself. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” says Mom. “But I’ll wait in the parking lot so you can text if you need me.”
? ? ?
That evening, I’m sitting on my bed listening to the recording of “The Gift of the Magi.” It’s actually really short, and after it’s finished I listen to some blog posts on my phone about how the invention of the iPod led to a boom in the audiobook industry when Siri interrupts to say, “Notification: Message from Cecily.” I tap my phone and listen to the text.
“Hi.”
I tap once more and Siri reads it again.
“Hi.”
Really? That’s it?
“Hi.”
Just one word: Hi. What does that mean? Does she want to apologize? Is she trying to initiate conversation but doesn’t know what to say? Does she pity poor blind Will and feel obligated to send condolences via text?
How do I respond to such a vague opening statement? I run through a variety of options in my mind. I scratch a sticker and soak up its aroma of campfire. Finally I settle on a proportionate response.
“Hi,” I reply.
Her next text comes back almost immediately.
Cecily: I feel really stupid.
Me: Why?
Cecily: About what I said at the end.
Me: It’s OK.
Cecily: No, it’s not. I was wrong.
Me: Thanks for saying that. Consider yourself forgiven.
I migrate from my bed to my desk. The wall of the savory. I scratch the pizza sticker and take a big whiff. I scratch a hot dog sticker and find it blends surprisingly well with the waning aroma of pizza.
Then she writes back.
Cecily: That’s really nice to hear.
Me: I’m a pretty nice guy… when I’m not accidentally staring at people.
Cecily: Can you do emoji?
Me: I don’t know. How do you do it?
Cecily: They’re little pictures you send by text. Here I’ll send you one and you can tell me what your phone says.
On her next message, my phone reads, “Smiling face, dancing monkey, cat face with wry smile.”