“The operation is full of risks, Will. It is a decision you must make for yourself.”
I’ve had fantasies about eyesight. Like, if I could just magically have eyesight given to me or whatever. Of course I have. I think about it sometimes. And I’ve always just thought that it would all happen instantly. I’d open my eyelids and—poof—the world would open up to me.
Dr. Bianchi just crushed that dream.
“So can I think about it for a while?” I ask.
“I insist that you do. Think as long as you need. And discuss it with your family. But as long as you’re here, would you like to get a preliminary B-scan to see if you are a candidate?”
“Sure, but can I, um, use your phone?” I ask. “I need to, um, call my mom and tell her I’m going to be a bit longer.”
“Of course,” he says.
? ? ?
On the drive home, I get a text from Whitford inviting me to “Settlers Sunday” this weekend. The entire quiz team will be there, he says.
There are many board games made specifically for blind people. We have a few downstairs, in fact. I’m not going to bring one of those over and force everyone to play, but I do want to make friends. I want to fit in at this school. And Whitford lives just around the corner anyway. So I agree to go. I’ll be “playing” Settlers, even though I won’t really be able to participate at all. Hey, maybe one of them can move my piece for me. Yeah, that plan always works out great.
It makes me wonder, though. What if I could one day play board games without help? What if I could use my eyes to see where my own piece on the board should go?
The truth is, I’ve always wanted eyesight. I mean, obviously. I’d love to be able to see. It’s not like I’m unhappy with myself the way I am or bitter about being blind or anything. I get along all right. I’m fine with who I am.
But if there’s a chance I could gain eyesight, I mean, come on. Plenty of people go from sighted to blind. But how many people can say they’ve gone from blind to sighted? And how many details does most of the world take for granted, colors and shapes that I would be able to notice and appreciate? Normally, you learn to see for the first time as a baby and don’t remember it. But getting eyesight for the first time as a teenager, when you can observe and remember every moment of the experience, that’s much more than a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It would be like winning the lottery. I could live a thousand lifetimes or a million lifetimes and not get the chance to try something as cool as that again.
CHAPTER 9
On Sunday, it takes a while to persuade Mom to let me walk to Whitford’s by myself. It’s literally only three houses away. Perhaps, I think, living independently is something of a lofty goal, after all. Not because it is so terribly difficult for me to get by on my own, but because my mother simply won’t let me.
I leave the house and walk left down the sidewalk. My mind keeps rewinding to the appointment with Dr. Bianchi. Would I really want to try the operation? Will I even qualify as a candidate? I count two driveways and then turn left at the intersection. Whitford’s house, Siri tells me, is now on my left.
But at the end of the driveway, I stop. Do I seriously want to go to a board game party? I won’t be able to play the game. Which will be awkward. Probably even more so for everyone else than for me.
This was stupid. I am going to walk back home.
“You just going to stand there all night?” a voice says from about ten feet away. “Or are you going to come inside?”
I jump. “Jeez! You scared me!”
Cecily laughs.
I ask, “How long have you been standing there?”
“The whole time you have. I saw you coming and thought I would wait for you to come inside with me, but, uh, you never did. Were you waiting for someone who could guide you in or something?”
“Actually—yeah, that’s what I was doing, I guess.”
I don’t tell her that I could have navigated to the front door without a guide. There’s almost always a sidewalk through the front yard that leads directly to the entrance of a house. Or at least, that’s what Mrs. Chin taught us.
“Come on, let’s go in,” she says, offering her arm.
At the front door, I meet Whitford’s parents, both professors at PU.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Washington and Dr. Washington,” I say.
“You can call us Mr. and Mrs. Washington,” says Whitford’s dad. “We’re not so pretentious as to require the use of honorifics in our home.”
He and Mrs. Whitford burst into peals of laughter. Cecily and I chuckle politely.
They show us to the kitchen table.
“Hey, Nick, Ion, Whitford!” says Cecily. At first I think naming each person at the table is an odd greeting. Then I realize it was for my benefit, to tell me who is in the room.
“Cecily, I see you’ve brought us a new Settler of Catan!” says Nick in an affected English-narrator voice.
Cecily replies in kind. “Indeed I have, good sir.”