“I don’t hear anything, either, Will. What does it sound like? Are your ears ringing?”
And that’s when I realize that the sound is not coming through my ears. In fact, it’s not actually a sound at all. It’s something else, some other sensory fist pummeling me with its volume and intensity. Is this eyesight? Have the bandages already come off? Am I seeing? Is this my very first sight?
But I lift my hands to my eyes and find bandages. If my eyes are bandaged, what could I be seeing? Unless… is this what the inside of bandages look like?
No, my eyelids are shut. I can feel that. They are taped closed by these very bandages.
What, then? What is this?
Then I remember how once Mrs. Chin explained that complete blindness is not like a person with normal eyesight covering his eyes. Because even then, that person still sees darkness. Blindness is like trying to look at the inside of your shoe through the bottom of your foot. It is an absolute lack of sensory input.
And that’s when it hits me: I’m seeing darkness for the first time.
My heart starts to pound from excitement. I can hear it on the monitor, which just proves to me that I’m right. What I thought I heard before wasn’t sound.
“OH MY GOD!” I say. “I can see! Mom! Dad! I can see!”
“Honey—” Mom says sympathetically.
“No, really! I can!”
“You still have bandages over your eyes, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s just it! I can see the darkness! I can see the blackness! It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt!”
I don’t know how to describe it to them. Metaphors rush through my mind: It’s like a new arm is growing out of my face and getting electrocuted! It’s like I have a second nose and it’s snorting wasabi!
“Oh my God, Sydney, he can see!” says Dad. “His retinas are transmitting to the optic nerve! They are sensing the absence of light!”
Mom and Dad start laughing, and so do I. We laugh and laugh, and Mom starts crying, and the laughs and cries blend into each other. But none are louder than the sound of the blackness pouring into my brain from my eyes. I keep telling myself, no, it’s all right, this is a good thing. But my brain keeps saying, What is happening? What is this mass intrusion of static? The overload of sense from my eyes, plain and dark though it may be, is so strong that I can barely pay attention to Mom and Dad. Eyesight is asserting itself as king over my other senses. It is enacting a coup d’état against hearing, smelling, tasting, and touching. And I can already tell it’s going to be a bloody revolution.
CHAPTER 17
The next morning, on Friday, Mom takes me to Dr. Bianchi’s office to get the bandages removed.
At the medical building, Mom and I walk back to a little examination room.
“Mom, can you just wait outside?”
She doesn’t say anything. She’s stonewalling, trying to guilt me with her silence.
For a moment, I consider the situation from her perspective. I think how special this moment must be for her. Her blind son is about to see for the first time. How many parents get to witness something like that?
“Fine, you can come in,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says, sounding genuinely appreciative.
I sit down on the crinkly paper of the examination table, and we wait in silence for Dr. Bianchi. After about ten minutes, I hear the door swing open, and he says, “How is my star patient feeling?”
“Pretty good,” I say. “But there’s a lot of weird stuff going on.”
I tell him about the pounding darkness, about what I assume are the first transmissions from my upgraded eyes to my brain.
“That means it worked, right? I will be able to see?”
“Possibly, possibly. Although this will take time to develop. You will come back to see me on Monday and we will begin your therapy. For the weekend, just rest and take note of what you experience.”
I hear him scrubbing his hands in the sink. He walks over to me and starts to tug at the tape gripping my temple.
My mom is quiet. Too quiet. “Mom, are you videotaping this on your phone?”
She says nothing, which tells me I’m right.
Dr. Bianchi pauses.
Annoyed, I say, “I don’t want all your little friends at the country club crying tears of joy while watching a video of me on endless loop. Turn it off.”
“William, this is a moment you will treasure forever. You will want to show it to your own children someday! And your grandchildren!”
I know that “you will treasure” is Mom’s code for “I will treasure,” but hey, in the history of the world, fewer than twenty mothers have seen their blind child gain sight. Why not let her enjoy it the way she wants to?
“Fine,” I say. “Keep filming.”
“All right. But I am starting a new recording now. I don’t want that little, um, altercation on the video.”
“Whatever,” I say.
Dr. Bianchi removes enough of the bandages that I am able to lift my eyelids. But my view still seems to be blocked by the remaining gauze.