“Of course he is,” says Mom.
I hear several pieces of produce plop down in front of me. Simultaneously I notice a change of colors. I could be seeing either the fruit rolling onto the table or any movements Mom and Dad are making. The world is nothing more than a confusing cascade of living color, an infinitely large waterfall of Skittles pouring out in front of my eyes.
“There,” says Mom. “Do you recognize any of this fruit?”
I stare blankly, trying to home in on the fruit that is now apparently in front of me. But all I can sense is the pulsating chromatic glow coming at me from every direction. I have no idea where to look to find the fruit.
“Your eyes will probably cue in on movement,” says Dad. “Here, son, I’m picking up a piece of fruit now and waving it. Can you see it?”
I observe a flux of color, a yellow ripple in my perception. What fruit is yellow? A lemon. But we don’t keep lemons in the house. What else?
“A banana!” I exclaim.
Mom squeals with delight.
“Can I touch it?” I ask.
Dad places it in my hands, and immediately it becomes not just a guess based on color, but a real, actual banana. I know this shape. I know this texture and weight. I know the firm grippiness of the skin, the pointy taper of each end. As I examine it with my eyes, I attempt to record and catalog: This is what a banana looks like.
“How about this one?”
I spot another flow of color darting around.
“It’s red, right?” I ask.
“Yes!” says Mom.
“An apple?”
“No,” says Dad.
What else is red?
“A strawberry?”
“No.”
“A watermelon?”
“No.”
“I give up.”
“Come on, Will!” says Mom. “You can do it!”
“Sydney, listen to him! He didn’t know whether it was a strawberry or a watermelon! He can’t even judge relative size,” says Dad.
“You know I’m sitting right here, right?” I say.
“He’s not identifying the fruit,” Dad continues. “He’s just guessing based on the color. His brain is not equipped yet for visual object recognition.”
“I’m not one of your patients, Dad,” I say bitterly. “I’m your son.”
“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” he counters. “You just saw it was red and listed fruits you know are that color?”
“Of course,” I say. “How else do people recognize things?”
He drops it into my hand. I immediately identify the small spherical shape and the protective outer skin.
“It’s a grape,” I say.
“Right,” he says quietly.
“I thought they were green?” I ask.
“They can also be red,” says Dad.
“Dad’s right,” I confess to Mom. “I was just guessing based on the color. Maybe I can’t see after all.”
“Of course you can see!” says Mom. “You got all those Skittle colors right! You just need to learn your shapes! I taught you shapes once before, and I’ll do it again! I’ll get your baby toys out of storage!”
Baby toys?
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Will, just give it a try!” pleads Mom.
“Whatever. Maybe tomorrow. I’m exhausted. I can’t do any more right now.”
It’s true. Vision is draining. I can barely hold my eyes open now. They close on their own, like heavy automatic garage doors. Fatigue overwhelms me, the result, I assume, of an information onslaught my brain is not used to.
I go to my room and shut the door and close the blinds and curtains. Even so, there is still light seeping in through the window. Bright, confusing, exhausting light. I take the blanket from my bed and, standing on my chair, I tuck it in around the curtains, sealing off the window so my room is totally dark. Peaceful, calming, logical darkness.
It’s not as pleasant as the “darkness” of being blind, of course. Now that I’ve had the operation, there is a constant broadcast from my eyes to my brain, even in pitch-black. But at least in my lightproofed room, that communication is relatively simple. At any rate, sitting alone in the dark like this is the closest I can come to the life I am accustomed to, the life that feels most familiar, the life of a blind person.
I check my phone. Texts from everyone on the academic team asking how I am doing. I compose a group text: “Recovery is going well. But I can’t really see much yet. Sight is very confusing. I don’t know how you guys handle it.”
Cecily is the first to respond: “Can you see this?” I observe a yellow color beside her text, but I have to have Siri read to me to figure out that it’s an emoji. A smiling face.
Nick adds, “Can you see… YOUR MOM?”
Whitford: “LOL”
I do some homework for a bit, then I get another text from Cecily. “Just dropped something off for you.”
“Why didn’t you come in?”
“Your mom. That’s not a Nick joke btw.”
At that very moment, Mom knocks on the door.
“Cecily just dropped this off,” she says, setting a cardboard box on the floor beside my bed with a thud.
“You didn’t let her in?” I ask.