Finally she says, “When I first found out you were blind, it was kind of… refreshing to meet someone who didn’t look at me and see my birthmark first and foremost. You saw other parts of me instead. And I liked that. I just allowed myself to enjoy it. I couldn’t predict we would become this close. But after we kept hanging out, at a certain point, yeah, I felt like it had gone too far, that if I told you then, it would seem like I had taken advantage of your blindness by not telling you earlier.”
When she says those words out loud, taken advantage of your blindness, I realize that’s the other piece of why I’m so offended. It’s not just knowing that she might have thought I was so shallow that I couldn’t handle it, it’s that she took advantage of my blindness because it happened to be more convenient. Why go through the trouble of telling the blind guy your most significant physical characteristic if you can simply allow him to stay ignorant? Why risk filling him in on what everyone else already knows when you can just leave him in the dark?
Cecily says she believed I was different from everyone else. Well, I believed she was different, too. I believed she was the one person I could really trust. Like she might even be the one sighted person I could trust enough to be in a relationship with. But now she’s thrown that all away, crumpled it up, and stomped on it.
I step out of the car and slam the door shut. I navigate back toward the school, hearing my cane click-click-click on the pavement as her car’s idling engine fades behind me. I blink. I’m not sure if I’m blinking back tears or if I’m just blinking because my eyes feel dry.
As I walk, my mind races with questions. Do people have a duty to disclose what they look like to their blind friends? If you know someone who can’t see, is there some moral obligation to tell him about any flaws in your appearance early on? Like, Hey, I know we just met recently, but in case you ever start feeling attracted to me, you should know that for whatever reason, society wouldn’t say I’m beautiful?
Because that’s all it is, right? Society or the media or whoever says people should look a certain way, and the more you deviate from that, the less beautiful you are.
But there’s obviously something deeper going on with attraction, right? Something beyond just what society says is beautiful or not? Like, I was attracted to Cecily without ever having seen her clearly with my eyes. Because I know her. I know what she’s like inside. I know how she expresses herself and the way she loves to take photos and watch sunrises, and that’s what I’m attracted to.
Or at least, I thought I knew her.
The fact is, not saying what is true is the same as saying something untrue. It’s a lie of omission. Cecily considered telling me the truth about herself and then decided, no, she enjoyed having a friend who didn’t know what she looked like. She decided that exploiting my blindness was the best way to make me stick around, the best way to hold on to my companionship. Basically, she used my disability so she could feel better about herself.
But what hurts even more is that she assumed if I knew, I would think less of her because of something she was born with. I mean, seriously? Me, a guy who was born blind? Did she really think I was that shallow?
I liked Cecily. I really did. And if I’m being totally honest with myself, maybe someday I could’ve even loved her. But I don’t think you can have love without trust, and I don’t see how I could ever trust her again.
CHAPTER 27
I spend the weekend alone in my room, coming out only to partake in the absolute minimum levels of eating and bathroom use. I pace around, clenching and unclenching my fists, scratching random stickers with noisy aggression. Anger. Scratching. Pacing. Thoughts of Cecily, and how she withheld such a large part of herself from me when I was showing her everything. Indignation. Humiliation. More scratching. More pacing.
On Saturday, I delete all the messages I’ve ever posted on her wall and defriend her on Facebook. Reaching under my bed, I pull out the box of photos Cecily gave me. I march the box downstairs and dump out its contents unceremoniously on top of the food scraps in the kitchen trash can.
“What are you doing?” asks Mom suspiciously.
“Nothing,” I say flatly.
Not including the angry mutterings to myself, it’s the first time I’ve spoken all weekend.
I realize Mom is now likely to examine the contents of the trash can, so I grab a jar of mayonnaise from the fridge and pour it on top of the photos. Mom can’t stand the smell of mayonnaise. That will keep her away.
On Sunday afternoon, I flop across my bed listening to music. The melody reminds me of something about Cecily, I’m not even sure what, and all of a sudden, tears roll out of my eyes. Actual tears. Hot, salty beads of confusing emotions.