Maggie Shayne - Sleep with the Lights On

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The nightmares started my first night home, barely forty-eight hours after the bandages came off my eyes. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. Because really, that was major, that day. It was fucking huge.

I hadn’t taken the bandages off myself. Not because the doc had warned me so sternly against it—like that would have stopped me. I wasn’t real good at doing what I was told. Or conforming. Or following rules. Or anything, really, except writing books telling people to follow their bliss. The more ways I could find to say it, the more books I sold. But the truth was, the whole premise—that you could attract good things to you by being good yourself; that a positive attitude would make life go smoothly; that belief could create fortunes and castles and bliss—was flawed. It had been drummed into me by the well-meaning adults around me ever since I’d lost my eyesight for good.

Look for the silver lining, Rachel.

Everything happens for a reason, Rachel.

Something positive will surely come of this, Rachel.

And I remember thinking, My God, they actually believe this shit!

And when they started getting me books—audiobooks back then, though now it’s ebooks with text-to-speech enabled, because let’s face it, braille is kind of passé these days—that spouted the same bull, I realized they not only believed it, they wanted to believe it.

By the time I was sixteen I had figured out that these Pollyanna idiots would pay any amount of money for any product that supported their inane beliefs, because those beliefs were so flimsy they needed constant reinforcement. One stiff gust of logic or common sense would blow them to hell and gone. Hence, the self-help guru explosion of the first decade and a half—so far—of the new millennium. Entire companies have been born and built around the idea that one could create one’s own reality. Those companies produce books and DVDs and card kits created by authors who pretend to understand quantum physics, and use their brand of pseudoscience to support their claims that you are what you think and all that crap.

Eventually I figured, why fight it when I could make millions off it instead?

So that’s what I did. That’s what I do. Being blind makes me even more popular among the sheep—I mean masses. Silver lining? No. Smart thinking.

But back to the subject. No, I didn’t take the bandages off. I was an obedient conformist for the first time in...well, ever. I waited because I was scared shitless. I had not seen in twenty years, not really. The post-transplant unveilings of the past had been little better than the blindness that had preceded them and of course, short-lived. And before I’d lost my sight entirely, there had been a solid year of slow fading, so the final unforgettable image I’d seen—my brother, Tommy—had been dull and dark around the edges.

Point is, I was too scared to take the bandages off myself. I don’t even know what I was scared of, exactly. That the transplant hadn’t worked and I would still be blind, maybe, or maybe that I would be able to see again and it would be terrible.

I know, stupid, right? How can seeing be terrible? I guess it’s like anything else in the human psyche. When we don’t know what to expect we’re all alike: terrified. And frankly, I probably would have gotten over the fear and yanked the eye patches off myself if I’d had to wait very long for the doc to do it. But I didn’t. Just overnight.

So I was sitting up in the bed, listening to the clock tick and my sister yap at me in an effort to try to distract me from my impatience. My breakfast tray was still there, wafting aromas that weren’t really bad but were making my stomach turn anyway. Amy was there. She was unusually quiet. Barracuda Woman was there via Skype, on a laptop beside my bed. The twins were at the mall. Sandra wisely thought maybe I’d like to see them for the first time with just us four.

Mott hadn’t even shown up. Him and his idea that being blind was something to be proud of. Like we should have a freaking parade. Blind Pride. Fuck that. If I could see, I damned well wanted to.

And there it was. My hopes were high. I hadn’t intended to let them climb up there, but they’d ascended to the point where they were making me dizzy. God, I was a glutton for punishment.

And then there were the footsteps and the smells that told me Doc had finally arrived.

“About time,” I said.

“I said nine. It’s only 8:30.”

“Left my braille watch home. Feels like noon of next year to me.” My voice was shaking. Why the hell was my voice was shaking?

She came closer, moved right up next to the bed. Sandra was on the other side, and she slid a hand over mine, closing it tight, and said, “I’ll probably look like an old lady to you.” She was shaking, nervous and hopeful, and near tears.

“Shit, I’ll probably look like an old lady to me. At least you had all morning to do hair and makeup. I’ve never smelled so much hairspray in my life.”

She laughed softly. “It’s true, I did. Spent an hour and a half. It’s not every day your sister sees you for the first time in so long. God, I was what, sixteen?”

Doc’s hands were at the back of my head, and she started unwrapping the gauze, layer by layer.

“Don’t worry,” I told Sandra to lighten the mood. “I wasn’t expecting you to still be three feet tall and wearing bunny jammies. But you’d better have kept the dimples and curls. I’m probably a hag. It’s unfair.”

“You’re beautiful, Rachel. You’ve always been beautiful.”

“Yeah, that’s the ticket. Make me cry so I can’t see shit even with my new eyes.”

I wasn’t even kidding. Really.

“Don’t expect too much,” Doc said. “It’s going to be better than the last times, but still a little blurry for a couple of months. But it will improve. Every day it’ll improve.”

“Thanks for the warning. Will you hurry up, already? What are you, rolling the gauze back up to reuse as you go along?”

“You are such a bitch, Rachel,” Amy said. But she said it with love, and her voice was thick with tears already.

The gauze was gone. I could feel it. Now there were just two thick pads over my eyes. Doc said, “Keep them closed until I tell you to open them, okay?”

“You want me to wait longer? Yeah, what the hell, it’s only been twenty years.”

She had her fingertips over the pads, just in case I got antsy, I guess. “Amy, can you get the lights? Sandra, the blinds? I want it dim in here for this.”

They moved. The light switch snapped; blinds whispered shut.

And then the pads were being peeled away. “Not yet, Rachel. Keep them closed. Just for a few more seconds.” Doc dabbed my eyes with something warm and wet. Then it moved away. “Okay.”

Okay, I can open them now.

No, I can’t do it.

“Go ahead, Rachel. It’s all right. Open your eyes.”

Just do it already. What are you gonna do, walk around with your eyes closed for the rest of your life?

God, why is this so hard?

I made myself do it. And you know, as much as you might think you can open your eyes slowly, you can’t. You really can’t. Try it, go ahead. There’s just no way. Eyes are either closed or open. Mine were closed.

And then they were open.

And it was dim, but...I could see. I couldn’t believe it. Had to double-check.

Am I really seeing, or is this imagination?

No, no, it was real. I could see people in the room. Yes, blurry, I guess, but consider what I had to compare it to. Women, three women, and I almost panicked, thinking I wouldn’t know who was who and would hurt their feelings.

Duh, you knew who was who before, didn’t you?

Right. Sandra’s on the left, holding my hand. I shifted my new eyes to her, and then I clapped my hand over my mouth and the tears started up. “I can see you,” I said behind my hand.