Read Online What Is Visible: A Novel by Kimberly Elkins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kimberly Elkins
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year when I tried to stick my fingers in.
I help much more than Mary, who is eight years younger than me, about the age I was when I was sent to live at the Institution. We hold on to each other’s skirts as we move about the house doing chores, until Addison bursts in from school—I feel the air rush in as the door’s flung wide and know it’s him, since Papa barely opens it, almost as if he doesn’t want to come inside. Addison takes us outside most days and plays at tumbling, then twirls me round and round until I fall down dizzy. He’s hung a swing from the branches of the oldest oak behind the house, and that is my favorite thing: to sit in the rope seat with my brother’s hands firm on my back and the sun and breeze light on my face. I try to decide if it’s even better than sitting with Doctor after supper, and I decide that it is—for now—because Doctor has stayed far across the sea for over a year, and so I must open the doors of my heart to others, especially my own dear family. Addison is almost as tall as Doctor, with a bit of soft beard. Only he and Mama have bothered to learn the finger spelling well. He will be going away to study next year, but when he comes back, I think it is possible that we might marry. I can tell he loves me very much, and in my hand, he always writes, “My Laura,” as if he has already claimed me for his own. Mama and Papa would be very happy, I think, though Mary would be jealous. And Doctor would probably be jealous too, even with his Julia. She is not half as celebrated as I am.
Mama also lets me knit and crochet without being watched. The only thing I’m prevented from going near is the spindle. She needn’t worry; I am terrified of the thing. That I remember: the trip, the fall, the needle piercing my one good eye. If it had got the left one, no matter, it was already dried out, but the right one, a year after the fever, still held some light, a prism of colors on a bright day. Doctor knows, but that secret I tell no one else. It is too much, too horrible; it sounds like a lie, a bad joke that only God could tell. I’ve never had pain like that, most of all because it meant the extinguishing of the last glimmer of light, the last blade of green, the last patch of blue.
It’s strange to think of how perfect I was born, how absolutely perfect with all my senses until two and a half. How I pray to remember those earliest years full of sights and sounds, tastes and smells! It must have been glorious. I must have been glorious. Doctor says some of those memories are locked inside my brain, and that’s why I learn so well, drawing on those fragments that are buried somewhere deep down inside. I wish I knew exactly where.
Tonight Asa is coming for dinner. Papa says he’s a half-wit, and it’s true he can hardly spell in my hand and understands only the simplest words, but he has always been so good to me. Papa has never one time even tried to spell into my hand, and when I reach for his, he jerks it away. It would be so good to talk to Papa because he has some learning and reads the Bible more than Mama is able; he is a farmer but also conducts much business in town. He has been voted a selectman, Mama says, and that’s very important and takes up his time. Papa asks me only one question on this visit, and I can tell Addison doesn’t want to translate it by the way he doodles in my hand. “Write,” I urge him, and so he does: “Papa wants to know why can’t you talk yet.”
That is an excellent question and one I mean to discuss with Doctor on his return. If he could teach me to read and write, I don’t see why he couldn’t teach me to talk. I can certainly make noise! If Asa can talk, then surely I should be able to master it. I don’t mean to look down on him; Asa was a better friend and playmate in my helpless years than even Addison. Maybe that’s because my brother usually had chores to do, but I don’t think that’s all it was. I think he saw
I help much more than Mary, who is eight years younger than me, about the age I was when I was sent to live at the Institution. We hold on to each other’s skirts as we move about the house doing chores, until Addison bursts in from school—I feel the air rush in as the door’s flung wide and know it’s him, since Papa barely opens it, almost as if he doesn’t want to come inside. Addison takes us outside most days and plays at tumbling, then twirls me round and round until I fall down dizzy. He’s hung a swing from the branches of the oldest oak behind the house, and that is my favorite thing: to sit in the rope seat with my brother’s hands firm on my back and the sun and breeze light on my face. I try to decide if it’s even better than sitting with Doctor after supper, and I decide that it is—for now—because Doctor has stayed far across the sea for over a year, and so I must open the doors of my heart to others, especially my own dear family. Addison is almost as tall as Doctor, with a bit of soft beard. Only he and Mama have bothered to learn the finger spelling well. He will be going away to study next year, but when he comes back, I think it is possible that we might marry. I can tell he loves me very much, and in my hand, he always writes, “My Laura,” as if he has already claimed me for his own. Mama and Papa would be very happy, I think, though Mary would be jealous. And Doctor would probably be jealous too, even with his Julia. She is not half as celebrated as I am.
Mama also lets me knit and crochet without being watched. The only thing I’m prevented from going near is the spindle. She needn’t worry; I am terrified of the thing. That I remember: the trip, the fall, the needle piercing my one good eye. If it had got the left one, no matter, it was already dried out, but the right one, a year after the fever, still held some light, a prism of colors on a bright day. Doctor knows, but that secret I tell no one else. It is too much, too horrible; it sounds like a lie, a bad joke that only God could tell. I’ve never had pain like that, most of all because it meant the extinguishing of the last glimmer of light, the last blade of green, the last patch of blue.
It’s strange to think of how perfect I was born, how absolutely perfect with all my senses until two and a half. How I pray to remember those earliest years full of sights and sounds, tastes and smells! It must have been glorious. I must have been glorious. Doctor says some of those memories are locked inside my brain, and that’s why I learn so well, drawing on those fragments that are buried somewhere deep down inside. I wish I knew exactly where.
Tonight Asa is coming for dinner. Papa says he’s a half-wit, and it’s true he can hardly spell in my hand and understands only the simplest words, but he has always been so good to me. Papa has never one time even tried to spell into my hand, and when I reach for his, he jerks it away. It would be so good to talk to Papa because he has some learning and reads the Bible more than Mama is able; he is a farmer but also conducts much business in town. He has been voted a selectman, Mama says, and that’s very important and takes up his time. Papa asks me only one question on this visit, and I can tell Addison doesn’t want to translate it by the way he doodles in my hand. “Write,” I urge him, and so he does: “Papa wants to know why can’t you talk yet.”
That is an excellent question and one I mean to discuss with Doctor on his return. If he could teach me to read and write, I don’t see why he couldn’t teach me to talk. I can certainly make noise! If Asa can talk, then surely I should be able to master it. I don’t mean to look down on him; Asa was a better friend and playmate in my helpless years than even Addison. Maybe that’s because my brother usually had chores to do, but I don’t think that’s all it was. I think he saw
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