realize he was the doctor who used to see me when I lived with Moira and Julian.
He puts his hand on the top of my head and asks me, in a quiet voice, to wait outside
with the nurse, and then I hear shouting from behind the door. Miranda emerges, red-faced
and weeping, and takes me into her arms. She carries me back into the room and pleads
with him that she is not hurting me, and would he please look at my eyes. She puts
me on the examining table and bangs her fist on the counter. I reach for her hand
and tell her not to cry. Something in the doctor’s face softens and he obliges. He
shines a red light into my eyeball and asks me to follow the light as he moves it
around. It is an easy game, and I leave the office bursting with pride because the
doctor makes such a fuss about how well I have done, all things considered.
“All things considered, my dear,” he says and waves as we walk out the door. On the
bus ride home Miranda explains to me what he means. I am going blind in one eye.
Late that night, Miranda crawls into my bed and tells me that people with a sense
disability sometimes make up for it by having another heightened sense.
“I know a blind woman,” she says, slipping her hand under my pajama top and rubbing
my back, “who can play anything on the accordion or the piano. Anything at all.” She
speaks so quietly I can hardly hear her. Lydia-Rose is breathing heavily in her bed
and Winkie is waiting expectantly at the end of mine, waiting for Miranda to leave
so she can resume her place on top of my feet.
I ask Miranda if this blind person is some kind of prodigy and Miranda says no, not
really, but that she really is a good player. I tell her that I don’t think I have any such heightened sense
to make up for my bad eye, though I’ve noticed that my nose is as strong as a bloodhound’s.
But no one’s going to celebrate that: the little blind girl with a snout so keen she
can tell you what you had for breakfast. Big deal.
I’m blind because of amblyopia. Lazy eye. My right eye got so good atseeing, it told the other to give up. It takes too much energy to look after a sick
thing. The world is flatter; I see in a dimension just under third. Rembrandt had
this problem and some scientists think he was a better painter because of it. I think
it makes me trip. Where’s that stair? How far from my foot? I can’t tell. It’s all
by feel. It’s not my mother’s fault. I wasn’t born blind. Amblyopia comes later, when
one eye fails to thrive. I could have worn an eye patch if someone had noticed this
earlier, but now, well, why kick a dead horse. In the doctor’s office, the eye chart
starts with E. For eye, for easy. Everyone can see the E.
While Miranda is at work, Lydia-Rose and I go to Blue Jay School. It is in a nicer
neighborhood than the one we live in, in an old white character house, and is both
a day care and a kindergarten. Blue Jay is run by a woman named Krystal, who has long
wild hair and drives a black Pontiac Trans-Am with a yellow firebird on the hood.
I decide she is my idol and stare at her whenever possible. Her jeans are high-waisted
and very tight, and she looks like a rock star, skinny arms in a muscle shirt, big
hair-sprayed bangs, and gorgeous almond eyes. “Is she yours, too?” she says to Miranda,
her eyes on me, when Miranda drops us off the first day.
“Sure is.”
“What a sweet little girl,” Krystal says. “And such a pretty girl, too.”
“Oh,” I say, looking down.
Miranda leaves and we are told to sit cross-legged with the other children. Krystal
takes a piece of felt and cuts out little animals and tells us stories using these
makeshift puppets. She serves us pieces of oranges and apples, cut into what she calls
“boats.” We are allowed four each, but I sneak extras into my pockets and eat them
in the bathroom, my mouth and hands sticky with juice for the rest of the day.
At
He puts his hand on the top of my head and asks me, in a quiet voice, to wait outside
with the nurse, and then I hear shouting from behind the door. Miranda emerges, red-faced
and weeping, and takes me into her arms. She carries me back into the room and pleads
with him that she is not hurting me, and would he please look at my eyes. She puts
me on the examining table and bangs her fist on the counter. I reach for her hand
and tell her not to cry. Something in the doctor’s face softens and he obliges. He
shines a red light into my eyeball and asks me to follow the light as he moves it
around. It is an easy game, and I leave the office bursting with pride because the
doctor makes such a fuss about how well I have done, all things considered.
“All things considered, my dear,” he says and waves as we walk out the door. On the
bus ride home Miranda explains to me what he means. I am going blind in one eye.
Late that night, Miranda crawls into my bed and tells me that people with a sense
disability sometimes make up for it by having another heightened sense.
“I know a blind woman,” she says, slipping her hand under my pajama top and rubbing
my back, “who can play anything on the accordion or the piano. Anything at all.” She
speaks so quietly I can hardly hear her. Lydia-Rose is breathing heavily in her bed
and Winkie is waiting expectantly at the end of mine, waiting for Miranda to leave
so she can resume her place on top of my feet.
I ask Miranda if this blind person is some kind of prodigy and Miranda says no, not
really, but that she really is a good player. I tell her that I don’t think I have any such heightened sense
to make up for my bad eye, though I’ve noticed that my nose is as strong as a bloodhound’s.
But no one’s going to celebrate that: the little blind girl with a snout so keen she
can tell you what you had for breakfast. Big deal.
I’m blind because of amblyopia. Lazy eye. My right eye got so good atseeing, it told the other to give up. It takes too much energy to look after a sick
thing. The world is flatter; I see in a dimension just under third. Rembrandt had
this problem and some scientists think he was a better painter because of it. I think
it makes me trip. Where’s that stair? How far from my foot? I can’t tell. It’s all
by feel. It’s not my mother’s fault. I wasn’t born blind. Amblyopia comes later, when
one eye fails to thrive. I could have worn an eye patch if someone had noticed this
earlier, but now, well, why kick a dead horse. In the doctor’s office, the eye chart
starts with E. For eye, for easy. Everyone can see the E.
While Miranda is at work, Lydia-Rose and I go to Blue Jay School. It is in a nicer
neighborhood than the one we live in, in an old white character house, and is both
a day care and a kindergarten. Blue Jay is run by a woman named Krystal, who has long
wild hair and drives a black Pontiac Trans-Am with a yellow firebird on the hood.
I decide she is my idol and stare at her whenever possible. Her jeans are high-waisted
and very tight, and she looks like a rock star, skinny arms in a muscle shirt, big
hair-sprayed bangs, and gorgeous almond eyes. “Is she yours, too?” she says to Miranda,
her eyes on me, when Miranda drops us off the first day.
“Sure is.”
“What a sweet little girl,” Krystal says. “And such a pretty girl, too.”
“Oh,” I say, looking down.
Miranda leaves and we are told to sit cross-legged with the other children. Krystal
takes a piece of felt and cuts out little animals and tells us stories using these
makeshift puppets. She serves us pieces of oranges and apples, cut into what she calls
“boats.” We are allowed four each, but I sneak extras into my pockets and eat them
in the bathroom, my mouth and hands sticky with juice for the rest of the day.
At
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