I hear Mom’s heels approaching. She always wears heels when we go to the doctor. I snap my personal organizer shut and hide it under the chair.
“Are you ready? Let’s go.”
I’ll think about it later, that thing Estella said. She says so many things that I’ll be in the dark before I understand what any of them mean.
* * *
Doctor Olga has green eyes, I think.
She sits at her desk and gives me a pencil with a dinosaur eraser on the end.
“Don’t you have one with Egyptian gods?” I ask. Mom, sitting beside me, elbows me. Dad is here too, with a smart jacket over his coveralls. He’s on his lunch hour, but today he has to be with us at the hospital because the results of my tests have arrived. The doctor says she’ll get some pencils with Egyptian gods, in case other children ask for them. Then she gets serious.
“I’m sorry to say that things are not great. Mafalda’s retina has thinned very quickly over the past few months. The tissue won’t be able to hold out much longer. The macula—”
“That’s the bit in the middle of my eye,” I interject, to help Mom and Dad understand. “We studied it at school.”
“The very one. Mafalda’s macula has been severely compromised, as the test results show.”
I’m not sure I understand what she’s saying, although it occurs to me that maybe I could have tried harder in the tests. I didn’t stand completely still when they put the wires in my eyes, and I even nodded off during the red dot test! I’m about to say this to the doctor, but she keeps speaking, in tones so hushed I have to point my ear to her mouth to hear.
“The speed with which the disease has advanced doesn’t leave us much hope. Optimistically . . .”
“How long?” Dad asks, his voice even quieter, something that never happens.
“Optimistically . . . six months.”
Mom and Dad crumple in their seats like burst balloons. I, on the other hand, lean toward the desk and ask the doctor, “Six months before what?”
She looks at me through glasses with thin lenses. “Before you can’t see anymore, Mafalda.”
“So, I’m really going to end up in the dark?”
She hesitates. “I’m sorry” is all she says.
My glasses steam up.
Some kinds of news should only be given if you have a cat on hand to hug.
5
Having a Best Friend
When we get home from the doctor’s, I pick up Ottimo Turcaret and use him as a blanket for my dream nap.
I had my first dream nap last year, when my cousin Andrea started going out with Ravina. Ravina taught me something called meditation, which means a way to have lovely dreams even if you’re sad or angry or not very sleepy. You have to be as quiet as a mouse and imagine you’re inside your body, which is not that nice at first, but you get used to it and after a bit you stop thinking about the blood pulsing in your veins and to your brain, and you find yourself thinking about nothing at all. Well, that’s what happens to me. Noises around the house caress my face in waves, like bells chiming in the distance, and I end up falling asleep. That’s when the dreams come.
Today’s nap brings a lovely dream.
I dream that I climb up the cherry tree at school, to the highest branch, up, up, at the top. I can see the whole town—no, the whole world—from up here. I open my arms and start to fly. I fly up to the roof of the school, then higher still. In the end I fly away. To the moon and the North Star, although I can see all the stars clearly too. I play soccer with Grandma, who is in the goal.
Chiara comes around to play, but not soccer. Mom called her, although I’d rather be by myself. I’m learning to read with braille dots, and the book Estella gave me to practice with is really good and also a bit strange. It’s called The Little Prince, and she bought it online. Chiara’s my friend from nursery school, and I can’t just pretend she’s not here. To be honest, she hasn’t been over to play at my house, or invited me to hers, for ages. The last time was her birthday in June, and we both went away on vacation after that.
I put the dot alphabet away when she arrives. She sees it all the same and immediately asks me what I’m doing. “Nothing,” I reply. I don’t know why, but I’d rather she didn’t see me reading with braille dots. I feel stupid. I suggest we go into my bedroom to play restaurants because I know she likes to cook and always watches MasterChef.
We set a table with plastic plates and cutlery. I can no longer find the fake glasses, so we fill up two real glasses with water. Chiara plays the waiter and chef; I’m the customer. I pretend to look at the menu and pick all the complicated dishes. Chiara has fun writing them on her hand and repeating them (incorrectly) to the chef in the kitchen, which is my open wardrobe, and then she pretends to start cooking.
The restaurant game’s okay, though I’m not crazy about it, so after we’ve done the same scene three times, I suggest we play husband-and-wife-who-go-out-for-dinner, to mix it up a bit. We say goodbye to Ottimo Turcaret, who’s staying at home with the babysitter—that’s my doll Maggie—and sit down at our table. Right away we both have the same idea (it’s like that with best friends) to experiment with the ingredients in our drinks. We run around the house looking for disgusting things to put in them: earth from the plant pots, salt and pepper, a spray of Dad’s aftershave, even a bit of dried glue stick that looks like snail slime. We mix them together with a fork and go back to our table.
“I propose a toast,” Chiara says. She raises her glass full of yellowy gunk and pretends to drink. I reach out a hand to pick up mine—it’s right there on my left, I think. But my eye goes dark and instead of picking it up, my fingers bump the glass and knock it over onto Chiara, who starts screaming because the disgusting gunk is all over her leggings. The dark fills with glimmering spiders. I can’t see a thing; I only hear the glass roll away, then the sound of it breaking by my feet. Mom rushes in wanting to know what’s happened.
Chiara demands to go home even though it’s not four o’clock yet. I hear her mom, who came in for a coffee, speak to her in the hallway. The black blob in my left eye is gradually fading, but Chiara and her mom are already by the front door, car keys in hand.
“See you at school,” I say, sticking my head out into the hallway. Chiara just replies with a short “bye” and leaves. Mom shuts the door and walks over to me, a wet cloth in her hand. “Do you want a sandwich with chocolate spread?”
Grandma would have made it with jam.
I go back into my room and pick up The Little Prince again. I pretend to read. Mom goes slowly back into the kitchen, and I pull out my personal organizer. I open it at the second page, the supersecret one, and with a black pen cross out the words, Having a best friend.
6
He Wears Them Too
I like the Little Prince, but my most favorite character of all is Cosimo. It’s Dad’s favorite book because Grandma gave it to him as a present when he was in secondary school. She said she knew the author, that they were friends, that she even sort of loved him. I don’t really understand this. The way I see it, you either like a person and you are friends, or you love them. They are two different things and can’t be sort of the same thing. Grandma used to say that friends are for reading books with, like Cosimo and the brigand, so I’m sure Cosimo and I could have read lots of books together, if we’d met.
Today is All Saints’ Day, a public holiday here in Italy, so there’s no school.
I go with Mom and Dad to the graveyard to visit Grandma and other dead relatives I have never met.
I used to like the graveyard because it’s paved with black and white stones, like a chessboard, and I liked jumping on them. Last year, though, I tripped a lady by mistake and was told to stop. Now I get really bored at the graveyard. Grandma’s headstone is ugly—it has an angel with a silly face on it. Grandma didn’t believe in angels, although she always said I was her angel.
A group of children are playing soccer in the square outside the gravey
ard today. A few are in my class. There’s also an older boy who is always causing trouble and getting into fights at school. I know it’s him by the blue jacket with his name written across the back. Filippo. He’s the only one with a jacket like that. Who knows where he got it.
Chiara is there too, sitting on a wall in the parking garage. I ask Mom if I can hang out with them while she and Dad finish their tour of the dead relatives.
“Okay, but don’t wander off.”
Mom says this all the time. Where does she think I’d go?
I go over to Chiara, who’s chatting with another girl from our grade. They say hello but go straight back to their conversation. It doesn’t matter; I’m more interested in playing soccer. I trained for a year with a mixed team in third grade. I was goalie. I stopped when a ball broke my glasses, but I’d still like to play in secret.
The boys are picking teams. I can’t see how many of them there are because it’s a bit hazy from a distance, but I can hear Marco, one of my classmates, saying he has to go. His parents have finished at the graveyard. I can always hear all the words, no matter how far away I am, and all the sounds. When an ambulance is coming, I hear it before everyone else—at school, at home, everywhere I go. Doctor Olga says my hearing has become more developed because my sight is so poor. This doesn’t make me feel lucky, though.
If Marco goes home, I should be able to play. I go over to the group and ask if I can take his place.
Filippo peers over his glasses at me. He wears them too, although they are less noticeable because they’re clear.
“No chance. You’re a girl. You don’t know how to play.”
“That’s not true. I played goalie for a year. Ask him.”
I point to another boy in my class, Kevin. The others turn to look at him.
“Yes, she did; she was on my team. But I’m not sure if . . .”
I think he’s afraid I might mess up and let a goal in.
“I can dive, too,” I tell Filippo. “Put me in the goal.”
He gives me a doubtful look. The others say nothing, except for one boy who complains that I’m a girl.
“If you don’t want to play, go home,” Filippo says, pushing him away. The boy who complained is angry but decides to hang around. While they’re deciding what to do, I head to the goal, which is a parking space marked with two jackets in bundles on the ground. The rest of them finish picking teams, and the game starts.
We are the better team. Our players are always clustered around the opposing team’s goal trying to score. All of a sudden, someone from the other team gets the ball and heads toward me, his teammates yelling at him. To be safe, I come forward. It’s not a very good kick, but I almost miss the ball because I don’t see it right away. They’ll kill me if it goes in the goal. Luckily, I manage to grab it and quickly kick it away.
Filippo cheats. He kicks and elbows people and never lets his teammates have the ball. I can tell because wherever he goes, all the players around him either end up on the ground or yelling “Foul!” at him. One of my teammates goes straight for him, and it gets a bit confusing. After a bit I realize Kevin has scored because our team is shouting and running all over the field with their shirts on their heads like real soccer players. I do it too, with my sweater. It gets tangled in my glasses, but who cares.
Play resumes right away, and I’ve hardly had time to put my sweater back on over my shirt when Filippo comes dribbling down the field, the ball glued to his feet. It’s just me between him and the goal. I’m really sweating, and my glasses start to steam up. I’m not crying, it’s the heat, but I can’t make out what’s happening. I get ready to block. For a second I catch sight of Filippo’s leg, pulling back to kick the ball while still running, and then something whacks my left shoulder and I hear the ball bounce near me. I try not to think about the pain and to catch the ball in my hands, but all I can see is something white floating between me and the goal. I touch it. The other team shrieks, “Own goal!” and runs about wildly, just like we did.
My teammates come over. They’re furious, they’re talking over each other, but I . . . I really didn’t see the ball coming.
Maybe I should stop playing.
I head over to my parents’ car, if it’s where I think it is. No one tries to stop me. I don’t even bother to say goodbye to Chiara. Behind me I hear Filippo call out to the others, “Come on, let’s start again. Who wants to be in the goal?”
* * *
Cosimo, why won’t you help me?
You liked playing with the children in Ombrosa, even though they were actually petty thieves and your job was to be the lookout from the branches of the tree. See, everyone has a friend to help them. I only have Ottimo Turcaret, who can’t speak and is probably really bad at soccer. It’s only fair you help me because you have the child thieves, Viola, and a brother. I don’t have any of these, and if you don’t help me, I’ll make your brother disappear from the book with the power of my mind and be born to me instead, although I’m not sure how to make a brother be born.
Come to think of it, are you there with my grandma? Does she live in the tree with the giant after they cut down her cherry tree? That would mean you have a grandma to spend time with now too. Well, I think you should ask her to send me a signal, a thump, anything. A special anything. If you don’t, I won’t believe she’s there or that you’re really trying to help me.
Cosimo, promise you’ll help me?
7
Playing Soccer with the Boys
What’s wrong with you?”
Estella looks out at me from the janitor’s office, the one in the entrance hall, and for a second her eyes scare me again.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You have the face of someone whose cat just die.”
“Ottimo Turcaret is just fine, thanks.”
Estella is not on good terms with Ottimo Turcaret because she’s convinced he does his business in the organic vegetable garden when he waits for me after school. She might not like my cat, but she always notices when I’m upset. She has a third eye too.
“So, what happened?”
I go into the room, sit on the swivel chair, and spin myself around with my feet.
“Nothing. Just that I keep messing things up.”
Estella tells me to get off the chair. She sits down on it and rummages around in the bottom of a drawer, hunting for the bags of extra-crunchy chips she hides in her desk. She offers me a packet and we munch on them together.
“You are messy, Mafalda, that’s just who you are.”
I stop eating for a second and look at my feet. “No, it’s not that. It’s because I can’t see.”
She holds up a chip in front of me. “How many can you see?”
“One.”
“There, you can see.”
I throw away my bag into the trash can under the desk as I struggle to hold back the tears.
“Who cares how many chips I can see? I want to play soccer. I want to be able to see the ball when it comes.”
“And I want to go to the moon tomorrow morning.”
I could punch her on the nose when she does that. But then she smiles with those bright pink lips, and I feel like laughing too, as I imagine her not coming to school tomorrow and ringing me to say she’s on the moon.
She also stops eating. “Mafalda, it’s not important to be able to see everything, you know?”
“Of course it is! I need to see the ball if I’m going to play soccer.”
“Is playing soccer really that important to you?”
“Yes, it really, really is.”
“So much you’d die if you didn’t play?”
I think for a moment. “Hmm, maybe not that much.”
“It’s not essential then.”
Estella throws away the empty chip packet.
“What do you mean by ‘essential’?”
She wipes her hands on a paper towel, then picks up her bag and pulls out a small book. She flicks through it and signals to m
e to come over the way she always does, with a quick opening and closing of her hand. I stand behind her and try to read it, but I can’t. The words in books are too small for me, like tiny black ants sitting on the page saying nothing.
“What is it?”
Estella reads aloud.
“ ‘Goodbye,’ said the fox. ‘And now here is my secret, a very simple secret. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.’ ”
“It’s The Little Prince!”
“Correct. You didn’t read the words, but you know what book it is.”
“But what’s that got to do with me? I don’t know what essential is.”
“Do you remember what was essential for the Little Prince?”
“His rose, I think.”
“Could he see it?”
“No, because he’d left it behind on his planet.”
We sit in silence for a bit. I wait for her to explain it better. She doesn’t. She stands up, puts her hands on my shoulders, and says, “Find your rose, Mafalda. The thing that’s essential to you. Something you can do, even without your eyes.”
She spins me round till I’m facing the hallway and pushes me out. Then shuts the door. From behind the door, I hear her start to sing a song by Marco Mengoni. It’s a sign for me to go, and I realize I’m super late for my next class. Thanks, Estella.
I’m nearly at the end of the corridor when I hear the door open and she yells, “Never throw food in the trash! Next time you pick it out and take home to ugly cat!”
* * *
Something I don’t need my eyes to do. I’m lying on the bed with my notebook open on my knees, Ottimo Turcaret warming my feet.
It’s not easy. You can’t do much without eyes. It’s not fair. Why did Stargardt mist have to happen to me?
I draw a line through Playing soccer, toss the notebook under the bed, and switch off the light.
The cherry tree had chestnut hair with yellow streaks like Mom this morning.
The Distance between Me and the Cherry Tree Page 2
