by Monroe, Max
“Yes,” I agree. “Answering phones and doing pretty much anything on the computer.”
“That too.”
“And handling my calendar.”
She groans. “God, that’s terrible.”
“And scheduling meetings and drawing up contracts,” I add with a wry grin.
“You can shut up already.”
Amused laughter escapes my lungs.
“Remind me, Luce, why did you agree to this job?”
“Because I like money,” she singsongs without a single ounce of shame.
“Because of money?” My voice lightens around the edges with amusement. “And all this time, I thought it was because you loved my art.”
“Stop being so annoying.”
I laugh. Full out, this time. No doubt, Lucy loves money. She also loves makeup, plastic surgery, and Louis Vuitton.
But somehow, some way, the fake-titted twenty-four-year-old has become the closest thing I’ve got to a friend these days.
“Bring the most sought-after painting into my office.”
“What?” she complains. “Right now?”
Still, she’s a huge pain in the ass.
“You heard me,” I call over my shoulder as I use the cane to guide myself through the doorway and around to the back of my desk.
Her groan of annoyance fades as she goes to do my bidding, and the sound of her heels on the tile amplifies as she makes her way back to me.
The wave of sound almost makes me feel like I can see her in motion.
“Here it is,” she says and pops her gum between her teeth. “It’s—”
“Don’t tell me the name of it,” I cut her off. “Describe it to me.”
“What?”
“Tell me what’s on the canvas.”
“Are you screwing me with me right now? Why can’t I just tell you the name of it?”
“Luce,” I demand. “Describe it.”
“Fine.” She huffs out a sigh. “Well…” She pauses, and her heels shuffle back and forth across the marble floor. “It’s of an old woman. She’s wearing pants and a shirt. She really needs to brush her hair, and she’s, like, leaning up against a wall or something,” she describes—poorly, mind you—in between obnoxious pops of her gum.
“That’s it?” I question. “That’s your description of it?”
“Yeah,” she retorts without an ounce of uncertainty. “And I would guarantee you now know which painting it is, too.”
“That’s only because I painted it,” I say through a raspy laugh. “Your description, if you can even call it that, provided absolutely zero visual. Hell, it was complete shit, Luce.”
“I didn’t realize I was supposed to write a poem about it,” she sasses me. “Is that all you needed?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “You’re free to go secretly watch Netflix behind your desk.”
And as the sound of her laughter and heels drifts away, I assume she goes to do just that.
Meanwhile, I groan and run a hand through my hair as I visualize the painting Lucy just verbally assaulted.
Insomnia is the title. With a muted palette of black and white and the occasional soft touch of colors, the canvas appears dreamlike. The female figure feels as if she’s fading away before your very eyes.
Her plump frame is hunched over, and her back rests against the stark wall behind her. The messy locks of her gray hair fall in front of her face and create a veil of mystery and secrets.
You can’t see her eyes. Or her cheeks. Or her lips. But you can feel her looking toward you.
I think about the day I created it, and it’s so…vividly foreign. My chest constricts around my heart at the loss.
Fuck, this is painful.
My fingers itch to paint, but my soul has no desire to create.
I miss my old life.
I miss losing myself inside my studio.
I miss the rush and comfort and adrenaline and solace that painting provided.
God, I miss being able to see.
Before I know it, I’m barking instructions at my assistant to call Dr. Smith and make an appointment for as soon as he can fit me in.
If I’ve been offered the chance to take my life back, I have to do it.
Dr. Smith is ever accommodating, and a few hours later, I find myself inside his personal office, waiting on him yet again.
The smell of mahogany wood assaults my senses, and when I run my finger across the top of the large wood desk in front of my chair, I understand why.
Leather. A gargantuan desk meant to portray power. And most likely containing a plethora of medical-related books, Dr. Smith’s office is both a comfort and a cliché.
“Good afternoon,” he says when he walks into the room. The door shuts with a quiet click after his words.
“Afternoon, Doc.”
“I’m glad you decided to come back in for another visit.” His soft footsteps move past me, and his chair squeaks as he settles into it behind his desk. “Alone today?”
Whether it was for moral support or the simple reality that navigating New York City with no eyes and a simple red-tipped cane isn’t the easiest of tasks, prior to this visit, I’ve always attended these appointments with Bram at my side.
But I needed to do this one on my own.
“Observant, Doc,” I tease, but I quickly drop the sarcasm and get to the reason why I’m here. “I’d like to apologize for my abrupt departure the other day.”
I’m pretty sure I knocked over no fewer than three pieces of furniture and a nurse on my way out of his office, but there’s no need to get lost in specifics.
“Not a problem,” he responds, his voice the auditory equivalent of a neutral, friendly smile. “I can imagine it was overwhelming.”
“Yeah,” I answer around a choked, sardonic laugh. “Quite overwhelming, in fact.”
Silence fills the room as I try to organize my scattered thoughts. Thankfully, the doc senses the need for quiet and stays patient through the lack of conversation.
God, where do I even begin…
“This surgery,” I say, and I clear the cobwebs from my throat. “It’s a bit of a risk, yeah?”
“Yes, Ansel. There are serious risks involved with it.” He pauses, and I tense as I wait to hear the rest of what he has to say—what I need to hear him say. “But there’s also a significant reward.”
With a deep, calming breath, I force myself to move past the risks and focus on the reward.
“Do you really think it’s possible?” I ask. “I mean, how confident are you? Do you really think you and your team can pull this off? Really restore my vision fully?”
“We’ve been successful in London, and we wouldn’t have been fighting for approval from the FDA and the medical board for the past eight months if we weren’t ready,” he answers, and I don’t miss the calm confidence in his voice. “We can do this surgery, Ansel.”
“Why me?” The question falls from my lips before I can stop it. “Surely, you have other patients. Ones who are also blind and good candidates…”
Ones who aren’t assholes.
“For one, your blindness wasn’t caused by disease or a genetic disorder. It was caused by trauma from an accident,” he explains. “We know going into it there’s no risk for disease to come back and ruin the healthy eyes.”
“Okay…” I pause and swallow hard against the anxiety creeping up my throat.
“And to be blunt about it—mostly, you’re financially stable enough to handle the cost of this surgery and the therapy that’s required after.”
His words startle a laugh from my lungs. “You mean to tell me I’m a candidate because I’m rich?”
“That’s not the only reason, but it’s definitely an important factor.”
“That’s a little fucked, isn’t it, Doc?” I retort.
The idea someone else deserving doesn’t get this opportunity just because they’re less financially stable coils anger around my nerves.
“I know it’s
not right, but that’s just the way it is right now,” he clarifies. “Insurance companies won’t cover something like this because it hasn’t been done before in this country. There are no statistics or prior cases for them to use as a guide. One day, though, they’ll have the statistics they need. But we have to start somewhere.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
“And if I say yes, if I agree to the surgery, when would it happen?”
“Well, we’ll have to do some extensive blood and genetic testing on you before we list you as an actual candidate for a donor, but I don’t anticipate that taking more than a few weeks.”
“And after that?”
“Then we wait for a donor.”
His words hit me straight in the fucking gut. “You mean…we wait for someone else to die.”
“Yes,” he answers frankly.
I think about the risks and the possibilities. I think about the seriousness of what I’m about to do.
I think about opening my eyes and seeing the world around me.
I think about my art, my painting, and getting my life back.
And I think about the fact that if I go through with this, I could be paving a path for other people who are just as desperate as me to see again.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Dr. Smith questions.
“I look forward to seeing you, Doc.”
Ansel
The TV blares from the living room like a fire alarm, yanking me out of a dream and straight into consciousness. It’s so loud, in fact, I can hear every word that comes out of the stupid newscaster’s mouth.
“Good morning, New York! This is Louis Fallon coming to you live from Times Square with the eight o’clock morning news. Stay tuned for an interview with the mayor about the impacts of yesterday’s storm, and the Flash Five-Day Forecast from our favorite meteorologist, Jenny Flash. It looks like the first official day of February is going to be a cold one, folks.”
Fucking Bram.
You’d think as a lead singer of one the country’s most popular up-and-coming rock bands, he’d be pulling late nights with groupies and shit and refusing to wake up before noon.
But, sadly for me, that’s not the case.
Up with the sun even if he goes down with it too, the bastard has made it a habit of arriving at my house far too early, like some sort of stupid, macho, I-don’t-need-sleep, show-off thing.
I can only assume it’s for the satisfaction of torturing me.
“Bram!” I shout from beneath my covers. “Why the fuck are you here?”
He ignores my question completely, not that I really expected it to be anything but rhetorical.
“Morning, sweetheart!” he singsongs back toward me. “Want some coffee?”
“Go home!”
“Want some breakfast?” he calls over the television. “I’ve got bagels!”
I swear, this might be my brother’s last day alive.
“Go away!”
Bram responds to my demand by turning up the volume on the TV to an ear-bursting decibel and tuning me out completely.
I pull the blankets over my face and try to remember why murdering him would be complicated with my physical limitations.
It’s hard to check yourself for blood residue when you can’t fucking see, and arson is probably a hobby better suited to someone who doesn’t stand a risk of stumbling into their own damn fire.
Sure, I’d probably be a shoo-in for the eye donation, thanks to our matching blood type and genealogy and all, but would I really be able to enjoy my sight fully from prison?
When I’m convinced I won’t shoot him, I pull myself out of bed.
“I hate you,” I yell to my brother as I carefully cross the threshold of my bedroom and feel my way into the bathroom.
“Love you too, bro,” he responds, his voice so fucking cheery, my brain starts campaigning for homicide again.
By the time I’m out of the bathroom and in the kitchen, Bram has finally turned the volume on the TV back down to a humane level. Still, I hold up my middle finger over my shoulder for good measure as I attempt to make some coffee.
He laughs, and the sound of it distracts me just enough.
“Ah, fuck!”
“I just made a fresh pot,” he updates about thirty seconds too late. The sting of the red-hot pot delivered the message itself.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I grumble sarcastically.
“In my defense, you didn’t give me a chance.”
Just before I find the exact right words to tell him precisely where he can stick his defense, a loud, undeniable ring echoes from the pocket of my pajama pants. From the phone I’ve been carrying on my person constantly since I left Dr. Smith’s office two months ago. Sixty days of waiting for a donor to become available. Sixty days of wondering if it would ever happen.
I freeze and inhale a sharp breath into my lungs.
“Is that…is that the call?” Bram asks, the teasing tone of our sibling banter officially gone.
“Yeah,” I manage to whisper through the tightness in my throat. “I think it is.”
“Well, what in the fuck are you waiting for?” he exclaims. “Answer it!”
With shaky hands, I pull the phone out of my pocket by the fourth ring and answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Ansel.” Dr. Smith’s voice fills my ears. “It’s time.”
“Seriously, Doc?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Our surgery window is now less than forty-eight hours.”
“Okay…so what do I do now?”
“Head to the hospital.”
“This is really happening?”
“This is really happening, Ansel,” he says, and I don’t miss the smile in his voice. “It’s time to make you see again.”
High heels click around my pre-op room in quick succession, and Bram’s soft but annoyed chuckle grates on my already shredded nerves.
“Mom, everything is going to be fine,” Bram reassures her.
Our stepdad Neil is quick to jump onto the comfort train. “It’s all going to be okay, honey.”
Mom sighs but offers up no response, continuing her pacing with renewed fervor.
For the past thirty minutes, Bram and my stepdad have tried to calm her down, but it’s no use. She’s a fucking mess.
Click-clack, click-clack. It’s all I can hear.
If I could come up with a way to politely tell them all to fuck off without sending my mom into a spiral of hysteria, I would.
Instead, I try to be patient. I’m not exactly the king of cool sitting in this hospital bed with an IV in my arm and an itchy patient gown irritating my skin.
“Ansel,” Dr. Smith’s friendly voice bellows into the room.
Ah, fuck. Here goes everything…
“You ready to do this?” he asks and, instantly, I take a deep inhale of fresh oxygen into my tight lungs.
God, am I ready?
I’m ready to see again, I know that much.
Am I nervous as fuck? Of course. Scared shitless, even.
But it’s time to get my life back.
“Yep,” I eventually respond. “I think so.”
“Hey, good to see you, Doc,” Bram greets, and Neil and my mom follow suit.
Everyone exchanges their hellos and all three men offer more encouraging words for my worried mom, and then the sound of running water takes over. I presume it’s the good doctor washing his hands.
“Mom, how about we go grab some coffee while Dr. Smith gets Ansel ready for surgery?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Neil agrees, but my mother isn’t convinced.
“I need to make sure I see Ansel before they take him back.” Her voice quivers with emotion. “I just need to see him one last time before—”
“Mom,” I interject. “I’m sure Dr. Smith will let you guys see me before they take me to the OR.”
Though, it wouldn’t be so horrible for me if he didn’t.
/> “Don’t worry, Della,” the doc chimes in. “I’ll make sure you see him before we take him back.”
With a little more patient coaxing, my brother and stepdad manage to scoot my mom out of my room, and I’m left alone with Dr. Smith.
He fiddles in front of my face, pulling open the lids of each eye as he examines them.
“Making sure I really can’t see before you give me the eyes?” I tease nervously. “The paperwork for that kind of fuckup is probably never-ending.”
“It would be,” he says, humoring me. “And I hate paperwork. Consequently, you can be sure I’ll do my absolute best to make sure this goes off without a hitch, okay?”
He’s coddling me, playing into my jokes to soothe my nerves, but for the first time since I lost my sight, I’m happy to have someone’s pity.
I’m anxious and unsettled, and I’m not sure I’d be able to find my own ass at this point if someone asked me to.
“Appreciate it. I’d really hate to have to haunt you.” An amused chuckle falls from his lips, and I take a deep, audible breath while he’s providing the sound bite to cover it.
“I’ll certainly miss your supply of sarcasm.”
“Aw. Are you breaking up with me, Doc?”
“Yes,” he says. “Obviously, we’ll have several follow-up appointments after the surgery to monitor your progress, but I don’t envision anything but a successful transplant. I’ll be nothing but a bad ex-girlfriend to you soon enough.”
A successful transplant.
God. There’s really a chance. A chance I’ll be free of the stigma of being the blind painter who can’t paint.
I’ll simply be Ansel again.
It’s hard to feel deserving of something as monumental as this, but I’m going to do my best to make the most of it. Starting with acknowledging that in order for me to be where I am today—being given this gift—someone else had to lose all of their tomorrows.
“Dr. Smith?”
“Yes, Ansel?”
“Can I have a minute before you bring my family back in?”
“Ansel, I know I can’t promise you a perfect outcome, but I assure you we wouldn’t be attempting this today if I weren’t confident—”
“It’s not that,” I interrupt and swallow thickly. “I’d just like to write a letter to the donor’s family.”
