The One Thing

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  Maybe I wasn’t.

  I said, sort of loudly, “Why do I even have to think about college right now?”

  My mother sighed tiredly, as though I was intentionally being difficult. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I’ve been blind for seven months and I still basically suck at it,” I said. “What if I never really learn how to get around on my own? What if I never understand how to make it across a school campus without breaking my face? What if I can’t go to college?”

  “Maggie, we understand it’s been a big adjustment for you,” my mother said, her words forced and stilted, like she’d been practicing them. “But once you try, once you get out there, I’m sure you’ll be surprised by how much you can do.” This little spiel of hers was over the top, and frankly, over the top wasn’t Mom’s style. She sounded an awful lot like she was quoting some book like How to Help Your Child Adjust to Blindness. “Maybe you should schedule a couple extra sessions with Hilda?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No?”

  “No. I spend plenty of time with Hilda.”

  Her voice slightly wooden now, she said, “Well, your counselor at Merchant’s said that some extra O and M sessions might help you.”

  Twisting my napkin in my hands, I said, “My counselor has spoken to me exactly twice, and one of those times it was to ream me out for the prank. He’s hardly an authority on what I need.”

  She cleared her throat. “Well, maybe you’d benefit from talking to him a little. He could probably help you...you know, sort out some of your issues.”

  I felt my face flush. She somehow managed to forget that she was one of my biggest issues, that she was the fault line running underneath every small, uncertain step I’d made over the past several months. “I’m fine,” I said, effectively ending the conversation.

  By eight forty-five, all I wanted was to go to bed. Just curl up in a little knot under my covers and forget about this entire evening. Somewhere in a dark, dusty corner of my chest was the excitement I’d once had about applying to UConn. It crushed my lungs like the weight of a planet. I leaned back and tried to inhale, tried to force my lungs to expand, and in doing so I saw a flash of something green in the vicinity of the window beside our table. For a moment I thought I’d imagined it, just some strange hallucination of a troubled mind. Still, the shock must have shown in my face, because Dad said, “Mags? What’s wrong?”

  Before I could answer, an ancient, stooped man wearing a jade-colored polo shirt shuffled into the restaurant, lighting up a small, muddy radius around him.

  There was a time when I’d anxiously awaited this moment. A time when I’d peeked around doorways and held my breath when I’d walked into stores, hoping I’d see something—anything—besides Ben. But now that it was actually happening, it made me desperately anxious.

  The man looked normal enough. Sure, he was old, and yes, he moved wearily. But he looked like somebody’s great-grandfather—the sort of guy who listens to AM channels and refuses to use a microwave, the sort of guy whose smile lines never actually smoothed out flat.

  I collapsed back in my seat and covered my mouth. I have this bad habit of laughing when I get overwhelmed, which is unfortunate because laughter isn’t appropriate in certain circumstances. Like during my fifth-grade school play, for instance, when I’d momentarily forgotten my lines. And just before I’d walked into the courtroom during sentencing for the school prank.

  So now, as I looked at this man—at the sag in his skin and the gloomy light that cloaked his body—I started to laugh. There was something about him that resurrected the same unease I’d been feeling off and on for weeks now. And it terrified me.

  Several months ago, my parents sent me to a shrink, probably because I was newly blind, easily agitated, belligerent to my teachers, and fantastically sarcastic. Oh, and also because I was suddenly jolting them awake at all hours of the night with my newest and grandest hobby—chronic sleepwalking.

  The shrink’s name was either Dr. Samuels or Dr. Smithton. It was some time ago, so I’m not exactly sure. What I do remember is slouching in her squeaky leather chair as she cheerfully grilled me about my school and my friends and my nonexistent eyesight until my butt went numb. In the end, she declared that I was a normal teenager adjusting to new and difficult circumstances. And the sleepwalking thing? Just a temporary side effect.

  For the next month, though, my temporary side effect led me to wake up in the bathtub, on the stairs, and in the hall closet. I argued with lamps and raked invisible leaves off the living-room carpet. But it wasn’t until a couple months ago that I actually wandered out of the house in the middle of the night. I awoke to find myself sitting in an unknown location on an unknown slab of concrete, wearing exactly what I’d gone to sleep in—a T-shirt and my very worst underwear—with no cell phone, no cane, no shoes, and no clue what to do.

  Did I yell for help? No. Wait for assistance? Not exactly. What I did was listen to my inner jackass, who told me to stand up and start walking. So I stepped into the street, in front of a car, and immediately got hit. In the end, (a) I sprained my wrist, and (b) I vowed to never again set foot in the Outside World by myself, and (c) I stopped walking in my sleep, and (d) I realized that I was shitty at decision-making because I rarely thought things through.

  So I was lying in bed the next morning, wondering what to do, which made me think about getting hit by a car, which made me think about the school prank, which made me think about the mess I’d created with Sophie, which made me think about what I’d said to Ben, which made me think about selling myself out to Mason, which made me come to the conclusion that I was probably one lousy decision away from having the National Society of Crappy Decision Makers put up a monument in my name.

  Fact was, I’d waited and waited for something to happen with my eyesight—to see something besides Ben Milton and the landscape around him—and now that it had? Well. I had no idea what to do about it, other than tell Ben.

  But Ben would not pick up the phone. Like, ever. None of the Miltons would, for that matter. And I’d left so many messages on their landline that their voice mail was overflowing, screaming digital profanities in my ear every time my phone connected with theirs.

  Maybe they’re just busy, I reasoned, trying not to get overly paranoid. They couldn’t all hate me. Not all of them. Not Mrs. Milton.

  But three days became four, and four became six, and then all of a sudden a week had passed, and I wondered if maybe all of them did hate me.

  “Fine,” I muttered out loud, blinking back tears and chucking my phone on my bed. Fine.

  I got to work researching. Holing up in my room on the computer, tabbing through articles of inexplicable science. Minds capable of incredible feats. People who achieve incomprehensible miracles. Brains that stretch beyond gray matter. But after hours of searching, I came up empty. I learned of a man who could lift a car on his own. A woman who was able to digest metal. Some guy who had the ability to move objects with his mind.

  Even in a world of anomalies, I was an anomaly.

  It struck me as kind of unfair that Clarissa had the type of O and M specialist who took her for picnic sessions at Alexander Park while I was stuck with Hilda, who, the very next day, dumped me in the middle of town and told me to cross Seventh Street on my own.

  “Well, first off,” I said to Hilda, “I’d have to find Bush Street in order to even get to Seventh Street. Which I can’t do.” I was leaning against a parking meter, arms crossed, laying out all the reasons why she couldn’t trust me to navigate on my own.

  “Pfffft,” Hilda said. “You have learned quickly, even though you don’t wish to admit it.” She waited a beat for me to respond to that particular morsel of bullshit. I did not. “Now: you try,” she prompted.

  “I’ll get lost if I try,” I pointed out as the wind changed direction. I caught a strong whiff of baked goods from Big Dough.

  “You will not get lost. It is only a fiv
e-minute walk. Worst-case scenario, you will explore.”

  Why is it that whenever someone gives you a worst-case scenario, it really isn’t the worst-case scenario? I remembered exactly what it had felt like to get hit by a car, and I wasn’t keen on duplicating the experience. “I will explore my own death.”

  She snorted. “You are dramatic. It’s a beautiful day, and plenty of others are outside enjoying the weather. You won’t be alone.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I muttered. “Nothing alleviates the fear of doing something poorly like having a big audience.”

  No reply.

  “Hilda?”

  No reply.

  She’d already gone.

  What the hell?

  For a second, I almost burst out laughing, but only to prevent myself from yelling out something wildly inappropriate. Because really. What was Hilda thinking? I drummed my fingers on the parking meter. I felt marginally manic, edgy, and jumpy, ready to scratch my way right out of my skin.

  I threw both hands up in the air. Fine. Fine.

  Spinning on one heel, I strode away. Only toward Big Dough instead. Judging by the potent, familiar smell of baked goods, the place had to be close.

  Given that I’d probably paid attention to only a quarter of what Hilda had told me over the past several weeks, I didn’t have a solid plan for navigating down the sidewalk. I just walked. Cane tapping, feet slapping defiantly on the pavement, nose pointed toward the distinguishable scent of Big Dough, I just walked.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  I traveled in quick spurts and jerky, clumsy stops, my free hand running down the bumpy brick-faced storefronts as I searched for the bakery’s entrance. Since I’d spent half a lifetime in Big Dough, you’d think I’d know the storefront when my hand passed across it. But I did not. I opened three glass doors—barreled into three random businesses—before I jerked open the fourth door, where a familiar bell signaled my entrance.

  Big Dough: shining in front of me like a beacon of complex carbohydrates.

  I stood there, half in and half out of the bakery, completely shocked. I’d actually made it here without killing myself.

  I could hear my pulse hammering in my ears, and I could hear the traffic on the street behind me, and I could hear the radio crackling overhead, and, if I really listened, I could hear congratulatory, enthusiastic applause bursting from a sudden standing ovation in my brain.

  Which made this either the corniest or the grandest moment of my training thus far.

  I took one step inside and inhaled. Sure, I’d spent hours upon hours inside this campy, sixties-style bakery, but I hadn’t put as much as a toe in here since I lost my sight.

  It smelled the same, only different.

  The strongest of scents—the sharp peppermint and the caramel, the bitter dark chocolate, the mocha, the cinnamon—those were still there. But now I could catch subtle hints of butter and brown sugar and cream. Of yeast and flour, and—oh God—mellow, smooth white chocolate.

  Probably I looked like I was missing a few dials and knobs, standing there with my nose pointed up to the ceiling, a ridiculous smile on my face, but I didn’t even care. So I took my time, savoring every victorious step as I made my way to the front counter.

  The owner of the place, Sal, was an ancient cornball of a guy who had a beaky nose, a long gray braid that he’d always worn in a hairnet, and the very interesting habit of whistling every time he said his Ss. “Snickerdoodles are on sale,” he told me from behind the counter—probably hailing a taxi, a couple of dogs, and a waitress.

  “Great.” I almost laughed instead of speaking, and I ordered a snickerdoodle, a double chocolate crinkle, and an oatmeal raisin.

  “And a surprise,” Sal added.

  I smiled. “And a surprise.” Sal always gave out a bonus cookie with every order—sort of a taste test for whatever new creation he’d recently conceived.

  I found a seat and rustled through the bag for a cookie. Sliding it out, I held it to my nose. Holy mother of God: double chocolate crinkle. I took a bite, chewing leisurely and nodding along to an old Drift District song, its descending bass line winding its way out of the overhead speakers. I’d probably eaten only half the cookie when the door dinged. To my surprise, and in a giant flump, someone sat directly beside me. And then blew an unpleasant Romanian exhale in my face.

  I swallowed, my cookie sticking somewhere in the middle of my throat.

  Her breath all up in my face, Hilda said, “We have a saying in my country: ‘Cum îţi aşterni, asa te vei culca.’”

  Oh shit.

  “The meaning is this,” she said when I didn’t reply. “‘You must put up with the unpleasant results of a foolish action or decision.’”

  “Hilda, I—”

  “But this decision, which I observed from open to close,” she said, plucking the cookie out of my hand, “was not foolish.” She whistled, long and low, and then chortled. Chortled. I could practically feel her whole body rocking with it. “It was momentous. Yes?” She paused for a moment, chomping on my cookie. Through a full mouth, she said, “Congratulations.”

  Um.

  “You’re not mad?” were the three dazzling words I finally threw together after a significant delay.

  “Mad? Pish,” she said. “You think I am only...old battle ax? You chose a destination, traveled independently, and arrived safely. I am pleased. Today, we celebrate.” She rustled around in my bag and shoved a cookie in my hand.

  “For real?”

  “For real,” she said, and the words sounded so hilariously odd coming out of Hilda’s mouth that I cracked up laughing. Breaking off a piece of cookie, I popped it in my mouth.

  Sal’s surprise cookie.

  It was all salt and all caramel and all chocolate, completely different from anything else I’d ever had here, yet absolutely perfect.

  Back when I could see, I dreamed in vivid Technicolor: light, color, texture, and sound, all synchronized into movies in my head. But when my world disappeared, the visual quality of my dreams began to fade with each passing night. The emptiness from my waking hours crept in, and my once-bright images blurred, became nebulous, and then finally blinked away, leaving nothing but random voices, thoughts, and ideas.

  But tonight, I dreamed.

  Aware in some corner of my consciousness that I was dreaming, I recognized the closed wooden door in front of me, the smell of mothballs escaping from the hall closet, the family portrait on the wall beside me. I was standing in the upstairs hallway, in front of the door to my old bedroom. I could hear frantic whispering behind the door.

  I placed a hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. “Hello?” I called out, my voice shaking.

  The whispering stopped. It was dead quiet. Too quiet.

  “Hello?” I called out again.

  Nothing.

  Ben appeared beside me. I’d never been so relieved. “Ben,” I said in an exhale. “There’s somebody in my room.”

  He shrugged. The motion caused his crutches to groan. It sounded off. Wrong. “Go see who it is, Thera.”

  I bit my lip so hard that, though I was dreaming, I swore I could taste blood. Taking a deep breath, I slowly twisted the knob. The whispering started again. Louder.

  My hand sprang away from the door. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, turning toward Ben. His facial features had changed. There were deep hollows beneath his cheekbones, black smudges under his eyes. His lips were cracked, bleeding.

  He sighed. His breath smelled rancid. Decayed. “I’ll open it,” he said. Balancing with one side of his body, he peeled off a crutch and reached for the doorknob.

  “Wait!” I screamed, terrified.

  But he’d already pushed open the door, taken a step into the doorway, jerked to a teetering, unstable stop at the entrance to my room.

  I gasped. There was no room. No walls. No floor. Nothing but a massive, whispering void. And Ben was lurching forward, falling into it.

 
Screaming, I groped for him, narrowly missing his arm. Our eyes locked for a fraction of a second, his sending mine a silent plea: Help me.

  And then he plunged into the nothingness.

  I jolted awake, my heart clubbing in my ears. Panic surged in my chest, sharp and visceral. Trying to quiet my gulping breaths, I listened for a sound that told me I wasn’t alone—my parents chatting, the cat padding down the hallway, a rustle, a footstep...anything—but the house was horribly, desperately silent. Soaked in sweat, I slipped out of bed and into my parents’ bedroom. From the doorway, I could just barely hear the TV. Turned almost all the way down, a familiar scene from Romeo and Juliet whispered into the room.

  A closet sentimentalist, my mother had always been a sucker for heartbreaking romantic movies. I’d spent more nights than I could count curled up beside her on the couch while she sniffled unabashedly over some on-screen heartbreak. It had made me feel special in some small way, like she was sharing a faraway part of herself that she’d never shared with anyone else.

  Now, though, the only things she was sharing were her soft snores, deep in an Ambien stupor. I ghosted toward her and knelt beside the bed, my fingers walking across the sheets until I found the curve of her spine. I laid my head carefully, silently on her back, wishing I could wake her, wishing I could fold into her lap like I used to when I was little. But instead, I just stayed on my knees, listening to the steady thrum of her heartbeat and her soft inhalations until I felt steady enough to walk away.

  The next morning I woke to the sounds of my parents getting ready for work: the shuffling of feet into the kitchen, the clinking of a spoon in a coffee cup, the low-voiced chattering, the jingling of keys. After they left, I sprang out of bed.

  I felt antsy, restless, like I’d been plugged into an electrical socket, so I paced the house: down the hallway, up the stairs, back down the stairs, and then down the hallway again. Rinse and repeat. During one of my trips upstairs, I hitched to a stop in front of my old bedroom and just stood there in the silence, palm flat on the closed wooden door.