‘Yes, I want to know everything.’
She signs into my right hand, then leaves it free for me to ask her questions. The doctor talks to her and she tells me what he says.
‘He is going to put some drops in your eyes. The liquid is a mixture of water and something called cocaine. It will make your eye numb. It is called an anaesthetic. When the doctor touches your eye with the knife, you will not be able to feel any pain.’
‘How will he know? Before he touches my eye with the knife, how will he know if the drops have worked?’
Lottie asks the doctor. He pats me gently on my arm.
‘He says he will test it first with something soft. Do not worry. Nothing will hurt.’
We wait while the doctor readies himself and his tools.
‘He is going to give you the drops now.’
I feel the liquid meet one eye, then the other. I blink several times and it runs down one cheek, swiftly swabbed by someone. It is cooling to the eye. It does not sting or smart. I wait.
‘Now, Liza. This is very important. You must not move at all during the operation. You must keep as still as a rock. If you move your head, the doctor could cut in the wrong place or damage your eyes.’
There is a pressure in my right eye, but the medicine has done its job. I cannot feel anything against the eyeball itself.
‘Is he touching my eye now?’
‘Yes.’
‘With what?’
‘Do not worry. It is going well.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Do not agitate yourself, Liza. It may make you restless.’
‘Tell me then.’
‘He is putting a tiny stitch into your eyelid to hold it open … Now he is using a very fine knife to make a cut in your eye … He applies a sharp hook … He takes a tool called forceps in one hand and applies a little spoon with the other … The lens is out! He has taken the lens out of your eye and placed it in a dish. He says this part of the operation is complete. Well done, Liza! Keep still.’
‘Do you feel sick?’ I ask Lottie. She must be able to see the knife cutting into my eye. I wonder if this is gruesome.
‘No, it is very interesting.’
Next comes the same procedure in my left eye. Another success. Lottie says each eye has taken only fifteen minutes to complete. But to me it feels like hours. The moment Lottie tells me it is over, I faint.
I wake in bed. My eyes are bandaged. They are sore. As I cannot open them, there are no Visitors.
Lottie is there. She takes my hand to ask, ‘How do you feel?’
‘It hurts.’
‘Wait here.’
I grab her hand tight. She uncurls my fingers and signs, ‘I need to tell the doctor you are awake. It is not far. Half a minute.’
My eyeballs pulsate.
The doctor comes and feels my forehead. He says to try to sleep. He says I need lots of rest. So that I will heal, I must stay in bed for up to three weeks.
I drift in and out of sleep for the first few days, and suffer baffling dreams which are heavy and stifling. I wake only to drink a little warm milk. Soon I feel brighter. I eat eggs and toast. Some stewed apples, very sugary. After sixteen days, I sit up in bed and I am bored. Now they know it is time for me to go home. Lottie helps me dress. Father comes and I can tell he wants to embrace me heartily but he is careful with me as if I were thin china. I am taken to the door. Here I ask for Dr Knapp and he is there. He shakes my hand.
I instruct Lottie: ‘Please tell him thank you very much for me.’
‘He says you are very welcome.’
‘Say well done for being so careful with the knife.’
Lottie puts her hand on its side in my palm and wobbles it. This is our sign for laughter. I think I amused the doctor.
Father escorts me to the coach. It is much more comfortable than the London cabs; it has softer seats and is less bouncy. A thick blanket is placed around my legs and we begin our long journey home. The coach sways on southwards from the capital through Surrey and into Kent. I have slept most of the way and am grumpy on waking. I burrow my head into Father’s sleeve.
I feel Mother’s hand. She has come to welcome me.
‘You should be in bed,’ I say, as the late sun is cooling.
‘Not me, you. Come and rest,’ replies Mother.
I do not need help to walk but there are many hands around me. I am cared for. I am led to my bedroom where, exhausted by the journey, I sleep deeply. I must remain in my darkened room for another week, black blinds and heavy curtains at the windows. I cannot sense anything behind these bandages. I used to be able at least to perceive sunlight, and I miss its warmth. I am more in the dark than ever.
I recover well. Everyone is thrilled that I have not developed an infection, that the pain in my eyes has receded after only a day or two. I am healthy and happy. Soon, I am bored in my room, bored of sewing and knitting. I ask for lessons again with Lottie. We are learning arithmetic using a special metal frame made for the blind. It helps me count and add numbers. We read the book called Mental Arithmetic and a problem may say, ‘If a boy buys five apples and has six friends …’ and so on. And I say to Lottie, ‘But why does the boy buy the apples? Why does he not go scrumping with his friends? And why does he not buy enough apples? Is he not a bad boy to forget one friend so?’ Lottie laughs at my questions, but I become vexed. I am wearisome when learning arithmetic. I am forgetful and my thoughts waste. I frown so much my head aches. I say to Lottie, ‘Are you not very tired of living? Does your heart not tire of beating? Does your head not tire of thinking?’
Lottie says, ‘Let’s end our lessons for today. You can stop thinking now.’
‘How can I stop? Can I close my think as you close your eyes?’
‘Let me explain,’ says Lottie.
I say, ‘No more today. My think is tired.’
When Lottie is not here, I wish to talk with the Visitors. But I cannot, as my eyes cannot open. I am very curious about them now that I know there are others. I want to ask them: Why do you stay here? Why did you not come with me to London? I met other Visitors on my journey. Do you know them? Are you sure you do not know your name? Why do you not visit Lottie or Father? What do you want with me?
I predict they will never answer my questions, only prattle on about their obsession. I understand them a little more these days. I have an obsession of my own now: my eyes. Every day I use my number frame to count down the days remaining until the bandages are removed. Dr Knapp is coming all the way from London to be there. If I had my choice, I would go to a quiet corner of the garden all on my own and take them off. I do not want an audience. If I have failed I want to find out alone, and will hate the pity of others. But Father will not allow it. It has to be executed with care and the doctor must do tests.
The day is here. Father, Mother and Dr Knapp assemble in my bedroom. The air is stuffy with their breath and expectations. The black blinds have been removed and the curtains are opened. I sit on my hard-backed chair, where Nanny used to tie me. Now I wait upon it for the most important moment in my life. Lottie kneels beside me, holding my hand. I feel the doctor untie the binding at the back of my head. I am relieved to feel the pressure lessen, and want to shake my flattened hair free. But then I am gripped by an almighty terror. I squeeze Lottie’s hand so hard she squirms, then quickly sign into her palm: ‘No. Tell him to stop.’
‘Why?’
‘I am afraid.’
I have lived with my blindness all my life. Only weeks ago, I was given hope that I might see. Now the moment comes I cannot face it. The disappointment would break my heart.
‘Be brave,’ says Lottie. ‘We are all here with you.’
I can feel tears well up behind the bandages. As they loosen, the tears escape. Lottie rubs my hand in comfort, Father and Mother touch my arm. The bandages are off, only two pads remain. Dr Knapp removes one, then the other. I keep my eyes fast shut. I see nothing. I will not open them.
‘It is tim
e,’ says Lottie.
I flutter my eyelids, awash with tears. My hand grips Lottie’s so tightly. I open my eyes.
There is a flickering blur of haze. And I want to cry out, it is a failure, my eyes are still damaged. But I realise immediately that it was my tears, as I open my eyes wide and blink them away. I am hit by light. The most dazzling, incandescent explosion of light assaults me and makes me recoil. I cover my eyes but hate the darkness it brings. I uncover them again, and the colours hit me. I do not know their names yet, but they are irresistible, these shapes; these white ovals with tinted halos that approach me. And I remember these are faces, as the shape of eyes, nose, mouth and hair imposes itself upon my new vision and speaks its name – face. I am surrounded by faces all laughing and weeping, and I lift my hands up and can see my fingers reaching. I touch Father’s cheek and his salt and pepper hair, and next to him Mother’s is faded gold. And the big round face must be Dr Knapp, with a shock of white hair and a beard. And I turn to find my Lottie and her face is the most beautiful of all, with glorious blue eyes so wide and round. And red, red hair, which curls in waves around her pink smiling face, and her eyes shining with tears – how they shine – and I throw my arms around her and I cry and I cry with joy.
I stand and stumble to the window. I am surrounded by green, greens everywhere. Later I know these for grass and bushes. It is November so the leaves are lost from many trees, and there are stark black lines of bare tree limbs against the white sky and the monochrome contrasts are so shocking that I almost turn from them, but I do not, I stare on fascinated at this cracked puzzle of sky and branches. Then I turn. I reach forward for Lottie’s hand. My, how her hair blazes. Father and Mother are holding on to my shoulders and the doctor is nodding. And Lottie holds her own hand up to me. But there are others behind her. Other faces. At first I think they are the servants, come to share our joy. But these faces are different. They are smiling and friendly like my family, yet they are not the same; they seem lit from within, a bluish-white glow as if a lamp shone from their eyes, their cheeks, their hair. And I realise all at once, they are not my family and they are not the servants. They are the Visitors. And they are real. I can see them.
One stands close behind Lottie – a woman with black hair and black eyes. Her skin glows violet-white, and she is in perfect focus, as if she were made from different stuff than the others. I realise from the way people are talking and looking at me and moving around that no one can see the Visitors but me.
Are you real? I ask the dark woman. I think it, inside my head, as always. And she can hear me. When she answers, though she moves her mouth, I can still discern her words inside my mind.
I only came selling lavender. Now I cannot find my way home.
Her dark eyes are like holes in her head. I move towards her, and Lottie thinks I am coming to her and steps forward. But I stretch to touch the Visitor and my hand reaches her face. There is almost nothing there, but there is something: a wisp of matter, the caress of a cloud. The woman takes a step and the mist of her is cold on my hand. I withdraw it, chilled. Foreboding comes upon me, a ghastly idea of who the Visitors are and why they are here.
Go away, I say.
And she does. She turns and the blue-white glow flares briefly, then she fades and is gone. I shudder, as if ice water has trickled down my neck.
Lottie takes my hand and finger spells to me. I realise for the first time that she looks at my hand as she spells, she does it by sight. I always thought she did it with eyes closed, to be like me.
‘Are you well?’ she asks.
‘Never better,’ I say and we smile and smile. How white are teeth!
‘What can you see?’ says Lottie.
I look up at her face. It is so beautiful, I cannot get enough of it. I drink it in.
‘Everything!’ I say. I see her turn her head towards Father, Mother and Dr Knapp and watch her lips move. So that is speaking. She is telling them what I said.
I turn to Father and touch his face again. His dear old face. It is wet with tears. I look at Mother too. Her eyes are dark brown and sad. Father’s are light green and sparkly. I sign into his palm, ‘Bring me a mirror.’
There is none in my room, as it has never been required in here. Lottie goes out and returns, a small round object held aloft. I reach to take it and miss completely. My hand grasps air. I have yet to connect seeing with movement. I almost want to close my eyes to reach for it, as this seems easier, but I do not. I never want to close my eyes again. Lottie places the mirror in my hand and I hold it up to my face. But the image is blurred close to, so I move the mirror to arm’s length until it comes right.
There I am. My hair is yellow, so yellow that I think it must be hot like fire. And my eyes are dark like Mother’s. I have her eyes precisely. They are the same. I never knew I was so like Mother. I touch my hair and toy with it, as I know ladies do in mirrors. I reveal an ear. It is ridiculous! Such a huge, flapping thing curled round in horrid knots and channels, extended for yards beyond my head, and I check to see if the other is so hideous and it is exactly the same. I look up horrified, that I am so ugly, but I see that everyone has these appendages thrusting out from the sides of their heads, and the men having short hair and the ladies wearing theirs up, I can see their ears, and they seem preposterously big to me. And the nose jutting out, a mountain splitting the face, and eyes, wide, impudent saucers, and the mouth a great maw opening and closing with speech. The proportions I knew with my fingers appear all wrong with my eyes. It will take some getting used to. Yet, despite its peculiarities, it is all more ravishing than anything I could have surmised. I conclude what poorly instruments my fingers were, when all along this actuality existed and I had no sense of it. I grieve for the blind. It seems a crime to me now that anyone cannot see this glorious world. I want Dr Knapp to cure them all.
He wants me to sit down now so that he can examine me. He holds up some curious objects and looks into my eyes. The shock of their closeness is strange and I quail, afraid he is going to poke me in the eye. But I realise that I am still a novice at judging distances, and trust him to examine me. He looks carefully in both eyes and Lottie says he is very pleased. They have healed perfectly and my vision is good, though I will need to come to London again to have spectacles made for close work. I wiggle the fingers of my other hand close to my eyes. There is a blur, like the moment I first opened them and was blinded by tears; I look up, terrified my eyes are failing me already, but soon realise that it is indeed in proximity that my eyes do not work so well. They are good at middle distance and best far away, beyond the room and the undulating treetops to the stately rainclouds. The closer something is, the less clearly I can see it. Except the Visitors. They are in perfect focus, wherever they stand in the room. I do not know what to do about them, so I tell them to leave. One by one, they fade and depart. I will deal with them tomorrow. For now, I have a world to know. I have opened my eyes and created light and colour. I have invented the world anew. I can see.
7
On this, my first day of sight, I begin by exploring the house. I am allowed to leave my parents and the doctor behind and walk across the hall and down the stairs. Lottie is with me all the time, to stop me tripping, to explain this and that. One of the strangest things is trying to reconcile my brand-new visual images with the knowledge I gained previously from touch or description. Some objects I know presently and others I cannot make sense of at all until I touch them. I see a painting on the landing of something green and frilly, with layers of shapes and a long thin line at its centre. I stare at it and cannot decipher what it might be. Is it something you wear?
I ask Lottie, ‘What is it?’
‘Hops. A painting of hop flowers, the leaves, the stalk.’
I am dismayed. I know this object intimately by touch but its visual image means nothing to me. The next painting I know immediately. I have never visited this place, yet I know that this grey mass bordered by a flat expanse of yellow under a lo
uring sky is the sea. Somehow the linguistic description I had read so often in books or discussed with Lottie had painted an image in my mind more powerful than that of Father’s beloved hops, which I have handled countless times.
I go on through the house, astounded at how much there is to see. The wallpaper and painted walls are all different colours, and the upholstery is patterned with leaves and flowers and birds in every shade imaginable. Clothes, too, are covered with checks and dots and swirls and lines, on Mother and Lottie, and even Father’s waistcoats and his shiny shoes and buttons. I am bewitched by the myriad tints of colour within one object, such as Lottie’s eyes: the pupil is black, the aura deep blue while the iris is light fringed with green. It is how I picture the Mediterranean. Even my own eyes – not as bewitching as Lottie’s – have two tones, dark brown at the centre with a paler edge.
We move from room to room, our speed as always hampered by clutter. But once outside, my first instinct is to run, and I launch myself from the bottom step and hurtle across the gravel driveway to the grass. I stop short, panting, and move forward again, the vertical trees and the horizontal ground hurling themselves at me at a terrifying rate and bewildering my eyes. Lottie catches up with me and I drop to the grass. I look at her face and see her eyebrows lowered, her eyes intense, her mouth slightly pursed. I know these shapes with my fingers. Her expression is concern for me, she is worried. I will have to learn a whole new language of reading other people’s faces and bodies, applying my knowledge of touch and vibration to what I see and correlating the two.
‘Go slowly,’ she advises.
I have crossed the threshold to a new country, the land of the sighted, and it has its own laws of which I am ignorant. I stand again and move forward, with care this time. My surroundings move quite quickly, but I am becoming accustomed to it. It may be better to walk with my eyes closed, but I cannot bear to. I look to the sky and the clouds race across it. I see them reveal the sun, and stare into this white heat. I gasp and cover my eyes. It hurts to look straight at the sun – is this just me or everyone? Lottie tells me it is a flaming ball of fire, of course it will hurt to look at it, everyone is the same in this.
The Visitors Page 6
