Clarity

by Lost, Loretta

  I twist my face into a scowl. “So, are you going to give me information on the procedure you want to perform on me? Or are we going to stand around making pointless small talk? Are you going to keep complaining about the weather and my diet until I go crazy and scratch out my eyes so badly that you couldn’t possibly fix them?”

  He cleared his throat. “I have my documents right here in my bag. Let me read them to you.”

  I listen to the rustling of papers. “Are you wearing a man-purse?” I ask him curiously.

  “What? No!” He seems wounded. “It’s… like a briefcase. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. You just seem like the sort of person that would carry a man-purse,” I say with a shrug, returning to my wine bottle. I sit on the edge of my bed and take another deep swig. It occurs to me that without the few ounces I had consumed earlier, in frustration at my self-centered sister, I might not have been bold enough to open the door. Dr. Liam Larson does not seem as awful as I first expected, and I am grateful to the liquid for emboldening me. I listen closely to the sound of him shuffling through papers. I am eagerly, yet anxiously awaiting more information on his research study, but I am determined to appear cool and aloof.

  “You seemed to know a little about gene therapy when I mentioned it earlier,” the doctor says. “How much of this data would you like me to go over? I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Just give me everything,” I say hungrily. “I would prefer to hear as much as possible about this treatment before diving in.”

  “Great,” Liam says, clearing his throat. “Well, as I’m sure you know, LCA is caused by a mutation in the RPE65 gene. This causes blindness in patients with your disease, because your eyes can’t produce a specific protein which allows you to use retinal, a form of vitamin A, to allow your photoreceptors to convert light into energy.”

  I nod to indicate that I’m following his lecture.

  The doctor continues. “The treatment targets RPE65 by delivering genes directly into the retina. This is meant to sort-of reprogram the eye so that it can function,” he explains. Liam pauses, shuffling through his papers. “I don’t want to mislead you. Unfortunately, this treatment is still in its infancy. We’re still in the middle of a trial-and-error process. Many people have experienced improved vision immediately after treatment, but some have experienced a rapid loss of the vision. It only works in the short term for some patients, while others have seen vast improvements for at least three years.”

  “I understand,” I say softly. Being able to see, for even a few years, could be life-altering.

  “A few years ago, researchers got really excited and thought this was like a magic cure, but it’s not quite so simple. We’re trying to improve the gene delivery technique, because it only targets a small portion of the retina at the moment. The old, damaged parts of the eye can poison the treated areas and cause them to revert back to their dysfunctional form.” He pauses for a moment, brushing his fingers across the information in his binder. He clears his throat. “The reason I hunted you down is because I looked through some of your tests from when you were younger. There are different types of LCA, but your specific genetic mutation looks like it might respond well to our therapy.”

  Nodding thoughtfully, I run my finger around the rim of my wine bottle. I know that my disease is rather rare, and there are probably a limited number of potential candidates in my age group. It would make sense that he would choose me based on a recommendation. This allows me to grow a little less upset at his intrusion, and a little less suspicious; only a little.

  “Helen, you should accept my offer,” he tells me seriously. “I really do believe that these clinical trials are going to yield the best results we’ve ever seen. We’re trying a different, dual approach this time to try to cause more complete healing of the entire eye.”

  “And what would you need from me?” I ask him.

  “Well, we’ll need to closely monitor the thickness of the outer nuclear layer of your photoreceptors. This means we’ll be using coherence tomography to take serial measurements, quite often. A thinning of this layer indicates degeneration of the rods and cones, which we’re trying to prevent.” He exhales, and there is a sound like the closing of a binder. “Basically, the main issue we’re facing is determining how to create a permanent, safe, and thorough solution. You should do this, Helen. If you agree to participate in these clinical trials… it could be amazing for you.”

  “Why me?” I asked him. “Why are you bothering to try and convince me? Aren’t there others, closer to your hospital?”

  “Well, as I told you, I’m friends with Dr. Leslie Howard. You’re one of her favorite patients, and she actually gave me your book a while ago. When this study came up, I mentioned it to her, and she became insanely excited and began pushing me to find you and convince you to participate.”

  “Ah,” I murmur. This does make sense. I had always gotten along quite well with Leslie. She was an old family friend, and I had even kept in touch with her sporadically after leaving home. Taking another sip of my wine, I quietly mull over this information.

  The doctor clears his throat. “Can I make a confession?” Liam asks nervously.

  “Sure,” I tell him with a shrug.

  “Meeting you… is wild. I feel like I’m in the presence of a celebrity.”

  Smiling a little, I scoff. “Don’t be silly. Because of my books?”

  “Yes. You’re a little different than I imagined, but I did expect you to love your wine.” The doctor laughs lightly. “Why are all writers such heavy drinkers?”

  “I don’t know. Why are all doctors such nosy pricks?” I retort with a growl.

  He chuckles at this, and does not seem to be offended. “Did you know that you’re really popular in the blind community? I always tell my patients about you to inspire them. There was a fascinating feature a few months ago…”

  “I know, I know. That dumb magazine article on the top ten most successful and influential blind people of 2013. That was just a publicity stunt by my publisher. It’s marketing. They’re capitalizing on my disability to sell books. Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t believe anything without hard evidence. Journalists often get it wrong. And so do photographers; you’re much, much prettier than the picture in the back of your book.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “At this point, I almost want to agree to your study just so you’ll stop talking. Calling me pretty isn’t going to further your case. Also, I don’t really care if I’m pretty; what does that even mean? I have no concept of what an attractive person looks like, versus an unattractive one.” I growl a little. “Are you taunting me? Trying to flaunt that you can see what I look like while I have no earthly idea? Or are you lying to manipulate me, because I’m actually hideous, and I have no way of knowing that?”

  “I was just paying you a compliment,” he says defensively. “Obviously, it’s a subjective matter, but personally, I find you stunning.”

  “Yay,” I say in a monotonous tone. I take a sip from my bottle again. “Well, I think I have an answer for you. On whether I’ll participate in your study…”

  “Wait!” he says quickly. “Don’t you want to know more so you can make an informed decision?”

  “You gave me plenty of information…”

  “Just take a moment to really think about it,” he tells me. “I don’t want you to miss out on this because you’re being hasty and prideful. There might not be another study like this in the near future. And it’s rare to find one in your age group…” Liam sounds like he’s getting flustered.

  “I’ll do it,” I tell him.

  The doctor continues to panic. “Think about what this could—wait, what? You’ll do it?”

  “Yeah. But you’ll have to do something for me in return, like you promised earlier.” I take another sip slowly. “I need a ride somewhere.”

  “A ride? Sure, that’s easy. Is that all?”


  “I need a ride to New York,” I inform him. “Tonight”

  “New York?” he says in surprise. “Well—we were going to head back there anyway. But Dr. Philips and I have a room booked here for the weekend, and he’s meeting family…”

  “Tonight,” I repeat, unwaveringly. “It’s for my sister’s wedding. I need to be there as soon as possible. If we could leave now, that would be best.”

  “But it’s at least a six hour trip,” he says weakly. “We’ve already been driving so much today. I’m exhausted…”

  “There must be some reason you want me, specifically, for your study,” I inform him. I’m bluffing a little, and overestimating my own importance. I’m also gambling on the fact that the doctor seems like a really nice guy. “If you take me to New York, I’ll be your guinea pig. You can poke around at my eyes all you want.”

  He takes a moment to ponder my offer. He sighs. “Could I have some of that wine?”

  “Oh. I’ve been drinking from the bottle…”

  “That’s fine,” he says, crossing the room toward me and taking the bottle from my hands. He is not standing too close to me, but I can still feel his breath against my face. A subtle whiff of his cologne invades my senses.

  I flinch and scoot away on my bed, pressing my back against the wall. My heart rate quickens, and I am suddenly very afraid. He seems nice, but one can never be too sure. My chest feels suddenly very full of a breath that I have been holding. I can hear gulping noises from his throat as he swallows a generous helping of my wine.

  “Okay,” he says finally, placing the wine bottle down on the desk. “I’ll take you to New York. Let me just text Dr. Philips, and we’ll get going.”

  I release my breath in relief. I am glad he did not notice my momentary anxiety attack. “Great,” I say in a confident voice. “You’re also going to help me pack.”

  The doctor grunts as he drags my suitcase out of my cabin. “Do you really need all this stuff? It’s like you shoved your entire life in here!”

  “I like to be thorough and prepared,” I tell him as I step over my threshold. The frosty air rushes at me, slapping me in the face and filling my lungs. The initial shock of the cold fades as I breathe in deeply, and I can’t help basking in the refreshing sensation. The air inside my cabin tasted hot and stuffy, although I didn’t notice this until I was immersed in an atmosphere of superior quality. The cool breeze swirling around me feels alive—it infects me, causing something to stir inside my bones. All of a sudden, I am feeling somewhat adventurous.

  I adjust my backpack over my shoulder, as it contains the most important items: my Braille note taker, wallet, phone, and some other handy electronic devices. I figure that I can get some writing done from the back seat of the car while the doctors drive me to my destination. This doesn’t have to be a completely wasted workday. I could still write a few thousand words—or possibly take a nap.

  “You packed like you don’t intend to return here,” Liam observes as I turn the key in the lock to secure my front door. “I don’t think you left anything of value behind.”

  “I like to keep the things I value very close to me,” I respond, turning away from my cabin and taking a few steps in the direction of the road. Obviously, I haven’t shoveled my driveway, and my winter boots crunch through the top layer of ice and sink deep into the snow. I’m bundled up warmly in a heavy coat and mittens, so the cold does not bother me. I turn to look back over my shoulder toward the cabin where I spent the last three years of my life. Of course, I see nothing. But as I try to envision what it might look like, I begin to feel an odd nostalgia for this contrived image in my mind. “Maybe I won’t come back,” I say suddenly. “There were many reasons I left home; if those reasons are no longer relevant, maybe I’ll stay there with my family.”

  “What were the reasons?” he asks me.

  I shake my head, with a small smile. “No. Nuh-uh. You’re not going to extract my deepest, darkest secrets only a few hours after meeting me.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he tells me. “We have a long car ride ahead of us, and I can be very persuasive. I am almost positive I can dig up all your skeletons.”

  “Pfft.” I blow air through my lips in a sound of contempt. “You can dig all you like, but I buried those rotting corpses pretty well.”

  “Then I’ll just have to dig a little deeper,” he says gently. “I think I see Owen’s car pulling up. Would you like me to help guide you to the street?” He places his elbow against my arm.

  Jerking away from him, I frown. My neck flushes with heat, and my stomach churns with nausea. His touch was respectful and kind, meant only to offer me support and direction, but I’m not comfortable with this. I’m not comfortable with accepting help from a stranger unless there’s some sort of bargain agreed upon beforehand. Unless I know what I owe him in return. We already have a bargain, and I am determined to never need anything more from him beyond this drive. “I can walk,” I assure him. “I’ll just follow the sound of your footsteps.”

  “Why are you so stubborn, Helen?” he asks me. “It won’t kill you to accept my arm. I’m a doctor. I’m here to help you, not to hurt you.”

  “You are helping me,” I say with forced cheerfulness. “You’re carrying my suitcase and offering me a ride to New York. Isn’t that enough for one day, Dr. Larson?”

  “I just don’t understand you,” he says as he begins trudging toward his colleague’s vehicle. “All the blind people I have met usually prefer a little more touch in their communication.”

  “Well, you hadn’t met me,” I say simply as I stroll behind him. “I don’t like being touched. I don’t like it when people use my disability as an excuse to fuss over me.”

  “That’s not what I was doing!” he says defensively. He grumbles to himself, but continues moving toward the road. He walks in silence for a few seconds before speaking again. “I think I should warn you: road trips with Dr. Philips can get a little… crazy.”

  “Crazy?” I say with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

  “Dr. Philips is usually very professional, but there’s something about long drives that turns him into a teenage boy. I think he used to do road trips with his frat buddies to Daytona Beach for spring break. He’s kind of… odd.” Liam clears his throat. “Maybe he’ll behave himself with you in the car.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” I say with a smile.

  “I hope not. We’re a few steps away from the car now,” Liam informs me.

  There is an unlocking sound as Dr. Philips pops the trunk open, and a little oompf as Liam tosses my suitcase into the back of the car.

  “Would you like me to help guide you into the backseat?” he asks.

  I am worried that he is going to touch my arm again, and I step back. “No, thank you.”

  He sighs. “Look, Helen. I work with patients who have limited vision all the time. Almost every day, really. Touch helps them to connect and understand, the way someone might observe facial expressions…”

  “Does it seem like I want to connect and understand?” I ask him.

  “Not particularly,” he responds with disappointment.

  “Good.” I would reach forward and touch the car, and fumble around for the door handle, but I know from experience that the handles are on different places on every car. It’s frustrating, and I am almost guaranteed to look like an idiot while blindly groping the side of the car and getting my hands all dirty. I would rather behave like a bitch than seem like a moron. So, instead, I thrust my chin into the air. “I’m a writer. I like words. If I wanted to connect and understand, I’d listen to the words people say. That’s all I really need. Are you going to open the car door for me, or not?”

  “I thought you didn’t need help,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I thought you were polite!” I reply curtly, crossing my arms under my breasts. “I don’t need you to shove me into the car, but it’s customary to open the door.”

  Th
ere is a sound as his hand pulls the latch and swings open the panel of metal and glass. “I really hope we can restore your vision, Helen,” says the doctor. “Maybe once you can see how beautiful the world is, you’ll be a little less bitter.”

  “I’m not bitter because I’m blind,” I tell him as I take off my backpack and move into the vehicle. I feel around to get a sense of the layout of the car. “I’ve just encountered one too many assholes, and lost my faith in humanity.”

  “Then I’ll just have to restore it,” he tells me with determination, shutting the door and moving to the front seat.

  “Hi,” says the man in the driver’s seat. His voice is not quite as deep as Liam’s. “I’m Dr. Owen Philips. I don’t have any faith in humanity either. I think I lost it when my buddy Liam convinced me to come out here for the weekend, and then randomly decides we’re going back to the city without any warning.”

  “Sorry, Dr. Philips,” I say with regret. “That’s my fault.”

  “No, no. I blame Liam,” says the other doctor. “He’s got a fanboy crush on you, so he was easily manipulated into doing whatever you wanted.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Liam protests as he settles into his seat and yanks out his seatbelt.

  I hear the little click as it locks into place, and I am reminded to fasten my own. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I was in a vehicle. I usually get everything delivered to me, so I can avoid people—I never go anywhere anymore.

  “No, it was exactly like that,” Owen says. His voice takes on a high-pitched tone of mimicry. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m going to meet her! She’s such a great author! I wonder if she’ll sign my book?”

  “Jesus, Owen. Stop it,” Liam says with annoyance.

  Owen laughs. “I bet it doesn’t help that she’s really pretty. Helen—can I call you Helen?” He does not wait for an answer before continuing. “I know you can’t see, so I feel obliged to inform you that Dr. Larson is blushing furiously. He is red as a beet.”