Now I See You

by Nicole C. Kear

  Initially, I’d tossed out the miracle loophole casually, a throwaway. During the kids’ early years, I didn’t think much about it. It wasn’t like I actually expected some shocking reversal of fortune, some deus ex machina to descend and make everything suddenly okay. But as soon as I turned thirty-four and my deadline became tangible, I found myself frantically searching for any sign of a miracle en route.

  I tried to ignore the longing I felt for another child, which grew stronger and more urgent as the possibility dwindled. When I couldn’t ignore the longing, I talked myself out of it.

  I already have two healthy, amazing kids who I’ve managed not to damage yet. Why isn’t that enough? How could I be so ungrateful?

  I reminded myself of the relentless anxiety and guilt that had abated since Rosa became more self-sufficient. If I had another baby, I’d be right back in that emotional maelstrom again, only worse because the aperture of my vision has closed even tighter.

  When I couldn’t talk myself out of a third baby, I started joking about it to David. It started one evening a few weeks after we moved into the brand-new one-bedroom apartment we’d just bought, while David and I were hanging pictures up in our bedroom. It wasn’t a real bedroom, but one we’d fashioned by putting up a sliding glass door that divided the large living room in half. We’d assembled an Ikea wardrobe to use as a closet and hung up blue curtains to block out the view of the electrical supply store across the street and now we were adding some finishing touches.

  “The room looks great,” David observed. “And it’s a decent size, too.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “We could even fit a bassinette next to the bed.”

  He looked up at me, his eyebrows raised.

  “I’m joking,” I assured him, putting the screws back in the toolbox.

  “It doesn’t sound like a joke.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re not having another baby.” I laughed, taking the hammer out of his hand. Then I added, “Unless you want to.”

  “Nicooooole,” he warned, almost exactly the way Ricky Ricardo crowed “Luuuuucy…” when she was about to execute a hare-brained scheme.

  “What?” I protested. “I’m just saying, never say never.”

  “Sometimes you can say ‘never.’ Like when you buy a one-bedroom apartment and there’s already four of you living in it. Like when you say, ‘We’re never having any more kids.’”

  “I just don’t want to rule anything out without full consideration.”

  “Nicole,” he said, looking me squarely in the eyes. “Do you want another baby?”

  I made a whole bunch of faces then, unsure which one to settle on. First, “shocked-at-the-mere-suggestion,” then “yeah-right-as-if!” followed by a wild, maniacal smile.

  “Yeah,” I confessed, “I do. A lot.”

  “Good God.” David sighed. “You’re a madwoman.”

  “But don’t worry, I know it’s crazy,” I assured him. “I know we can’t.”

  He didn’t reply. He was straightening the wedding photo we’d just hung up, which showed thinner, less wrinkled versions of us locked in a synergistic kiss under the Brooklyn Bridge.

  A few days later we were driving the kids to our annual apple-picking adventure, and through some great, unprecedented alignment in the stars, both children fell asleep in the backseat. I wondered silently whether this might be the miracle I was waiting for but decided that was probably stretching it.

  David and I took the opportunity to seize back control of the music selection, and we chose Nina Simone. Now, Nina is breathtaking to begin with but after listening to the Backyardigans for an hour, she’s a revelation. Her warming, throaty voice washed over us as she sang “Ne Me Quitte Pas” and we watched the flaming fall trees passing by our car windows. I felt relaxed enough to offer the following observation: “It’s so peaceful when they’re asleep. Kind of makes you want to have another one, huh?”

  “Makes who want to?” David retorted, his left hand on the wheel and his right extracting pretzels from a bag on my lap. He was an excellent driver, so relaxed and confident, and every move seemed effortless. “Not me. Makes me want to enjoy the peace for a millisecond.”

  “Hardy har har.” I rolled my eyes.

  Then he sighed: “I thought your eyes were getting worse. Remember how hard it was for you even just a year ago when Rosa would run away?”

  “Yes,” I conceded, popping a minipretzel in my mouth. “It’s true. It’s a terrible idea. Just forget it.”

  Nina had gotten to the chorus.

  “Unless something fantastic happens,” I added.

  “Are we still talking about this?” David asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Like what?” He was suspicious. “What fantastic thing is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. We win the lottery or they make a bionic eye or I get a sign, a very clear sign that we should have a baby. Within the next year.”

  “Nicole,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re setting yourself up to be hurt.”

  We fell quiet and let Nina’s voice seep into us, with all its heartache. When the song was over, David spoke again:

  “Listen, you know I’ll follow your lead on this. If you really think it’s for the best, I’ll do it. But you need to be sure it’s for the best.”

  That was no small feat.

  I made lists of pros and cons. The Cons list read:

  Not safe for baby because of my vision

  No money

  No space

  Pregnancy makes eyes worse?

  And then, the loathsome:

  What if baby gets disease?

  On the Pros list there was only one item:

  I want another child

  I put the two lists side by side, and the conclusion was clear. No. No way. After all, I told myself, just because I want something doesn’t mean I should have it. Lots of people want things they shouldn’t have—extramarital sex, another drink, money from someone else’s wallet. Part of being an adult is understanding that you can’t always get what you want.

  But then I’d have a tea party with my kids or curl up with them in the bottom bunk singing Beatles songs, and I’d think, These kids are well cared for. And I love them, so passionately. How could it be wrong to create another life that I’d love this much? How could that be selfish?

  I’d tell myself any leap forward humankind has made was the result of an insane idea. And besides, plenty of totally blind people have babies, I’d reason. Every parent has some limitation, whether it’s depression or a food addiction or a missing leg or a perpetually overdrawn bank account or an incredibly demanding job that leaves them little time to spend with their kids. This was a challenge, not a deal breaker. Getting pregnant would be a courageous move; I’d be liberating myself from making decisions based on fear.

  And then I’d fall over a fire hydrant and face-plant on the sidewalk and think What if I was holding a baby? and it was back to the drawing board again.

  How do you make an impossible decision? I don’t know because I didn’t. David made it for me.

  On Mother’s Day, at the exact halfway point between my thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth birthday, David took me out to a fancy dinner way out of our budget. I couldn’t read the menu so he read it to me. After we ordered our food, he reached for my hand on the table.

  “Hey, stop eating olives for a second,” he said.

  “But they’re insanely delicious,” I replied. Then I looked up. His face was fuzzy by candlelight but I could see he had a serious look in his eyes.

  “What is it?” I panicked.

  “No, no, it’s nothing bad.” He smiled. “It’s just that … I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think we should have another baby.”

  I held my breath. This was totally unexpected.

  “You want this so much and I want to give it to you,” he continued. “It sounds trite but life is short. There’s no time to be scared.”

  “Are you
sure?” I stuttered. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

  “I’ve learned how to deal with your pressure after a hundred years of marriage.” He smiled. “I’m sure.”

  His face got fuzzier as my eyes welled up.

  “But I’m not sure,” I stammered.

  “Yes you are.” He squeezed my hand. “You’re just nervous, but I’m telling you not to be. I know you’ll take good care of this baby.”

  Not “a baby.”

  This baby.

  Just like that, my little girl became real. Within two months, she was physically present, swimming around inside of me.

  I couldn’t read the instructions on the EPT test this time around but thankfully I already knew the drill. The double pink lines, I could see with no problem.

  As soon as I saw them, I started to shake with relief. All of a sudden, I knew we’d made the right decision, the right one for us at least. There would be fear and anxiety and guilt and even accidents, yes. But never regret. My storyline wouldn’t wrap up neatly with all problems resolved, like the ending of a thirty-minute sitcom, or a Shakespeare comedy for that matter. The baby wouldn’t fix everything, or anything even. But she wasn’t meant to. The miracle I’d been searching for did arrive, and it wasn’t a cure or a windfall or even the miracle of life. It was the ability to feel such love for a life that hadn’t even come to be, knowing full well what I was up against.

  I clutched the pregnancy test and admired the double pink lines. They were fierce and unapologetic, like the “Dare You” lipstick in my purse, like the tattoo on David’s arm, like the self-portraits of the kids that hung on the fridge, all primary colors, all sure strokes.

  EPILOGUE

  Click snaps the light switch and the nursery goes dark. There’s a nightlight in the wall by the crib but I can’t see it because my head isn’t turned that way. I walk backward three careful steps to the seat of the rocking chair I know is waiting. Here, I’ll nurse Lucia to sleep.

  She’s hungry, all right, and lunges toward my chest, panting and grunting like a chimpanzee. Now that she’s six months old, she needs no guidance; she could find the breast were it hidden under a suit of armor.

  “All right honey,” I tell her. “Just a second.”

  I feel the edge of the rocker meet the back of my knees and I surrender to its cushions. My back is aching from carrying the baby and my feet are throbbing after dragging my big kids around town—school and the playground and swimming and dinner at Nonny’s.

  Within ten seconds, the baby’s found what she’s looking for and her lips make smacking sounds. I can hear David’s muffled voice reading bedtime stories to Rosa and Lorenzo in their room. “And Ida, mad, knew goblins had been there.” Outside Over There. Must be Rosa’s turn.

  The baby stops nursing for a second and I feel her head turn against my arm. She must be looking at me. I swivel my face in her direction.

  “Are you looking at Mommy?” I ask, “Ooooh, I’m gonna get you.”

  I don’t need to see to find the place she likes to be kissed, right below her ear, a supple spot beside her throat. I nuzzle her there, and she laughs, a sound like popcorn crackling or little fireworks going off. Pop poppity popop pop. There is no better sound anywhere. My mind re-creates the picture to go with the sound, the picture I saw only five minutes ago, before I turned off the light—the crinkle-nosed grin that leaves her pink mouth agape, the eyes shining like lanterns.

  The baby’s eyes haven’t found their color yet. When she was born, they were that newborn shade, no color really, just dark, like they’d become all pupil from being in the womb so long. Like the Eye of Horace from ancient Egyptian art—omniscient. They didn’t even make tears when she cried.

  Now they are regular, of-this-earth eyes. They fix on points of interest, track me as I move around the room. Except that they hardly ever blink. It’s like she’s so hungry to see things, she gulps it all in without stopping to chew. And preternatural too is how the color keeps changing; some weeks cobalt, then lighter, like a robin’s egg, then a darker cerulean again. Always blue, though, like her daddy. All my babies have eyes like their daddy; I just hope they stay that way.

  Poppity pop pop goes her laugh. She gives herself over so fully to the joy of it, and so do I, warm and full with the sound of it.

  When she’s finished laughing, I switch her over to nurse on the other side where she tugs away with renewed vigor.

  I lay my head back on the blanket that covers the chair, a pink and green striped number that Nonny knit for me when I was a teenager. Nonny is the baby’s best friend. When she sees her great-grandmother, Lucia’s face lights up and she pumps her little arms up and down like she’s about to achieve lift-off. I can hear them singing Italian lullabies together as soon as I get off the elevator to pick Lucia up from my grandmother’s apartment; there’s Nonny’s vibrato on top and Lucia’s just as loud underneath, only without words. Thinking of this puts me in a melodic mood so I start singing Nonny’s favorite ninna-nanna, the same one she sang to me, the same one I sang to Rosa and Lorenzo.

  E stato il vento che ha fatta cadere la cana …

  Lorenzo always laughs when he hears me sing this, ever since I translated the words for him. He was delighted to discover the lyrics weren’t about stars a-twinkling and cradles a-rocking, as he’d assumed. He likes to sing along but in English: “I walked down the streeeeet and came to a restauraaaaant. Give me half a carafe of wiiiiiine. Daddy wants to goooo toooo sleeeeep.”

  As soon as she hears my voice, the baby stops nursing and croons along.

  “Ahhhhhhhh,” she intones, like a Gregorian monk. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh.”

  Her chanting is interrupted by a yawn. She finds her way back to the breast and nurses again, her rhythm slowing. With one hand, she reaches up toward my throat to grab hold of the necklace she knows is there.

  When Rosa was born, David gave me the necklace: a silver chain with two thin disc-shaped pendants hanging off. One disc read “Rosa” and the other “Lorenzo” and on the backs were the kids’ birthdates. When Lucia was born, I added a disc to the mix. Now when I walk, the pendants jangle like bells and the tintinnabulation reminds me of what a full family we are.

  David, instead, wears tattoos. On one pec “Lorenzo,” on the other “Rosa,” and for Lucia’s first birthday, he’ll get her name on his left deltoid, opposite the place where my name is. Then he’ll be balanced, a quartet of names making things symmetrical. The tattoos are beautiful and I’ve thought about getting a set of my own. But I don’t need them; my body is already marked by my children. The faded stretch marks on my abdomen. The teardrop shape of my breasts. The creases on my forehead and the crow’s feet. I don’t know the marks you’d find in the cellular material of my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever the loss, it was nothing compared to what I’ve gained.

  When Lucia was born, I couldn’t stop crying. I was overcome by hormones and nerves to be sure, but also by gratitude. I just kept breaking down and thanking David. It was different from when I had Lorenzo and Rosa, not because I was happier or more grateful but because I knew how close we’d come to missing this. When I thought of how we almost chose No, almost chose to play it safe, my heart ached with relief. How lucky I was. The word treasure doesn’t encompass it.

  I feel the same thing now, rocking Lucia in the dark. There is nothing missing from the moment. The fact that I can’t see her takes nothing away. Maybe it’s because in the morning, I will see her again. But maybe it’s because even without my eyes, there is enough. I stroke the curve of her cranium. I breathe in her slightly sour milk smell. I listen to the soft moaning sounds that signal she’s almost asleep. This isn’t just enough. It’s an unimaginable abundance.

  From the other room, I hear a lull in proceedings and then David’s voice again reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It’s Lorenzo’s turn to choose a story. In the chapter I read to the kids last night; Aslan was killed. Tonight, I think, he will be resurrected.


  Lucia lets go of my necklace and pulls her tiny fist back. Thump. She pats my sternum.

  It’s what she does when she’s about to drift off to sleep, a soothing technique like rubbing feet together or twirling hair around a finger. She’s probably mirroring the way I pat her after she nurses, to bring up bubbles. But I can’t imagine my patting soothes her as much as hers does me. She pats my chest again, her own inimitable rhythm

  Thump Thump Thump

  Her pudgy fist lands a little below my collarbone, on the right side. Just where my heart is beating, slow and steady, full to bursting with wonder.

  Thump Thump

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes a village to raise a child and nothing less to make a book, Without the tireless support of the following people, and many others too numerous to name, this book would not have been possible. Profound thanks.

  To my agent and stalwart advocate, Michael Bourret: thank you for believing in me even when all I had to offer was a picture book about a disfigured alley cat. To my editor Sara Goodman, for her impeccable guidance and faith. Your vision breathed life into this book; thanks for taking a leap of faith.

  To all the big brains at St.Martin’s for their incredible efforts in support of the book: Lisa Senz, Kelsey Lawrence and everyone in sales and marketing, the wonderful Katie Bassel, glamorous Angie Glammarino, and Susannah Noel.

  To Ryan Knighton and Jim Knipfel, whose haunting, hysterical memoirs on blindness were revelations, personally and professionally: thanks for letting me join the RP Boy’s Club. To the illustrious Domenica Ruta, Alice Bradley, Rachel DeWoskin, and Jenny Bowman, for reading the book and offering such kind words of support.

  To Debra Nussbaum Cohen, for allowing me to imagine the impossible. My youngest child thanks you, too, for that.