Clarity (4 page)

I’m in the middle of talking to myself, yammering on like a crazy person, when I hear the crunching of footsteps again. In my surprise, I nearly drop the wine bottle I’m cradling against myself. More visitors? A determined knock echoes against the wooden door of my cabin. I look up sharply, glaring in the direction of the sound. I remain motionless for a moment, staring into the dark expanse of my oblivion. It may be black, but my imagination has never failed to paint fantastic images in every direction I gaze. Even when my eyes are closed, my mind creates whimsical shapes and patterns, dancing and spinning in the empty darkness.

But in this moment, my imagination falters. There is only obscurity.

A stronger knock is heard on my door. “Miss Winters!” says a demanding male voice. “Open this door. We need to talk.”

I hug the wine bottle closer against me. I recognize the irritating doctor’s voice from earlier. I am not sure whether I should be relieved or upset that he returned. It is true that I had been clinging to a sliver of hope that I could get a second chance to accept his offer. But now that he is here, I am not sure how to tell him that I might like to try. I have spent so much time running away from people that it is difficult to accept help. Long ago, I promised myself that I would lock myself up and never open the door to anyone. If I were to turn the knob and crack the door open even a few inches, I know that all kinds of danger would pour through that
crevice and surely ruin my life.

People can never seem to walk into my world without walking all over me.

They also leave their filthy, muddy footprints all over the floor, which I simply hate cleaning. I realize that most people hate housework, but it’s actually very difficult to clean when you’re blind. I would like to believe that I have more justification for hating cleaning than the average person.

He knocks again.

“Come on!” he shouts through the door. “I’m a doctor, Helen! You can trust me. I know that you want to be a part of this study. Who wouldn’t? Let me in. Let me in so we can discuss this like adults.”

Scooting my body into the corner of my bed and the wall, I arrange my pillows around myself so I feel safe and protected. If this is a siege, then I’m willing to wait forever. I am not going to open that door. I take another large drink of my wine.

“What is wrong with you?” yells the doctor. “I won’t let you miss out on this opportunity. My colleague gave up on you, but I haven’t! Don’t you understand how expensive this procedure is, and how valuable it could be? You could have a life, Helen! A real life!”

I frown deeply.
He sure is charming and polite,
I think to myself sarcastically.

“You could see the sunrise,” he tells me. “You could see the sunset.” He pauses. “Do you remember that scene near the end of
Blind Rage
, where the couple is standing and talking on the balcony in Greece, at sunset? You described such a breathtaking sky, and it just broke my heart to think that your readers were all getting to see the picture in their minds—but you, the writer, could not. Wouldn’t you like to know what a sunset looks like? I could show you.”

I squint a little, making a face of displeasure. He’s using my books as a weapon against me. That is not fair. A sunset is the natural phenomenon that I most desire to see.

“The aurora borealis,” he continues. “You’ve written about that, too. You have no idea what it looks like, Helen. These crazy, mystical lights dancing all over the northern sky. It’s mind-blowing. Wouldn’t you like to see that?” 

I would. I would very much like to see that, and so much more. I clamp my lips together tightly to keep from responding and betraying my eagerness and apprehension. The conflicting emotions are giving me a headache. “Just go away,” I whisper. I speak so softly that I am sure he cannot hear me. “Just go away.”

“Helen, I can help you. For god’s sake, woman! Have a little faith.” He hesitates, speaking a little quieter. “I don’t know what people have done to you in the past that have made you so guarded, but you need to trust me. I became a doctor so I could take care of people. If you let me, I’ll take care of you.”

His voice has a strange quality that gives me a tiny shiver. I feel the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck standing up. It feels like my body is trying to tell me something; is it trying to encourage or warn me? Should I trust this man? I want to. I want to just throw caution to the wind and shout,
Yes! Yes! Fix me! Please make me normal.
However, a nagging negative feeling restrains me. I know that if I accept this offer, something terrible will happen. Something terrible always does.

“Okay, look.” The man sighs. “You don’t have to agree to participate in our study. But I was really excited to meet you. I came out all this way… and I would hate to leave without something to remember you by.” He begins to fiddle with my door. The sound of rusty metal grating against rusty metal is heard.

My entire body tenses up. Is he trying to break into my cabin? I feel my heart rate quicken, and my hands clamp tightly around my wine bottle. The muscles in my thighs become so taut that they hurt. I shrink even further back into my corner, reminding myself to breathe. Finally, a dull thump is heard. The metal noises abruptly stop.

“I just slipped a copy of
Blind Rage
through the mail slot,” says the doctor. “Do you think you could autograph the book and pass it back to me? It would mean a lot.”

My face contorts in puzzlement. A small laugh escapes my throat. I place my wine bottle down on my nightstand and move over to the door. Stooping down to the ground, I feel around for the paperback novel. My hand connects with the soft, familiar pages. I smile. I can almost feel that it’s my book, even before brushing my fingers over the raised lettering.

“Who should I make this out to?” I ask softly.

“To Liam,” he responds.

I move over to my desk, and begin pulling out drawers in search of a pen. My hand finally touches a slender cylinder—I do not have much use for pens, so I am surprised that I even have one. I quickly scrawl a few words over the inside cover of the novel. I do not write often, but I have done this many times for book signings. My handwriting is probably not that attractive, but it’s the best I can manage. Using my finger to guide my lines, I write a personalized inscription:

With a sly smile, I move back over to the door. I feel around for the mail slot and lift the metal flap, sliding the book through the opening. “Here you go,” I tell him. “A special autograph just for you.”

“Thank you!” he says with enthusiasm, reaching to take the book from me.

His fingertips brush against mine, and I jerk my hand away hastily. I stumble backward and collide with my desk. Clutching the hand that he had barely grazed, I feel my fingers to see if they have been somehow burned or scalded. I hold my breath, pressing my stinging fingers against my stomach. It feels like they are on fire.

I have not touched another human being in over three years. It’s unsettling.

Having read the inscription, Liam laughs lightly. “Wow! Thanks, Winter—uh, I mean Helen! Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you by your pseudonym.”

“Act—actually,” I say haltingly, as I try to ignore the odd sensation in my fingers, “that’s my name now. I legally changed it to Winter Rose.”

“Well, it is very pretty,” he responds, “but I think Helen has a certain charm, too. Why did you change it?”

Pulling my lips into a grim line, I display distaste—even though he cannot see my expression through the door. “I just… I couldn’t be Helen anymore. I didn’t like her.”

There is a silence. I begin to feel a bit stupid for saying something so personal.

Liam moves to sit outside my door, and I hear his back thump gently against the wood. When he speaks again, his words are soft and serious. “It would be a great help if you could assist me in my research study. I really think you’re an excellent candidate.”

I hesitate before responding. “What if it doesn’t work out?”

“It will. I promise that it will be worth the risk,” he assures me.

“Can you give me a little more information?” I ask him softly.

“Maybe if you let me in. It’s fucking cold out here.”

I bite down on my lip as I consider this. Immediately, I feel self-conscious. “Uh, I’m not sure how tidy it is in here. I wasn’t expecting visitors, and cleaning can be difficult.”

“I don’t care,” he responds. “Heck, I’ll tidy up for you! Just let me in, Winter. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I take a deep breath. Remembering how lost I felt before, when he walked away and I thought the opportunity was gone forever, I step forward boldly. I reach out and touch my doorknob, tracing the lock with my fingertip. “I’ll let you in,” I tell him, “but you have to do something for me in return.”

“Sure!” he says instantly. “Whatever you need.”

I smile deviously.  My fingers turn the lock, and for the first time in three years, I open the door to a stranger.

As the door swings open, I begin to have panicked second thoughts. I try to slam the wooden panel closed, but there is already a person in the way. He walks into my cabin, and I can sense him looking around and assessing everything.

“This is a sweet little setup,” he says in surprise. “You’re very organized.”

I’m a little nervous, so I keep holding the door open, letting the cold air gust into the room. “This wasn’t a good idea,” I tell the doctor. “I changed my mind. You should go.”

“Wow,” he says softly. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”

I shift uncomfortably as I imagine his eyes roaming all over my body. I crinkle my nose up in a rebellious attempt to look unattractive. “Well, I wouldn’t know. I have never looked into a mirror.”

“For that reason alone, you should take my offer,” he informs me. “When you gain the ability to see, the first thing I’m going to do after the operation is present you with a mirror. You should know what you’re missing. This? What I’m looking at right now? It’s on par with your sunsets.”

“Ha. You’re some kind of smooth talker, aren’t you?” I ask with a grumble. Self-consciously, I reach up to touch my hair. The texture is bland and dry; not smooth and silky like my sister’s hair. I am sure it looks as lackluster as it feels. I really don’t take care of myself and all those superficial details quite as much as I should. “You don’t have to butter me up with fake flattery,” I assure the doctor. “Just give me the facts.”

“Could you at least shut the door and give me a minute to warm up?” he asks me. There is a sound like he is rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. “It’s colder than a banshee’s nipple ring out there.”

“Oh,” I muse to myself. “I like that phrase. I’ll have to use it in a book, sometime…”

“Helen, please? The door?”

With an exasperated sigh at his childishness, I shut the door with a dramatic flourish. “Is that better, tough guy? Does that make invading my privacy and ruining my workday a little more comfortable for you?”

“I still feel like my hands are going to fall off,” he said, blowing on them frantically. “I was trying not to complain, but I think that’s the coldest wind I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“Aww,” I say, making an exaggerated sound of sympathy. “Would you like a cup of tea to warm up?”

“Sure! That would be great,” Liam says with enthusiasm.

I point to the other end of the cabin. “The kitchen’s over there. Knock yourself out.”

He seems to pause for a moment in surprise, taken aback by my words. “You really are a lovely little lady, aren’t you?”

“What gave me away? My hospitality?” I ask sweetly. Gesturing around at the desolate location, my lips curve upward in a little grin of sarcasm. “It’s obvious that I’m a huge people-person.”

The sound of footsteps echoes in the cabin as he heads toward the small kitchen. “Good God, woman. Do you live on granola bars and protein shakes?”

“Yes,” I say slowly, “and vitamins, of course. What more do I need?”

“Where do I begin?” he says, evidently appalled by the sight of my barren kitchen. “How about a good, balanced meal with fresh vegetables and meat? How about some fruit and dairy?”

I lift my shoulders in a shrug, pretending not to care. “It’s all too complicated. The things I buy have very distant expiry dates, so they’re not likely to go bad. It’s tricky enough for me to cook and clean, but leftovers are a pain in the ass. I can never figure out what plastic containers in the fridge contain what, and how long they’ve been sitting there. It gets annoying when you need to sniff everything and do taste tests… I would rather just be secure in the fact that everything is good to eat. Also, it makes garbage disposal a lot easier.”

There is a silence, and I can feel him staring at me again. “No wonder you’re so skinny. You don’t enjoy food.”

“Hey! I love food,” I tell him with a frown. “I grew up eating delicious meals—I just can’t be bothered to prepare them for myself. It’s far too time-consuming and frustrating. I would prefer to spend my time punching away at my keyboard.”

“Hmm,” says the doctor. “I think that if you could see, your diet would improve vastly. Fruit and vegetables can be colorful and aesthetically appealing; you would
experience
your food a lot more.”

“Why are you so judgmental?” I ask sharply. “I have a system. It’s a good system. Look around! Everything works. I get my groceries delivered every two weeks, and I consume more than enough nutrients to keep me alive and functioning. Actually, I’m quite comfortable with this state of affairs. I write great stories that lots of people enjoy reading. I am a productive member of society.” I put my hands on my hips. “Why are you trying so hard to fix me, when I’m not broken? You act like you’re some white knight, coming in here to rescue the damsel in distress from her tower. I don’t know if you noticed, but I don’t need rescuing. I was just chilling here and enjoying a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, when you interrupted me!”

“I’m sorry,” Liam says quietly.

Truthfully, this is a bit of a sore spot for me. I really do miss having wonderful home-cooked meals. When my mother died, things became difficult for us around the house back at home. Carmen and I were both terrible cooks, and we ended up going out for dinner with our father on most nights. But since I left home, it’s been hopeless; I have been living on these bland and tasteless concoctions for the sake of efficiency. My occasional bottle of wine for celebration, or misery, is the most delicious thing I ever consume, these days. I won’t allow myself to possess anything else, for it will almost surely go bad without my notice. Most of the time, I don’t mind being so unsatisfied; I realize that culinary delights are a luxury, and I didn’t move all the way out here for the high life. I just hate being forced to remember what I’m missing.

“You can’t really enjoy living like this, Helen?” the doctor asks. “I think I’d go crazy.”

“Are you an ophthalmologist or a psychologist? Stop asking such personal questions,” I grumble. “Who cares what I eat?”

“It’s important,” he tells me. “The whole body is connected. If we manage to give you vision, you’ll still need a good diet to maintain your optical health.”

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.”