Blind

By Sarah Terzo

Honorable Mention, Prose, Create | Encounter 2024

Recess was over, and, as always, Kelly was first in her seat. The classroom was a refuge from the teasing, but she wouldn’t be alone for long. She heard the other kids tapping in the hallway.  

With a sigh, she pulled out her reading textbook. The raised bumps were rough under her fingertips. She usually read the assignment the day before, but yesterday had been spent in the doctor’s office again.

“Mrs. Hart, maybe you should just accept the way things are,” the doctor had said, not realizing that Kelly was standing next to him. “I mean, she can have the surgery, but I don’t think it’s advisable. 

“I think she needs it,” said Kelly’s mother. She had the strap that tied together her long robe in her hands and was twisting it and twisting it. Her mother had been doing that a lot lately.

The doctor said, “Her condition is very rare, but it’s not unheard of. Most people in her situation lead relatively normal lives.”

“But the other children,” protested her mom. “They know she’s different. You know how they are at that age. Kelly never talks about it, but I can tell. When her brother was her age, he played with the other children every day. He was invited to their homes; he attended their birthday parties. Kelly never goes anywhere.”

“Children can be like that. Lots of kids get teased.”

“But it’s the adults too! They don’t know what to do with her. She unnerves them, I think. And I know it upsets her.”

“She is very young’ the doctor said, “She’ll learn to adjust. I know it must be difficult. But think about what you’re considering. Kelly really isn’t in pain.”

A nurse walked into the room. Kelly stayed as quiet as she possibly could. She held her breath. The nurse walked past Kelly without noticing her. She went over to the desk, her cane tapping on the floor. She rummaged through a drawer. Kelly focused on her mom and the doctor. 

“But sometimes she is,” her mother said. “She says the light hurts her eyes sometimes.”

“Yes, these children perceive light differently than we do. It’s far more extreme to them. But like I said, most children like this adjust.”

“Kelly wants to be normal.”

The doctor said, “This is extreme. We’re talking complete removal here. The trauma, the risk of infection alone- all for a procedure that, from a medical standpoint, isn’t really necessary.”

The nurse walked toward Kelly and the door. Again, Kelly held her breath. The nurse walked right past her.

“Doctor, I really think the operation would be best. Kelly really wants friends and wants to fit in. I’m just thinking about what’s best for her.”

The doctor sighed. “Well, Mrs. Hart, I see I won’t change your mind. I can give you a referral to a doctor who’ll do the procedure.  But please think this over carefully before you make the final decision. Once the eyes are removed, there is no going back.” 

Kelly looked at her mother’s face. There were wrinkles on her forehead, and her mouth was scrunched up. Her face always seemed to be like that when she was talking about Kelly.

“To tell you the truth, I’m at my wit’s end. It’s so hard dealing with her sometimes. She talks about such strange things. I can’t always blame other people for being unsettled. It’s difficult having a child who’s…” Her mother’s voice trailed off.

“Different,” the doctor said. “She’s just different.”

Kelly felt the water come to her eyes again. It trickled down her face. She remembered how scared she’d been the first time it had happened. She had ran and told her mother. Her mother had been frightened too.

“Thank you,” said her mom. 

Kelly hurried into the waiting room, moving as quietly as possible so her mother wouldn’t know she’d been listening. She reached the waiting room quickly, and said, “Hi Mom,” when her mother got there. Hopefully, her mom would think she’d been waiting there the whole time.

They walked home in silence, her mother’s cane tapping the sides of the path.

Now the kids were coming back into the classroom, and the teacher would be in any minute. 

“Hey Kelly,” said Tina, a small ten-year-old who sat behind her and was her only friend.

Tina’s mouth was turned up at the corners and Kelly could feel her own mouth imitating Tina’s. She noticed that people’s mouths seemed to be like that when they were being kind or when they were happy. It didn’t seem to happen very often when they were talking to her.

Tina’s eyes, like everyone’s eyes, were a bit like the milk Kelly ate in her cereal every morning. Kelly wondered if her eyes were the same. She knew her eyes were the problem. They were different. She was different.

“Don’t get upset about them,” Tina said. “You know, they’re just jealous.”

“I know,” said Kelly.

“Kelly, what is it like?” Tina asked.

She’d asked before, and always listened in wonder when Kelly described the path, the other kids, and all those things she didn’t have words for. It was so hard to explain. All she could do was make comparisons.

For example, the things that were up above seemed like pillows felt. She knew the word for light; her mother and her classmates could detect it, a little, but she didn’t know how to describe that great enormous light that moved in the big up, the one that hurt so much to look at.

When she tried, it made people uncomfortable. Especially her mother. She remembered when she’d first told her mom that she didn’t need her cane to avoid bumping into people. She’d thought that would make her mother happy, but it didn’t.

“It sounds so weird,” said Tina.

“Well, I heard my mom talking. I’m going to have an operation. Soon I’ll be like everybody else,” said Kelly.

“That’s good,” her friend replied.

Was it though? Would she miss knowing things, being able to perceive things that other people didn’t? Would she miss being able to hide, to hear things she wasn’t supposed to? 

At first, she’d been happy to be different. It was like she was a superhero, like people in the stories she listened to. She could do something other people couldn’t. She thought at first that that made her special. But she wasn’t special or a superhero. She was a freak.

Kelly wished for the hundredth time she’d kept her secret to herself. But it was too late now.

Would the operation hurt? Thinking about it was so scary. But maybe it was worth it. And she didn’t have a choice, anyway. There was nothing she could do about it. She might as well accept it. 

Maybe the kids would treat her better. Maybe, just maybe, the best thing would happen. Maybe her mother would start loving her. The same way she loved her brother. That was the most important thing. It would be wonderful. 

Kelly sighed. Her textbook sat in front of her. Soon she wouldn’t be able to tell what the little bumps were like except by feeling them. Soon she’d be like everyone else.