Chapter 5
When I step outside of school after lunch, a couple drops of icy drizzle land right down the back of my neck.
My mom is waiting at the curb, engine idling.
I hustle into the front seat and arrange my backpack at my feet as the car pulls away.
I know most people love getting to miss school, but whenever my mom comes to pick me up early, it always seems to be for something even more unpleasant than the excruciating boredom of health class.
Like getting an HPV vaccine, or passport photos, or, in this case, for an ophthalmologist appointment.
Mr. Price was leaning in through my mom’s passenger-side window the other night after rehearsal, reliving my mortifying moment in detail, and I guess it was alarming enough that my mom decided to take action.
“But, Mom, it’s not that I didn’t see the pole,” I say again, making one more attempt to get out of this unnecessary ordeal. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going,”
“We’re going to get you checked out,” she says firmly.
“But, Mom, I swear, I was just … distracted.” The bulk of my ponytail is uncomfortable against the car’s headrest. I pull out the rubber band and start winding a low braid, taking my frustration out on each section of hair as I yank it tight.
“Henrietta, please. With your father’s history? Frankly, we’re overdue on this.”
She clearly wants to have this appointment to rule out the possibility of blindness.
But she doesn’t have all the data points I do, experiences that suggest this appointment might do the exact opposite.
It might rule it in. One thing she doesn’t know, for example, is that when I go to the movies with my friends I always make sure to get there early, because if the lights are already dimmed I’ll get stranded in the aisle while the people I’m with evaporate.
Then I’ll have to start fumbling around for armrests until one of my friends finally notices and grabs me, jokingly asking if I’m drunk.
I’m so familiar with that feeling, the one where I’m the biggest dork in the world, and I definitely do not want some doctor to tell me that soon I’m going to feel that way all the time.
Because there was a chance of a thunderstorm, Mom picked me up thirty minutes earlier than she needed to, and now we’re almost forty-five minutes early to my appointment.
Apparently, according to my mom, this doctor is at the forefront of retinal diseases, and so we drove the fifty miles to Upstate Medical Center to see her.
We walk in the office, and everyone else in the waiting room is about two hundred years old.
I can’t possibly belong here, can I? One of the ancient ladies looks up at me sort of shocked, clearly thinking the same thing, like I must be there to cause trouble or walk on her flower bed or something.
I stifle an urge to give her the finger.
In fact, I want to give the whole office the finger.
The very best possible outcome of this appointment is that we’re here for no reason, which is preferable, but also dumb.
When my mom planned this lovely early arrival, she was definitely not factoring in how much time it would leave for panicking.
I sit there with my Global Studies book open, not reading it, not even really thinking, just sort of clenching my whole body.
I try to think about my upcoming night with Richard, what I will wear and what the first thing I say should be, but the reality of my surroundings makes it impossible.
My heart feels like it’s bracing itself for an oncoming blow.
Every five minutes or so, a nurse appears at the door with a clipboard and calls out a name that isn’t mine.
Then one of my waiting room companions, decrepit and crumbling, starts the process of gathering up their purse and sweater and scarf and mittens and entire wardrobe that they have piled on the chair next to them, double-checking for their purse, and then shuffling inch by inch across the waiting room carpet.
It’s like a performance art piece to show what forever looks like.
Finally, the clipboard has my name on it. I slip my book in my backpack, zip it, and stand up. I’ve kept my jacket on, even though I realize now that I’ve been hot this whole time.
“Should I come with you?” My mom moves to get out of her chair.
“No,” I say, without turning my head toward her. Let’s get this over with.
They take me back to a low-lit room with a contraption that looks like a bowl suspended on its side. In front of the bowl is a little chin rest lined with clean gauze, a flat bar several inches above to lean your forehead into, and a chair. Your standard torture device.
I hear clicking and make out a technician sitting in the corner on a computer, inputting data or something. He’s big, with massive legs and shoulders, like his only other activity besides checking eyes is pumping iron, like he might even be scary if he didn’t have scrubs on. I cough.
The technician looks up. “Henrietta?” he asks in a deep voice that goes with his frame. I hate it when people call me by my full name, but that’s what’s on every official form in the world, so if they don’t know me personally, that’s what they call me.
I give a smile that doesn’t turn up at the corners. “Here,” I say.
“Have a seat. We’re going to do a periphery test before we dilate your eyes. It’s sort of a game.” He hands me a plastic joystick attached to a cord. “Go ahead and relax onto the chin rest and stare directly at the red dot in the middle of the field.”
I follow directions and suppress a snort at the idea that anything about this could be relaxing.
“Okay,” he continues, “you are going to focus directly on the dot for the duration of the test. Don’t let your gaze wander. Whenever you see a point of light enter your field of vision, click the button.”
“Well, I usually prefer a virtual reality headset, but I’ll give it a try,” I say, attempting to be cute, but I get no response.
The bowl starts to hum. In a second I see what looks like a laser pointer light out of the corner of my eye.
It’s hard not to look directly at it, to keep focused on the center dot.
I click. A few seconds later another light comes wandering down from the top. I click again.
The clicking goes on for another ten minutes.
I forget that this is a diagnostic test to get an accurate understanding of my vision.
The overachiever in me takes over. I just want to do well.
I want to catch all the little lights as soon as possible, which makes it hard not to look around, so every few seconds, I have to rededicate myself to the center dot.
In the middle of the test, the timing changes.
There are a few long stretches where I don’t see any lights.
I get the distinct impression that the technician is holding his breath.
I decide to click anyway, even though I can’t see anything, because there is definitely something out there that I’m missing.
I know I’m messing up the results, but I can’t help myself.
Whatever cheating I did doesn’t help, though, because when the technician walks me out of the room, his face looks forced, like he’s making an effort to be neutral. I failed that shit so hard.
We go into a bright little room and I’m left with a new babysitter.
“I’m going to put two sets of drops in your eyes now,” she says through smacks of gum.
“The first set is to numb your eyes so the dilation drops don’t sting.
” Turns out both sets of drops sting, so thanks for nothing.
Then she deposits me in yet another, smaller waiting room for people already dilated.
The lights are off here, which I appreciate, because I can already feel how sensitive my eyes are getting.
I mentally dub this place “The Holding Cell of Pathetic Blobs” because our eyes are all out of focus and we can’t really do anything that a person would normally do in a waiting room—can’t read, can’t look at our phones.
Even looking at the TV mounted near the ceiling gives me a headache.
My brain is trying hard to adjust pupils that are now completely out of its control.
I feel nauseous. I look around to see how the other pathetic blobs are feeling.
There’s an old man with a cane between his knees that he taps on the floor whenever he clears his throat, which is often.
The slowest purse gatherer from the outer waiting room is here, too, wearing dark glasses and sitting motionless with her hands folded in her lap.
Now the purse lady hasn’t moved in the last five minutes.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s dead, I think, then feel bad for it.
We, the dilated, are silently bonded in our uncomfortable prison.
We should be on the same pathetic team. I almost reach out to touch her hand.
I want my mom like I’m five years old. But she’s still out front, where I told her to stay.
And where is Richard right now? When I left the first waiting room it was already after two, so the dismissal bell probably just rang.
He might be hanging by his locker, loitering until the river of pimply humans eases up at the front entrance.
Or he might be climbing onto the bus, doling out smiles to all the girls already in their seats.
Or—I can’t even—Amanda might be giving him a ride home again.
The helplessness that overwhelms me makes me stand up.
But there’s nowhere to go, so I sit back down again. The other blobs don’t seem to notice.