Chapter 37 Eliana
ELIANA
af·ter·taste: /?aft?r?tāst/: noun
You can’t really blame me. Dry spells were made to be broken, but Good Lord Almighty, this one was broken in a way that English has not yet developed the words to describe.
I’m giddy and giggly just thinking about it.
Last night was… God, what even was that? I replay it in my head, a vintage movie of my own that will never, ever get old: the marquee with my name, organ music rippling through the air, buttery popcorn on my tongue—
And then Bastian’s tongue on my tongue, and also on my…
Well, yeah.
My thighs clench involuntarily at the memory. Lit in movie theater glow, too beautiful to be believed, there he was, kneeling before me and reminding me of all the things my body becomes when he puts his hands on it.
Putty.
Fire.
Willing.
All in all, it seems very reasonable that I can’t stop grinning.
I grab my phone from the nightstand. I’m somewhere between hoping and dreading a text from him.
It could be casual; that’d be fine. A simple Good morning or Hope you got home safe or literally anything that confirms last night actually happened and wasn’t some fever dream induced by sexual deprivation.
At the same time, a text would force me to acknowledge that this wasn’t a fever dream. And if it wasn’t a fever dream, that means the consequences, whenever they do come, will not be a dream, either.
But my phone is blank. There’s nothing.
I’m not disappointed, though. Who, me? Disappointed. Never. Couldn’t be me. Could never catch me—
Okay, fine. Slightly disappointed.
But that’s silly and I know it, so I’m just gonna pretend like the disappointment is a mild tummy ache and just go on with my day.
It’s a big day in its own right. Because today is the day I go into the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind for my first adaptive equipment orientation session.
I don’t really know what kind of outfit one wears for this sort of thing, so I throw on semi-athleisure-type-stuff: leggings, a quarter-zip sweatshirt, and sneakers. I braid my hair back and check my game face in the mirror.
“You got this, girl,” I say. “… Probably.”
I arrive twenty minutes early, because anxiety and punctuality are like PB don’t you worry. Now, let’s talk about what you can expect as your condition progresses. Dr. Haggerty mentioned you’re already experiencing peripheral vision loss?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s like looking through a tunnel that keeps getting narrower.”
“Mhmm. That’s very normal, Eliana. Over the next several weeks, that tunnel will continue to narrow. You’ll find it harder to navigate crowded spaces, stairs might become trickier, and low-light environments will be especially challenging.”
“Right. Got it. Can’t wait.”
Ani continues, her hands laced together on the desk in front of her. “You might also notice increased difficulty with depth perception—judging distances, reaching for objects, that sort of thing. Colors may start to fade or appear washed out. Bright lights can become uncomfortable, even painful.”
I keep nodding like a bobblehead, mostly because I’m not sure what else to do.
“Some people also report visual disturbances,” Ani adds. “Floaters, flashes of light, shadows that aren’t really there. Is that something you’ve experienced?”
“No, I—” But then I hesitate. “Well, define ‘shadows that aren’t really there.’”
“Like seeing movement in your peripheral vision when nothing’s actually moving,” she explains. “Or patterns that your brain is trying to fill in where your vision is deteriorating.”
“Is it normal to see… I don’t know. Specific things? Like, repeatedly?”
Ani’s eyebrows knit together. “What kind of things?”
“I keep thinking I see this black car. A sedan, with tinted windows. It’s probably nothing. Just stress from work.” I force a laugh. “My job’s been a dreammare in its own right lately, so I’m sure I’m just being paranoid.”
She squints at me for a long moment, like she’s waiting for me to confess about something I’m trying to conceal. Eventually, she relents and leans back. “Hallucinations aren’t typically associated with LCA,” Ani says slowly. “If you’re genuinely seeing—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “Really. Just my overactive imagination working overtime. Can we move on?”
Ani still looks unconvinced, but after a beat, she nods. “Alright. But if you continue experiencing persistent visual disturbances—especially ones that feel consistent or patterned—I want you to call Dr. Haggerty immediately. Promise me?”
“Pinky swear.” But I’m crossing my fingers mentally because I have zero intention of calling anyone about a car that almost certainly doesn’t exist.
“Wonderful.” Ani stands and gestures toward the door. “If you’re ready, we can move into the practical portion. I’ll introduce you to some of the adaptive equipment and give you an overview of the process here.”
“Sure. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
I follow her out of the office and down another hallway. We pass through a set of double doors into what looks like a training area. It’s all very official and real and terrifying.
Ani turns to me with that same warm smile, as if she can hear the anxiety hitting a fever pitch in my head. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow.”
I step out of the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind two hours later with a white cane folded in my purse and a head bursting with information I’m struggling to retain.
The sidewalk stretches before me. Asphalt has never ranked high on my list of fears, but it looks a lot more threatening than it did this morning. People rush past—commuters, joggers, people jogging on their commutes—and I’m supposed to just navigate through all of that? Armed with a stick?
I pull the cane from my bag. It unfolds with a series of clicks that feel embarrassingly loud. A woman passing by glances at me, then quickly looks away.
Arc left, arc right, I remind myself, channeling Ani’s patient instructions. The cane should sweep about two steps ahead of you, shoulder-width.
I try it. The cane promptly hits a crack in the sidewalk and jolts in my hand. I overcorrect, sweeping too wide, and nearly drop it. A businessman in a suit gives me a wide berth and a hastily muttered apology.
I take a breath and try again. This time, the rhythm feels slightly less catastrophic. Arc left, step. Arc right, step.
It’s not confident. It sure as hell is not Misty Copeland in the Nutcracker graceful.
But it’s something.
I walk another block. Then another. The rhythm starts to feel almost natural—arc left, step, arc right, step. My shoulders relax incrementally. The cane taps against the concrete with a steady beat that’s almost meditative.
I’m actually-kinda-sorta killin’ it?
I’m so busy congratulating myself on my newfound competence that I don’t notice the sidewalk’s sudden dip where tree roots have buckled the concrete. My cane sweeps over it without catching.
My foot doesn’t.
One second, I’m walking. The next, my ankle rolls sideways and I’m pitching forward with an agonized yelp.
I hit the ground hard. My palms scrape against rough pavement, taking the brunt of the impact and ripping through my skin in a hot flash. My knee follows with a crack that makes me see stars. The cane clatters away, rolling into the gutter.
For a moment, I just lie there in a heap on the cold sidewalk, breathing hard, my palms stinging and my knee throbbing in time with my pulse.
A jogger stops. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
I want to say yes. I want to say, Call someone, anyone, because I can’t do this.
Instead, I push myself up to sitting and force a smile. “I’m fine. Just still learning.”
The jogger looks uncertain, but she nods and resumes her trot away.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my phone. I don’t call Yasmin. I don’t call my mom.
I call Bastian.
He answers on the first ring. “Eliana?”
“Hi.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just—” My voice breaks. “I fell. On the sidewalk. It’s stupid, I’m fine, I just—”
“Where are you?”
I tell him the intersection.
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
“Bastian, you don’t have to—”
“Stay. There,” he orders. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”