“Mom,” I interject. “I’m sure Dr. Smith will let you guys see me before they take me to the OR.”
Though, it wouldn’t be so horrible for me if he didn’t.
“Don’t worry, Della,” the doc chimes in. “I’ll make sure you see him before we take him back.”
With a little more patient coaxing, my brother and stepdad manage to scoot my mom out of my room, and I’m left alone with Dr. Smith.
He fiddles in front of my face, pulling open the lids of each eye as he examines them.
“Making sure I really can’t see before you give me the eyes?” I tease nervously. “The paperwork for that kind of fuckup is probably never-ending.”
“It would be,” he says, humoring me. “And I hate paperwork. Consequently, you can be sure I’ll do my absolute best to make sure this goes off without a hitch, okay?”
He’s coddling me, playing into my jokes to soothe my nerves, but for the first time since I lost my sight, I’m happy to have someone’s pity.
I’m anxious and unsettled, and I’m not sure I’d be able to find my own ass at this point if someone asked me to.
“Appreciate it. I’d really hate to have to haunt you.” An amused chuckle falls from his lips, and I take a deep, audible breath while he’s providing the sound bite to cover it.
“I’ll certainly miss your supply of sarcasm.”
“Aw. Are you breaking up with me, Doc?”
“Yes,” he says. “Obviously, we’ll have several follow-up appointments after the surgery to monitor your progress, but I don’t envision anything but a successful transplant. I’ll be nothing but a bad ex-girlfriend to you soon enough.”
A successful transplant.
God. There’s really a chance. A chance I’ll be free of the stigma of being the blind painter who can’t paint.
I’ll simply be Ansel again.
It’s hard to feel deserving of something as monumental as this, but I’m going to do my best to make the most of it. Starting with acknowledging that in order for me to be where I am today—being given this gift—someone else had to lose all of their tomorrows.
“Dr. Smith?”
“Yes, Ansel?”
“Can I have a minute before you bring my family back in?”
“Ansel, I know I can’t promise you a perfect outcome, but I assure you we wouldn’t be attempting this today if I weren’t confident—”
“It’s not that,” I interrupt and swallow thickly. “I’d just like to write a letter to the donor’s family.”
“You don’t have to do that now. You’re deserving of this, and you’re not the reason for their misfortune. It’s just a part of life.”
“I know, Doc. Or, at least, I’m trying to. But if I don’t write it now, I don’t know that I’ll ever properly put into words what this means to me. I might forget… I’m afraid I’ll forget what this is like. What it’s like to be a man…” I choke on the words, and emotion I didn’t know I still had bubbles up.
Dr. Smith is nice enough to pretend he doesn’t notice.
“Do you want me to write it for you?”
“No,” I say, my voice softly dancing around the emotion in my throat. “I need to be the one who writes it.”
Without question, he hands me a sheet of paper and a pen and promises to make sure it gets to the proper people at the donor organization when I’m done.
It doesn’t matter that I can’t see the paper or the pen.
I need to write this down even if it’s a fucking mess of words.
I trace the edges of the page with my fingertip and guide my pen to the top left corner of the sheet of paper. Using my free hand as a guide for straight lines and to prevent myself from writing words on top of each other, I bleed words onto the page just like I used to bleed colors onto the canvas. There’s no overthinking or questioning; it just is.
The day is a gift whether the surgery is a success or not, and I want the people who loved my donor to know that.
Four Years Later
Ansel
Three knocks rap against the closed door of my studio, and I sigh.
Apparently, my assistant doesn’t understand what no distractions means. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Lucy’s priorities have nothing to do with her role as my assistant. Half the time, people who come to my studio don’t even realize she works here. They probably just assume she’s some sort of social media influencer wasting time in my lobby by taking cleavage shots.
Another two knocks ring out, and I ignore whoever is on the other side and focus my gaze back on the half-painted canvas in front of me.
As if my hand is on autopilot, I watch as it gently creates the soft lines of her hair. Stroke after stroke, dark brown and honey-beige and gold combine to make the flowing locks that cascade down her back.