Blindsided (5 page)

But Natalie didn’t
want
a cane. She didn’t
need
a cane. What would her friends think if they saw her right now? Would she even want to tell Meredith about this?

The instructor, Miss Audra, patiently repeated the instructions. “Just choose one,” she urged. She was a young teacher. From what Natalie could see of Miss Audra, she was petite—probably no taller than Natalie herself—and Natalie had glimpsed a long braid down the instructor’s back.

“Select one and let’s see if it’s the right length,” Miss Audra prodded.

Natalie reached out, her fingers quivering, hesitating because she didn’t want to touch a cane, let alone use it. Finally, she grabbed one, yanking it off the hook so fiercely that she knocked several other canes onto the floor with a loud clatter.

“Don’t worry, we’ll pick them up later,” Miss Audra said, unfazed by the noise and the mess. “Focus on the cane in your hand, Natalie.”

Natalie tapped the cane tip on the floor—a little too hard probably—and could tell it had a stationary pencil tip, as opposed to the canes that had a little wheel that rolled when the cane moved side to side.

“Is that the kind you want?” Miss Audra asked.

Want? I don’t want a cane!
Natalie screamed silently to herself.

“All right, then.” Miss Audra’s voice maintained its calm despite the lack of response from Natalie. “Let’s see if it’s the right size. Stand up tall, Natalie, shoulders back, and hold the cane in front of you. Closer. That’s it. What did we just talk about? If it’s up to your breastbone, up to your armpit, it’s the right length. What do you think?”

The cane was slightly higher than her waist. Must be for a midget, Natalie thought a bit snidely. Or a small child, she realized.

“No,” Miss Audra said when Natalie maintained her silence. “It’s not the right one for you, is it? It’s
way
too short.”

Natalie fumbled around for another cane. By feeling bumps along its length she could tell it was the folding type, which most students had. The tip was straight, no roller, and it came up to her armpit.

“How about that one?” Miss Audra asked.

Natalie nodded, barely, but her heart was pounding and the blood throbbing in her temples. If she learned how to use that cane there would be no going back. She would be giving in. Admitting to the problem. Opening the door to loathsome blindness. Afraid, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out how it would look, and what it would mean.

“All right, then. That’s your cane. It has three parts: the grip, the stem—some people call it the shaft—and the tip. When we’re finished today, take this cane back to your room. A lot of the kids put something on the handle, the grip, to identify it as theirs. A ribbon or some yarn, a key chain maybe.”

Identify it as hers? Natalie almost laughed. No way!

“And
please
,” Miss Audra emphasized, “keep the cane in a special place in your room, Natalie.
Always
in the same place so you know where it is. When you have O and M—Orientation and Mobility class—you need to bring it with you.”

If she lost it, she’d be glad, Natalie thought.

“Now,” Miss Audra continued, “a cane is really just an extension of your finger—a way of telling you what’s coming up. Let’s have you put the sleep shade on and get out into the hall and try it.”

But when Miss Audra handed Natalie the spongy black mask, Natalie drew the line. She did not want to blind herself with the shade and take the cane into the hall and try it. She certainly did not want to take the cane back to her room and find a special place for it. Tears welled in Natalie’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

“Natalie, what’s wrong?” Miss Audra put an arm around Natalie’s shoulders and guided her to a chair. “Here, sit down.
Please.
Talk to me.”

Natalie sat and held the sleep shade in her lap.

“What is it, Natalie?”

“It’s just that . . . I don’t want a cane,” she said finally. “I don’t want to learn how to use it.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?!”
Natalie swung her head around and screwed up her face, repeating the question as though Miss Audra was crazy to ask it.

“Yes. Why not?”

“Because I’m not blind! Because I don’t need a cane. Because I don’t want to lose my freedom!”

“Lose your freedom?” Miss Audra didn’t miss a beat.

“Yes!” Natalie insisted, frustrated that Miss Audra didn’t seem to understand. “The minute I use that cane, people will look at me like
Whoa, she’s disabled!
”

“But Natalie—”

“I don’t
want
people looking at me like I’m weird! Like I’m a freak!” Natalie put a hand up to her mouth, surprised at herself for saying those things out loud. What a hypocrite! What was happening to her? Wasn’t it Natalie who wanted the student council to convene a special panel of the handicapped students back at Western Allegany High School? So they could educate the other kids about their disabilities? She had worked hard to convince each one of those students—Peter Maxwell, who used a wheelchair; Claire McDermott, who was deaf; and Britney Tedesco, who had dyslexia—to take part. Each of them had finally agreed to sit at a table, as a panel, and pass a microphone, to answer questions and talk about their disabilities. Natalie had arranged the whole thing and here she was calling those great kids
freaks
. The shame of it quashed her anger. And in the silence that followed, Natalie dropped her head.

Miss Audra paused before continuing in her steady voice, “Surely you know what the report says about your eyesight, Natalie. In the event that you lose the rest of your vision, we want you to be ready. That is why you are here. So that you will have some skills when the day comes—”

“
If
the day comes,” Natalie interrupted.

“Okay,
if
the day comes. So you aren’t totally helpless.” She paused again. “You don’t want to be helpless, do you?”

No. Slowly, Natalie shook her head. She did not ever want to be helpless. She was already helpless enough.

Miss Audra touched one of Natalie’s knees. “Then let us prepare you, Natalie. Let us give you the skills you will need
in case that day comes.
”

She sounded so earnest, so sincere that Natalie wanted to soften, but she couldn’t.

“Who is your doctor, Natalie? Someone in Baltimore?”

“No,” Natalie replied. “It’s Dr. Rose, in Rockville.”

“What did Dr. Rose tell you, Natalie?”

Natalie began chewing on her bottom lip. She didn’t want to repeat, or even think about, what Dr. Rose had told her because that’s when it really started. The big change inside. The panic. The
fear
. . .

Suddenly, the phone rang—a rude intrusion—and Miss Audra touched Natalie’s knee again. “Would you excuse me for a minute, Natalie? I’ve been waiting for that call and I need to take it. I won’t be a minute.”

Natalie quickly nodded. Then, as soon as her instructor walked away, Natalie stood up and bolted from the room.

S
he hoped no one was watching. Quickly, Natalie made her way down to the first floor of the building and out the door, where she grabbed the brass handrail and guided herself to the bottom step. Without time to move her head around and focus, everything was a blur, but Natalie remembered the picnic tables off to one side where the first-day reception had been held. She found an empty table, didn’t hear or sense that anyone else was there, and sat down. Sucking in fresh air, she pressed her hands together between her knees and hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for taking off like that. But she did not want to even
think
about what Dr. Rose had said because he had let her down. Big time.

Although—and Natalie had to admit this—Dr. Rose had never actually
promised
. No. All those years, when the piercing light was finally out of her eyes and the tools put to one side, Dr. Rose had never actually promised that she would not go blind. Something more uplifting such as, “We’ll hope for the best,” or her favorite,
“We’ll see,”
always concluded the examination.

But on August 19, three weeks ago, there it was. A diagnosis dropped in her lap one Tuesday morning like a hundred pounds of cement. Dead, foreboding, unwanted weight. There was no escaping it.

“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Rose had said gently. “But there’s nothing more anyone can do, Natalie. Absolutely nothing. I’m afraid you’re going to lose your sight completely.”

Natalie felt the air go out of the room. Her wide, disbelieving eyes searched frantically for his face. It wasn’t easy, sitting so close to him. She had to pull her head back to widen her range of vision. But there he was—the shiny bald head, the thick forehead wrinkles, and the soft and serious gray eyes that, behind gold-rimmed glasses, never lied.

It was her mother who had spoken first, from a seat somewhere behind Natalie. “When?” she had asked. Her voice wavered in the heavy silence that had filled the room. “How much time?”

Dr. Rose removed and folded his glasses, then tucked them into a chest pocket of the white lab coat he wore. “To be honest, it could be several months. My best guess, however, is that Natalie will lose her sight within a few weeks. It could, quite literally, disappear overnight.”

Natalie put a hand to her mouth.

“It’s important—
crucial
,” Dr. Rose emphasized, “that she get all the help she can right now. We’ve talked about this before but there’s no question anymore, and no time to waste.”

“The school for the blind?” Natalie’s mother asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Rose affirmed. “Immediately. I’d get her there for the start of the school year if I were you. It’s only a couple weeks away, but we can certainly make some calls for you.”

“I’m going to be a sophomore, though, I can’t—” Natalie started to protest. And that’s when the tears came. Suddenly, and without grace. Not sniffles, either, but huge, heaving sobs. Her mother rushed to put an arm around her shoulders, and Dr. Rose quickly handed her a tissue, which Natalie pressed to her eyes.

“You always said—that there was hope,” Natalie sputtered.

Dr. Rose nodded as he plucked more tissues from the box. “I did,” he agreed.

“You told me—you said things would be okay!” she accused.

“And they will, Natalie, they
will
.” His big hands gathered and encapsulated Natalie’s two limp fists until she had calmed herself. “But I never promised that you wouldn’t lose your sight.”

M
ost of you know me already. Yes, I know. Serena Benson, she is back again. This is my second—and
final
year here—yay!” Serena, sitting cross-legged on the living-room couch, raised her arms in mock victory. She had volunteered to begin the introductions at the dorm meeting and seemed to revel in telling the others a little bit about herself.

“I like the color black and I like tight jeans,” Serena continued, pausing for laughter. “I also like to dance. I hate hypocrites, mean people, stewed tomatoes, Monday mornings, and winter in general. Oh, and I love to read. I am a
huge
Stephen King fan.”

There were sixteen girls in the dorm, so it took a while to go around the circle. Natalie found herself tuning in and out. She wanted to know who the girls were, yes, sure she did, but she didn’t want them for friends. Not
real
friends that she could confide in and laugh with. And she didn’t want to be here period, so trying to remember names was like planting a stake. With her right hand, she fished around in her pocket, found the pink stone, and ran her thumb across the letters: H—O—P—E.

Other girls, other names. Maya. Carlisa. Anna. It was difficult for Natalie to see the girls’ faces clearly, but she was able to notice that a couple were African-American, and that one appeared Asian. They came from all over the state, including some counties with funny names like Cecil and Wicomico. And it was obvious that some of the girls had disabilities other than blindness, but none were acknowledged.