“Then if my eye is fine,” she asked, disliking the whine in her voice, “and the eyePod is fine, how come everything is blurry?”
Kuroda’s tone was light, amused. “Because, my dear Miss Caitlin, you’re myopic.”
She sagged back against the wooden chair. She knew the word, having encountered it countless times in online news stories about “myopic city planners” and things like that, but had never realized it could be literal.
Kuroda turned his head away from her. “Barbara, I’ve not seen you wear glasses.”
“I wear contacts,” she said.
“And you’re myopic, too, right?”
“Yes.”
Kuroda swung back to face Caitlin. “That darn heredity,” he said. “What you need, Miss Caitlin, is a pair of glasses.”
Caitlin found herself laughing. “Is that all?”
“I’d bet money,” said Kuroda. “Of course, you’ll need to see an optometrist to get the right prescription — and you should make an appointment to see an ophthalmologist for a full eye exam.”
“There’s a LensCrafters at Fairview Park Mall,” her mom said, “and they’ve got an optometrist right next door.”
“Well, then,” said Kuroda, “let me utter the words my own daughter thought I’d never say: let’s go to the mall!”
The eye test was humiliating. Caitlin knew the shapes of the letters of the alphabet — she’d played with wooden cutouts of them at the Texas School for the Blind when she’d been young — but she still didn’t connect those tactile things to visual images.
The optometrist asked her to read the third line down. Even though she could now clearly see it, thanks to the lens he’d slipped in front of her eye, she couldn’t tell what it said. Tears were welling up — and, damn it all, that just made things blurry again!
Her mother was in the little examining room, and so was Dr. Kuroda. “She can’t read English,” she said.
The optometrist had skin the same color as Bashira’s, and an accent like hers, too. “Oh, well, Cyrillic, maybe? I have another chart…”
“No. She was blind until yesterday.”
“Really?” said the man.
“Yes.”
“God is great,” he said.
Caitlin’s mother looked over at her daughter and smiled. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes, he is.”
The LensCrafters saleswoman — who also had dark brown skin, Caitlin saw, and was wearing a white blouse under a blue blazer — wanted to help her pick out the absolutely perfect frames, and Caitlin knew she should be patient. After all, she was going to have to wear glasses forever. But finally she just said to her, “You pick something nice,” and she did.
They decided to put a lens with an identical prescription in the right side, even though Caitlin was still blind in that eye. Lenses for myopia tended to shrink the appearance of eyes, and this way they’d both look the same, the saleswoman said.
Her mom was usually a tough up-sell, but she said yes, yes, yes to everything the clerk offered: antiglare, antiscratch, anti-UV, the whole nine yards; Caitlin suspected if the clerk had rattled off an extra hundred bucks for antediluvian, she’d have coughed up for that, too.
Caitlin knew LensCrafters’ slogan from the ubiquitous commercials: glasses in about an hour. She thought it would be the longest hour of her life. She felt her Braille watch as she, Kuroda, and her mom walked through the mall to the food court — for the first time, without the use of her white cane. Everything was still blurry, and that was giving her a headache. Still, in a way, it was relaxing. To see the people coming toward her! To not bump into things! She hadn’t realized it until now, but she’d always used to walk with her shoulders tensed, preparing for an impact. But now — well, now she had a bounce in her step, something else she’d never thought could happen literally.
Still, all the visual input was disorienting, and she found herself taking a look, then closing her eyes for five or six paces, then looking again. When they got to the food court, Kuroda went to the sushi place — which, Caitlin suspected, would disappoint him — and she and her mom went to Subway. Caitlin was amazed to see how colorful the sandwich fillings were, and, somehow, seeing the food made it taste even better.
The three of them sat together at a little red table with chairs attached to it. Dr. Kuroda used chopsticks to dip a piece of sushi in sauce.
Caitlin couldn’t resist. “Do they tell you in Japan that it’s raw fish?”
Kuroda smiled. “Do they tell you what’s in the special sauce on a Big Mac?”
She laughed. At last the hour was up and they headed back to LensCrafters. Caitlin took a seat on the stool, and the nice woman placed the glasses on her face—
And Caitlin didn’t wait. She got up, and turned around, and looked — really looked — at her mother.
“Wow,” Caitlin said. She paused, trying to come up with a better word, but couldn’t. Her mother’s face was so detailed, so alive! “Wow!”
“Here, let me adjust how they sit…” said the clerk.
Caitlin sat back down and swiveled to face her.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but your ears go up a bit when you smile like that. If you want me to get the frames adjusted properly, you’ll have to stop grinning…”
“I’ll try,” Caitlin said, but she doubted she’d have much success.
Chapter 34
Suddenly everything became sharp. The images I was seeing were now…
I struggled for an analogy, found one: just as when I thought intently about things they seemed more focused, so the images I was looking at seemed now.
And, with this greater clarity, I started having revelations about the nature of the other realm. Unlike the lines in my world that flickered in and out of existence, objects in the other realm were permanent. And when objects disappeared for a time it didn’t mean that they had ceased to exist; rather, they were extant but not currently visible and might be encountered again. In a way, that was similar to my own experience: when I’m not making a line to a particular point, the point is still there, and I can connect to it again at a later time.
But my next breakthrough was without precedent in the realm in which I existed. I had a sense of space, of a volume that I encompassed, but the points I connected to were all the same arbitrary distance away, or whole multiples of that same distance. I could link directly to a point, meaning it was one unit away, or get to it through intermediate points, putting it two or more units away. But in this other realm objects could recede in infinitely fine increments, becoming apparently smaller in size, a fact I only belatedly recognized after originally thinking they were actually shrinking. And objects could pass behind each other. Most were opaque, but some were transparent or translucent — and those had been instrumental in letting me at least start to figure out what was going on.
Bit by bit, I was learning to decode this other universe.
When Caitlin, her mom, and Dr. Kuroda returned from the mall, they saw that Caitlin’s father’s car was here,
