“It’s nothing,” I said.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“I’m a doctor,” he said. “Are you ill?”
“No. Well. I mean, sort of.”
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. I was in the city for a convention.”
“Oh, it’s just a problem with my eyes. An allergy.”
“Ah. Well, I did notice they were a little runny. Teary.”
Embarrassed and a little alarmed, I wiped at my eyes.
“This convention,” the doctor continued, “you’ve never seen so many bone guys in one place. Orthopedic doctors have a bad reputation. They say we’re butchers. But that’s not it at all. Yes, some of it is blunt work. But with technology, it’s becoming more delicate. It’s not just fixing broken bones, you know.”
I did not want to ask him if he knew anything about fixing broken eyes—in fact, I did not believe my eyes were broken. But they were obviously in some real peril. (In fact, they were dying.)
He went on. “My wife doesn’t like it when I leave. She gets terribly worried.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sue.”
“That’s a nice name. Does she live in Buffalo or New York City?”
“She lives in Buffalo. With her parents.”
“Is she in school?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice. It must be hard, though, to be away from your sweetie.”
I thought of all the letters we had written to each other. “Yes,” I said, “it is hard.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? Your eyes look red, a little swollen.” I sensed the doctor moving in closer to examine my face. I felt ugly and ashamed. Without thinking, I pushed my suitcase out with a knee to put more distance between us.
The train was now going through the countryside up along the Hudson River toward Albany. We were outside of time. The country air would have been refreshing, but the windows were closed. The land, what I could see of it, was mottled with snow and seemed to stretch forever.
The doctor took out a sandwich: peanut butter and jelly. A small carton of whole milk. A sugar cookie. I smelled all these things, and even though I was still confident that my problem would be fixed, I wondered anyway if I would become a better smeller, and a better thinker. I had just left college halfway through my junior year, without finishing my examinations. My grades would be shot, but perhaps there would be some sort of dispensation since my eye problem would certainly prove to be a legitimate medical condition. Though, of course, a treatable one. I would have to get a physician’s note.
I was worried about my mother and my family, too. My father had passed away when I was such a young boy that I had had to become the head of the family. Though my mother remarried, I felt—I knew—that everyone in the family looked up to me, and I was well aware that I was supposed to be strong. But this most recent episode was a chink in my armor. I hadn’t yet told my mother how bad things were, but when I got home, I would have to. Perhaps I would simply tell her straight out that I had temporarily lost my vision but that things seemed to be coming back to normal. Or so I hoped would be the case.
“I would offer you some of my lunch,” the doctor said as the train rolled on, “but I’m not sure you would accept it.”
“No, no thank you,” I said. I did not ask the doctor why he thought I would not accept it.
“Do you have something to eat? A snack? A candy bar? I think you could buy one if you want. They sell them on the train.” I was aware of that, but I did not want to get up and bang myself going through the aisles. My vision was still quite muddy. My soul was muddy as well. I found this extreme physical caution disgraceful.
“I don’t like to see a young man go hungry,” the doctor said.
“I’m not hungry, sir. I’m okay, actually. Thank you.”
“Still …”
“Really, it’s fine.”
The doctor broke off half of his cookie. “Here,” he said, “take half. I can’t bear to see you not eat.”
“No, really,” I said. I felt as if there was a twig in my throat.
“Honestly,” said the doctor. “I have a son. It would upset me terribly if he were hungry and not eating on a train. It’s such a long ride. And I can see that you’ve left in haste.”
“I’m fine, sir. I’m okay.”
“Please,” the doctor said, and in this last request there was desperation.
I did not answer, but he leaned forward, with half the cookie in his surgeon’s hands. I sensed this and was unable to stop myself from leaning forward a bit, too, my long legs pressed up against my suitcase. I opened my mouth, and the doctor placed the cookie partway on my teeth. I took a bite; the sweetness seemed almost unbearable. My stomach was completely empty, and the sugar in the cookie, once I swallowed, hit me with force. I felt as if I had run a long distance and was now at home, relaxed, muscles feeling sore but good.
The doctor took my hand, opened it, placed the rest of the cookie in my palm, then closed my fingers around it. “Please finish it,” he said. “If you were my son, I would very much want you to. It would kill me if you didn’t. That’s what I would want my boy to do.”
I obeyed. I was terribly hungry and ate the rest of the cookie quickly.
