mother had told her the colors years ago.
The image lasted perhaps a minute, during which Karen sat transfixed on the edge of her bed, drinking it in. Then it began to blur. . . and fade.
And the headache started.
She lay back awhile, eyes closed, the geranium's image still fixed in her mind. Then she sat up and called her father, the clean scent of blossoms sweetening the storm's cloying breath.
She told him over the phone about seeing the geranium and knew from his voice that he was crying. Not just because of her first episode of clear vision, Karen knew, but because of Elizabeth, too. Even now, sixteen years later, he missed Karen's mother as if she had passed on only yesterday. She should have been here to share in this moment.
Sniffling, he said he'd be right over.
Karen replaced the dark glasses and waited on the porch. She could already hear the truck roaring up the half mile of dirt road. . . but she stifled the urge to peek. The next thing she wanted to see was her dad.
"In color?" he asked as he stumbled up the steps to embrace her.
"Yes!" she told him brightly. "Red and green! And they're just as you described them."
This was a fib, and Albert in his silence seemed to know it. He had spent hours with Karen as a child, striving with his farmer's vocabulary to describe colors, comparing them to moods and feelings and the various earthy things Karen could feel and smell. She realized now that to appreciate color it had to be seen. . . but the fib was her way of thanking him for trying.
"Come on inside," she said, tugging him by the jacket sleeve. "I want to try something."
Slipping off his muddy wellingtons, Albert followed her in.
"Sit over here," Karen instructed excitedly, indicating a press-back chair at the kitchen table.
What's up, kid?" he asked, obeying her command.
Karen knelt before him, sinking to her haunches. In a quick, nervous motion she flipped off the glasses.
Blinked.
Blinked again.
To Albert, her new eyes (so blue, he thought, still astonished at the color change) seemed unfocused, striking him somewhere in the vicinity of his stubbled chin. . .
Then they flickered up and fixed on his, filling with tears as that unmistakable glint of recognition registered in their blueness.
She touched his cheek with her hand. "It's you," she said in a whisper, the image already fading. "It's really you. . ."
Albert Lockhart lifted his daughter to her feet and held her. He held her for a long time.
Karen slept that afternoon, a sleep partially induced by the pills Burkowitz had prescribed for the headaches.
But the deep, dreamless slumber of that rainy mid-May Sunday resulted mostly from chronic fatigue. Since her surgery almost two months ago, Karen had spent scarcely a night without waking at least once before morning. That, combined with the steady gnaw of apprehension over the transplants, made her eventual crash inevitable.
The crash came that afternoon, and Karen welcomed it.
It was nighttime when she awoke. Crickets chirred but only irregularly, their song stripped of its usual spring vigor by the unseasonably cool air. The geranium was a sleepy silhouette in the moonlit window, the moon itself a shiny copper button sewn into the lining of a huge navy cap.
And Karen could see it all.
She felt lightheaded and tingly before she realized she was holding her breath. She chuckled at the idea that it was dark at night.
She believed in miracles.
She stood then and did something that she had never done for herself before now—she turned on a light. The low-wattage glow of the bedside lamp was yellow, and she added that to her burgeoning collection of colors. Around her, articles winked into shadowy relief—the brass bed on which she sat; the antique bedroom set: dresser, highboy, oval-mirrored vanity. . .
The mirror.
Karen began to shiver. Now that the one thing she had wanted more than any other—to see herself—was hers for the taking, she was terrified.
What if I'm ugly? she
The image lasted perhaps a minute, during which Karen sat transfixed on the edge of her bed, drinking it in. Then it began to blur. . . and fade.
And the headache started.
She lay back awhile, eyes closed, the geranium's image still fixed in her mind. Then she sat up and called her father, the clean scent of blossoms sweetening the storm's cloying breath.
She told him over the phone about seeing the geranium and knew from his voice that he was crying. Not just because of her first episode of clear vision, Karen knew, but because of Elizabeth, too. Even now, sixteen years later, he missed Karen's mother as if she had passed on only yesterday. She should have been here to share in this moment.
Sniffling, he said he'd be right over.
Karen replaced the dark glasses and waited on the porch. She could already hear the truck roaring up the half mile of dirt road. . . but she stifled the urge to peek. The next thing she wanted to see was her dad.
"In color?" he asked as he stumbled up the steps to embrace her.
"Yes!" she told him brightly. "Red and green! And they're just as you described them."
This was a fib, and Albert in his silence seemed to know it. He had spent hours with Karen as a child, striving with his farmer's vocabulary to describe colors, comparing them to moods and feelings and the various earthy things Karen could feel and smell. She realized now that to appreciate color it had to be seen. . . but the fib was her way of thanking him for trying.
"Come on inside," she said, tugging him by the jacket sleeve. "I want to try something."
Slipping off his muddy wellingtons, Albert followed her in.
"Sit over here," Karen instructed excitedly, indicating a press-back chair at the kitchen table.
What's up, kid?" he asked, obeying her command.
Karen knelt before him, sinking to her haunches. In a quick, nervous motion she flipped off the glasses.
Blinked.
Blinked again.
To Albert, her new eyes (so blue, he thought, still astonished at the color change) seemed unfocused, striking him somewhere in the vicinity of his stubbled chin. . .
Then they flickered up and fixed on his, filling with tears as that unmistakable glint of recognition registered in their blueness.
She touched his cheek with her hand. "It's you," she said in a whisper, the image already fading. "It's really you. . ."
Albert Lockhart lifted his daughter to her feet and held her. He held her for a long time.
Karen slept that afternoon, a sleep partially induced by the pills Burkowitz had prescribed for the headaches.
But the deep, dreamless slumber of that rainy mid-May Sunday resulted mostly from chronic fatigue. Since her surgery almost two months ago, Karen had spent scarcely a night without waking at least once before morning. That, combined with the steady gnaw of apprehension over the transplants, made her eventual crash inevitable.
The crash came that afternoon, and Karen welcomed it.
It was nighttime when she awoke. Crickets chirred but only irregularly, their song stripped of its usual spring vigor by the unseasonably cool air. The geranium was a sleepy silhouette in the moonlit window, the moon itself a shiny copper button sewn into the lining of a huge navy cap.
And Karen could see it all.
She felt lightheaded and tingly before she realized she was holding her breath. She chuckled at the idea that it was dark at night.
She believed in miracles.
She stood then and did something that she had never done for herself before now—she turned on a light. The low-wattage glow of the bedside lamp was yellow, and she added that to her burgeoning collection of colors. Around her, articles winked into shadowy relief—the brass bed on which she sat; the antique bedroom set: dresser, highboy, oval-mirrored vanity. . .
The mirror.
Karen began to shiver. Now that the one thing she had wanted more than any other—to see herself—was hers for the taking, she was terrified.
What if I'm ugly? she
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