fretted. Really grotesque? What if God's little joke didn't end with the blindness? What if the blindness was His way of sparing me the horror of witnessing my own image?
She looked down at her hands, seeing them plainly for the first time. The tight skin and sharply defined angles suggested the strength she knew them to possess.
Good hands, she thought.
She glanced again at the mirror. Still in focus. She could see a section of the north wall reflected in its depths.
But for how much longer? What if the image faded like her father's had and just never came back?
Coward. . .
She stood, battling vertigo. After twenty-eight years she was about to meet Karen Lockhart, blind author.
She shifted in front of the mirror, eyes closed to slits.
A delicate white form flickered into the framing oval. It seemed to fade, then solidified into—
Me.
Karen opened her eyes and beheld herself. She stood motionless for a long while, not blinking, not breathing, fearful that the slightest disruption might shatter the image into ripples.
Then, hesitantly, she stepped forward, her whole body quivering with delight as the girl in the reflective oval grew larger and clearer.
She sat on the stool, leaned forward on her elbows, and studied the face she had lived with all of her life but had never seen.
How many times had she sat on, this very stool, probing the contours of her face with curious fingertips, trying in vain to sculpt in her mind an image of what she was feeling?
How many times had she sat and listened, desperately attentive, while her mother, or father did their best to describe her in image-provoking terms, only to come away more mystified than before?
And now, miraculously, here she was.
Beautiful, she thought without a trace of vanity.
Beautiful. . .
She smiled at the image in the mirror and the image smiled back. Its teeth were white and even, all but one on the top, which angled slightly forward, and its lips were moist and full red, like the geraniums. Its skin was creamy white, but Karen thought she could see a tiny blush of color in each full cheek.
The image in the mirror, still smiling, shed a single glistening tear. With profound sadness Karen watched it fall, understanding that the image wept for all the lost years, for the changes in its living geography it had failed to witness.
Then her gaze fixed on the eyes.
Her eyes.
And it registered anew that the image she was seeing was not just an image but a true reflection of herself. A little blurry perhaps, its hollows deepened by the soft yellow light. . . but it was her.
Karen Lockhart.
She felt a fit of giggles welling up in her throat and thought: Not yet. There would be time enough later to vent the joy she was feeling, to leap and dance and shout at the moon. Now was the time for discovery. There were no guarantees that the darkness might not at any moment reassert itself, drawing her back perhaps eternally into its lightless womb.
She had to see as much as she could right now, in this single enchanted moment.
A hand came up and scrubbed away the tear. Karen combed her fingers through her hair and watched, fascinated, as her reflection did the same. She flared her nostrils and laughed. Now she leaned forward, the tip of her nose almost touching the mirror.
"Hi there, Lockhart," she said. "Pleased to meet you."
Rapt, Karen gazed into the crystal chambers of her eyes, forcing back with an iron fist any thought of where the gift had come from. That part of it was finished, behind her now.
There was yet another reflection, she observed with a kind of awestruck glee, in the pool of each eye. Tiny duplicates of herself, grinning back at her from the cool, Aegean blue. She imagined them filing away inside of her, these miniature reflections, hundreds upon hundreds of them, an overload of images, glutting the cobwebbed chambers of her visual memory, assuring like some frenzied pack rat that if darkness fell again, there would be staple enough to
She looked down at her hands, seeing them plainly for the first time. The tight skin and sharply defined angles suggested the strength she knew them to possess.
Good hands, she thought.
She glanced again at the mirror. Still in focus. She could see a section of the north wall reflected in its depths.
But for how much longer? What if the image faded like her father's had and just never came back?
Coward. . .
She stood, battling vertigo. After twenty-eight years she was about to meet Karen Lockhart, blind author.
She shifted in front of the mirror, eyes closed to slits.
A delicate white form flickered into the framing oval. It seemed to fade, then solidified into—
Me.
Karen opened her eyes and beheld herself. She stood motionless for a long while, not blinking, not breathing, fearful that the slightest disruption might shatter the image into ripples.
Then, hesitantly, she stepped forward, her whole body quivering with delight as the girl in the reflective oval grew larger and clearer.
She sat on the stool, leaned forward on her elbows, and studied the face she had lived with all of her life but had never seen.
How many times had she sat on, this very stool, probing the contours of her face with curious fingertips, trying in vain to sculpt in her mind an image of what she was feeling?
How many times had she sat and listened, desperately attentive, while her mother, or father did their best to describe her in image-provoking terms, only to come away more mystified than before?
And now, miraculously, here she was.
Beautiful, she thought without a trace of vanity.
Beautiful. . .
She smiled at the image in the mirror and the image smiled back. Its teeth were white and even, all but one on the top, which angled slightly forward, and its lips were moist and full red, like the geraniums. Its skin was creamy white, but Karen thought she could see a tiny blush of color in each full cheek.
The image in the mirror, still smiling, shed a single glistening tear. With profound sadness Karen watched it fall, understanding that the image wept for all the lost years, for the changes in its living geography it had failed to witness.
Then her gaze fixed on the eyes.
Her eyes.
And it registered anew that the image she was seeing was not just an image but a true reflection of herself. A little blurry perhaps, its hollows deepened by the soft yellow light. . . but it was her.
Karen Lockhart.
She felt a fit of giggles welling up in her throat and thought: Not yet. There would be time enough later to vent the joy she was feeling, to leap and dance and shout at the moon. Now was the time for discovery. There were no guarantees that the darkness might not at any moment reassert itself, drawing her back perhaps eternally into its lightless womb.
She had to see as much as she could right now, in this single enchanted moment.
A hand came up and scrubbed away the tear. Karen combed her fingers through her hair and watched, fascinated, as her reflection did the same. She flared her nostrils and laughed. Now she leaned forward, the tip of her nose almost touching the mirror.
"Hi there, Lockhart," she said. "Pleased to meet you."
Rapt, Karen gazed into the crystal chambers of her eyes, forcing back with an iron fist any thought of where the gift had come from. That part of it was finished, behind her now.
There was yet another reflection, she observed with a kind of awestruck glee, in the pool of each eye. Tiny duplicates of herself, grinning back at her from the cool, Aegean blue. She imagined them filing away inside of her, these miniature reflections, hundreds upon hundreds of them, an overload of images, glutting the cobwebbed chambers of her visual memory, assuring like some frenzied pack rat that if darkness fell again, there would be staple enough to
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