Page 13 of We Drank the Dawn

So was Peter—in different ways.

And then Dr. Hollinger kicked us while we were down.

We were officially living out the worst case scenario every health care personnel had danced around for weeks but refused to just say. In the course of Peter’s recovery, we had seen countless doctors. And each one of them kept the insistent flame of hope flickering in our hearts with lines like, “it’s too early to say” or “healing could be gradual” or “there’s so much we still don’t understand about the brain.”

They probably knew a long time ago.

I should’ve known a long time ago.

As soon as the ophthalmologist left his hospital bedside, declaring his eyes healthy, I should’ve guessed this would be the verdict.

Even today, while delivering the blow, the neuro-ophthalmologist said, “At this point, the vision loss appears to be permanent. The best course of action now is blind rehabilitation.”

At this point? Appears?

Why add those words? Why wouldn’t they just say it?

You’re blind, Peter. You’re blind. You’re blind. You’re blind.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my inhale wheezing down my trachea as if it were the diameter of a straw. At least Dr. Hollinger had the balls to tell Peter he needed rehab. We had held out on rehabilitation until hearing his prognosis and getting a referral. Now, we had one. Finally.

Dr. Hollinger might not have been as direct as I would’ve liked, but the implication in his words blinked like neon in the dark—he was blind for life and now he had to live with it.

Message received.

I had chomped at the bit for an answer. And now that I had one, my stomach angrily bucked against it—flooding my mouth with a sour taste, threatening to double me over. How were we going to do this? The doctor said Peter could learn to use technology for his accounting and resume his job. He said Peter could live a perfectly normal life and do everything a seeing person could do.

But the idea of learning…

Like base camp at the foot of Mt. Everest, the destination looming so far away we couldn’t even see it.

Summoning strength from deep in my resolve, I dragged my eyes to his.

And what I saw there carved a giant hole in my chest.

Nothing. Not one single thing.

His eyes stared past the windshield, glazy and blank. The last traces of his spark had vanished. Disappeared under the horizon like the setting sun.

And that was what scared me most of all.

Not the blindness. Not the new life. Not the impending struggle.

But his heart.

What if his heart died in the intersection that day? What if the man I loved never came back to me?

Silently clearing my thick throat, I put the car in reverse. It made sense to discuss what the doctor had said, but something in me held back. Maybe fear.

So I asked, “Do you want to get some takeout?”

He didn’t answer.

“Thankfully, it’s not Monday, so Taste of Tokyo is open.” Keeping the tone of my voice light was a full-scale battle. My insides went to war as I repeatedly hushed my need to crawl over the console and weep into the crook of his neck. “We could grab some hibachi and then listen to the new crime episode⁠—”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh.” Snowflakes, falling harder now, plinked against the glass and the wipers piled them into fluffy furrows. My last bite of food was before 7:00 am. At this point, I would eat gas station taquitos that had rolled on a warmer for twelve hours. “I may still go through the drive through.”