The violet color reappeared and the surge began. The eyes that studded my skin the night before were now turned inward, embedding in my muscles and organs, deep in the folded gyri of my brain. All my life, I’d looked outward—now I could feel my fingers pulling at the useless orbs that rested in my skull. My intestines rippled, my liver secreted, liquid wet everything in the lightless case of my body. In a discordant, symphonic blast, I saw every memory I’d ever made. My sister’s newborn face. My mother’s knee socks. Every orgasm, shit, and skinned knee. Shame, sorrow, joy. My father’s neck between my knees as I rode his shoulders. Still, the sensation was underwhelming, compared to looking outward. When I took my hand off the ball, I was standing quietly. The pilgrims in line behind me hadn’t yet begun to shuffle in annoyance. The Madonna was no more or less beautiful. I was dismissed.
I descended the stairway, avoiding the chapel. The stone exit path was so brightly lit by the emergent sun, I could hardly see in front of me. I’d read Ignatius Loyola’s spiritual exercises on my phone while unable to sleep and I couldn’t fathom such disciplined self-examination. Had the Madonna made him feel his own life was shallow compared with the mass of humanity? Were his exercises meant to turn the inward eye outward?
I walked back toward the cable car because I had no idea what to do next. It was then that Dawn emerged from the shadows of the cloister. Her slight double chin wobbled beneath her collagen-plumped lips, her bra peeked from a low-cut V-neck. After my blindness, she was familiar in the way of someone I’d known since birth.
“There you are!” she shouted, causing tourists to turn. She ran up and put her arms around me in a not-quite hug, the tips of her fingers tapping my shoulder blades. “As soon as Matteo said you were gone, I knew.”
I took her clammy hands in mine and stepped back.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Well. I was covered in eyes and saw the memories of every living thing around me. Then I saw the inner workings of my own body and my mind.”
“And?” Dawn said. I laughed.
“And what?”
“How did she appear to you? What miracle did she perform?”
“Just that. I saw. I felt.”
Dawn pursed her lips. “That’s not a miracle. A miracle is real thing that happens. You have cancer; your tumor’s gone. You’re deaf; your hearing returns.” She looked down toward her abdomen, perhaps out of habit.