“You could have been raped,” Sheila says, hands gripping the steering wheel.
“He wouldn’t rape me,” I respond, muffled by the towel over my nose.
“You’ve been acting weird since you got those lenses.”
“I’m happy.”
“You’re bleeding from your eyes. You’re chasing strange men in the dark.”
“I said I’m fucking happy.”
“You’re drunk.”
I stare at my beautiful sister, knowing she couldn’t understand. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she didn’t start a gratitude journal. She didn’t do yoga or watch videos about the law of attraction. She wrote out a will. Said she forgave me for moving out and leaving her with Mom. Spread my ashes as far away from this place as you can, she said. She didn’t even seem happy when she went into remission.
“Is it so bad that I enjoy seeing beauty in the world?”
“There’s always beauty in the world,” Sheila says. “You don’t need fucking lenses to see it.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“I like when the world’s nice, too,” Sheila says. “But you know what I like better? When the world’s real.” She pulls up in front of a hospital.
“Sheila,” I say, lowering the towel from my nose. “It’s not broken.”
“Go in anyway. Talk to a real doctor,” she says. “Tell them about the surgery.”
“Dr. Gray is a real doctor.”
When I don’t move, Sheila hits her hazards and walks around the car to open my door. She walks me into the emergency room like I’m a child, hands me the clipboard, then disappears. I sit in a plastic chair and wait for my name to be called.
In the back room, a doctor shines a flashlight into my eyes. He asks me how I hurt my nose. I say my husband punched me. He asks me if I need to speak to a police offer, and I say, “No, no. He’s not really my husband. Just someone who looks like my husband.” Then I add, “My husband is dead.” The buzz is not wearing off as fast as I want it to. “I had the Optimize Optical surgery on my eyes.”
“I must look very good to you,” he says.
We laugh.
“Your pupils are enlarged,” he says. “But other than that, I don’t see a problem.”
“Is my nose broken?”
“Just bruised.”
“Have you had any other patients who had the Optimize Optical surgery?”
“No, but I’ve seen the ads at the bus stop. Did it hurt?”
In the waiting room, Sheila is cleaning the dirt from under her fingernails with a business card. She stands when she sees us.
“All good,” the doctor tells her.
Sheila narrows her eyes. That’s not the answer she wanted. “Did she tell you that she’s hallucinating from those stupid lenses?”
“I’m not hallucinating,” I say. “She’s being dramatic.”
The doctor studies me for a moment, then looks at Sheila. “As far as I can tell, she is aware that what she sees is skewed from the lenses in her eyes. I’m not sure I would consider that hallucinating.”
“Doctor,” Sheila says. “She’s putting herself in dangerous situations. She’s unable to see safety from danger.”
The doctor shrugs. “I don’t have much experience with eyes, and even less experience with optimizing lenses. I’d go back to the clinic that inserted them and ask them for help.” The doctor waves at me from between the crack as the double doors close.
In the car I say, “See? You’re worried for nothing.”
Sheila stares through the windshield. Rain traces down the glass.
“I know about that bottle of pills beside your bed,” she says.
My throat feels dry. “They help me sleep,” I say.
“I know what you’re keeping them for.” The lights from the dashboard glow red across her cheeks. “I’m not an idiot.” “What am I keeping them for?” I ask.
Sheila studies her knuckles on the steering wheel, the ridges of her veins. “I get it. You lost somebody. It sucks. But you have to face the grief.”
I laugh bitterly. “When you got cancer, you didn’t try any harder than you had to. What business do you have telling me that I’m supposed to?” Sheila runs her fingers between her knuckles, then starts the car. When she pulls out onto the busy avenue, I say, “This is me trying.”