The fever raged and when it finally left, it took his vision with it. Davy was left alone in the darkness. He lay in his bed, shivering, after the doctor had gone, having delivered the final merciless verdict.
The others brought him food, lifted a cup of steaming tea to his cold lips, fed him warm oatmeal, a muffin stuffed with fat currents. He ate but a mouthful. They tried to coax him up, but he would not leave his bed. Peter's hand, rough with calluses from years of guitar playing, grasped his. "You'll be alright." His friend's voice was soothing.
Davy pulled his hand away. He tried to sleep, but sleep brought him no peace. A lovely young girl held out a silver cup. "You must drink." In the cup, liquid the redness of blood. He shook his head and mouthed no, for his voice had deserted him. She backed him into a wall the hardness of stone. Her hands raised, showed elongated silver nails. She clawed at his eyes. Feeling the sharp pain, he wrenched himself awake.
But the reality was worse. Getting up for the first time, Davy tripped over his shoes left at the foot of the bed.
Mike came running. "You okay?"
"Who left these shoes there?"
"You did. Before you got sick." Mike helped him up, found him a robe, then guided him down the staircase.
He had never realized there were so many stairs.
"Look who's here," Peter said.
He hated false cheerfulness.
"Here, Dave, let me help you." Micky was instantly underfoot, clumsy as ever, making things worse.
Peter made lunch, one of his usual, not too successful attempts that they usually made remarks about but today they sat and ate it in silence.
A week passed, then two, and still the shock had not worn off. Gradually Davy came to the realization: he who had always been a lover of beauty would never see anything again. The young lovlies who'd always flocked him -Charlotte, Marcy, Sally, Amelia- seemed to have abandoned interest as soon as they learned what had happened. People he'd thought were his friends found mysterious errands they had to run and other places they had to be. There remained only the faithful three.
His sense of shame grew at the things he used to do so well, things he had always taken for granted. Davy struggled to learn how to walk with a cane. He shook off their attempts to help him. During the day, he fought to show them his strength, through anger, all he had left. He was particularly horrid to Peter, who could not or would not fight back.
Tensions grew. Walking across the living room one day, Davy tripped and fell over a chair leg he had not remembered was there. Peter tried to help him up, but he pushed Peter away and got up by himself. "I'm not made out of glass." The coldness in his voice shocked even him.
A pause...then, "What's really bothering you?" Mike said.
Davy felt his way into his seat. His head lowered, he said, "Girls won't ever look at me again."
Micky said, "Oh, don't worry about that. Your looks haven't changed. You're just as ugly as ever." The feeble attempt at humor did not bring a smile.
"Sometimes people are made uncomfortable by blindness," Mike said. "They don't know what to say, or how to act. They're afraid they'll say the wrong thing. It takes them awhile to figure out you're just the same inside. Give them time and they will."
"But I'm not."
"Not what?" Mike asked.
"Just the same inside," Davy told him. He could not make them understand. There was a dead spot within him, a tight cold spot that not even their warmth could penetrate.
One day, Mike brought up, as gently as he could, that perhaps they should begin to rehearse. "We can't stay away from performing forever, unless we don't want to eat."
"Count me out," Davy said.
"For eating?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"But you're a terrific performer," Micky said.
"Not anymore."
"You're blind, not deaf! You can still sing."
"They'd laugh at me."
"When you're better..." Mike said. His voice drifted off into the tense room. This isn't like a cold. Davy but his lip and said nothing.
One day, Peter brought him something soft and placed it in his hands. It meowed.
Davy smiled for the first time since that terrible morning. "A kitten. I'm glad you got it, Pete."
"You keep it, it's yours."
That night the kitten slept on his pillow and somehow the nightmares weren't as intense.
A few days later, his friends went out to a party. They'd asked him to come but he'd refused as usual. Davy was sitting there, playing with the kitten and feeling sorry for himself when the doorbell rang. He inhaled sweet perfume. Davy exhaled, "Hello, Marcy."
"How'd you know it was me?" Marcy said.
"Not too hard, you always wear lilac. A scent as sweet as you are."
"Still the charmer I see." Unknown to him, she was staring into his unseeing eyes, which looked right past her. "Can I come in?"
"I'm kind of busy." He was terrified. Couldn't she see that he was no longer worth wanting?
"Is that a kitten?"
"Well...yes."
"I just love kittens." She came inside and there was nothing he could do to stop her. They held hands and talked but somehow it wasn't the same. The highlight came when he spilled his glass of white wine all over her dress.
"Oh, my God. I'm sorry." He got up, fumbled around the room, came back with paper towels but could not find her.
She tried to take them from him. "Don't worry about it, it's okay."
"Your dress will be ruined.
"Davy, I said it's okay!" He began to tremble with the exertion of not weeping tears.
"Oh," Marcy was instantly contrite, "let me help you." She ran a gentle hand down his suddenly tear-stained cheek but he shoved her away. "Leave me alone!"
She fled. He would never see her again now, that much was certain.
He thought of suicide. Drifting forever in a black void. It frightened him and quickly he shrugged the thought off. The others knew it had not gone well when they came home later and the house was dark and silent. That night, he dreamt of his mother. It seemed she was standing in his room, looking down on him. It wasn't that he could see her, for even in his dream he was blind. Rather, he sensed her presence with every part of his being. "You left me," Davy cried. "Why?"
"I had no choice." He felt her saddness.
"I was just a child, fourteen years old! Why did you have to die?" She had no answer for him. He could sense her fading away, as hard as he tried to will her back.
The next morning, Davy was very quiet, his eyelids dark with lack of sleep. Peter's voice, matter of fact at breakfast, "I'm going down to the beach for awhile. Davy, do you want to come with me?"
"I'm blind, in case you hadn't noticed," Davy shot back. He could not see Peter's jaw tremble or the splash of tears on his face but somehow, he knew. The door closed. Peter had gone.
"That was unnecessary," Mike said, his voice hardening.
Davy turned toward the voice to accuse him. "You called her, didn't you?" Mike started to speak, then was silent. "We knew you'd never do it yourself," Micky said. "So, we pushed you a bit."
"I don't want a nurse."
"Then stop acting like a patient!" Mike said. For a moment he hated them, hated Mike for always being right, hated Micky for his bouncing, never ending energy and optimism, hated them because they could see and he could not. Somehow, he managed to stumble his way out of the house. Micky started after him but Mike held him back. "Let him go."
Davy walked on the beach for what seemed like hours. He could hear the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore and felt the salty air on his lips, the taste of tears. As the sun grew stronger with the coming heat of afternoon, Peter called to him near the shoreline. As Davy approached, Peter said, "Take two steps forward and then stop or you'll ruin it."
"Ruin what?" "The castle." Davy knelt down in the damp sand and felt the castle that Peter was building. "How do you do it?"
"Build a castle?" Peter did not understand. "No." Davy hesitated, trying to form his perception of what he felt into words."You just are . You don't fight, you just accept everything that happens to you. I wish I could be like you."
Peter was silent for a moment, then blurted out, "Davy, I've always wanted to be like you." Davy tried to smile. "Even now?"
"You're generous, kind. You charm everyone you meet. You love children and laughter. Davy, none of that has changed. You're still one of my best friends."
"I don't deserve to be." Davy got up, started away, and felt Peter's hand on his shoulder. "Why do you fight yourself?"
Davy started to deny it, hesitated, then spoke the truth. "I've always felt that I had to be strong, because if I weren't noone would love me." It seemed as soon as he voiced it, it lost its power to hurt him. Peter's arms told him that. "And now I can't be strong. I try to, but I can't." He wept.
"Have faith," Peter said.
"Faith. That's the one thing I've lost. The doctor said there was no hope."
"There's always hope but that isn't what I meant. Faith in yourself, that no matter what, you're going to pull through. It just takes time."
"Faith, huh?" Davy said.
"That's right and we'll be here to help you all the way."
From farther up the beach he could hear the sound of laughter: Mike and Micky. "I think," Davy said, "we've got some rehearsing to do."
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