light that might have been tears but was not. She was a happy baby from the very first. I cannot remember a time when Lacey did not crow, or gurgle, or laugh outright. It was Joe’s laugh, froggy and enchanting, ridiculous in a tiny baby. Everyone was enthralled with her.
I think I sensed something was wrong from the first instant I held her, something to do with the strange, beautiful eyes, though it was only much later that I let myself know. When I did, long past the time that Joe and the doctor suspected, when even I could not explain her unfocused stare as a baby’s undeveloped muscles, I felt a quick, fierce stab of gratitude beneath the pain and grief. I pushed it away, hating it. But the aftersense lingered.
“It could have been so much worse,” I said to Joe, trying to comfort him in his anguish. “It could have been something fatal. It could have been something that would hurt her, cause her pain. It could have been something…disfiguring.”
50 / ANNE RIVERS SIDDONS
“Well, she’s not going to have to worry about how she looks, is she?” he said, through almost the only tears I had ever seen in his eyes. “Christ, Cat, you think this isn’t going to cause her pain? You know how the world treats blind people—like retards!”
“Well then, she just won’t go out into the world,” I said savagely. “She’ll stay on the Mountain with us. It’s a wonderful life; she can have everything up here. She’ll hardly know she’s…without sight.”
I could not say “blind” for a long time.
“You’re glad, aren’t you? Now you’ll never have to leave.
She’ll be your anchor to the Mountain.”
I merely looked at him, holding my baby.
“I’m sorry, Cat,” he whispered, his face crumpling. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It’s just…I wish I could exchange my eyes for hers. I…she’ll never see this beautiful place. She’ll never see your beautiful face….”
I reached out for him over the baby’s head, and he came into my arms, and for a long moment I held them both, trying with all the force of my being to pump some sort of healing into them. Perhaps I succeeded just a bit with Joe.
He did not cry again, not that I saw, at any rate. Not for Lacey.
Lacey needed no healing from me and never has.
We kept her at home. It was Joe’s decision as much as mine, perhaps even more so. I never had the impression that he was humoring me. It was not hard to adapt our small house to a blind child, or at least not to one of Lacey’s nature. She was fearless and pragmatic to a degree that simply astounded me, who am neither. If she fell, she picked herself up and toddled on. If she bumped something, she fussed a little and went about her business. We padded corners and secured rugs and moved bric-a-brac out of reach and tried our best to
HILL TOWNS / 51
treat her as a normal child. She was light-years ahead of us in that respect.
Because she had never known sight, she did not seem to sense dangers she could not see; we had to watch her there.
Her other senses were awesome. Even before she received special schooling, she could read her way around her world with her ears and nose and fingertips. She talked early and volubly, and her memory was phenomenal. Corinne told us her IQ—“if that idiocy matters to you”—was probably astonishing.
“She doesn’t have to live with limits,” Corinne said, early on. “With her intelligence and temperament, she can probably have almost any sort of life she wants. Do almost anything, go almost anywhere. There are special schools to help her live just about as normally as any other child. I’ve looked into them—”
“She’s going to stay here,” Joe said. “We’re going to teach her. Later on she’ll have tutors for the things she needs. I’ve already been in touch with the National Institute for the Blind; they’ve sent literature. When the time comes, she’ll have everything she needs—”
“She needs the real world, Joe,”
I think I sensed something was wrong from the first instant I held her, something to do with the strange, beautiful eyes, though it was only much later that I let myself know. When I did, long past the time that Joe and the doctor suspected, when even I could not explain her unfocused stare as a baby’s undeveloped muscles, I felt a quick, fierce stab of gratitude beneath the pain and grief. I pushed it away, hating it. But the aftersense lingered.
“It could have been so much worse,” I said to Joe, trying to comfort him in his anguish. “It could have been something fatal. It could have been something that would hurt her, cause her pain. It could have been something…disfiguring.”
50 / ANNE RIVERS SIDDONS
“Well, she’s not going to have to worry about how she looks, is she?” he said, through almost the only tears I had ever seen in his eyes. “Christ, Cat, you think this isn’t going to cause her pain? You know how the world treats blind people—like retards!”
“Well then, she just won’t go out into the world,” I said savagely. “She’ll stay on the Mountain with us. It’s a wonderful life; she can have everything up here. She’ll hardly know she’s…without sight.”
I could not say “blind” for a long time.
“You’re glad, aren’t you? Now you’ll never have to leave.
She’ll be your anchor to the Mountain.”
I merely looked at him, holding my baby.
“I’m sorry, Cat,” he whispered, his face crumpling. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. It’s just…I wish I could exchange my eyes for hers. I…she’ll never see this beautiful place. She’ll never see your beautiful face….”
I reached out for him over the baby’s head, and he came into my arms, and for a long moment I held them both, trying with all the force of my being to pump some sort of healing into them. Perhaps I succeeded just a bit with Joe.
He did not cry again, not that I saw, at any rate. Not for Lacey.
Lacey needed no healing from me and never has.
We kept her at home. It was Joe’s decision as much as mine, perhaps even more so. I never had the impression that he was humoring me. It was not hard to adapt our small house to a blind child, or at least not to one of Lacey’s nature. She was fearless and pragmatic to a degree that simply astounded me, who am neither. If she fell, she picked herself up and toddled on. If she bumped something, she fussed a little and went about her business. We padded corners and secured rugs and moved bric-a-brac out of reach and tried our best to
HILL TOWNS / 51
treat her as a normal child. She was light-years ahead of us in that respect.
Because she had never known sight, she did not seem to sense dangers she could not see; we had to watch her there.
Her other senses were awesome. Even before she received special schooling, she could read her way around her world with her ears and nose and fingertips. She talked early and volubly, and her memory was phenomenal. Corinne told us her IQ—“if that idiocy matters to you”—was probably astonishing.
“She doesn’t have to live with limits,” Corinne said, early on. “With her intelligence and temperament, she can probably have almost any sort of life she wants. Do almost anything, go almost anywhere. There are special schools to help her live just about as normally as any other child. I’ve looked into them—”
“She’s going to stay here,” Joe said. “We’re going to teach her. Later on she’ll have tutors for the things she needs. I’ve already been in touch with the National Institute for the Blind; they’ve sent literature. When the time comes, she’ll have everything she needs—”
“She needs the real world, Joe,”
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