Eyes to See

Imbued with bionic sight, a recovering catatonic is blindsided by a beautiful nurse.

My name is Jahmal. I am a moron. I do not know what a moron is but I know I must be one because the men who clean my room say so all the time. They make it sound like a bad thing; their faces get all screwed up.

The doctors do not call me moron. Their faces do not screw up. The doctors did something to my brain. They say it has been reconstructed. I was a vegetable before it was reconstructed. I am not a vegetable now; I can think and talk and get dressed on my own. And I can see better, too. The doctors gave me lenses. They are electric. They are powerful. They see things other people cannot see.

The doctors come every day. I tell them my name and the size of their intestines. The doctors ask questions. The questions are hard. When I answer they turn to each other and say things I do not understand about X-ray refraction and chromatic microscopy. It makes my head hurt.

Miss Ramírez does not make my head hurt. She does not call me moron and she does not mutter about bio-optic implants. She just talks to me before I take my medicine. We talk a lot. Her breath comes across to me when we talk and it smells of mint. That is because Miss Ramírez eats lots of peppermint sticks. Sometimes she gives me some, but not before meals. Sometimes she laughs. Miss Ramírez has a nice laugh.

I do not laugh much. Miss Ramírez says it is because I have no sense of humour. I ask her what a sense of humour is but she only shakes her head. It is a fine head. It has curls on it. The curls are the color of coal. If I look hard enough I can see all the little bits of color that make it as dark as a storm cloud. I can see the cells. I can see the folicles. They are beautiful. She is beautiful. I always miss her when she leaves.

The preacher comes sometimes and reads the Holy Bible and says that I am saved, that I am an innocent child in God's green pasture. I want to know what a pasture is. He says it is a field. I have never seen a field. There is grass outside my window but that is not a field; it is too small, he says.

I do not miss the preacher when he goes. I like it when he shows me magic tricks after he stops reading, but I do not miss him afterwards. I do not miss him because he is not Miss Ramírez; he has no curls. The preacher is bald. I wonder how Miss Ramírez would look bald. I do not like the thought. It is not pretty.

Miss Ramírez is pretty. I tell her so when she comes again with my little green tablet and glass of water.

'You are pretty,' I say.

She laughs her happy laugh that I cannot copy because I have no sense of humour. She says, 'Thank you, Jahmal.'

I like it when she calls me Jahmal; it makes me feel warm inside. Other people call me Jah, or Jally. The preacher calls me son. The doctors call me Subject C. Most people call me moron.

Miss Ramírez touches my arm. It tingles. I think it tingles because of her. It is a strange feeling. But it is nice. I like it.

'I love you, Miss Ramírez,' I tell her.

She does not laugh. She frowns. She says, 'Oh, Jahmal.'

'I'm sorry,' I say. And I am. I think I have spoiled everything. That was stupid, I tell myself.

But her hand is still on my arm and so I think maybe it is okay.

Miss Ramírez says, 'Don't be sorry, Jahmal.'

'You're not mad at me?'

'No; never.' She squeezes my arm. I think I will explode. 'I could never be mad at you.'

'Does that mean you love me?'

She swallows. She says, 'Of course I do—like any two friends love one another.'

'But not like you love the preacher?'

Something funny happens to Miss Ramírez's face. It makes her stop being pretty.

'The preach— Whatever gave you that idea?'

'I saw you,' I tell her. I see she is anxious and I figure I will tell her and make it stop. 'I saw you in the hall one time. You were kissing.'

Miss Ramírez does not stop being anxious. She shakes her head. I wonder if maybe she has a headache.

She says, 'You spied on us—'

'No,' I say. 'I was doing my lens exercises and looking through the walls like the doctors told me and I saw you.'

'And you watched me.' Her voice is not very happy. It is mad. She said she could never be mad at me and now she is being mad anyway. I do not like the way she is looking at me. I do not like the sound of her voice.

I shrug. 'I'm sorry. I did not know. Nobody told me not to do it.'

Miss Ramírez's fingers keep squeezing my arm. Harder and harder. I guess she does not know how hard she is squeezing.

'That was a bad thing to do,' she says. 'A very bad thing—'

'Why is it a bad thing?' I ask.

'Because he already has a wife. You know he has a wife, don't you, Jahmal?'

Of course I know.

'Yes,' I say. 'I know. But why is it bad if he loves you too? It is good to love people. He says so all the time.'

'This is different, Jahmal.'

'How is it different?'

'It just is.' Her fingers are really hurting me now. 'You'll have to be punished—'

I do not want to be punished. I say so. I say, 'I do not want to be punished. You're hurting my arm.'

She lets go. Her face turns red when she sees the marks she has made. I can see more than she can. I can see the little veins all crushed and broken. I can see the damage.

'All right,' Miss Ramírez says. 'No punishment. On one condition. It has to be a secret. Our secret. No one else can know.' Miss Ramírez stares at me. She has nice eyes. They are green. And blue. And grey. Her cornea is very smooth. There is a speck of mascara on the ninth hair of her left eyelash. 'Do you understand, Jahmal?'

I nod. 'Yes,' I tell her. 'I understand. A secret.'

'That's right. A special one, just between us two.'

She smiles. That makes me feel good. Sharing a secret with her makes me feel more good.

'I still love you, Miss Ramírez,' I say.

She leans over and hugs me. Her uniform smells nice. It is soft and clean, like Miss Ramírez. I am sure I will faint because I am so happy. My arm almost does not hurt anymore.

She says, 'And I love you—as a friend. My very best friend.'

And she stands up and straightens her smock and is gone before I can even say goodbye.