The Girl in the Painting

I can only assume it’s for the satisfaction of torturing me.

“Bram!” I shout from beneath my covers. “Why the fuck are you here?”

He ignores my question completely, not that I really expected it to be anything but rhetorical.

“Morning, sweetheart!” he singsongs back toward me. “Want some coffee?”

“Go home!”

“Want some breakfast?” he calls over the television. “I’ve got bagels!”

I swear, this might be my brother’s last day alive.

“Go away!”

Bram responds to my demand by turning up the volume on the TV to an ear-bursting decibel and tuning me out completely.

I pull the blankets over my face and try to remember why murdering him would be complicated with my physical limitations.

It’s hard to check yourself for blood residue when you can’t fucking see, and arson is probably a hobby better suited to someone who doesn’t stand a risk of stumbling into their own damn fire.

Sure, I’d probably be a shoo-in for the eye donation, thanks to our matching blood type and genealogy and all, but would I really be able to enjoy my sight fully from prison?

When I’m convinced I won’t shoot him, I pull myself out of bed.

“I hate you,” I yell to my brother as I carefully cross the threshold of my bedroom and feel my way into the bathroom.

“Love you too, bro,” he responds, his voice so fucking cheery, my brain starts campaigning for homicide again.

By the time I’m out of the bathroom and in the kitchen, Bram has finally turned the volume on the TV back down to a humane level. Still, I hold up my middle finger over my shoulder for good measure as I attempt to make some coffee.

He laughs, and the sound of it distracts me just enough.

“Ah, fuck!”

“I just made a fresh pot,” he updates about thirty seconds too late. The sting of the red-hot pot delivered the message itself.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I grumble sarcastically.

“In my defense, you didn’t give me a chance.”

Just before I find the exact right words to tell him precisely where he can stick his defense, a loud, undeniable ring echoes from the pocket of my pajama pants. From the phone I’ve been carrying on my person constantly since I left Dr. Smith’s office two months ago. Sixty days of waiting for a donor to become available. Sixty days of wondering if it would ever happen.

I freeze and inhale a sharp breath into my lungs.

“Is that…is that the call?” Bram asks, the teasing tone of our sibling banter officially gone.

“Yeah,” I manage to whisper through the tightness in my throat. “I think it is.”

“Well, what in the fuck are you waiting for?” he exclaims. “Answer it!”

With shaky hands, I pull the phone out of my pocket by the fourth ring and answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Ansel.” Dr. Smith’s voice fills my ears. “It’s time.”

“Seriously, Doc?”

“Yes,” he answers. “Our surgery window is now less than forty-eight hours.”

“Okay…so what do I do now?”

“Head to the hospital.”

“This is really happening?”

“This is really happening, Ansel,” he says, and I don’t miss the smile in his voice. “It’s time to make you see again.”

High heels click around my pre-op room in quick succession, and Bram’s soft but annoyed chuckle grates on my already shredded nerves.

“Mom, everything is going to be fine,” Bram reassures her.

Our stepdad Neil is quick to jump onto the comfort train. “It’s all going to be okay, honey.”

Mom sighs but offers up no response, continuing her pacing with renewed fervor.

For the past thirty minutes, Bram and my stepdad have tried to calm her down, but it’s no use. She’s a fucking mess.

Click-clack, click-clack. It’s all I can hear.

If I could come up with a way to politely tell them all to fuck off without sending my mom into a spiral of hysteria, I would.

Instead, I try to be patient. I’m not exactly the king of cool sitting in this hospital bed with an IV in my arm and an itchy patient gown irritating my skin.

“Ansel,” Dr. Smith’s friendly voice bellows into the room.

Ah, fuck. Here goes everything…

“You ready to do this?” he asks and, instantly, I take a deep inhale of fresh oxygen into my tight lungs.

God, am I ready?

I’m ready to see again, I know that much.

Am I nervous as fuck? Of course. Scared shitless, even.

But it’s time to get my life back.

“Yep,” I eventually respond. “I think so.”

“Hey, good to see you, Doc,” Bram greets, and Neil and my mom follow suit.

Everyone exchanges their hellos and all three men offer more encouraging words for my worried mom, and then the sound of running water takes over. I presume it’s the good doctor washing his hands.

“Mom, how about we go grab some coffee while Dr. Smith gets Ansel ready for surgery?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Neil agrees, but my mother isn’t convinced.

“I need to make sure I see Ansel before they take him back.” Her voice quivers with emotion. “I just need to see him one last time before—”