Free Don't Talk to Me About the War by David A. Adler Page B

chair, right by the radio. I lift the receiver and dial. Dad’s boss answers.
    “I need to speak to Mr. Duncan.”
    “I’m sorry. He can’t come to the phone right now. He’s with a customer.”
    “Please, tell him it’s his son and it’s an emergency.”
    What should I tell Dad? I don’t know what to say, so I give Mom the receiver.
    “I’m half blind,” she says. “Half blind! I can’t see at all out of my left eye and it hurts, but the pain is not real bad, a little like a headache. But I can’t see! I can’t see!”
    Mom listens a bit and then gives me the receiver.
    Dad tells me, “You have to take Mom to the doctor. It’s just two blocks from the store. I’ll meet you there.”
    He tells me the address.
    I’m about to hang up when Dad says, “Don’t take the train. Take a cab. You’ll have to call for one.”
    I look through the telephone directory and call for a cab. Then I take both Mom’s hands and pull her out of the chair. She doesn’t seem to mind my help now.
    As soon as we get to the stairs, Mom grabs the handrail. She walks down slowly, like an old woman, first one foot on a step, then the other, and every few steps she stops to rest. She doesn’t let go of the handrail. We reach the lobby, and I take Mom’s hand. The two old women are there, waiting for the mailman and talking as they do every afternoon, but when they see Mom and me, they’re suddenly quiet. They watch us as we walk through the lobby.
    Outside, the cab is waiting for us. We get in and I tell the driver the doctor’s address.
    This is my first ride in a cab. I sit in the back with Mom and watch as the price on the meter ticks up, higher and higher. When we finally get to the doctor’s building, the price of the ride is eighty-five cents. Mom takes a dollar from her purse and gives it to me.
    “This is for the driver,” she says. “Tell him to keep the change.”
    “Why? ”
    “The rest is a tip.”
    I give the driver the dollar and help Mom from the cab.
    Dad is standing by the curb, waiting for us. He hugs Mom. Then with one hand, he reaches around her back and holds on to her. A man in a uniform opens the door for us, and we walk into the building together.
    The lobby here is not at all like ours. This one is real big, with carpeting, a large couch, chairs, mirror, and an elevator. At the far end of the lobby are two doors with doctors’ names on them. Dad opens one of them and we enter a waiting room.
    “Have a seat,” he tells me. Then he takes Mom to a nurse sitting behind the desk. He whispers to the nurse and she leads Dad and Mom through another door.
    I’m sitting at one end of a couch and a man with a bow tie, striped shirt, tweed jacket, and white mustache that curls up at the ends is sitting opposite me. He’s watching me, making me uncomfortable. I take a magazine from the table, The Saturday Evening Post , just to have something to look at while I wait.
    “Are those your parents?” the man asks me.
    “Yes.”
    I lift the magazine in front of my face. I don’t really want to talk.
    “What’s wrong with your mother?”
    I put the magazine down and tell him, “We don’t know. That’s why we came here.”
    “Oh.”
    I know Mom couldn’t have lost sight in an eye because she’s tired. It must be something else. What’s wrong? Is she going blind? She’s never had trouble with her eyes. She doesn’t even wear eyeglasses!
    I hold my hand over my left eye and look at the magazine. I can still see. I can still read with just one eye. But if Mom lost sight in her left eye just like that, it could happen to her right eye. Then she’d be really blind. How would she shop? How would she do the laundry and prepare dinner? She wouldn’t. I’d probably have to do all that—just like Beth.
    “He’s a good doctor,” the man says. “He’ll know what’s wrong.”
    I’m not sure he’s right. Just yesterday the doctor told Mom she was tired and depressed, and today she can’t see out of