Free Blind by Kory M. Shrum Page A

turned away from them both. It struck him—his father’s back, taut, and shoulders tight. Dr. Barnard stood between them blocking Edison’s view.
    “Edison,” the doctor said. The voice was guarded now. The lighthearted humor and kind encouragement were both gone. “Can you give us a moment? There should be at least one empty chair outside for you to occupy.”
    With his hand on the examination room door, Edison turned back to face Dr. Barnard. No point in backing down now.
    He spoke to his father’s back, to the large hands on his hips. “I am certain I want Artist eyes, Dr. Barnard. That’s what I’ll put on my application.”
    The doctor didn’t smile. “I understand. Now, if you please.”
    His father’s head was down, perhaps calculating, in a repetitive and therefore reassuring fashion, the number of flecks in the floor’s tile. Edison himself had done this very same task to alleviate the fear associated with shots and unpleasant examinations. Or maybe he thought of something else—of her.
    Even once the door was shut between them, he could hear the doctor and his father exchange assessments.
    “You must understand my concern,” Mr. Jacobi began. “His mother—his mother —”
    “I understand and acknowledge your experience,” the doctor replied diplomatically, the automatic response expected when conversing with someone of a different eye. “But I must also offer my analysis.” After a pause in which Edison heard nothing, the doctor continued. “Since your son has Mathematical eyes like your own, he would have calculated the potential danger himself. Furthermore, he has supplied no evidence to suggest that he means himself harm. It is obvious that his decision is based upon other factors. Perhaps it is the educational and travel opportunities associated in training the Artist eye. With his temperament, perhaps he romanticizes all that he will see and experience. You must recognize that it is an interesting life. If not always practical, it has opportunity.”
    “His assessment is faulty,” Mr. Jacobi replied. “Initial sets last ten years. His eyes are nine years old. His assessments are flawed.
    “It is possible, but unlikely,” the doctor agreed. “Regardless, his choice is protected.”
    Edison curled deeper into the chair beside the door and cradled his knees against his chest. How had he expected this to go? Of course, this would end badly. How could it not?
    As he adjusted himself for comfort, his father said something he couldn’t hear through the rustling of his own clothes. Though he strained, he couldn’t hear what they now whispered. If the first part of the conversation was indirectly meant for him, then what were they discussing now? No logical inference from his environment suggested so, but Edison knew they spoke about his mother. Probably of what she did with her own eyes—
    His mother.
    The hushed whispers stopped and the door swung open.
    His father started down the wide, long hall without him.
    “Here you go,” Dr. Barnard said and handed Edison a stapled booklet attached to his Settlement application just as the boy unfolded himself from the chair. “It explains the features, complications, and expectations associated with each pair of eyes. I’ve earmarked the Artist section for you. Be sure to read it carefully. You must submit your completed application the morning of your surgery.”
    “Yes, sir,” Edison replied and accepted the glossy booklet before running after his father.
    He caught his him at the edge of the hallway before it forked left and right.
    “I want to see her. Before we go,” he said. “Please.”
    Without waiting for an answer, Edison took the right fork, past the nursery where the newborns were housed. He peeked in at them, always marveling at their smooth unblemished faces, the way the skin connected from forehead to jaw without a single interruption.
    After pushing through a pair of heavy doors marked AUTHORIZED VISITORS ONLY, only a