Oculus (Oculus #1) (25 page)

Muscle memory is a powerful thing. Though I can see, something that still baffles me, my hands reach out and drift across surfaces like I’ve always done. My stick is still tethered by a strap to my wrist. I still turn my head at the sound of things to better hone in on the direction from which the sound is coming from. A bird behind me, a railcar approaching from the right. Someone walking away with a purposeful pace. Someone shuffling toward me in no hurry…

My nose still sniffs the air to get a feel for the weather. Rain in the air or no rain. Colder weather coming or oppressing heat and humidity from summer to make a short lived comeback. How heavy railcar traffic is based on how much vibration courses up through my feet when I’m close to the tracks.

I’ve never worn the glasses much. They aren’t designed to help
me
but to make people around me more comfortable. It’s not that my eyes are disfigured in any way. The problem is quite the contrary. Most people who aren’t paying attention don’t realize that I am—or
was
—blind. If someone is unaware of the fact that I was visually impaired and I stare at them completely on accident it tends to make others uncomfortable. That was the explanation my father gave me all those years ago when he had paid a wallop of time for the plastic frames that rest across the bridge of my nose.

Today is Procurement Day and employees are out in droves to collect their monthly rations. Sic made it a good point about “playing the part” before I left our house. Bounding out of the front door shouting from the rooftops that a miracle had occurred, unwanted attention would descend on me and my dad and subsequently, Sic in no time.

He’s absolutely right about me playing the part. At least for now. It’s difficult though to not look around in awe. Flowers, metal, colors. I find myself reeling trying to guess which colors match which thing. The sky is blue. I know that. I lift my gaze just enough to avert my eyes skyward.

“Blue,” I mumble to myself. I’m forced to remind myself not to allow my attention to wonder as I wait for a railcar. Hattie’s scent wafts my direction and before I can practice more discipline, I turn towards her as she closes the gap between us.

“Hattie,” I croak, feeling overwhelmed by emotion.

“That nose of yours is really creepy. I think it will always weird me out how you sniff around to identify people.”

“Sorry,” I laugh, trying to reign in my emotion.

“One day I’m going to wear my mom’s perfume just to mess with your head.”

“Somehow I think I’d still know it’s you.” I can’t help the grin that takes over and I release Hattie to get my first look at the girl next door who had been my constant companion for so long. She’s a little smaller than me. Her hair is like Sic’s, but lighter. Her eyes look like the sky.
Blue
. I study her face as she eyes me from head to toe, wincing at the colorful blotches. I never would have imagined that bruises would look like they do.

“What are you doing here? Where’s your car?”

“Oh, my dad is having it serviced. Something about the computer being out of date.”

“Ouch,” I whisper, knowing that Fenra is likely going to charge Mr. Brighton a hefty amount of time just for doing the mandatory maintenance on Hattie’s personal railcar. I shove away thoughts of Sic and our earlier conversation about how The Corps use and abuse its “employees,” seemingly eager to capitalize by creating mandates that only force employees to spend more time than they will ever manage to actually pay back. The stranglehold is undeniable.

“I heard that you and your dad were involved in a misunderstanding at Security. That’s what my mom said anyway. How is he?” I can’t help but take notice of the chill and distance in Hattie’s voice. She’s never been this way with me.

“A misunderstanding?”

“Rumor is that you and your dad were there giving a statement and you were attacked by some Dark Lander that they have in custody.”

“Wha—no—that’s not what happened at all. They came and took me and dad—” Hattie links her arm with mine, interrupting me as she pulls me aside like she’s done so many times.

“I don’t want to know, okay?” Hattie whispers.

“What? Why?”

“My mom and dad, they just, they don’t want to be involved in anything and neither do I. People are talking, you know.” I watch from behind the dark lenses of my glasses as Hattie’s eyes dart from side to side, scanning the growing crowd waiting for Fenra transportation.

“I understand. But Hattie, I haven’t done anything. You know that right?” Even as I say the words, I feel like a fraud because I
have
done things. Multiple things that are illegal. I’m harboring a fugitive in my home at this very moment. I fought with three separate security agents. I have contraband in my possession thanks to my father’s hidden box of treasures.

I try to keep any physical reaction at bay as I watch Hattie’s lip curl with what I assume is disgust. She rolls her blue eyes skyward and shakes her head so subtly that I can’t hear her hair brushing against her neck and shoulders. I wonder how many times my “best friend” has reacted to me this way. How often have I incited this display of exasperation in her? How many times has she responded to my presence this way, capitalizing on the fact that I can’t—
couldn’t
see her? Well, now I can and I’ve seen quite enough.

“You’re right, Hattie. Best if you don’t get involved with the likes of me or the rumors pertaining to whatever I’ve been dealing with,” I turn away from Hattie just as the vibration of an approaching railcar begins tingling upward through the soles of my feet. Metal against metal screeches as the crowd pushes forward, ready to hop onto the large railcar that was meant to carry upwards of a dozen employees at a time, all standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Iris,” Hattie snaps reaching for the arm that I just unfolded from hers.

“Oh and one more thing,” I say half-turning back to face her. “You shouldn’t shake your head and roll your eyes like that. I bet it’s unbecoming. Then again, maybe you should. That way when someone asks you about all the rumors and your affiliation with the crazy blind girl who has been in trouble lately, you can rely on public displays like this to keep you safe.” I barely register the sound of her gasp over the scanner droning on as the doors to the railcar slide open and passengers fill the cramped space.

The compound is bustling with people going to and from Procurement Day with food and supplies rations. It’s difficult to not stare at all of them. Tall, short, round, thin, skin like mine, darker and lighter shades of skin, long hair and short hair in every color and style. Dirt. Concrete. Paint. Lights. Clouds above me.

I recall well, sitting in my father’s lap as a little girl, crying after a group of kids made fun of me because I couldn’t play the cloud game. I had no concept of what a cloud was or what it looked like. I couldn’t quite understand its purpose or the scale, the sheer magnitude of the sky in general. They’d pick out clouds and shout out descriptions to each other.

“Dog with its tongue out!” the kid had shouted.

“There!” answered back a handful of other kids.

“Railcar!” another kid went on.

“There!” they all shouted again.

I sat in his lap, frustrated that they made fun of me when I asked to play, and I rolled his pendant between the pads of my fingers, back and forth. That was my safe spot, my security blanket. When reality was crushing and small minds made my already small world even smaller, I had my dad’s reassuring voice in my ear, his necklace in my fingertips and his enduring vision for my future to see me through.

I just can’t imagine what reason he could possibly have for allowing me to remain blind when he knew he had that device in his closet.
Didn’t he know what it was for? Did he think it was too dangerous to try? Did he care at all?

The subtle scent of sterilized surroundings snaps me out of the typhoon of thoughts threatening to overtake me. With this scent in my nostrils, I remember exactly why I’m at The Corp’s hospital. My dad was beaten, banged up as he had said, when Ingram had taken me from our home.

It occurs to me that I’m about to see my father for the very first time and I should be elated, overjoyed, but I’m scared. Scared of what I’ll see, scared of what he may tell me about my past, scared that I’ll say things in anger that I won’t be able to take back.

I’m careful to allow my hands and stick to guide me as I normally would. It helps to close my eyes but I find myself reluctant to shut off my vision of my new world, afraid that when I open them they will be useless once again.

My father’s nurse spots me and makes her way right for me. I halt when she clears her throat, announcing her presence as if I could miss the squeaking of her shoes.

“Ms. Tierney, I’m glad to see you back but I’m afraid you’ll have to be quick. Doctor Tierney really needs to rest. With his chronic high blood pressure being out of control right now, it’s best if he not get too worked up or excited. Sleep is best for him at this point.”

“Blood pressure?”

“Yes. Doctor Tierney has had hypertension for quite some time. Often times traumatic injury or illness can wreak havoc on blood pressure so we are keeping an eye on him. He’s been given medication to help.”

“Okay. Half an hour?” I ask, raising one eyebrow hopefully.

“Yes. That would be fine,” she nods, though I’m not supposed to see it.

“Thank you.” I say as I make my way into his room through the open door. I had no idea that he’s had any health problems and thinking back to all the stress and arguing I’ve put him through makes me feel an inch tall.
Why wouldn’t he tell me?

“Dad,” I whisper, trying hard not to gasp at the sight of him. He has bruises the color of mine but worse. One of his eyes is swollen shut. He has some kind of boot on one foot, a cast or bandage of some sort, I can only assume. There is a small bandage crossing over one eyebrow. There is another large bandage concealing yet another wound on his scalp.

“Iris,” he sighs, leaning his head back against his pillow.

I make my way over to him and can’t help the tears that spill from my eyes and slip down my face from behind my glasses.

“Iris?”

“I found the box.” It’s all the answer I can manage.

“Careful,” he whispers.

“Dad, how, why—” I trail off, fighting the knot in my throat.

“Not here. Do you remember when you learned braille?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget you pressing me to learn.”

“Remember the quizzes we had?”

“Of course,” I say while recalling the times he sat me down and used his fingers to make the marks of the braille alphabet in the palm of my hand. It began as just the alphabet. Then he’d spell out words. Then full sentences. He’d spell something out in the palm of my hand and ask me to say it aloud. I loathed the activity of practicing braille and sharpening my tactile senses, but he insisted.

I watch as he takes my hand in his and turns my palm upward.

I. M. S. O. R. R. Y.

Tears stream down my cheeks, unabashed and it shocks me how easily I can recall sitting cross legged on the floor in front of him, reluctantly practicing in hopes of a sweet treat as soon as we were done.

“How’s everything at home?” he asks absentmindedly and it confuses me.

“Fine,” I nod just as his fingers begin spelling out something new in my palm.

S. I. C. A. R. I. U. S.

“You’ve got everything under control?”

“Yes. I’m taking care of things at home.”

“Good. Have you gone to Procurement Day?”

W.I.L.L. B.E. S.A.F.E. W.I.T.H. H.I.M.

“I think I’ll go on my way home,” I mutter halfheartedly as I focus my attention on the invisible marks his fingers are making in my palm.

“Good. Don’t forget the extra flour for your birthday cake this month.”

L.I.S.T.E.N. B.O.O.K.M.A.R.K.

“What?” I whisper just loud enough for him to hear.

“Your birthday, Iris. Don’t you remember that it’s your birthday this month?”

“Right,” I nod, feeling very confused because my birthday was last month. Maybe his medication is clouding his mind.

B.O.O.K.M.A.R.K.

He silently signs the word ‘bookmark’ into my hand before he shifts his head forward and slips his necklace from around his neck and enfolds the worn leather twine into my hand.

“Dad, you should rest,” I say as I withdraw my hand from his. I turn his aging hand over in mine and pat the back, careful not to disturb the tube connected to him.
This is an IV?

“I love you, Iris. I would do anything in this world for you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do.” I just don’t understand how or why the man who I call father has kept so many things a secret from me.