{"id":1185,"date":"2019-02-14T12:13:24","date_gmt":"2019-02-14T17:13:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1185"},"modified":"2020-06-01T09:07:12","modified_gmt":"2020-06-01T13:07:12","slug":"hold-the-light","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/hold-the-light\/","title":{"rendered":"Hold the Light"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Hold the Light<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

by April McGowan<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

To an artist, the light is everything. So what is Amber supposed to do when facing blindness?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amber spent her life adapting first to being abandoned by her birth mother as a toddler, and then to the death of her adoptive father in her teen years. Now she s moved past all that, loving life as an independent woman: she has a job as an art instructor and the perfect apartment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when a routine eye appointment reveals she s losing her sight, life comes to a halt. Pressures come at her from all sides. Her mother, her boss, her boyfriend and her closest friend, Shannon, all have ideas about what s best for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even after her blindness counselor, Ethan, befriends her and opens her eyes to new opportunities and the possibility of a deeper relationship, one haunting question remains: How could the God she loved all her life turn everything upside down again?<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

Unremarkable. Amber glanced out\nthe streaming windowpane at the cityscape below her. The rain washed all the\ncolor from the sky, trees, and buildings, covering the world in grayscale brush\nstrokes. She traced a raindrop with her finger as she\u2019d done as a child,\nwatching it gather speed, collecting friends as it went, only to splat useless\non the sill, pool, and drizzle away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was nothing to be done\nabout it. The world would go to dusk, darken, disappear\u2014and she would go with\nit not in a rage, but with a quiet whimper of acceptance. Amber twirled her\nring around her finger, spinning and spinning, panic filling her until she bit\ndown on her lip. Hard<\/em>. No. Not her.\nShe\u2019d face this as she\u2019d faced everything in her life. She could handle it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amber wiped a tear with shaky\nfingers and pulled her honey-brown hair back into the scrunchie she wore on her\nwrist before turning to face the doctor, resolute. The exam room seemed to be affected\nby the same dull gray as the outside world. She guessed the blind really had no\nuse for designer colors or flashy artwork on the walls. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ironic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He said something she didn\u2019t\nunderstand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean, it\u2019s genetic?\u201d\nShe waited for him to answer, hoping for some light in the ever-growing\nbleakness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The doctor sat back against the\nexamining room table. \u201cSomeone else in your family<\/a> might have this disease.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her mother would know. Her biological<\/em> mother, that was. Did Mom\nknow, though?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tiny pieces of torn paper seemed\nto reassemble themselves before her eyes and tumble apart all over again. The\nshredded letter, floating down around her like snow, falling, falling into\nlittle useless piles she\u2019d vacuumed up four years ago. She hadn\u2019t wanted to be\nin contact with her birth mother, not ever. How dare she try and contact her?\nAmber\u2019s anger at being abandoned, donated, sold like an old car on the\nInternet, had burned through her for years. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m adopted.\u201d The words always\nbrought about a feeling of finality, like the slamming of a lid on an old\nwooden box, buried six feet under. Except her birth mother wasn\u2019t six feet\nunder. She\u2019d just walked away from Amber.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see. If there\u2019s any way for\nyou to find your biological family, you might want to. It will give us some\nclues.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd then we can stop it?\u201d She\nheld her breath, hoping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Birkman gave her a pitying\nglance, his watery hazel eyes full of sympathy. \u201cNo, we can\u2019t stop it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Questions raced. \u201cHow long do I\nhave? What if we\u2019d caught it earlier?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Moving toward her, he gave her\nshoulder a gentle squeeze. He didn\u2019t know her, but he comforted her. She felt\nsmall in his presence. He had all the answers, held her fate in his medical\nbooks. What did she have?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDiagnosis doesn\u2019t do anything\nbut give us guidelines. I\u2019m afraid macular degeneration can\u2019t be cured by the\nmedical knowledge we have now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIsn\u2019t this something older\npeople get? I\u2019m only twenty-eight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere are several variations of\nthis disease that affect younger people, although yours, admittedly, has taken\nlonger to make an appearance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess I should be grateful.\u201d\nThe words, like a mantra, tumbled from her lips but made no connection with her\nheart. \u201cHow long?\u201d she asked again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAt this rate, not long. Your\ncase seems to be moving rather rapidly. You\u2019ll start to notice more and more\nchanges. Maybe a year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Numbness washed through her,\nstarting at her fingertips, racing into her middle, buzzing between her ears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill I lose my sight entirely?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s rare for everything to go\nblack. Most people with your condition lose portions at a time, making their\nvision spotty until everything goes hazy. Some keep partial sight. But I don\u2019t\nwant to give you false hope.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He reached over to a stand of\npamphlets on the countertop and handed her several. \u201cIs there anyone I can call\nfor you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dr. Birkman was trying to help,\nbut Amber didn\u2019t want anyone with her right then. She just wanted to go home. Alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. I\u2019m fine. I need to go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll have my staff call and set\nup your next appointment.\u201d He was aiding in her fast escape. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She nodded in agreement. But what\nwas the point of coming back? He couldn\u2019t stop this. Amber pulled on her coat\nand grabbed her purse, shoving the pamphlets deep within, crumpling them. She\nheaded out of the exam room, past other patients sitting placidly in the\nwaiting area, down the narrow corridor toward the elevator. Her hand glanced\nover the braille directive bumps on the hall edgeway, and she drew back as if\nshe\u2019d touched something repulsive. She shivered and tried not to notice similar\nbumps over the floor number, on the nameplates, and then, once the elevator\ndoors opened, on the button panel. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

As the elevator met and reached\neach floor, a ding rang out, joined by a female voice naming every one. Fifteen,\nding, fourteen, ding, thirteen, ding, and on and on. People boarded the\nelevator at the seventh floor, jostling her aside, animated and happy. A shiver\ncoursed through her, and she pulled her sable-brown trench coat closed. Finally,\nthe car reached the ground floor and she pushed past the others, nearly running\nthrough the foyer and out the glass front doors. Amber gasped as the chilled fall\nbreeze met the stale air in her lungs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rain poured down, and she fumbled\nwith the slick buttons on her coat, raising the collar against the onslaught.\nCars sped by as she passed food carts and stepped over jagged, cracked planks\nof sidewalk. The grass and weeds reached up as if to trip her and pull her\ndown, kicking and screaming, into the crevasse. She swallowed hard and tucked a\nstrand of escaping hair behind her ear. The bus pulled up, and she jogged to\ncatch it but then stopped. The last thing she wanted to do was pile onto the\ncity bus full of rain-soaked, steamy bodies. Instead, she went to the light and\nwaited to cross.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment, she closed her\neyes, listening to the patter of rain, the grind and slide of shoes against\nslick pavement, the call of the vendors, a petitioner desperate for signatures,\na homeless man demanding change. Far in the distance the train passed, and farther\nstill a jet plane buzzed the sky. A child laughed. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dizziness swept over her. Just\nbefore she lost her balance and fell onto the street and into the path of a car\nwho ran the red light, she felt a hand grab her arm. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCareful there,\u201d a deep male\nvoice admonished her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amber wrenched from the man\u2019s\nhand, startled at being touched almost as much as by the worry she saw in his\neyes. He must have only been in his late thirties, but he leaned heavily on a\nstylish hand-carved cane. His blue eyes matched his raincoat and were framed by\njet black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry. Just trying to help.\u201d His\nglance cast away, and he put up his umbrella. She wanted to thank him for his\nkindness, not chide him for grabbing her, but the words wouldn\u2019t come. Not\ntoday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The light changed, and the telltale\nbird chirping sound signaled her to cross. Before she could take a step out\ninto the street, a careless driver sped around the corner, not stopping for her\nor for the light. Amber\u2019s heart raced up into her throat, choking off a curse\nthat built. What if she were already blind? She\u2019d be dead. How were those\nauditory signals helpful to anyone?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her hand flew to her chest as if\nto quiet her rapidly thumping heart and catch her breath. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot your day?\u201d The man gave her\na sympathetic look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. Not my day.\u201d Her voice shook\nand she bit her lip to calm her nerves. \u201cThanks. For back there.\u201d They walked\nalong together now\u2014her avoiding cracks, him limping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGlad I could help.\u201d They\napproached another bus stop, and he gave her a warm but uncertain smile. \u201cHave\na good day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She wanted to tell him it was\nmuch too late for that. For some reason, she wanted to tell him everything. A\nstranger\u2019s distance from the situation would be lovely about then. My name is Amber, and I\u2019m going blind.<\/em> But\nshe didn\u2019t. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d She plodded on past, up\nthe inclining street. Twenty city blocks to go. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The rain continued to pour down,\nchilling her neck, mixing with the hairspray in her hair and running into her\neyes, blurring her vision with mascara and glue. She rubbed at them, desperate\nto clear her sight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe skipping the bus was a bad\nplan. Five blocks later, she took shelter under an awning and waited for the\nnext ride to take her home to her apartment. Within a few minutes, another bus\nstopped by and she climbed aboard, taking her spot in a lemon-yellow molded plastic\nchair. The door closed and the bus took off into the busy downtown Portland\ntraffic. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fifteen blocks would have taken\nher forty minutes to walk\u2014though on a bus starting and stopping for passengers,\nit took even longer. It gave her time to dry out and take stock. She took out\nher cellphone and scanned her e-mail. Most were from work or prospective\nprivate clients.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amber\u2019s hands shook from cold and\nthe fear building inside. In less than a year, life as she knew it would end.\nShe looked up at the other passengers, caught up in their own worlds. The man\nin coveralls, the woman in business attire, the student, the skater kid, the\ngroup of three girls texting each other and laughing\u2014they had no clue what tomorrow\nwould hold. But she did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Swallowing her emotions, she put\nher phone\u2014soon to be useless\u2014back into her pocket and concentrated on the\npassing landscape of cars and masses of people heading home. Her stop arrived,\nand she walked past everyone and out onto the street. Two blocks up, she\narrived at her apartment building.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Amber stood outside, staring up\nat the aging red brick exterior of the five-floor complex, the cornice\nmoldings, the framed glass windows and flower boxes on porches. She\u2019d gotten\nthis place because it was within walking distance of the grocery store, the art\nsupply store, and other shopping\u2014not to mention the school where she primarily\ntaught.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Teaching. What a joke. A colossal\njoke. On her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She used her passkey to open the\nouter door and entered, stopping by the bank of copper mailboxes. She used\nanother smaller key to unlock hers and pulled out a bulky wad of advertising\nand bills. And a postcard from Kyle. She smiled\u2014he\u2019d only been in Hawaii on\nbusiness and would be home tomorrow, but he\u2019d still sent her a card. Then the\nmemory of the day pressed in, and her smile faded. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

She took the junk and tossed it\ninto the recycling bin nearby, then headed up the dark-blue and red paisley\ncarpeted stairs. On the second landing she began counting the steps. Then she\ntucked the mail into her purse with the pamphlets and went back down to the\nbottom, panting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Closing her eyes, she gripped the\nrail and began to count again. One, two, three. After she hit the seventh\nstair, her jarred feet leveled out on a landing, and she cracked her eyes open\nfor a peek. Snapping them closed again, she made the corner, still grasping the\nrail, and counted again. This time the landing didn\u2019t take her by surprise. She\npeeked again and counted. Up, up, until she\u2019d reached the third floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her breath came in gasps, and\nblood pounded in her ears. She reached out, waving her hands in front of her,\nsearching for the other side of the hall. She brushed her hand up the wall,\npassing one doorjamb, then the next, then the next, until she reached what she\nimagined and hoped was her door. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Searching fingers caressed the\nbeveled surface until she found the number and letter that were her own. 3G.\nTears escaped down her cheeks as she rummaged past all the paraphernalia she\u2019d\nshoved in her purse, past the crinkled and sharp corners of the pamphlets, and\nfound her keys. She clenched her eyes closed, not cheating, flipped to a key\nand tried it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wrong one. Another. Another. Each\none clinked against the next. \u201cPlease,\u201d she gritted out. The sixth one found\npurchase, and she heard the deadbolt slide back. She pulled it out and felt it,\nmemorized the pointy edges, the rounded spots and shook her keys back together.\nThen she did it again. Second try. Then again. First. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only then did she let herself\ninside, drop her belongings on the table, shrug off her sopping coat. Only then\ndid she lock the door from the inside, lean against it, slide down it to the\nfloor, and cry.<\/p>\n\n\n