I’ve been asked many
times about how old I was when I knew I was a writer. I don’t think I accepted that I was a writer of fiction until
I was 39, the year I started The River of No Return. But I have always been
fascinated by fiction, by storytelling, by the fine line between truth and
fiction. Many of my earliest memories are, in one way or another, about the
power of fiction. This one that
I’m about to tell you is a sad story.
Fundamentally it’s about betrayal – with me in the part of the bad guy.
I first learned to make fiction when I was in the
hospital. I was four.
That year, I lost the sight in my right eye due to a rare,
hard-to-diagnose condition. There
was nothing to be done, but once they had managed to diagnose it, the doctors
at Massachusetts Eye and Ear wanted me to come to the hospital in Boston for a
week, so that they could show my eye to students and take photographs of my retina
for textbooks.
I could still see perfectly well out of my left eye, but my
brain had not yet learned to ignore the message that my blind eye was
sending: Darkness – Darkness! Because my brain was still melding the information
received from both my eyes into one picture, my vision was distorted and washed
across with black.
I was put into the blind children's ward at the hospital. My
sight was temporarily darkened, but some of the children were terribly
sensitive to brightness, so the walls were painted gray, and the lights were
very dim. There were three big,
wooden cribs in my dark room. The
cribs offended me: I wasn’t a
baby. To add insult in injury, the
cribs had plastic bubbles that fixed to them, to keep their inmates from
climbing out. I was further
offended: I knew better than to do that.
Nevertheless, there I was, confined. Mine was the crib by the door. The
middle crib held a little girl, only two years old, who had lost her sight to a
quick-moving degenerative disease.
The child in the crib by the window (always kept shuttered) was a boy my
age. He was newly blind, and he wanted, incessantly, to play soldiers. He would stick his arm out through the
slats and shoot at me with his index finger, through and across the little
girl’s crib. Normally, I was not
allowed to play war games. But my
mother, torn between her pacifism and her sympathy for the boy, decided that I
should play along with him. So I
was allowed to shoot back.
It was fun, reaching my arm out with such willful purpose,
my finger a pistol. I yelled:
“Bang! Bang!” The forbidden words felt good on my
tongue. I loved what the boy was
teaching me. I relished the feelings the new game
cooked up in my heart: danger, power, exhilaration.
But there was a technical problem. It was clear to me that he was failing to hit me, or even to
shoot anywhere near me, while I, on the other hand, nailed him every time,
right in the heart. Nevertheless, he refused to die. “I hit you,” I yelled. “Did not! I hit you,” he yelled back. “Did not,”
I yelled. This went on and on,
until finally I felt it necessary to explain to him that I could tell he had
been hit, and that I was unscathed.
After all, I told him, I could see,
and he was blind.
My mother was horrified. “You pretend,” she
whispered. “He will never see
again. You pretend he hit you.”
With my mother’s words, my entire universe shifted around
me. I understood the meaning of
what I had just said to the boy:
“I can see and you are blind.”
I felt what I had never felt before: the extreme precariousness of
existence. At the same time I felt a sagging sort
of relief as I realized my luck. I was in the blind ward, surrounded by blind
children, but I could see. I was
going to go back to light, to colors, while the newly blind boy didn’t even know
that the room we were in was dark and gray. He didn’t even know that he couldn’t convincingly hit anybody
with a gun-finger. I was
four years old. In retrospect I am
appalled by my own bloodthirsty self-absorption. I don’t think I felt pity, or empathy, or anything at all
other than the adrenaline-driven wonder at being, myself, safe in my ability to
see.
The game was no longer a game. I interpreted my mother’s words – "you pretend" – to mean that
because I could see, I must lie. I
didn’t have to do much to execute this duty. I didn’t even have to stick my arm out of my crib. I could just sit on the thin,
plastic-covered mattress and say “Bang,” then “Oh, ow, I’m dead.”
It was a horrible, hollow – even an evil – sort of
victory. I was no longer playing,
I was pretending to play. I thought
I was the winner, before the game even began.
I watched him now with the detached interest of a scientist
(or perhaps, of a writer). I felt
his excitement in the game slap against the plastic bubble that kept me in my
cage. He leaned his skinny chest hard against the bars of his, his gun-arm
reaching out toward me as far as it could strain, his eyes open wide over his
smile, his finger crooking as he shot.
I sat at my ease and watched him and I said the things he wanted to hear. That I was exchanging fire with him,
that he could touch me, that he could alter my being.
Two children playing at war can transform a darkened
hospital room into a battlefield with nothing more than their eager fingers and
their shrill voices. Children imagining together are not making fiction, in the way that adults make fiction.
When I claimed that the blind boy’s bullets weren’t hitting me, I broke
the toy of childhood make-believe.
In order to patch it back together again for his continued pleasure, I
had to become a maker of fiction, a fabulist, a little man behind the
curtain. But what I had yet to
learn is that working alone to make fiction is hard. Creating a world that can seduce a reader requires intense
commitment. A good writer can’t
just sit cross-legged and say “bang bang” in a bored voice.
I think I remember the moment the game ended forever, but
I’m not sure what it is that I remember.
I think I remember watching the transition, as he realized that he was
playing alone, that I was only pretending to pretend. I think I remember watching his face change, seeing the
expression of bleak understanding come into his eyes – his blind eyes. His gun-hand withdrew. I think I remember seeing that. But that is overly sentimental, so
like a movie. With our greedy eyes we watch the blind child realize his terrible
loss. Surely I made that part
up?
The other thing I might remember is a sound, not a sight. My mother sat
beside my crib, reading. She sat
there all week, day in and day out.
She even slept in her chair, never once leaving me alone. I think that I might remember sitting
in my crib, facing the room and the boy, and hearing, behind me, the sound of my
mother slipping a finger under a page as she read. Then a pause as she came to the end of the page, then the
crisp sound of paper lifting up and turning over. But that seems overly symbolic, so like a novel. And
so, with the loss of innocence, one chapter of life ends and another begins. Surely I have superimposed the
memory of my mother turning a page onto my memory of the end of the game?
I have dedicated myself to fiction, as an English teacher
and a novelist and, in my leisure time, as an escape artist. So perhaps, as I remember back to my
time in the blind ward, fiction has
overwhelmed me. Pretending to pretend to pretend . . . even now, my
attempt to toss aloft some sort of “truth” about the making of fiction has
succumbed to gravity. “Truth” has plunged back to my hand, untrue. My only memories of the blind boy serve
my own self-fashioning. I don’t
remember anything else at all about him, not even his name.