Page 90 of Happiness for Beginners

“But if these kids got some, you should get some, too.”

“It’s not a cup of lemonade. It’s an experimental gene therapy.”

“But there’s got to be—”

“There isn’t!”

I fell quiet.

“I’ve spent the past year using my pre-med–trained brain to rake through every available piece of information. If you never believe anything else I say, believe this: All I can do is wait for the light to go out.”

I put my hand over my mouth. He really wasn’t kidding. This impossibly capable, utterly independent guy was losing his sight. He knew it, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it, and he’d carried that knowledge every step we’d hiked on this whole trip, here in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of yahoos, listening with compassion as they—as I—complained about popped blisters and being misunderstood and generally took every single one of our blessings for granted.

His eyes were dying. What was he facing? What would his life be like when all the light was gone? How would he even pick out his clothes in the morning? How would he buy his groceries? Or get from his house to his job? Or find a book to read? I couldn’t think of a future less suited to the person fated for it. He’d given up medical school—for what? How on earth would he keep that fearsome brain of his busy in the dark?

My thoughts spun. I thought of all the beautiful things that were going to disappear: twinkling lights, bonfires, late-afternoon sunshine, shadows, fluttering leaves, rain clouds, smiles. I thought of all the things he’d never even see. He’d never know what his children looked like—or his grandchildren. He’d only ever hear their voices. The idea of it was enough to pull all the air out of my lungs. I felt them deflate.

“You’re killing me,” I said at last.

And there came the wry grin. “Don’t say that.”

“That’s why you faked your medical report.”

He shook his head. “Stupid.”

“And that’s why you aren’t going to med school.”

“That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t know how to talk about it.”

“Does your dad know?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why he didn’t want you coming here?”

“That’s why he doesn’t know I’m here at all.”

“You lied to your dad? Where does he think you are?”

“A Buddhist meditation retreat in the Berkshires.”

“Good thing you met Windy and she taught you to meditate.”

“That will come in handy.”

“What does he think?”

“My dad? He thinks what he always thinks. That if he pretends nothing is wrong, then nothing will be.”

“He’s in denial?”

Jake pretended to think about it. “Yeah. When you look up ‘denial,’ there’s a picture of my dad.”

“I didn’t think that was a real thing.”

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