SCIENTISTS THEORIZE that the first “eyes” were nothing more than a pigmented, light-sensitive spot on the skin of some ancient creature. That spot gave it the ability to sense light from dark—an advantage, since darkness could indicate that a predator was close enough to block out light. Because of this, they survived more, reproduced more, and passed this ability down to their offspring. Random mutations created a deepening depression in the light-sensitive spot. This depression led to slightly better vision and, therefore, more survival. Over time, that light-sensitive spot evolved to become the human eye.
How did we go from eyes as a survival mechanism to the idea of love at first sight? Or the idea that eyes are the windows to the soul? Or to the cliché of lovers staring endlessly into each other’s eyes?
Studies have shown that the pupils of people who are attracted to each other dilate from the presence of dopamine. Other studies suggest that threads in the eye can indicate personality tendencies, and that maybe eyes are a kind of window to the soul after all.
And what about the lovers who spend hours staring into each other’s eyes? Is it a display of trust? I will let you in close and trust you not to hurt me while I’m in this vulnerable position. And if trust is one of the foundations of love, perhaps the staring is a way to build or reinforce it. Or maybe it’s simpler than that.
A simple search for connection.
To see.
To be seen.
ATTORNEY FITZGERALD’S DOOR is at the end of a long, gray, and mostly featureless hallway. I try (and fail) not to take this as a sign about my future. There’s no name on the door, just a number. No one answers when I knock. Maybe he’s left for the day already? Because that would be ideal. Then it wouldn’t be my fault that I didn’t get to go to Yale and become a doctor. Never mind that I’m ten minutes late because of all the kissing. I regret nothing.
I turn the handle and walk right into a sobbing woman. She’s not even crying into her hands to hide her face like people usually do. She’s standing in the middle of the room taking huge gulps of air with tears streaming down her face. Her mascara is streaked across her cheeks and her eyes are puffy and red, like she’s been crying for a long time.
When she realizes that I’m standing there, she stops crying and wipes her face with the back of her hands. The wiping makes it worse, so now mascara is across her nose too.
“Are you okay?” I ask, asking the dumbest question I can think of. Clearly she’s not okay.
“I’m fine,” she says. She chews on her bottom lip and tries to smooth her hair, but again, she makes the problem worse.
“You’re Daniel Bae,” she says. “You’re here for the admission interview.”
I take a step toward her. “Can I get you a glass of water or a tissue or something?” I spy an empty box of Kleenex on her desk next to a PARALEGALS DO IT CHEAPER mug.
“I’m completely fine. He’s just through there,” she says, pointing to a door behind her.
“Are you sure you’re—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“I have to go now. Tell him that he’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met but that I have to go.”
I say “Okay,” even though I won’t be telling him any of that. Also, it’s a pretty small office. He’s probably already heard her declaration.
She walks back to her desk and picks up the PARALEGALS mug. “And tell him that I want to stay, but I can’t. It’s better for both of us.”
Then she starts crying again. And now I can feel my own eyes welling up with tears. Not cool.
She stops crying abruptly and stares at me. “Are you crying?” she asks.
I wipe my eyes. “It’s just a stupid thing that happens to me. I start crying when I see other people crying.”
“That’s really sweet.” Now that it’s not drowning in tears, her voice is kind of musical.
“It’s kind of a pain in the ass, actually.”
“Language,” she says, frowning.
“Sorry.” What kind of person objects to an innocent word like ass?
She accepts my sorry with a slight nod. “We just moved into this office, and now I’ll never see it again.” She sniffles and then wipes her nose. “If I’d known how this would end, I would never have started.”
“Everyone wants to be able to predict the future,” I say. Her eyes fill with tears again even as she’s nodding her agreement.
“When I was a little girl, fairy tales were my favorite books because even before you opened them, you knew how they were going to end. Happily ever after.” She glances at the closed door behind her, closes her eyes, and opens them again. “In the fairy tales, the princess never does the wrong thing.”
The office door behind me opens. I turn, curious to see what the most wonderful person in the world looks like. Except for the bandage over his right eye, he looks pretty normal.
“Daniel Bae?” he asks, looking only at me. His eyes don’t flit over to her for even a second.
I hold out my hand for a shake. “Mr. Fitzgerald. It’s nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t shake my hand. “You’re late,” he says, and walks back into his office.
I turn to say goodbye to the secretary, but she’s already gone.
I TAKE MY PHONE OUT of my backpack. Still no return call or text from Bev. Maybe she’s on another tour. I remember she said she wanted to make it to University of California, San Francisco, too.
I should call my mom. Probably I should’ve called her at many points today. She’s called three more times while Daniel and I were on the roof.
I text her: coming home soon.
The phone buzzes back at me almost immediately. I guess she’s been waiting for word from me.
been trying to reach u for 2 hours.
sorry! I text back.
She always has to have the last word, so I wait for the inevitable reply:
so no news then? hope u didn’t get u hopes up.
I toss the phone into my backpack without answering.
Sometimes I think my mom’s worst fear is being disappointed. She combats this by trying her hardest never to get her hopes up, and urging everyone else to do the same.
It doesn’t always work. Once she brought home a casting-call flyer for an Off-Off-Off-Broadway play for my father. I don’t know where she found it or even what the role was. He took it from her and even said thank you, but I’m pretty sure he never called the number.
I decide to wait for the final call from Attorney Fitzgerald before saying anything to her. My mom’s already dealt with too much disappointment.
The trouble with getting your hopes too far up is: it’s a long way down.
SOME PEOPLE ARE BORN FOR greatness. God give a lucky few of us some talent and then put us on earth to make use of it.
Only two times in my life I get to use mine. Two months ago when I did A Raisin in the Sun in Manhattan, and ten years ago when I did it in Montego Bay.
There’s just something about me and that play that was meant to be. In Jamaica, the Daily called my performance miraculous. I got a standing ovation.
Me. Not the other actors. Me alone.
Is a funny thing. That play send me to America, and now it sending me back to Jamaica.
Patricia ask me how me could tell the cop all our business. Him not no preacher, she say. It not no confession, she say. I tell her I was just drunk and coming off the stage high. The highest thing you can do is the thing God put you on this earth to do.
I tell her I didn’t mean to do it. And is true what I tell her, but the opposite true too. Maybe I do it on purpose. This not no confession. I just saying that the thought is there in my mind. Maybe I do it on purpose. We couldn’t even fill all the seats in the place.
America done with me and I done with it. More than anything, that night remind me. In Jamaica I got a standing ovation. In America I can’t get an audience.
I don’t know. Maybe I do it on purpose. You can get lost in you own mind, like you gone to another country. All you thoughts in another language and you can’t read the signs even though they everywhere all around you.