FICTION I were came diately unwashed home knew to something a dark, dishes quiet and was flat feeding wrong. and bottles immeThere diately knewsomething waswrong. There wereunwashed dishesandfeeding bottles in thewashingsink,soakingin a metalgray bathofoilywater.I switched on thekitchen lightsand sat at the diningtable,watching theantscrawlbackand forth in longpatrollinglines ,from a greasy plateofbarelyeaten omelette toa tiny crackinthewall.I satfora longtime, trying to sensemywife'spresence intheflat. I fingered therimofa drinking glass andsaw thetranslucent mark ofherlipsonits edge,a reminder of a forgotten kiss.I could imagine hersitting where I satnow,holding the weight ofthenewsinherhead,thinking about howtobreak ittome. I didn'tdaretomoveyet, toseekherout and offer mywords,myhandsofcomfort. I neededthisbriefperiodof timeto compose myself, to getintotheright frame ofmind.I had encouraged hertosee a doctor whenshe discovered thelump underher right breast. Shehadbeenworried, butwanted toignore the symptom for as longas shecould.Itwasnothing ,shehadsaid.I persisted, andso shewent. In thesilenceofthekitchen, I could see her peering intoa newdarkness that wentbeyond theblindness ofhereyes, a newfear taking ona real, physical shape, bringing newpain. I wonderedhow she had reactedto the news when she heard it. Was she here in thekitchen whenshe receivedthecall from thehospital? I clenched theghost-kissed glass, suddenly angry withmyself forassuming the worst, for mylackoffaith. I gotup towashthe glassundera burst ofrunning water andputit onthedrying rack. Mywifewas bornblindbuthad a setof beautiful eyes,withlight, clearirises, cutdeep intoherpeach-shaped face.I enjoyedlooking intothem,intotheinviting calmnessof her eyes, likethelureofa deeppool.When wewere courting, I'dstare atherallthe time; she'dtilt her head,looking atmewithout taking mein.When I wrote downhowI felt onherpalm, hermouth wouldbreak intoa widegrin, thecorners ofher eyeslifted up,andI'd imagine thehearty laugh shewasemitting, though I couldn't heara single 12 1 World Literature Today note. I'dwrite more words, andshewouldwithdrawherhands , shy, hercheeks blushed. Then she'dspeakagain, andI'dreadtheshapesofher lips,taking inevery wordsheformed. Whenwe finally kissedon ourwedding night, thewordson herlipsbecamemineas I savored thedesire ofeachkiss, herwordscoursingthrough melikebloodandwater andspirit, a lover's liturgy. I knew mywife backwhenwewereattendingclassesattheschoolfor theblindanddeaf. I'd see her walkingin the corridors of the schoolhall,carrying a walkingcane.Because shecouldn't see me,I'd follow closely behind her, making sureshegottoherclassroom withoutanytrouble . Shetoldmelater that shecould alwayssensemypresence, even thoughshe couldn't tell whoitwas,andwouldpretend that she didn'tknowsomeonewas following her. Thiswent onfor half a year before I screwed up mycourageand askedheroutfora date.She agreed, barely lifting hereyestomyface,as I readherlips. With mearound, mywife didn't havetouse thewalking caneanymore. I'd holdherhands andguideherwherever we went, keeping her closetome.Wewouldtakelongwalksthrough theparkin our neighborhood and alongthe beach. When shefelt theneedtotalk, shewould lookup atmeandmouth herwords, andwhen I wanted tosaysomething, I'd write itdownon herpalm.I'd tellherthecolorofsomething she hadtouched - a tiny pinch todescribe thefierinessofthered , a smallrubfor thewarm brightness of theyellow - and she would describe tomehowthecriesofbabiessoundedlikethe pitiable growls ofhungry cats, seeking attention. Andsometimes we wouldremain silent, sitting withour shoulders pressedtogether, unburdenedbytheurgency orneedtotalk. I foundmywifein thenursery, herdark bodycrouching besidethebabycot,theshadowssurrounding her. Ourdaughter, Emily, two yearsold,was lyingin mywife'sarms.With herbackturned tome,I couldn't tellwhether mywife wassinging toher, orjustwatching her quietly. I didn'tstepintotheroom, butwaited outside, behind thedoor. Mywife'sparents wereapprehensive and cautiouswhenI askedforherhand in marriage . They wereintheir mid-fifties andstill felt theneedtotakecareoftheir onlydaughter, to protect her. They wereconcerned abouthowwe wouldliveas a couple;itwouldbe tough, they said.Butintheend,after much persuasion, they gaveinandgaveus their blessings. Wehadwanted a child, right from thestart ofourmarriage, though we had ourfears. We heardstories ofblindordeafchildren bornto closefriends from ourold school,and didn't wantourchildtosuffer from theseinfirmities. Wehesitated anddelayedbefore finally decidingtotakea chance, torisk ourknown fears for a greater, unknown happiness. Thenight Emily wasborn, I heldmywife's handsinthedelivery ward,andwhenthebaby wasbrought tome,herface contorted influshed exertions, I could feelmywifeclenching me tight, mouthing thewords:"She'scrying; she's crying sohard."I touched Emily's lips,andfelt thetiny tremors ofhercrieson theskinofmy fingers, full oflife andenergy. I lostmyhearing after a highfever when I was eight. I was burning witha temperature, and because myparentsthought it was the usual typeof feverthatran through young children, they fedmesomePanadolsandwarm water, hopingitwouldgo awayin time.The fever lastedtwofulldays,andwhenthey realizedI wasn'trecovering, they rushed metothe nearest clinic. I couldn't remember muchfrom thisincident except forthevaguememories of beingwrappedina thick, coarseblanket, with a damptowelon myforehead, sweating and waitingforthefeverto break,watching the danceoflight andshadowsonthewallsofmy room;and inmyhead,strange and inanimate shapesweremoving inandoutofmyvision. Thedoctor at thecliniccouldn't do much bythen, butimmersed meina coldtubofwater, monitored my temperature, prescribed some medicine, and...