Sensing Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

bottles and syringes. Herb, now gowned and masked too, entered the bronchoscopy suite. Larry grabbed the armrests and pushed himself back into the chair. His lips were trembling.
    Like a caged rabbit, Herb thought. A tide of empathy rose. He fought it off and diverted his gaze. Maintaining cool objectivity was essential, he believed, for performing this procedure with minimal risk to the patient’s safety as well as to his own mental health.
    â€œThere’s nothing to be scared about, Mr. Winton.”
    Herb balked. He couldn’t pretend the consequences of his being late were potentially disastrous. He had to be completely present, whatever the cost to his equilibrium.
    He placed his hands on Larry’s shoulders and looked into his eyes.
    â€œYou’ll get through this just fine,” he vowed. “I promise.”
    Saying those words stirred up memories he couldn’t suppress.
    In seventh grade, during a field trip to Manhattan, Herb’s class traipsed across Madison Square Park to see the statues of famous Americans. Herb lingered too long in front of the Civil War admiral who had famously yelled, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.” On realizing his classmates were gone, he jogged in widening circles around the park until finally giving up. He trudged in search of a subway station and soon faced a massive stretch of identical, fifteen-story red-brick apartment buildings. Just beyond was the East River. He turned around and saw six rough-looking teenagers blocking his path.
    â€œWhatchya doin’ here, chink?” shouted the gang’s apparent leader. “This ain’t Chinatown.”
    â€œI’m lost,” Herb confessed. “How do I get to the Long Island Rail Road?”
    â€œWhat! Peter Cooper Village ain’t good enough for you, chink? You wanta go to the suburbs?”
    Herb retreated. He didn’t notice one of the boys creep behind him and crouch down. Falling backwards, Herb’s head slammed on the sidewalk. The leader lifted him by the collar and slugged him, splitting his lower lip.
    â€œGet outta here you little shit,” he yelled as they ran away.
    Too stunned to sit up, Herb lay patting his scalp and lip gashes in a feeble attempt to stanch the bleeding. Eventually, there were sirens. Herb was taken by ambulance to a hospital, propped up in a wheelchair, and rolled to an exam room where a pale, freckled, middle-aged man clad in green scrubs knelt down and looked into Herb’s eyes.
    â€œI’m going make you numb, lad,” he said in an Irish accent, “Clean your cuts and sew them shut. Are you brave enough to lie still for that?”
    Herb submitted willingly. No white adult had ever made such direct eye contact with him, not even a schoolteacher. That alone sufficed to convince him the man must be well-intentioned.
    â€œYou’ll get through it just fine,” the doctor promised.
    Herb’s faith wavered when an anesthetic injected into the wounds burned hard enough to make him shed tears, but the warm, rinsing liquids that followed restored his trust, as did the doctor’s chipper apology, “Sorry, lad,” each time Herb felt a dull yank from sutures piercing and pulling his skin together. He had been given a pain pill that kicked in as the last thread was tied. The throbbing ceased, and true numbness came—a neutral buzz, constant, predictable, bearable.
    Herb was asleep when his mother arrived. She bundled him into a taxi and brought him home. He spent the rest of the night buffeting between dreadful dreams and conscious pain. At some point during this fugue state, his father appeared, demanding information. Herb’s mouth was too swollen to make intelligible words.
    His father returned at six in the morning. He made Herb get dressed and eat cereal. Though moving his lips was excruciating, Herb didn’t complain. He didn’t have to be told this was his own fault for not paying