Page 38 of Out Of Time

As the exam went on, the doctor's demeanor changed, the easy inviting smile he introduced himself with grew weary, and then, Max watched as all notes for a positive evaluation faded. The doctor looked into his eyes after dilating them, letting out a discouraged sigh.

“Max, have you by chance looked into the symptoms you’re experiencing at all?”

Of course he had. He had googled his symptoms. He had searched Web MD just like most idiots, realizing that the best-case scenario was that he needed glasses, and the worst-case scenario… cancer, because everything on WebMD had the possibility of being cancer. But it wasn't either of those things that scared him the most. The best or the worst he could live or die with. It was the in-between diagnosis that terrified him.

“I have,” Max said.

“So, as you know, I am just an optometrist. I deal with your more common health and vision issues like myopia, hyperopia, astigmatism, eye infection, and inflammation, to name a few. But what I’m seeing when I use this guy,” he said, holding up the ophthalmoscope, “is something I don’t specialize in.”

“What did you see?” Max asked.

“I’m seeing something we call pigment clumping, located in your retina, which is a characteristic of something called retinitis pigmentosa.”

“And what does that mean?” Max asked.

“It can mean a number of things, Max, some of which could be more severe than others.”

More severe than others.

He felt his entire body overheat.

Sweat gathered on his brow, and he felt all color fall from his face as panic flooded him.

He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry.

“So, before you panic,” the doctor said, but it was too late, Max was already panicking. “I want you to make an appointment with an ophthalmologist. They have better tools and tests they can run to narrow down what's going on and get you more concrete answers.”

“I thought you were anoptometrist. Isn’t that an eye doctor?” Max asked, suddenly feeling angry at the lack of help he felt he was getting. He didn't want another appointment, he wanted treatment, and to hear what he needed to do to be okay. To make the save. To get the start. To win the game.

“You’re right, I am anoptometrist, son. You need to see the guy above me I’m afraid. I can give you a referral to a good friend of mine if you’d—”

Max cut him off. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just…” Max stood to leave, but his head was fuzzy. He felt like he might pass out, or scream, or break something. Fuck, he felt like he might cry.

“Son,” the doctor called out, causing Max to pause, “can I make a suggestion?”

No.

No suggestions.

Just answers.

He wanted answers.

“Yes,” Max said.

“Talk to your mom. Try and find out if your dad has any history with his vision. You might get answers that way.”

Max gave the doctor a nod and left without saying another word.

Max sat parked at the beach, his Jeep facing the ocean, the setting sun casting a mirror of orange and pink ripples across the water. He ran his finger over the screen of his phone, the name under his lightweight touch, a name he hadn't called in over a year. A name familiar to him, but one he never felt right calling out for, not even as a child, not as a teen, and certainly not now as an adult. But he needed answers, and she was the only one who might have them.

He hit call and waited nervously for the unfamiliar voice of his estranged mother to answer. If she didn't pick up, he wouldn't be surprised. If shedidpick up, he wouldn't know how to address her, how to act, or how to ask what he needed to know.

“Hello? Max?” she said with hesitation after picking up on what he could only imagine was one of the last rings offered before the inevitable fake voicemail greeting she had recorded would play. In the background of it was the sound of her new family happily laughing and living a life that he didn’t exist in.

“Hi,” he said, because words often failed him, but with his mother, they felt like poison in his mouth, a bitter taste, a souring acid in the depths of his gut.

“We were just on our way to Justine's gymnastics competition. Can I call you back tomorrow?” she asked with ease, as if it hadn’t been a year, a fucking year since they last spoke. A year since she last promised to call him back.

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