In Her Eyes (21 page)

Ben woke before the sun. He looked down at his phone, but he had no messages. He hadn’t spoken to Casey in almost four days, which was the longest he’d gone without speaking to her since he first saw her that day on campus. He scrolled through his contacts until his thumb hovered over the picture next to her name. For a moment he thought about calling her, just to tell her how much he loved her, how much he missed her. Even if she answered though, he knew what she’d say. So, instead he set it back on the nightstand by his bed.

He got ready as quietly as he could and made his way to the stadium in the dark.

The streets in Eugene, Oregon, were empty and cold, except for the man curled up next to a yellow lab underneath a small Aspen. The dog looked up as he passed, but the man didn’t move beneath his dark green jacket.

The track was only a few blocks away, and technically he wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without one of the coaches or student managers, but he didn’t think it was necessary to wake anyone for his race day ritual.

The grounds crew was already busy working by the time he arrived. The lights above the stands would be turning off soon, but for now they buzzed brightly with dirty yellow light.

Ben sat his bag down in the grass and tossed his blue and white flip-flops down next to it. He walked a single lap around the inside lane of the track, letting his bare feet feel every subtle rise and fall. Every loose piece of rubber. Every slick or coarse section revealing itself.

Today was day three of the 2015 NCAA Championships, and the 5000 meter was the last race of the event. The track would run slightly different in the afternoon as it would at dawn, and Ben wished he didn’t have to wait all day.

He slipped his flip-flops back on and walked up the stadium stairs until he was a few rows up and looked out at the track.

A voice from behind startled him. “You know I saw this kid run in high school once.”

Ben turned around to find Coach Melvick sitting several rows farther up.

“Coach?” Ben said.

“I never paid too much attention to a lot of the runners in Florida. I never much thought they even knew why people ran. But…” he said as he clasped his hands together. “There was this one runner that everyone kept talking about. He wasn’t tall and lean like him, but everyone said this kid had the greatest kick since Lasse Virén.”

Ben listened as Coach kept talking.

“You know I was freshman at Oregon in ’72 when Virén beat Prefontaine. You know some people cried when Pre lost? It was that damn beautiful of a race. So…about six years ago when I heard about this kid from Ocala, Florida, with a kick like Virén, I had to check it out.

“A lot of the coaches waited to take the trek down there during the State Championships. But I wanted to see what the kid would do on just any other race day. So, I drove down one day when they were racing some shit schools in some shit meet. It was an absolutely miserable Florida day. Not a cloud in the sky, damn sun beating down on my neck so hard I thought my head might literally roll off my shoulders.”

Coach laughed to himself. “Fucking miserable.”

“Anyways, the race gets going, and it was the 10,000 meter if I recall. And I’m watching this seventeen-year-old kid that’s about five feet, ten inches, 185 pounds. Looked more like a baseball player than a runner.” He grunted out another laugh.

“Twenty-six minutes or so pass and I see the lead group of runners in the distance. The damn kid was running out there to the side of them like he was lost or something. Then out of nowhere the kid just takes off. I mean takes off. It was too early, though. There was about 500 meters left, and I knew at about the 150 meter mark he was just gonna die.”

Coach let out a deep breath into the morning air.

“But he didn’t. That little shit just kept running faster, and faster, and faster. I headed home that afternoon and over the next few weeks I’d get calls every now and then from some of the other coaches asking me if I thought he was the real deal. Did he really have a better kick than Virén?”

Coach locked eyes on Ben. “You know what I told them?”

Ben shook his head no.

“I told them he couldn’t out-kick Virén if Virén was running backwards.”

“You know I broke every 5,000 meter and 10,000 meter high school record in the nation, right?” Ben said.

“Yeah, I know you did, kid.”

Coach stood up and walked slowly down the steps. “You just never figured out how you did it.”

“We’ll see this afternoon when I break the collegiate record,” Ben said.

Coach laughed again. “Break the record? Not if you hang back and try to out-kick Kevin Robinson, you won’t.”

“That’s how I run. That’s how I’ve always ran.”

“I know, kid. And maybe it’s my fault for letting you. But, if you run like that today, you’ll be licking the dust off Mr. Robinson’s shoes by the time you reach the finish line.”

“This is impeccable fucking timing you have. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“You don’t want to really know, kid.”

Ben reached his hand out towards Coach Melvick’s shoulders, stopping him as he took several steps down the stands. “Coach. I want to know.”

Coach Melvick hesitated as he looked at Ben. Then he let out a deep breath. “Alright,” he said. “If you want to win today then it’s quite simple. You hang back and draft off Robinson for about the first four thousand meters.”

“And then?” Ben asked.

“Well, then you sprint to the finish.”

Ben laughed. “Coach that’s like the last two laps of the race. No one can sprint that.”

Coach continued walking down the bleacher stairs and looked back up at Ben one more time. “No one could do anything until they did it, kid.”

52

Words

June 12, 2015

It was just past one in the afternoon when Casey got home. She had hit the eighty-hour mark that morning and was sent home after spending most of the previous night in the hospital, some idiots at a bar not realizing that hitting each other with broken beer bottles wasn’t a good idea. Luckily no one was killed, but one of the guys needed over forty stitches from the bottom of his jaw to just below his eye. It was the most sutures she had ever given a single person.

After she set her stuff down on the kitchen table, she was surprised she even had enough energy to make it all the way to her bed. There were no words to describe how good her down comforter pillow felt beneath her.

The feeling lasted all of ten seconds before she heard the high-pitch chime of her doorbell.

“Go away,” she said. Face down into her pillow it sounded more like
gho uhwuuhh
.

The person at the door apparently decided that knocking was the next logical step.

Casey reluctantly sat up and went to answer it. Opening the door, she found a full-faced, red-haired women dressed in navy slacks and a light blue polo. She held an envelope in her left hand and a dark gray handheld wireless gadget in her right.

“Good afternoon!” the lady said in an unbelievably cheerful voice. She looked down at the name on the envelope. “Miss Taylor?”

“Yes,” Casey said, also nodding her head.

The woman handed her the letter and said, “I just need you to sign here and we’re good to go.”

Casey initialed her name quickly and handed the device back to the woman.

“Last name, please?” the woman said.

“Umm, Taylor,” Casey said. “You just asked me that.”

“Sorry, ma’am, have to follow protocol. Have a good day!”

“You…too…” Casey said as she closed the door.

She looked down at the letter. In the top left corner it said, “RestoreSight.org,” followed by a blue and green half-moon that Casey guessed was supposed to be an eye. The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it, probably because she felt like she could fall asleep just standing there if she had to. She sat the letter on the dining room table and then walked back towards the silk duvet, down comforter, and full body pillows calling her name.

She hit the mattress for the second time and she suddenly recognized the name “Restore Sight.” That was the donor organization that had found a corneal transplant for Emma about a year ago.

She got back up and retrieved the letter. She slid her finger under the crease and ripped the envelope cleanly along its spine. She found a letter folded in thirds along with another envelope, though this one contained no addresses or names on the outside.

Dear Miss Taylor,

June 9, 2015 marks the one-year anniversary of Emma Taylor’s corneal transplantation. We wish her the best and hope she is living a very colorful life.

Our files indicate that you elected to be notified if the donor chooses to be identified after the required twelve-month anonymous period.

Please note that you are not obligated to read or reply to this letter, and this is a courtesy letter based on your decision to be notified twelve months prior. You may contact us at 1-800-437-3937 for any additional inquiries.

Enclosed you will find a sealed envelope with the information you have requested, along with any notes the donor or donor’s guardian have requested to be passed on.

Sincerely,

The Restore Sight Team

53

Hitting The Wall

June 12, 2005

Ben still hung back in the middle group, just one to two strides behind Kevin Robinson.

The runners continued to bump and elbow for position even as they crossed the starting area to complete their ninth lap.

All the coaches yelled to their runners as they passed, but Coach Melvick just did the same thing he’d done for the last nine laps: He simply nodded his head.

Ben still didn’t know if what Coach wanted him to do was possible. But as he took the first turn of lap ten, it didn’t really matter. He could feel the lactic acid building up inside his muscles. It felt like his muscles were balloons and someone was blowing more air into them than they could hold.

His concentration broke and instead of nothingness he could hear everything. His bib flapping repeatedly against his jersey. The perpetual pounding of his shoes against the track. The breath of all the runners around him heavy and forced.

Two runners pushed passed him and he was suddenly more than five strides behind Robinson. He had hit the wall: a feeling of false fatigue that every runner feared.

In about forty seconds, the lead group would be starting lap eleven. At that point sprinting the last two laps would be the least of his concerns. Because if Ben didn’t break through the wall before then, he might not even finish the race.

54

Never Give Up

June 12, 2015

Casey stared down at the second envelope. Everything had gone so well over the past year that she had almost forgotten about Emma’s surgery. As she thought back, though, she could still remember the horrible feeling the day her ophthalmologist informed them Emma would go blind within a month without a transplant.

It was bittersweet to hold that envelope now. On one hand she was so unbelievably grateful that Emma didn’t lose her sight. But on the other, she knew it meant that another child had lost their life.

Dear Recipient,

I apologize for the formal salutation, but at the time of writing I do not know your name.

I was informed at the time of donation that the recipient requested to be notified of the donor’s name when legally possible. I requested that they allow me to reveal the name of the donor through this letter, but I do not know if they will oblige. If they do, though, I am sure one of their employees is proofreading this to ensure I don’t say anything too crazy. So, hello to you as well, sir (or ma’am).

I will not take up much more of your time. For one, I am sure you are extremely busy. But mostly because I have already had to stop writing this letter several times.

I want to start off by saying thank you. I believe that my daughter found purpose in her short life, and you have helped extend that purpose even though she is gone.

It’s strange because when I first sat down to write this letter my heart was overflowing with words. But as I sit here with the ink pressed against the blank white page, it seems as though I have already exhausted those thoughts. So, instead I will cut straight to the chase.

My daughter’s name was Grace Lynn Wilder, and I loved her with all my heart, and yet that love was eclipsed by something as simple as her smile.

Before she passed I made her a simple promise. I told her that no matter what I would never give up.

I would not be so presumptuous to ask you to also keep that promise, though I have a feeling you will.

With the love of my daughter,

Her father, Benson Wilder

Casey’s hands trembled as she held the letter in front of her. She closed her eyes, choking back a startled cry. But the sob rose up within her like a wave in the midst of storm. Then they crashed as she fell to her knees with nothing but the deafening silence of her tears.

55

Too Fast

June 12, 2015

Parker ran to Coach Melvick as the runners came screaming by into lap eleven. He shoved into their mentor’s view the stopwatch he held.

“Don’t say it,” Coach said.

“But Coach…” Parker insisted. “They’re two seconds ahead of the collegiate record.”

Coach Melvick looked over at Parker. “Are you fucking deaf, boy?”

Before Parker could answer, Coach ripped the stopwatch out of his hands. He looked at his clipboard and then back at the stopwatch.
Son of a bitch was 2.7 seconds ahead of the record.

“All Ben has to do is hang back like he usually does and just burn these guys at the end.” Parker said.