Edward's Eyes

  “Jake?” repeats Maeve.

  And when I don’t say anything she hands me Edward. Just like that. As if he were a bundle or a book. I remember sitting very still, so scared I can’t move. And then it happens. Edward opens his eyes and looks at me. His eyes are the dark mud-blue of the night sky, but there are surprising little flecks of gold in them. They stare right into my eyes. My heart begins to beat faster. I try to say something. I want to say that Edward is beautiful…the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I want to say that I love him more than anything or anyone I know. But I am only three, and when I try to talk I can’t say all those words.

  “His eyes,” I begin.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2007 by Patricia MacLachlan

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ALADDIN and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  MacLachlan, Patricia.

  Edward’s eyes / by Patricia MacLachlan.—1st ed.

  Summary: Edward is one of a large and close family that loves baseball, music, books, and one another, and when he unexpectedly dies and his parents donate his organs, his wonderful eyes go to a perfect recipient.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-5664-3

  ISBN-10: 1-4391-5664-6

  [1. Family life—Fiction. 2. Baseball—Fiction. 3. Death—Fiction. 4. Donation of organs, tissues, etc.—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M2225Ed 2007

  [Fic]—dc22 2007010755

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For my son John—

  who years ago began this story with talk of eyes.

  And who lately, all the way from Tanzania, taught me the poetry

  of the knuckleball.

  With love,

  P. M.

  edward’s eyes

  My thanks to:

  Elias Reichel, MD,

  New England Eye Center, Tufts University School of Medicine, and Bruce S. Bleiman, MD, Eye Physicians of Northampton.

  Thank you to Toni Locke, Jim Locke, and Sandy Warren for their timely poppy story.

  Thank you, Albert Groom.

  Finally, my heartfelt gratitude to Craig Virden for his years of support, friendship, and eternal good humor.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The day was crisp and bright. It was fall on the cape. Maeve had packed us a lunch. She kissed us all, Trick and Albert and me.

  “You sure you don’t want to come with us?” I asked.

  “No, Jake. This is for you,” said Maeve with a little smile.

  Sabine was in her arms. I kissed her cheek.

  The ballpark had painted green walls. The grass was green, too. The seats were not yet filled because we were here early. Trick and Albert Groom and I had come for batting practice.

  Some baseball players were out on the field, throwing baseballs and stretching. Some were doing sprints across the field. We had seats next to the field, by the dugout.

  A ball hit the wall in front of us. Albert leaned over and picked it up. He rolled it around in his hands.

  “Do you know what is inside a baseball?” he asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “Charcoal yarn, wrapped up tightly. Yards of it,” he said.

  He threw the ball back to a baseball player.

  It was a good throw. I had never before seen Albert throw a baseball.

  “I love the smell of ballparks,” said Trick. “Every single one smells the same.”

  “They do,” said Albert.

  Some players came close.

  Albert Groom touched my arm.

  One of the players had protective glasses on. His hair was brown, cut short. He was tall. When he faced the outfield I could read the name on the back of his shirt.

  I stood up.

  “Willie?” I called.

  He turned and smiled. He waved and turned to go away.

  “Do you see the stitches on a knuckleball when it’s thrown?” I called.

  He stopped. Very slowly he turned and stared at me.

  “Can you see the ball leave the pitcher’s hand and come down the path to you, like a train coming down the track?”

  “Willie?” a player called to him.

  Willie waved him away. He walked over to me.

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “Do you hit better now than you ever did before?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a whisper.

  “My brother Edward learned how to throw a knuckleball. And he never ever once struck out,” I said.

  “Edward,” he said. “So that’s his name.”

  Chapter 1

  My earliest memory begins with Edward, as if somehow I have no life to remember before him. The memory comes to me often, mostly at night, but more often during the day now, surprising me. It is a very early memory. Not as early as the artist, Salvador Dali, my sister Sola tells me. He could remember when he was inside his mother, Sola says, where the world looked flat, like squashed egg.

  But this is my memory:

  Maeve and Jack have just brought baby Edward home from the hospital. Maeve and Jack are our parents, but we don’t call them Mom and Dad, except for Edward, who when he learns to talk will speak to them in a formal manner, a bit English. “Motha and Fatha,” he will say in his little tin voice.

  Here’s the scene:

  Maeve and Jack walk in the front door, Maeve carrying baby Edward in his green blanket, packed tightly like a pickle in plastic. I am only three years old, but I can tell from their faces that Maeve and Jack want us to love Edward. They look a little happy, but not too happy; a little fearful as if they are adding an unwanted puppy to our large litter. Sola, the oldest, is used to this. Edward is the fourth baby they’ve brought home to her. Will, seven, is interested for only the barest moment, then he goes off to read a book in the corner, to spend the day happily in his own head. Wren, not yet five, reaches out to brush Edward’s face with her hand. Maeve and Jack like this, a physical sign of affection. They look at me then.

  “Jake?” says Maeve.

  They wait. I peer down at Edward, my face close to his.

  “He will poop all day long. And throw up,” Will says.

  Wren bursts into laughter at the sound of the word “poop.” Sola, having heard years of this talk, unscrews the top of her fingernail polish calmly. Will goes back to his book. He turns a page.

  “Jake?” repeats Maeve.

  And when I don’t say anything she hands me Edward. Just like that. As if he were a bundle or a book. I remember sitting very still, so scared I can’t move. And then it happens. Edward opens his eyes and looks at me. His eyes are the dark mud-blue of the ni
ght sky, but there are surprising little flecks of gold in them. They stare right into my eyes. My heart begins to beat faster. I try to say something. I want to say that Edward is beautiful…the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I want to say that I love him more than anything or anyone I know. But I am only three, and when I try to talk I can’t say all those words.

  “His eyes,” I begin.

  Maeve reaches out and smooths my hair. Her hand is cool and she smiles at me because she already knows what I can’t say. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. Maeve takes us both—Edward and me—into her arms.

  “Edward’s eyes,” I say into her shoulder, the tears coming at last. “Edward’s eyes.”

  Edward is little.

  I sat on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, trying to do my homework. Maeve sent me to check on Edward.

  “Do it, Edward.”

  He sat on the toilet, his legs dangling.

  “Where’s Motha?” he asked.

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Read to me,” said Edward.

  “Please.”

  “Please,” repeated Edward.

  I picked up one of his books. I didn’t need to look at it. I knew it by heart. I closed my eyes. “In the great green room there was a telephone…”

  “French, maybe,” said Edward. Edward loved French.

  I smiled. Edward was so used to hearing all of us talk that he often used words like “maybe” and “actually” and “perhaps.”

  “Dans la grande chambre verte il y a un téléphone…”

  “What’s that?” asked Edward, pointing to another book.

  I picked up the baseball rule book.

  “‘The infield fly rule in baseball,’” I read. “‘The infield fly rule is there to prevent advantage to the fielders in a baseball game. The rule goes into effect when there are fewer than two outs and there are players on first and second base, or on first, second and third base. If it is a fair fly ball in the infield, the umpire can call “infield fly” or “batter is out!” whether or not the ball is caught.’”

  “Now do it,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because everyone does it.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” said Edward.

  I sighed.

  “If you don’t go I’ll leave you here to get a ring around your bottom.”

  “Actually, I have one,” he said.

  Sola appeared in the doorway.

  “Where’s Maeve? Where’s Jack? What am I doing sitting here?” I said to her.

  “Your turn,” said Sola. “I did it. Will and Wren did it. This family is a democracy.”

  “Edward, please!” I pleaded.

  “I want a dollar,” said Edward.

  Sola bursts into laughter. She pulls a bill out of her jean pocket and hands it to him. We can hear her laughing down the hallway. Then it is silent in the bathroom. Edward looks at me for a moment, those blue eyes staring into mine. Then he jumps down from the toilet and flushes it.

  He hands me the dollar.

  “I went a long time ago,” he says. “This is yours.”

  Edward walks out the door and down the hallway. Then I hear him walking back. He stands in the doorway.

  “The infield fly rule is not dumb, you know,” he announces.

  It is Edward’s first day of kindergarten.

  “We’ll walk you to school, Edward,” said Wren.

  “I know the way,” said Edward. “I’ll walk ahead of you. Two steps.”

  Edward held up two fingers.

  Maeve looked a little sad.

  “Oh, I thought I’d walk with you, Edward,” she said.

  Edward shook his head, making Jack smile.

  “You’re busy,” he said to Maeve, not unkindly.

  Edward picked up his navy blue backpack with RED SOX on it. He wore a blue and white striped shirt and jeans. His light brown hair was smooth.

  He smiled at all of us.

  “Let’s go,” he said cheerfully.

  Maeve bit her lip as if she might cry. Edward looked at her.

  “You can walk with me tomorrow,” he whispered.

  Maeve burst into tears. Jack got up and swung Maeve around in the kitchen until she laughed.

  “Out, out, all of you,” he said. “Maeve will be fine. We’ll put on music and dance in the kitchen. Maybe we’ll eat ice cream!”

  Jack shooed us out the door and we marched down the steps and across the yard. Behind us, in the kitchen, music started.

  Edward turned around, two steps ahead of us, and walked backward.

  “Tina Turner,” he announced. He sang, “What’s love got to do with it?”

  “Some day I’ll write a book about this,” said Will.

  We were all surprised. Will didn’t talk very much. His look was very serious as he watched Edward.

  “I bet you will,” said Sola, putting an arm around him.

  “Edward’s not nervous or scared,” says Wren very softly. “I was scared my first day of school. I’m a little scared today.”

  She pauses, then looks at me.

  “Edward’s not scared of anything,” she said.

  “No. He’s not,” I say to her. “He’s not.”

  Edward leads us the five blocks to school.

  What’s love got to do with it?

  When Edward is in third grade he begins to stay up later at night than I do. On my way to bed I hear whispering on the porch. A moon shines over the water.

  “So when I die,” says Wren, “I’m coming back as a bird. Or maybe a dog. Nobody’s happier than Weezer.”

  It is quiet.

  “What about you?” she whispers.

  “A fish,” says Edward promptly. “I’ll be in the ocean. I’ll come in and go out with the tides.”

  Wren is silent. I keep listening. But talk is over.

  Then, just as I walk away, I hear Edward say, “In and out, in and out, in and out,” three times.

  Chapter 2

  It was dusk and the water was flat and shining. Albert Groom and I were watching the daily summer baseball game in the front yard. Albert’s dog, Weezer, lurked in the outfield.

  “Weezer thinks he’s an outfielder,” said Albert softly.

  “He is,” I said. “He gets to the ball faster than Wayne.”

  “That’s because Wayne is too busy picking his nose,” commented Albert.

  “Don’t you want to play?” Albert asked me.

  “I like to watch,” I said. “And these are all Edward’s friends.”

  “Too young for you?” asked Albert, smiling.

  “No. I just like to watch,” I said. “Like you.”

  “Well, I would play right now if my legs would make it around the bases,” said Albert.

  “I watch,” I said.

  “We’ll watch then,” said Albert.

  Albert’s voice was musical, as if he might begin singing. His dark skin was almost blue black in the late light. Edward called Albert African-American. Albert called himself black. He had played baseball years ago. And his father, Trick, before him, had played in the Negro League. Every time there was a game in our front yard Albert was there on our porch, watching intently, as if it were a championship. His hand rested on his wooden cane.

  Edward’s friends were playing: Wayne, Billy Bob, Mavis, who was the best catcher, Lulu and Mary Brigid and Lukie and Morris and Ted and Brendan and Caitlin and Joe.

  Edward walked to the plate. One out. Lukie and Mary Brigid on base. Edward was the best hitter.

  “Edward says he can see the ball coming,” I said. “He can see the path it’s going to take, like a train on a track.”

  It was true. Edward, in his entire eight years, had never once struck out.

  “Those eyes,” said Albert admiringly, his voice so soft. “Those wonderful eyes,” he repeated in a whisper.

  There was a crack sound of ball on wood. Edward hit a pop-up.

  “Infield fly rule!” he cried happily, looking at me
as if he had invented it himself.

  Mavis dropped her blankie and came up to bat.

  “Batter, batter, batter,” yelled Mary Brigid.

  The sun went down. Weezer howled in the outfield, wishing for a long hit.

  Mavis grounded out. She picked up her blankie. Everyone went home for dinner.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Albert. He walked down the steps and went out to get Weezer, who would wait all night under the moon if Albert didn’t take him home.

  “Bonsoir, Albert Groom,” called Edward. “Bonsoir!”

  The game was over.

  Chapter 3

  “Did you live by the sea when you were little?”

  I woke up, hearing Edward’s voice through my open window. When I looked out I could see Edward and Albert sitting on the porch.

  “I was born by the sea,” said Albert.

  “How old are you?” asked Edward.

  Edward always asked Albert personal questions. He asked him anything and all things. He loved Albert. And Albert always told Edward the truth.

  “Sixty-eight,” said Albert.

  “Is that old?” asked Edward.

  “Not to my father,” said Albert.

  Albert’s father, Trick, was ninety years old. He spent time walking around town, carrying a bag of pretzels and taking notes about everything he saw.

  In the distance I saw Sola and Wren swimming, only their heads showing. They looked like sea otters. Albert’s dog, Weezer, was swimming, too. Weezer came out of the water and started up the grass lawn to the house.

  “Run!” called Albert.

  Albert and Edward pushed back their chairs, and I heard the slam of the screen door.

  Downstairs, Albert and Edward stood at the door, looking out. Maeve was playing music in the kitchen. James Taylor sang while she danced. I knew she was dancing even though I couldn’t see her. Maeve always danced.