Chapter 1

Hi, folks! It’s me again, Samantha Callaway, known to all as Sam.

Anyway, this tale opens two years after that unforgettable summer. School had started just a few weeks earlier. I was a sophomore in high school at the time. Over the last couple of years I guess you could say I had filled out. I had by then reached my full height of five feet nine and I guess I was pretty good looking in those days. My tits had even sort of filled out, too. Although I’m now like Mom — sort of a B+/C- cup if I ever wore a bra — back then I guess I was just a nice firm B.

The bit with the boys had just gotten worse. Now there was an almost-constant pack of them following me around like puppy dogs. And then there’s the fact that I was a cheerleader at the time, too.

Of course with my brother Jim starting at quarterback, I guess I had to be a cheerleader, didn’t I? I mean ... Support the family and all that good stuff? Needless to say — but I guess I must — he got to be as good as he is due to our mother, Kate Callaway.

When she married Dad and moved in, one of the first things she learned was that Jim loved football and desperately wanted to play quarterback. Of course the fact that he couldn’t throw a football even five yards back then did represent a certain ... handicap ... might I say? And for some reason or other — a congressional oversight, I’m sure — there’s absolutely no help in the Americans with Disabilities Act to cover a quarterback who can’t throw a football. I guess there really should be, but there isn’t. Trust me on this one.

Anyway, Kate became a self-taught expert on passing mechanics. Coupled with his physical workouts with Dad, I guess brother James became pretty good. In fact, very good. In fact he could fire the ball with accuracy at least 65 yards in the air. Anyway, he was considered a shoo-in as first-team All State quarterback here in Illinois and in the running for national high-school football honors. Of course, he had been All State first team the year before, too, so it wasn’t much of a surprise.

This brings me to the subject of this narrative, Sheila Smith. At least that’s how she introduced herself. Introduced? That’s a joke. Prior to my meeting her, if Sheila had ever said so much as “Hi” to anyone, I never heard of it. Sheila was one of those people with a knack for just disappearing. She could be standing right in front of you and you wouldn’t see her. Furthermore, I found that not only was that the way she liked it, she really worked hard to make it so. So the whole idea of an introduction from her really is sort of funny.

But I found Sheila in a couple of my classes and felt strangely drawn to her. I still have no idea why, nor did I then. I just was. At the time we couldn’t have been more different. Trying to be as honest as possible, I was tall, good looking, very well dressed and, I guess, vivacious. Sheila’s similarity to me ended with her being tall, too. Full stop.

If she ever said anything to anyone, no one remembered it. Her clothing looked like leftovers from Goodwill — which turned out to be accurate — and her coloration was dirty drab. The one memorable thing about her was her glasses. The frames were horrible and they looked even worse on her. If you can imagine a ceramic owl with a pair of glasses sitting on its beak, you have some idea. I mean ... Awful!

Her behavior in class was odd, too. In spite of being withdrawn to the point of disappearance, she always sat right in the front of the class. But thinking about it, maybe that was a form of hiding, too. For most of us it was like church: Come early and get a seat in the back. She never volunteered an answer. On the other hand, whenever she was called on she came back with the perfect answer to the question asked delivered in the most beautifully melodic voice I’ve ever heard. The interesting thing was it seemed to startle the teachers too. Maybe that’s because she never took any notes. She just sat there in class listening intently to every word.

Things began to change one Wednesday afternoon. It was one of those days when there was a teachers’ conference or in-service or some such. Anyway, we only had school for half a day. And even though I had turned 16, I still didn’t have my license and Mom wasn’t in any great rush for me to get one, either. I was; she was not. Anyway, she was a little late picking me up. I got in the car and as we moved down the street I saw Sheila walking alone.

I mentioned it to Mom and she pulled over to the curb to offer Sheila a ride. The girl was walking with her head down — as usual — and apparently ignoring everything around her — also as usual. When I called to her, she jumped a little and then came over to the car. I offered her a ride, but she declined with thanks.

But Kate — my mother — had seen something I hadn’t. She noticed that the girl was swaying as if she was close to collapse. “Get in this car, young lady!” Mom ordered.

I was really taken aback by that one, I remember. Normally, Mom is the nicest, sweetest, most considerate person imaginable, but that time she sounded like a Marine drill instructor.

And she obtained a DI’s results: Sheila appeared to jump almost a foot straight up in the air, but came to the car. I got out to let her in the back. As usual, Mom was driving her Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible with the top down. Sheila climbed into the back and then seemed to sit forward on the seat to minimize her bodily contact with the car. Mom just glared at her and ordered her to put on her seat-belt at once! Sheila did.

Then mother did something odd. She checked a phone number and made a call on the car phone. Apparently she was waiting for something because a few minutes later she just said, “Two o’clock? We’ll be there.” Then she checked her watch and noted, “The timing should work out perfectly.”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

Instead of asking Sheila where she would like to be dropped off, Mom just roared off to our place. Without a word, she raced back to the kitchen and started putting food together like a maniac. In just a few minutes she had crocks of her home-made French onion soup that she had just taken out of the freezer, piping hot in front of us. (Aren’t microwaves wonderful?)

I glanced over at Sheila. As the marvelous odor of the soup reached her nostrils, the girl almost passed out. But she took a spoon and began to eat. Meanwhile, mother had prepared a magnificent fine herbes omelette along with souffléd potatoes. Those are those fries that look like little balloons. When Sheila tried to pick it up with her fork it crumbled, of course. I explained that not only was it okay to eat them with her fingers, she had to.

Mom kept preparing things and Sheila continued to eat. Finally it penetrated even my pea-sized brain that the poor girl had been literally starving to death. When she finally eased away from the table, Mom asked, “When did you eat last, Sheila, and what did you have?”

“I had a piece of bread last night,” she replied softly, “or most of a piece, anyway.”

At her response, Mom looked ill.

While we were talking I had been looking at Sheila’s eyes through her glasses. Reaching out, I took them off and looked at them. As I had begun to suspect, they were clear glass. I had noticed that when I changed my viewing angle, the glass didn’t appear to change the way prescription lenses usually do.

“You’re blind!” I screamed. When I had looked at her eyes without her glasses I noticed for the first time that her eyes were completely unfocused.

“I am not!” Sheila protested. “I can still see light and dark and even large shapes.”

“You’re slow today, Sam,” Mom commented. “That was the first thing I noticed about her when we met her on the street. For some reason the first thing I look at is eyes, and I saw then what you just now noticed.

“And that’s why we have an appointment with the top ophthalmologist in the Midwest at two.” Glancing at her watch she added, “And let’s move it. We’re going to be late.”

When Sheila heard the word, ophthalmologist, she started to argue. But arguing with Kate Callaway when her mind is made up is about as effective as arguing with a stone. The poor girl was just hustled into the car and we were off.

“Which one of your buddies set this one up, Mom?” I asked casually as we were ushered into Dr. John Preston’s private office.

“Does it really matter, Sam?” she replied as she stuck out the tip of her tongue.

Preston greeted us and immediately turned his attention to Sheila. Sitting her in an examining chair he began his examination. Speaking softly he said, “You were beaten about the head severely, Sheila. When did it happen?”

“Awhile ago,” she answered softly.

“It wasn’t just once, was it?” Preston persisted.

“No, sir,” was the only reply.

Turning to Mom he said, “This is utterly incredible! I’m afraid I’m required to report this to the police. This child has been horribly abused. Both of her retinas are detached. The most common cause is a shock to the head. This girl has been beaten terribly, and, I would guess, over a sustained period of time.” Turning to Sheila he added, “Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can it be fixed?” Mom nearly screamed. “That’s the important thing.”

Again Preston studied the girl, this time examining each eye with great care. Then he grinned and said, “How about right now?”

“You’re kidding! Please don’t kid about something like this, John.”

“I’m not kidding, Kate. We can do wonders with laser surgery these days. One of the easier wonders to pull off is using a laser to reattach the retina. It’s sort of like welding it back in place.” By the way, John is chief of ophthalmology at Mom’s hospital, so that’s why they’re on a first-name basis.

He led Sheila off to the equipment and Mom and I followed like puppies. The whole process was fascinating to watch. All the time was taken in the setup and aiming. The actual process, I guess, probably took less than a second for each eye. Finally it was done.

Sheila looked up and I saw the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen on a human. “I can see!” she cried. “I can see!”

Then she looked at me, studied me closely and then slowly shook her head. “I’m disappointed in you, Samantha Callaway!”

I felt hurt, and I’m sure I looked it.

“As beautiful as I thought you were, it’s nothing compared to your beauty within. Since I really couldn’t see, I guess it must have been that beauty I was feeling or sensing or whatever...”

Then she looked at Mom. She studied her carefully and finally declared, “Mrs. Callaway, you may be the most selfish person on the face of this earth!”

Mom was shocked to the point of feeling almost destroyed. I could tell that Sheila’s remark had hurt her badly. And I really couldn’t understand it. After all, in only a matter of a few hours after encountering her for the first time in her life, Mom had arranged to have her eyesight restored. Thinking back, I guess I really felt hurt, too.

But Sheila continued as if nothing had happened. “A moment ago I said that Sam’s beauty is a fraction of what she has inside. But you! You have so damned much goodness it just spills out over every body and every thing.” Sheila cocked her head and continued, “That being so — you spill so much anyway — couldn’t you have given poor Samantha more than you did? I mean ... Really! I doubt if you even gave her five percent of your goodness, did you?” Then nodding her head firmly she concluded, “See what I mean?”

When Mom heard Sheila’s words, it was like the sun coming out on an overcast day. She absolutely beamed. Going to the girl she took her in her arms and really unloaded. The kiss she gave Sheila would kill anyone alive except Dad and me. Jim might have been able to survive, too, but I wasn’t too sure. For that matter, I’m still not.