Gingerbread Man

nodded.
    The kid left and closed the door behind him, leaving Mason alone with Eric. He moved closer to the bed. "I don’t know what to say to you, brother." He swallowed to loosen up the constriction in his throat. "Hell, I don’t even know if you can hear me, but…what the
fuck
, Eric? What were you thinking? You—" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You
killed
all those boys, you sonofabitch. And then dumped it all on me? What the
fuck
, man?"
    He sighed, backed away. "Okay, so you win. You’re badass. You make the messes, and I clean `em up. Just like always, big bro. And now I’ve gotta go call Mother and Marie, and break their hearts. And they’re gonna cry and mourn for a piece of shit who never deserved either of them. Much less the boys. Damn you, Eric, how could you do this to your family?"
    He got up, started to leave, then turned back. "Why the fuck did you have to wait for me to get there, make me watch you do that? That’s never gonna get out of my head, you know."
    He left the room, closed the door, lowered his head way down because his eyes were burning with tears, and then, finally, he called his sister-in-law.
    * * *
    BY NOON MY room was full of balloons, flowers and various idiotic stuffed animals. And
people
, let’s not forget people. My BBF—-best blind friend—Mott Killian was at my bedside, strumming his guitar, and singing away, doing his usual half-a-song-then-switch thing. Mott taught American History over at Cortland State. Amy, my irritatingly twenty-something personal assistant, had confiscated my tray table for her laptop. She was clicking away, tweeting and posting hourly updates to my fifty-thousand-and-some-odd followers, and manning her ever-present iPhone to tell reporters no to every interview request. I have no idea about social media. She does it all for me. My agent, Barracuda Woman, was keeping tabs via Skype from her Manhattan office. And my sister was riding herd on the hospital staff and ordering takeout. Her twins were texting nonstop—I could hear the tapping, soft as it was—and sucking down vitamin water. I could smell it. Misty had Berry Blast, and Christy had Mango Peach. They were trying not to let me know that their social lives were positively wasting away while they were doing time at their blind aunt’s bedside, but their frequent sighs were audible, and their impatience wafted from their pores like B.O.
    When a nurse tried to object to all the activity in the room, Sandra laid down the law. "Do you know how many times my sister has been on TV?" she asked. "She’s
important.
She needs her people around her."
    My people. My entourage. And every one of them so devoted they would take a bullet for me. Well, except for Misty and Christy, who would take a slap for me, max. Maybe. As long as it wasn’t in the face.
    Moreover, the people in this room were the only people who knew that the real me was
not
the feel-good guru who showed up in my books and on talk shows. And they not only loved me anyway, they loved me enough to
not
sell the truth to the tabloids. That was devotion right there, because that information would’ve been worth a significant bundle.
    There was a tap on the door before someone came in. I smelled her and heard her signature footsteps, soft and close together, and I knew her instantly. "Hold up, hold up." I tapped Mott’s knee as I spoke, and he stopped strumming.
    "Doc Fenway?"
    "You amaze me every time, you know that?" she said with a smile in her voice.
    "I do it on purpose," I confessed. "So are you here to visit, or did this little accident have some kind of impact on my eyesight? Please don’t tell me I’m going blind!"
    Obediently, my entourage laughed. But only a little. There was still noise all around me. Amy’s clicking keys, Sandra talking on the phone—"Ham and pineapple, extra blue cheese, and the hottest wings you’ve got"
—
Mott still picking a string over and over as he tuned the guitar, because apparently he thought as long as he wasn’t playing an actual song he was in compliance with my "hold up" order of a moment ago.
    And then Doc Fenway went on. "Actually, I came with some good news for you." And then she said it. One sentence that changed everything. "You’re going to see again, Rachel."
    The room went silent. I flinched as the words exploded inside my brain. "I…um…how?"
    "We have a brand-new healthy set of corneas for you. Private donor. Wishes to remain anonymous, and—"
    "No." I shook my