Aftersight Read Online Free

Finally the voice had whispered, clear but directionless, "She can't see me."
    After that, I’d started feeling a presence, as if someone invisible was following me. Not all the time, but regularly enough that I’d started to get used to it. It hadn’t really scared me, though. I’d liked to think someone somewhere was watching over me. I’d be lying in bed, gazing out the window at the yellow buds along the tips of the branches, and sense that I wasn't alone anymore. I had gotten to the point where I could almost pinpoint the presence. Almost.
    Then it had come, the deliciously sweet fragrance of cedar, a scent that made me think of sweaters unpacked from antique chests, of walking in the woods after a dip in the lake at summer camp, of my old hamster, Milo, and the bedding that lined his cage.
    "Be-e-e-ecky? Be-e-e-ecky? Can you hear me?"
    It hadn’t been just the little girl's voice, disembodied, in my own room that so unnerved me. It had been my name, spoken aloud, from someone who could see me, who I couldn't see. Had I been able, I’d have sprinted from the bedroom, but getting out of seated positions had still taken a bit of time. Instead, I’d answered the voice, and that began my strange relationship with Jenny, the disclosure of which had eventually landed me more visits with doctors, a neurologist, and eventually an appointment with Dr. Sudha Singh.
    ****
    "It's like a different girl from the Becky I knew woke up from that coma," Mom told Dr. Singh. "She used to be talkative, to joke around, to go out with her friends. Now all she wants to do is stay home, lie in bed, sleep."
    "When my wife says she thinks we brought a new Becky home from the hospital," my dad added, "she's not exaggerating." Dad was wearing a grey linen suit with a crisp white dress shirt and when he steepled his hands in front of him he looked every bit the six-foot-four power attorney he was. "I'd like you to see something."
    He slid to the edge of the couch and picked up the black leather briefcase that he'd set down next to the coffee table. He withdrew a sheaf a papers. "These are notes Becky took in class in the weeks before the accident." He handed them to Dr. Singh.
    They were from English Lit written in ballpoint pen. The text was in block letters, scribbled as if I'd been hacking and slashing at the page so aggressively that the paper was indented. The page curled upward like a lily pad. The handwriting itself was legible but just barely.
    "Now this is a sample of her handwriting after the accident."
    Dr. Singh accepted the notebook he passed her. This text looked like it had been crafted by a completely different hand. Written in fair, exacting cursive, the letters were neatly aligned and clear, full of loops and flourishes, as if penned by someone from another generation in a time when calligraphy had been something of an art.
    "Just so I'm clear," Dr. Singh responded, " this is the before and this is the after."
    Dad nodded. "That's not all. She drew this when she first came home from the hospital."
    He produced a sketch of a long-haired Persian curled up along the edge of a bed, a reproduction of my cat Max in striking detail. His fur appeared to have texture. The detailed folds and curves of the blankets were precisely shadowed and three dimensional. The glow in Max's eyes suggested he might hop out of the page.
    "She made this after she was able to get around a little more," Dad raised a second sketch, this one in colorful pastels. The winter scene showed snow melting to reveal a richly colored garden full of flowers and blossoming trees. The quality of color made the scene appear to glow with its own inner light.
    "Becky hasn't drawn before," Dr. Singh surmised.
    "She's shown no artistic talent before. No."
    Thanks, Dad. He'd always seemed to adore my fingerpaintings from preschool.
    Dr. Singh tried to catch my eye, but I refused to look up from the sodden tissues in my hand. My face flushed