Downpour

Her husband worked as a salesman at an electronics shop until one day, while wandering the empty mall, he suddenly fell. Because he had always been a bit of a clown and enjoyed being the center of attention, his colleagues thought he was pulling a prank. That meant the time it took for him to reach a hospital and receive proper treatment was slightly delayed—even if only a minute or two—the very thought of which upset her to the point of tears. Fortunately, he was diagnosed with only a small concussion, and the doctor said that after a few more simple tests and a week or so of solid rest, there should be nothing to worry about. Her husband looked remarkably at ease in the hospital; he actually said he had never been better. She was a receptionist at a small trading company, and each day after work she went directly to the hospital to help ensure he was getting a proper rest. After a few days he expressed his desire to leave, and on the evening of the fifth day she brought him home. The next day, watching her husband back to his own jokes and cheerfully leaving for work, she felt a mix of feelings revive. That evening she left work early to prepare dinner. As she thought back over their married life she sank into a kind of regret and was seized by the vague hope that in the future something would change. They had a little money saved. Perhaps her husband could use it to attend college. After graduating he would be able to get a better job than his current one. They’d also be able to have a child. She wanted a boy. . . . Though she was somewhat excited all evening, from time to time she felt an ominous sense of foreboding. But she made nothing of it. That’s why she didn’t notice the signs—that just that day her husband had more than once knocked over the decorative aromatic candle, hadn’t used chopsticks, had dropped his spoon, and had let his water cup slip more than twice—that gave rise to the principal event of this story. Didn’t notice, or simply pretended not to. After that evening she felt at once content and anxious, enthralled by the sensation of floating above the clouds. It wasn’t until the morning four days later, when her husband said to her on the verge of tears, “Honey, I can’t see a thing,” that for the first time she was able to come back to the ground.

When they returned to the hospital, one doctor began by saying, “There’s no indication of any direct abnormality in the eyeball,” and proceeded to deliver the diagnosis in cold technical language. Another went with a more figurative approach, explaining, “If we can flick on the right switch his sight will return.” What both stories had in common was an unwavering hope. That was the impetus for the three surgical procedures he underwent over the next two years. They were forced to move to a meaner, smaller residence to offset the medical fees for the final procedure and eventually fell into debt. The day her husband received his third—and final—surgery, she sat in the waiting room as if expecting an important visitor and was feeling somewhat weighed down. She repeatedly wiped her nose with the sleeve of her worn sweater. At some point she began browsing through the magazines strewn about the room, as if the act of reading would somehow conceal the shabbiness of her sweater. Unfortunately, almost none of the magazines caught her interest. In one, she found it impossible to stay focused on even a single letter. It may have been her mental state, or that the waiting room’s magazines—some about golf or tennis, others related to classical music, ballet, or lifestyle—were simply far removed from her conventional taste, but in truth that judgment would be unfair. Every magazine in the room was seriously dated. The hospital’s director deemed...