Once every six months or so since the first grade, Mom and I would get ready for the trip to the city and the tall Dollar Bank Building where, on the eleventh floor, Dr. Peabody, Ophthalmologist, would examine the eyes of a little boy who did not see well. On this morning, Mom had already called the school principal’s office to excuse me from my classes. Before long, we had parked the car in the big lot downtown and were crossing Market Street to the sidewalk that led up to the building and to the stout revolving doors at the entrance. Mom helped me push.The building’s elevator was old and when its massive gates parted to let us in, a small woman was revealed sitting on a worn maroon vinyl seat attached to the wall of the elevator. “What floor?” she asked as we stepped inside. Sometimes Mom would try to hold my hand, but it was 1967 and I was too old for that. I marched on with the confidence of all the boys in the second grade at Todd Woods Elementary School. Mom said, “Eleven, please.”

Our journey upward began with the sound of giant electric motors coming to life and a lot of clicking.

The elevator lady sat perfectly erect on her little chair, eyes forward, staring at the steel-and-brass panel in front of her. When we were safely inside, standing near the back wall of the car, the lady’s chubby arms moved mechanical levers and turned a little wheel with a handle on it to close the doors. Our journey upward began with the sound of giant electric motors coming to life and a lot of clicking. It was a slow, polite trip, with little conversation. Mom put her left hand on my shoulder as her right hand held her stomach. I stood with hands in pockets, taking them out once in a while to adjust the thick plastic frames of the eyeglasses on my nose. Mom thought I did this when I was nervous, but I just wasn’t used to wearing them, that’s all. Sometimes on elevators they slid down a bit. Everyone spoke in hushed voices in the doctor’s office and Mom whispered my name to the receptionist while I found a seat and four magazines to read. Mom told me to put three back. I kept the Highlights magazine and got busy looking for the hidden pictures in the new full-page drawing that was in every issue. Soon we were led to a long, darkened room with a scientific-looking chair and cabinets of drawers full of little round lenses stored in wooden cases lined with dark green velvet cloth. Lifting the lid on a case revealed rows of tiny slots inside with one slot for each special lens.

All about the room, other shiny metal apparatuses were neatly organized in their proper places. Dr. Peabody appeared in the doorway wearing his white lab coat and, as he greeted Mom, I stared at his big round hairless head. I was already seated in the scientific chair with my legs sticking straight out. As he approached me, his familiar face became visible. With one of his large hands resting on my knee, he asked me in a smooth, concerned voice how I was doing that morning. “Fine, thank you,” I said. And the examination of my eyes proceeded with a thoughtful deliberation. An illuminated chart of letters appeared in the darkened room, projected onto the wall at the far end, and I was asked which letters I could read while looking through a black-and-silver mechanical mask with dial-up lenses. Mom sat in the shadows by the doorway on a stiff wooden chair. Dr. Peabody always put drops in my eyes to dilate my pupils. This made it necessary, upon leaving, for me to wear a pair of thin brown plastic wrap-around sunglasses with little white flat cardboard arms fitted underneath my regular glasses. Walking back to the car after one exam, I peeked around the brown edges of the sunglasses. The city outside was a glowing white place with an orchestra of moving shapes and sound in the place of traffic, and glinting streaks of spectacular luminescent color that, were it not for the ache in my eyes, could have been a glimpse of heaven.

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