The Cloud

24

“I’m seeing phosphenes,” I say.

I sit on a ledge next to infant Isaac. He looks different than I remember him, more teeth and hair. We’re thousands of feet in the air, cloud level. He wears white overalls with alligators on them. I picked them out at a Babys“ R”Us in South San Francisco with sticky floors a few months before he was born. Between us on the ledge, a white plate holds two fortune cookies. One is cracked open and is empty.

“I realize you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Of course I know about phosphenes,” my tiny son responds. “I’m little but I’m not stupid.”

“You can talk?”

He puts his adorable index finger on his nose and wiggles it absently, an infant discovering his personal space.

Phosphenes are the product of electrical static inside our brains. When neurons fire-which happens pretty much all the time-they are accompanied by electrical signals. The signals throw off static, just like any electrical signal, a veritable neurological white noise. If you’ve ever closed your eyes tightly, you can see a matrix of light; that’s the static. You can see it too with your eyes open, often against a black backdrop.

At this moment, I’m seeing phosphenes in spades, my brain murky and white with static, like I’ve blown a circuit.

“Isaac, am I going to die?”

“I dunno. I’m just a baby. But I do know she’s been lying to you.”

“Who?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Faith? Sandy?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“And you’re lying to yourself.”

“About what, Isaac?”

No answer. I look down at the brown cookies on the plate, understated little bows of pastry and prescience.

“Wake up, Daddy. Before the damage is irreversible. Besides, she’s calling out your name.”