I kept my right eye closed because I saw ghosts through it. My parents thought they were imaginary friends I would soon outgrow—they weren’t. But what did they know anyway?

“One—or two?” my optometrist asked, switching lenses.

“Two,” I said. He repeated the process until I recited the words on the eye exam chart a few feet in front of me which had come into focus. To him, there were only words. But through my right eye, there was a woman—translucent, but not enough—in clothing stained by dried blood below the hips, smiling. In her hands, there sat a child’s head. I closed my eye.

“Please keep both eyes open for the exam,” said the optometrist.

My breaths stopped and opened my right eye. I screamed when the woman’s face, merged with the child’s in a strange blurring of features, shuddering momentarily like static channel, appeared before the lenses.

I squeezed my eyes shut, throat burning, tears drenching the neck of my shirt. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but the other times were bearable—the visions weren’t as clear. It had only been a month since the ghosts appeared, but it felt like it had been years.

Before leaving, I paused by the entrance, listening to my parents’ whispers. Mother clutched Father’s arm.

“Well, what are we supposed to do about it?” Mother said.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to offer advice on this . . . perhaps a specialist,” said my optometrist.

Behind my parents’ stood the woman with the child’s head in her hands—the faces no longer merged. She squeezed then stretched the child’s face, the skin looking far too elastic.

In a photo pinned up in my mother’s room, she cradled my newborn self on the hospital bed, smiling though her gown was soiled. She was smiling, but there was so much blood.

The woman stepped into my mother’s body, disappearing. And the child’s head floated towards me, its misshappen mouth ajar, mouthing, “Remember me?”

My parents never brought me to the optometrist again.

I didn’t want to see the ghosts, but they wanted to see me.

Later that night, my mother tossed me an eyepatch made of beige silk. “Here, just wear this for now. It should help with your . . . issues.” She swirled the glass of wine in her hand, a drop spilt over the side, dropping onto the red loveseat. A tight smile flashed across both our faces, teeth clenched so tight I was surprised they didn’t all fall out. So similar. I stopped smiling. The fabric of the eyepatch felt rough in my hand, like it had been used for a long while before.

In the bathroom mirror, the edges of the fabric seemed to dissolve into my skin, making it appear as though I only had one eye. Blending in wasn’t a possibility now.

“Why don’t you just put her in therapy?” my father asked.

“I never went to therapy, and I turned out fine,” my mother said, glaring from the corner of her eye.

“Well, did you see things, too?” Though he answered, his eyes stayed glued to his work computer, finding far more interest in his never-ending emails rather than his family. It was how he was raised. I hoped he didn’t expect the same from me.

Mother hesitated for a brief moment before the smile re-emerged on her face. “N-no, of course not.” Then her face hardened once more as she tsked. “Besides, what do you think the our girls at my book club would say if they found out our daughter went to therapy.”

Mother rose from her spot walked over to where I hovered by the living room entrance with some lipstick in her hand. “Here, this might help.” She waved her arms as if conducting an orchestra. “Cover up, if you will.”

She wasn’t trying to be funny, but I couldn’t see how lipstick would help me be more ‘normal’.

“When I was your age, all the girls wore it,” Mother said. Her hands shook as she painted the red over my lips, her eyes blank, as though recalling something she didn’t want to remember.