by Val Emmich
Now my cheeks seem to redden. “I meant because of my… because I look different.”
He lifts his head, understanding what I’m alluding to.
“But what you said… it was really nice,” I say.
This idea that I would be obviously pretty to Mac is not something I can readily absorb. Neel thinks I’m pretty and he’s convinced I know it, too, but that’s like your brother saying it.
“I honestly didn’t even think about your hand,” Mac says. “Maybe it looks different than most, but no, I don’t think it’s ugly. Or that it makes you ugly. Not for a second.”
This, too, is such a nice thing to say, simply uttering the words your hand as opposed to referring to it or skirting around the issue completely. Still, I’m afraid it’s another thing that’s too difficult for me to believe.
“Sometimes I just wish I was like everyone else,” I say.
“No,” Mac says. “You don’t want that.”
I roll my eyes at his undeniable beauty. “Easy for you to say.”
“Come on. Everyone has things they wish they could change about themselves. That’s normal.”
“Oh yeah? What’s your thing?”
Mac points to himself.
“What?” I ask.
“My nose,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
“What about it?”
“I don’t like it. It’s too big for my face.”
“You’re crazy,” I say, remembering too late that I don’t like to be called that, so I probably shouldn’t be a hypocrite.
“It’s the way I feel,” Mac says. “You can’t change my mind.”
It’s the sort of self-harmony only guys seem capable of. I’d really like some of it for myself.
“Well, I like your nose,” I say. “I think it makes you unique.”
“I could say the same about your hand,” Mac says.
“But you didn’t.”
“Only because I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
Damn, he’s good.
He’s not the first person to encourage me to see my hand as a kind of gift. There are my parents and Neel, of course. Brooke made me follow a bunch of people online for inspiration, like Bethany Hamilton, who kept surfing even after a shark literally bit off her arm, or Jordan Reeves, who was born without a hand and forearm and invented a prosthetic device that shoots glitter. Even Charlie has tried to drive the point home. Ray Charles? he’d say. Stevie Wonder? What about Django Reinhardt? Django’s left hand was mangled and he was one of the best guitarists that ever lived. He created a whole new style that no one before him had ever imagined.
But can’t a hand just be a hand? Because mine came out different, does that mean I have to, like, want to change the world?
“Charlie is always trying to teach me how to play piano,” I say. “He thinks it’ll make me look at my hand in a whole new way.”
“You mean the Charlie Most?”
“The same.”
“You still haven’t told me who he is.”
“He’s my mom’s boyfriend. He lives with us.”
Mac tries to square this new information with the image he already has of Charlie. He brings his legs up and sits with them crossed. “Do you like Charlie Most?”
“Yes. I really like Charlie Most.”
“You sound so sad when you say that.”
That’s just the sound of my guilt.
“Is that his real name?” Mac asks.
I’ve wondered the same thing. “I think it’s a stage name.”
“You never asked?”
“No. I think it would insult him. He’s an open book with most things. Not his music, though. He likes to keep that side of him really mysterious. I can appreciate that.”
Mac squints as if the true mystery here is the one he’s looking at. He’s right, of course. I thought kissing him might calm the unrest in my belly, but it’s only made it worse. My secret was easier to ignore when Mac seemed unreachable. Now that I know what it’s like to hold him, to feel his skin against mine, the shame in my gut has become all-consuming. I have to rid myself of this sickness.
“Maybe you should try it,” Mac says. “Piano.”
“Oh,” I say, having already forgotten what we were talking about. “I don’t really have an interest.”
Mac marvels at my ignorance. “You think I care about listening to old records with my dad? I do it because he’s asking and I feel bad saying no. Charlie is just trying to reach out to you. That’s all that is.”
Dad,
She’s so gross. She let Charlie move in with us. They sleep in your bed. Your bed! How could she do this to you? She’s such a slut.
But she does harass me a lot less now that he’s around. I can hide in my room for hours and no one cares. That’s kind of awesome.
Love,
Tegan
Tegan,
Your mother is not a slut. Let’s be fair. She waited a long time before she let him move in. That was to protect you. Plus, he was already helping with the mortgage anyway. He should be allowed to live in the house if he’s paying for it. And she hasn’t forgotten me. She still keeps my pictures up. Even after Charlie moved in.
It’s hard to see things from her side, but don’t stop trying.
Love,
Dad
Dad,
I tried to hate Charlie. He seemed too good to be true. But he really is kind and helpful, and nothing seems to bother him. The only time he gets serious is when he talks about his music. He says Mom knows how important it is to him and she doesn’t try to change him.
I used to say no when he offered to drive me places. Or he’d make me dinner and I’d tell him I wasn’t hungry. But he’s a really good cook. I don’t know how to say no to him anymore. Is that wrong? I feel like I’m doing something bad behind your back.
P.S. I feel terrible about what I said about Mom. I didn’t mean it.
Love,
Tegan
Tegan,
I know you didn’t mean what you said. You never really do.
And there’s nothing wrong with liking Charlie. It would be kind of weird if you didn’t. He’s a very likable person.
Love,
Dad
4:24 PM
There was only a hint of daylight in my bedroom when a birdie started singing outside my door. Charlie never knocks. Instead he whistles a mysterious melody, always the same one.
“Come in,” I said.
He cracked open the door enough to poke his head in. The big shiny collar of his shirt meant only one thing: showtime. If the weather was as bad as they were predicting, he really shouldn’t be out there driving in it.
“You still have to play when there’s a snowstorm coming?” I said.
“Have to?” Charlie said. “It’s not like that. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. Besides, nobody’s canceling a wedding for some snow. People want to get married, they get married.”
I often wonder whether Charlie would have asked Mom to marry him already if I wasn’t in the equation. I used to think Mom getting remarried would be the end of the world, but that was when the someone she was potentially marrying was a stranger.
“So look,” Charlie said. “About this dinner. I happen to know your mom was looking to sit with you tonight. Spend a little time.”
“Spend a little time?”
“All I’m saying is, maybe you go downstairs at some point.”
I pictured Mom down there now, unpacking all the groceries she had made a special trip for in the snow.
Charlie’s thick playing fingers grabbed hold of the doorknob. “See you in the morning.”
Before he shut the door, I told him, “She used to cook, you know.”
“I’ve heard.”
“She still can. You don’t have to do it for her.”
Charlie shook his head like I was the silliest thing he had ever seen. “There’s a whole lot I do in life that I don’t want to. But I promise, cooking for you
and your mom isn’t one of them.”
I told him to leave the door open. In a moment, I’d go downstairs and I’d do as he said: I’d try to spend a little time.
2:39 AM
I’m ready for some fresh air,” Mac says, jumping off the exhibit table.
It’s over, I assume, our time together. We kissed and now he wants to get out of here.
He shoves his palm through his hair, and a clump of it remains upright. I see now that the top of his forehead is sweaty. He’s still recovering from the muggy climate of Closetopia.
Mac clarifies. “I kind of want to see inside the tower. That light, the one that never goes out, can you show it to me?”
He doesn’t want to leave after all. Not without me, at least.
I get up and crawl back inside his coat. Zipped, buttoned, hooded.
“Yes,” I say, excited for the first time at the prospect of parading around the permafrost.
A sign on the back door reads EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. Mac, wearing the wool hat he briefly lent to the Edison bust, unbolts the door. It doesn’t open willingly. The wind pushes against it. Mac heaves it open, and all the heat we stockpiled rushes out. Collected snow topples onto our shoes.
We stand at the threshold. The temperature is deadly. And yet, I feel wildly alive.
We go. Normally the walk would be over in seconds. It’s fifty feet tops, but in this weather it requires hefty, tiresome steps. We’re not walking but climbing. It looks like a movie I saw about conquering mountains. Men linked by rope. Their lives in one another’s hands. We’re not tied to each other physically, Mac and I, or even touching, but I feel that I’m hanging on to him for dear life.
Sharp flakes poke at my eyes. I squint and look down. Conditions couldn’t be worse. Thick, fierce, relentless. I wonder whether the governor declared the state of emergency he threatened.
The enormous light bulb atop the pointy gray tower guides us. It’s the only thing strong enough to laugh at this menacing blast of nature. We climb the slight incline to the terrace and reach the base of the tower. Its tall cement walls, grooved like a Phillips-head screwdriver, shield us. The structure soars nine stories and resembles a rocket ready to shoot into space. Our mission feels intergalactic. I struggle with the key. Mac offers to help, and this time, without resistance, I let him do it for me.
Unlocked, the door flies open and bangs against the wall. We hurry inside and push the door shut. We’re spared the wind now but not the cold. It’s even more frigid in here. Darker, too.
The room is hardly bigger than a closet. Bare stone and oppressively empty. Except for a pillar at the center. On top of the pillar is the thing we came for: the Eternal Light.
It isn’t much to look at. The illumination is lousy. Faint and unsure. The bulb is cloudy. Like a cheap toy with drained batteries.
“It’s really something,” Mac says. “Blinding.”
“I warned you,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to make light of it.”
“You know, you’re the first person to make that joke.” My sarcasm wiggles through chattering teeth.
“Okay,” Mac says, “so why don’t you pretend I’m one of the unfunny guys on one of your tours. What do you want to tell me?”
So many things. I wish I could say them all. My coat swishes as I fold my arms. “They put the bulb here for a reason,” I say.
The thick walls dampen the rhythms outside. The cavernous room amplifies my voice.
“Supposedly this is the exact spot where Edison’s desk was. It’s where he got the ideas for some of his most famous inventions.”
The bulb offers a weak flashlight for my campfire tale. I see only the dim outline of Mac.
“I used to believe the story,” I say, remembering when my dad first brought me here. “I thought this light held some kind of power. I’d come in here and make a wish.”
This hollow place sounds like a church. It inspires confession.
“I used to wish my dad would come back for me. It’s stupid, I know.”
“It’s not,” Mac says. “I make wishes all the time. I wish my dad would get his shit together. I wish my family could be normal. I know that stuff will never happen but…”
“You don’t know that. It could.”
He considers it and returns his focus to the cloudy bulb in front of us. “Maybe it only grants our wishes if we touch it.”
“Like rubbing a genie’s lamp?” I say.
“Exactly,” Mac says.
“We’re not supposed to touch it.”
“We’re not supposed to do any of this.”
He removes his hand—the unbruised one—from his pocket. He places his palm on the side of the bulb.
I hesitate, but only for a second. It’s just a game and I’m playing. I lift my hand, my left hand, and hover it over the opposite side of the light. Then, I let it fall. Our hands touch both sides of the glass—apart but connected.
“Make your wish,” he says.
“We should close our eyes first,” I say.
He closes his. I stare at him, his eyes closed, so sweet, serene, trusting. He casts his own light, stronger than the one we came here to see. I do the same, shut my eyes. We make our silent wishes. I wish this night would never end. I wish I could take back everything I did and said. I wish my dad would return for me. I wish wishes came true.
We open our eyes. I want to ask what Mac wished for, but then I’d have to reveal my own wishes.
“What happens now?” I say.
“We wait.”
“Can we do that back in the museum? I’m freezing.”
“Good idea,” Mac says.
We walk out of the tower and I lock the door.
Mac stands still in the snow, gazing in the opposite direction. I took too long with the key, it seems, and he’s turned into an ice statue.
“Look,” Mac says.
I can hear him. I can see him. The wind is still, the snow asleep. It’s like god flipped the off switch and bid the world good night. But we’re still awake. Aren’t we?
I step beside Mac and face the neighborhood. It’s one of those trick images your brain can’t make sense of right away. My head tilts, my eyes narrow, my mind churns. What am I looking at?
“The lights are out,” Mac says.
The image unblurs. The houses across the street are invisible. The streetlights are off. I turn to the museum. I can hardly make it out in the near distance. The front light isn’t on. The light is set to a timer and normally stays on through the night, every night, including tonight. Until now.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“There must have been a power outage or something,” Mac says.
It doesn’t make sense. We were gone only a few minutes.
One thing that hasn’t changed is the amount of snow on the ground. Probably a foot. Speaking of foots, mine are numb. My socks and shoes were almost dry and now they’re wet anew. I can feel the few hairs on my legs squeezing back inside my skin. I’ll never get warm again.
“I can’t make it back,” I say, even though I know I can’t remain out here, either. The storm may be over, but it’s left behind an overwhelming impression.
“You want a piggyback ride?” Mac says.
Boys are so weird. Babysitting two of them showed me that. Even a boy as smart as Mac can revert instantly to a dumb animal. That this is somehow cute to me, at least when he does it, is even more confusing.
“Come on,” Mac says.
I am not me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and allow him to take my weight.
He goes full caveman and lugs me through the Ice Age. I’ve become this primal creature. Everything, suddenly, is that thing I never thought possible—simple. I’m holding on and I’m not heavy, not my heart or mind or body. The doubts that never leave me alone leave me alone. I am the lightest light. I never want to be let down.
His chest expands with each breath, his shoulders firm and strong. I want to find more weight t
o add so I can crush him. We’ll fall together in the snow and be buried in ice for the future to discover. Look at these two, archeologists will say. They died embracing.
The trip is too short. The calmer weather eases our return journey. He lowers me to the ground.
“I think that counts as my workout for the day,” Mac says. The cutest, dumbest animal.
I resort to my own power. I’m weak in the knees. I know now what people mean when they say that. Maybe I’m weak in the eyes, too, because over his shoulder I’m seeing the second mirage of the night.
“Hey, Macintyre.”
The name confuses him at first.
I point behind him. “What is that?”
Mac sees it. The top of the tower—the light is on.
He looks at me as if this is part of the standard museum tour. This is a place of science. Whatever is happening now is the opposite of science. It’s irrational, illogical, impossible. The power is out everywhere around us. Except here. In this one spot. The tower is lit up. The giant bulb radiates from high above.
“Maybe…” I say.
“Maybe what?”
“I don’t know.”
He turns to me. “Maybe we’re electric.”
3:04 AM
Inside, Mac’s guess is right: The power is out. It’s pitch-dark.
Using the available snow light offered by the open door, I locate the candle on the shelf and carry it to the hand crank. Mac meets me there and begins to turn the pencil-sharpener wheel. No electricity needed for this experiment other than what we can generate on our own. Soon the wick ignites and we have fire.
I hold the glass sides of the candle and let it warm my hands. Mac shuts the door to prevent any more of our precious heat from escaping.
I bring the candle to the center of the room and place it on the floor. I sit down next to it, and Mac joins me. We stare at the candle between us.
“My feet are freezing,” I say.
