A Trick of the Light

by Lois Metzger

  Dad: “I hope you’ll have some.”

  The food comes so fast, it’s surprising they had time to cook it. Mike takes the first of five bites of broccoli. That Chinese woman should see him now. His discipline, his self-control.

  Dad: “I wanted to tell you. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  Mike: “You’re back with Laura?” Mike is fairly certain this is not what his dad meant, but he says it anyway.

  Dad: “Terry is 18"ဆnot like Laura.”

  Mike: “Is she younger?”

  Dad: “Terry’s older than I am. Not supermodel gorgeous, but attractive.”

  She’s fat, in other words.

  His dad says something about where Terry works. It sounds like she controls the city.

  Mike: “What?”

  Dad (more clearly): “Terry works for the city comptroller. That’s the treasurer’s office. They keep track of the money.” Pause. “Your finger’s bleeding.”

  Mike thinks, How many months has it been since I cut my finger?

  Don’t worry about it.

  The clean white napkin in Mike’s lap, the one holding most of the broccoli, now has several glistening drops on it, vivid and bright red. Mike thinks, Harryhausen was always careful to make his movie blood look real, but this blood looks fake.

  Dad: “Try the chicken.”

  Mike: “No.”

  Dad: “Please. For me.”

  Mike looks at the chicken, orange and shiny. It looks fake, too.

  Dad: “Just one bite?” He puts a piece on Mike’s plate.

  Mike lifts a fork to stab it. But he can’t do it.

  Dad: “What’s wrong?”

  Mike: “I can’t.”

  Dad: “Can’t—or won’t?”

  Mike is almost in tears. What’s the matter with me? he thinks. It’s like something else is controlling me. Is it my dad’s new girlfriend, the controller of the city?

  Dad: “Never mind. It’s okay.”

  Mike thinks, It’s not okay. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not in control.

  Yes, you are.

  Why can’t I eat the chicken?

  Because you don’t want to. It’s disgusting.

  I do want to. I mean, I’m willing to, but I can’t.

  You’re in control.

  But if I’m not, what is?

  Mike overthinks, sometimes.

  Again I have to work hard to calm Mike down, get him out of the restaurant and back on the bus, see to it that he goes for a run even before he goes home. Then he feels better. He’s not even hungry as he runs.

  You can run over hunger.

  He stumbles a bit, bangs up his knee. No blood. He runs some more.

  Back home, he looks in the mirror and sees something he’s never seen before. There’s a thin, fuzzy patch of hair on his shoulders. A dusting of it on his stomach, too. It’s soft, like a blanket. Nice, Mike thinks.

  Don’t see your dad anymore. It’s too disruptive.

  Mike agrees. He knows what’s at stake here.

  Don’t see anyone anymore. Except for Amber.

  Mike agrees to that, too. Besides, he’s used to solitude. Before Tamio, he was alone all the time. Not that he’s alone now. After all, he has me.

  Mike visits Amber again during the week. There’s a different nurse at the desk outside the Sun Room. She looks up at Mike as she tells him Amber’s at a group activity.

  Nurse: “Do you want me to fetch her?”

  Mike: “No, that’s okay.”

  Nurse: “You sure? She doesn’t get many visitors.” Mike wonders if the nurse actually sounds concerned.

  Don’t count on it.

  Mike runs. He works out in his room. He is full of life. Everything is fantastic. Except for that time—

  The knocking is intense.

  Mom: “Mike! Mike! Open this door immediately!” She’s pounding so hard, she could break the door down.

  Mike is on the floor. He gets up, staggers over to the door, and unlocks it.

  Mom: “Why’d you lock the door?”

  Hasn’t she ever heard of privacy?

  Mom: “Why’d it take you so long to answer?”

  Mike: “I didn’t hear you.”

  Mom: “How could you not hear me? I was standing out there for God knows how long!”

  Don’t believe it. She only just started.

  Mike finds himself back on the floor.

  Mom: “Oh, my God.” She’s freaking out.

  Mike: “Give me a second.” He needs a moment to get his bearings.

  Mom: “What if this happened while you were crossing the street?”

  Mike: “Nothing happened.”

  You were tired. No big deal. You took a nap.

  Mike: “It’s no big deal. I took a nap.”

  Mom: “Where—on the floor?”

  Mike: “Stop asking me stuff.”

  Mike tries to remember as his mom finally leaves him alone. He was going to do some push-ups. He can do 120 now. The floor p wဆrose up, Mike thinks; it was the weirdest thing.

  It’s not so weird. You were sleepy.

  I can’t really remember what happened, Mike thinks.

  Because you fell asleep.

  He can do 250 crunches now, too.

  You are strong and getting stronger.

  Mike knows he is. He can feel it. He looks in the mirror. He’s so close to looking the way he wants to look, feeling the way he wants to feel. Having everything all under control.

  I can be fit, Mike thinks. I can be strong. Infinitely strong.

  You’re almost there.

  You and me both.

  PART 3

  STOP-MOTION

  CHAPTER 23

  MIKE WAKES UP AND HE KNOWS—HE JUST KNOWS—someone’s been in his room. A trickle of panic runs down the back of his neck. He looks under his bed and in his closet; he checks the window, which is still closed as it is every night—it’s too cold to leave it open. He can’t find any evidence of theft, so he heads downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. But his mom is blocking the way.

  Mom: “I have something to tell you.”

  Mike: “Later.”

  Mom: “Now. What I have to say, it’s not open for discussion. It’s happening whether you like it or not. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like it.”

  Mike: “What are you talking about?”

  His mom is shaking. Why is she shaking? Mike wonders if it’s because he used her credit card to buy Amber a bracelet. No, wait, he hasn’t done that yet. Sometimes it’s hard for Mike to tell the difference between actually doing something and just thinking about doing it.

  Mom: “You’re going to the hospital.”

  Mike: “Yeah, I visit Amber.”

  Mom: “You don’t get it. You’re the one going to the hospital. I’m having you admitted.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Mom: “Do you understand?”

  Stay calm. Take a deep breath.

  Mike (breathing deeply): “I don’t need a hospital. I’m not sick.”

  Mom: “You blacked out.”

  Mike: “I took a nap!”

  Mom: “Believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought. In fact, it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

  So this is what she’s been up to behind your back.

  Mom: “It wasn’t an easy decision, but it’s the right one. I found a facility out of Belle Heights. It’s not even in the city.”

  She wants to throw you out, like you’re a piece of junk.

  Mom: “I’ve done the research. It’s a very good place. I haven’t been, of course. You’re not allowed to go, beforehand. You can only go as a patient.”

  That sounds suspicious.

  Mom: “I packed you a bag.”

  Mike sees it near the couch, a small duffel like the one his dad took.

  Mike: “Unpack it.”

  Mom: “I called an ambulance. It’s on its way.”

  An ambulance; is she serious?

  Mom: “The h
ospital suggested it. You might be too weak to walk.”

  Mike: “I run miles every day! How can I be too weak to walk?”

  Mom: “I’ve been in close touch with your father.”

  She’s not even listening to you.

  Mom: “He was so upset when he saw you. He couldn’t believe it—”

  Mike: “Who cares?”

  Mom: “Your physics teacher, Mr. Clayton, called me.”

  Mike: “I’m getting an A in physics, like in all my classes. What’s the problem?”

  Mom: “Mr. Clayton said there’s no doubt in his mind you have an eating disorder.”

  Mike: “Is he a doctor, like Dr. Steiner, who said I was in excellent shape?”

  Mom: “Tamio called me, too. More than once.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Tamio, the betrayer.

  Mom: “Your baseball coach sent me emails. He heard from one of the kids that you quit the team.”

  Mike can’t believe this. Are they all part of it?

  They are all traitors.

  Mike: “Well, guess what? I’m not going.”

  Mom: “It’s not up to you. You’re not eighteen. I’m the one admitting you, and you’ll stay admitted until the staff says you’re better.”

  She’s not shaking anymore. She sounds strong. But she’s never been strong. Mike’s the one getting stronger, not her.

  Mike: “How can you just pull me out of school in the middle of the year?”

  Mom: “I spoke to your teachers. You can catch up on schoolwork over the winter break, if you’re out by then.”

  How will I run, Mike thinks, how will I work out, what will happen to my body, my mind… ?

  Think of Amber. She’s getting through it. You will, too.

  There’s a knock at the door, and Mike’s mom lets in two men in jumpsuits.

  Ambulance man (to Mike): “Sit down. I have to take your heart rate and blood pressure.”

  Mike rolls up his sleeves. He has on two long-sleeved shirts and a sweatshirt. His mom bites her lip when she sees his arms.

  Ambulance man (to the other one): “Get the wheelchair.”

  Mike: “Seriously?”

  Ambulance man: “We didn’t pull the ambulance up to your house in case you wanted to keep this private. We parked on the next street.”

  Mike: “I think I can walk one block.”

  Ambulance man: “You might not make it.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Ambulance man: “You’ve got bradycardia—your heart rate’s forty-two. It should be seventy-five. You’ve got postural hypotension. That’s low blood pressure. Your body temperature is ninety-two.”

  That can’t be right. It’s 98.6, like everybody else’s.

  Mike thinks the man is looking at him kindly.

  Don’t be fooled.

  Ambulance man: “Those readings would be fine if you were hibernating.”

  Your mom was hibernating, not you. This is all wrong.

  Then—unbelievably—the man lifts Mike up into his arms and carries him like a baby. Once they’re outside, he places Mike in the wheelchair and pushes him on the bumpy concrete. Mike glances up and sees the bottoms of tree branches. He climbs into the ambulance and lies down. He looks at the ceiling. His mom is with him, clutching the bag she packed. They pull out into traffic. No siren. They just drive.

  CHAPTER 24

  MIKE HAS NO MEMORY OF SLEEP, BUT HE WAKES UP. Though it still feels more like dreaming than reality. Outside the ambulance, there are rolling green lawns like an endless golf course. There are no connected houses or apartment buildings. The sky is big, a cloudless, piercing blue that hurts his eyes.

  Mom: “Did you sleep?”

  You have nothing to say to her.

  Mike: [nothing]

  They stop and Mike gets out of the ambulance. They’re in a circular driveway covered with dead leaves in front of a small building that looks more like a quaint country inn than a hospital. Mike could be here for brunch and tennis. A woman in a plaid dress with a bow at the waist greets Mike at the door.

  Woman: “This is the central medical center. Here’s where you get clearance.”

  Mike’s heart starts racing. His forty-two-beats-a-minute heart. He’s taken into Admissions. He notices a grandfather clock with roman numerals. It has a steady tick. The furniture is upholstered with thick padding and the carpet has a diamond pattern. The lighting is soft. “Relax” seems to be the message. Mike is not relaxed. He’s practically in shock. Someone tells him that he’ll be the only boy in an eleven-bed wing, but that six months ago they had three boys at once.

  They need a blood sample. An incompetent nurse tries to find a good vein, and she finally uses one on the back of Mike’s hand.

  Bad nurse: “You have shy veins, young man.”

  Shy veins and a lazy lip—Mike’s body parts have so much personality.

  Mom (with a quick hug, leaving): “See you later.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Another nurse takes Mike to a single room with yellow walls. There’s a nurse at a desk just outside. Mike’s window looks out on tall, leafless trees against the sky, a dark gray-blue now. It’s quiet—no traffic, no airplanes. He can hear footsteps in the hall and footsteps overhead, a dull thumping. A nurse watches as he unpacks his bag—clothes, pajamas, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. He feels like his possessions have betrayed him, following him here. The nurse unlocks his bathroom. There’s a small mirror in there. Actually it’s not really a mirror; it’s some kind of reflective material, nonbreakable. It’s as though he sees himself in a shimmery pool of water.

  Another nurse shows up with a doctor’s scale. She weighs Mike backward so only she can see the number. She slides up the bar that measures height.

  Nurse: “You’re five nine.”

  Mike: “And a half.”

  Nurse: “Not anymore.”

  How can I shrink? Mike wonders. I’m fifteen. Grandma Celia shrank when she was eighty.

  It doesn’t matter. Remember what’s important. Inner growth.

  A different nurse shows up and says she’s taking Mike to the cafeteria. She locks Mike’s door behind her. The cafeteria is nothing like the cafeteria at school or like the cafeteria at anybody’s school. There are small round wooden tables, wooden chairs with cushions, and colorful rugs on a hardwood floor. Overhead, a glass chandelier clinks.

  Mike: “I’m not hungry.”

  Nurse: “You have to eat six times a day.”

  Mike is stunned.

  Mike: “What if I don’t eat?”

  Nurse: “You’ll be hooked up to an IV. You’ll be here a long, long time—a lot longer than four weeks.”

  That is unacceptable.

  Mike’s pulse races. He can’t eat. He just can’t. He thinks, What do I do?

  You’ll do what you have to do, to get out of here.

  Nurse: “You start out on the liquid diet. You’ll sit with other patients who are also on the liquid diet.”

  She leads Mike to a small table where three girls are drinking from large bottles labeled Ensure. Mike has heard of it. It’s supposed to make you gain weight. Mike sits. He is given his own bottle. He can’t bring himself to drink it. The nurse is watching him. Mike takes a sip. It tastes like strawberry milk. But—the whole bottle? It’s not normal, he thinks.

  It’s the opposite of normal. But you have to. This is no time to be stubborn.

  The girls introduce themselves—or at least two of them do. One is Cheryl and the other is Allison. Mike forgets which name belongs to which girl. One has olive skin and green eyes like his mom. The other is blond and has a long neck. They’re not that thin, and Mike wonders how they ended up in an eating-disorder clinic. The third girl is the only one who looks thin. She’s not drinking her Ensure. She has dark stringy hair that hangs in front of her face, and she stares ahead as if looking at something nobody else can see. It’s like she’s not here, Mike thinks.

  She is somewhere else. That’s brilliant.
She’s found a way to be herself, even in this hostile environment.

  Cheryl or Allison (to Mike): “That’s Nina. She doesn’t talk much.”

  Nina. She reminds me of Amber. She’s beautiful. Maybe a friend for Mike.

  Nina is not like the others. Neither are you.

  Cheryl or Allison: “Are you from around here?”

  Mike: “Belle Heights.” Blank stares. “It’s in Queens, New York City.”

  Cheryl or Allison: “Oh, I love the city!”

  Mike doesn’t bother to tell them that Belle Heights isn’t the city, not really. Cheryl and Allison talk about how much they love it, and one of them says she took a double-decker tour bus and actually looked in a second-story window and saw a guy in his underwear. Hilarious!

  During the afternoon, Mike is taken to the rec room. Some kids are drawing; some are sculpting clay. One girl writes in a journal. Mike sits on an itchy couch.

  That night, Mike lies on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He thinks about doing crunches and push-ups, but his door has to stay open and there’s a nurse right outside his room. He feels like he’ll die if he can’t work out.

  Think of Nina. She’s found a beautiful space for herself, away from here. You can do the same. You’re running. The air fills your lungs. You are strong and getting stronger, infinitely strong. Now, dry your eyes.

  Mike touches his face, surprised that it’s wet.

  CHAPTER 25

  IN THE MORNING, MIKE STARTS THE ROUTINE.

  • 7:00 a.m. Knock on the door (which stayed open all night).

  Mike looks out the window and sees that all the dead leaves are gone. He must have slept deeply, right through the leaf blower.

  I can’t believe I’m here, Mike thinks. I don’t belong here.

  You are not really here. This is not your real life.

  Strong body, strong mind, Mike thinks. Everything in its right place.

  A nurse unlocks his bathroom and just stands there. He splashes cold water on his face. He doesn’t look at his reflection. When he leaves the room, the nurse locks the door.

  • 7:30–8:00 a.m. Breakfast.

  A bottle of Ensure. Mike knows which name belongs to which girl now. Cheryl has green eyes and Allison’s the blonde. Nina, silent, is far away.