A Trick of the Light

by Lois Metzger

Darpana: “Mike, this is you, before the eating disorder.”

  Mike looks at the circle. To my discomfort, he is getting drawn in, so to speak. Darpana draws another circle next to the first one, and shades it in.

  Darpana: “This other circle is the eating disorder. Now, as time goes by …” She draws another plain circle, partly covered by a shaded circle. “The circles begin to overlap. Until finally …” She draws another circle, this one almost completely covered by shading. The leftover plain part looks like a sliver moon. “Do you see? There you were.” She points to the first plain circle. “Then came the eating disorder—the shadow.” She points to the shaded circle. “The shadow covered you more and more, blocking out your light. You can barely see the first circle anymore. It’s been eclipsed.”

  Mike: “I’m a shadow?”

  Darpana: “Yes.”

  Mike: “I’ve been eclipsed?”

  Darpana: “Yes.”

  Mike: “So—what you’re saying—I’m not real.”

  Darpana: “The only real thing about you now is your eating disorder.”

  I can’t believe Mike is upset about this. But this has happened before, more than once. I calm him down. He remembers this is not his real life and that he is not really here. He will go home and run, and nothing will bother him, and he’ll get fit and strong, and he’ll master the chaos.

  They show an old movie in the rec room—The Picture of Dorian Gray. Generally I’m not a fan of movies because I don’t see the point of sitting and staring when you could actually be doing something, but this one isn’t too bad. It’s about a good-looking man (Dorian Gray) who has his portrait painted, and the portrait has super- natural powers, so whenever Dorian commits an evil act, his portrait becomes more and more evil-looking. Dorian doesn’t age but his portrait does. By the end of the movie, Dorian is still young and handsome but his portrait is old and hideous. It’s some kind of cautionary tale, but I can’t be bothered to figure out the moral.

  In group the next morning, Miranda can’t stop talking about the movie.

  Miranda: “It got me thinking. I’m my mom’s portrait.”

  Richard: “How so?”

  Miranda: “My mom’s terrified of gaining weight. So it happens to me—that way, magically, it doesn’t happen to her. Ha, which gives me a great idea for a remake, y’all. A guy can eat and eat and stay thin, and his portrait gets fat for him. It could be called The Eating Disorder of Dorian Gray.”

  Some other girl: “I wish I had a portrait that could reach my IBW for me.”

  IBW—Ideal Body Weight. A little eating-disorder-clinic humor. It shocks me, how much the other girls like Miranda now. They tell her how beautiful her hair is, and how much they like her eyes, which are brown with yellow in them. She’s repellant is what she is.

  And Mike can’t get rid of her at the drawing table.

  He’s been working on his two-headed Cyclops again, drawing in a ridged back and hairy legs, and carefully placing white dots in the eyes to indicate reflected light, something Tamio showed him how to do. But I’m sure he’ll throw the picture away before going home.

  Miranda: “He’s awesome.”

  Mike: “Um… thanks.”

  Miranda: “Can he think two thoughts at the same time?”

  Mike: “Huh?”

  Miranda: “Well, he’s got two heads. So maybe one head can look up and admire the moon, and the other head can think about his lonely childhood.”

  Mike: “His—what?”

  Miranda: “I mean, look at him. He’s a two-headed Cyclops among all the one-headed Cyclopses. He’s a mutant in a race of mutants.”

  That’s just about the dumbest thing I ever heard, but Mike is actually thinking about it.

  Mike: “I guess if he has two heads, he’d have two voices… if he could talk, that is. Cyclopses usually just roar.”

  Miranda: “Two heads, two voices, two personalities; why not? They could be super close; they could hate each other. Whatever you want—he’s your creature.”

  Mike: “You said ‘creature.’ You didn’t say ‘monster.’”

  Miranda: “So?”

  Mike: “That’s what Ray Harryhausen always called them. He said the word ‘monster’ always made him think of Dracula.”

  Miranda: “Who’s Ray Harryhausen?”

  Amber never wanted to hear about Ray Harryhausen, and rightly so.

  Mike: “Never mind.”

  Miranda: “No, go ahead. I’m interested.”

  I most certainly am not, and can barely listen as Mike talks … and talks … about how Harryhausen learned the craft of stop-motion animation from Willis O’Brien, the creator of King Kong. From the way Mike describes O’Brien, you’d think he cured cancer. Mike talks about how stop-motion can take a lifeless object and give it what Harryhausen called the “breath of life.” How time-consuming it is: 24 adjustments to an object for just one second of film, which means 1,440 adjustments for one minute of film and 86,400 adjustments for one hour (yes, he has these numbers in his head). The adjustments are so small, Mike tells her, the eye can’t see each one, but together they create movement.

  Mike: “Harryhausen invented all kinds of strange, dreamlike creatures—giant bees, flying harpies, fire-breathing dragons. He called them ‘creatures from the mind.’ But he always secretly hoped they were real. Except I know for a fact: creatures from the mind are real.”

  This is such a waste of time.

  Mike: “Harryhausen always tried to give his creations a mind and a soul. He wants people to feel bad when they die.”

  Miranda: “I feel bad when King Kong dies.”

  Mike: “Me, too. Every time.”

  I’m almost dead with boredom by the time the conversation ends.

  Finally, it’s Mike’s last night. He did what he had to do, and now he is allowed to go. He has reached 90 percent of his IBW. All that Ensure, all that food—Mike can’t bear to think about it. He misses what he used to see when he looked in the mirror, the tightness of his skin, the clean lines of his body.

  You’re leaving, returning to your real life.

  I was never really here, Mike thinks.

  Mike sees Nina, for the first time in a long time. She’s walking slowly down the hall, wheeling an IV pole attached to her arm. She has on the same kind of slippers that Mike used to see on Grandma Celia.

  Mike walks over to her.

  Nina: [whispers]

  Mike: “What?” He leans in, close.

  Nina smiles. Her teeth are gross, he thinks, and her breath is awful.

  Nina: “Skin is soft, muscle is hard.”

  Mike: “Huh?”

  Nina: “And bone is best.”

  Mike: “What are you saying?”

  Nina: “Skin is soft, muscle is hard, bone is best.”

  Mike stares after her as she continues down the hall.

  I don’t want to end up like that, he thinks.

  She is her own person, and you are your own person.

  I don’t ever want to come back here.

  Not a problem. No one will know what you’re doing. You’ll be so careful.

  I thought I was careful before—

  You’ll be even more careful.

  Although going home presents some challenges. Mike is made aware that his mom will eat weekday breakfasts and dinners with him, and will take him to school and pick him up. Mike’s dad will take over weekend lunches and dinners. In school he’ll have lunch with Mr. Clayton in the physics lab. Mike is embarrassed by the fact that if he goes to the bathroom after lunch, Mr. Clayton has to go with him, to make sure he’s not throwing up.

  I don’t do that, Mike thinks. I’ve never done that.

  And once Mr. Clayton realizes it, he’ll leave you alone. Soon enough they’ll all get busy and you’ll be on your own again.

  After Christmas break, Mike has to go to therapy three times a week and family therapy once a week.

  Where you’ll tell them what they want to hear.

&nbs
p; Mike thinks about how a special internist will weigh him once a week.

  Remember the paperweights? The water loading?

  Mike wonders if this special internist knows all the tricks.

  There are always new tricks.

  I’m not allowed to exercise. I can only take slow walks.

  You can run when no one’s looking.

  If I break the rules, I come back. Darpana said it happens a lot. I could end up like Nina—

  That’s not going to happen. This place is history. That means the fat girl, too.

  Miranda gave Mike her email and, after she gets home, wants him to write her.

  You won’t.

  I promised, he thinks.

  I don’t remember him making any such promise. In any case, I tell him:

  Promises in a place like this don’t mean anything.

  Mike packs his drawing of the Cyclops. I don’t know why, and frankly at this point I don’t care.

  Mike’s mom picks him up in a Lincoln Town Car from a car service. It’s an improvement over the ambulance. Mike settles into the cushiony backseat.

  Mom: “You look good.”

  Mike is surprised she can see. Her eyes are all wet.

  As they drive away, Mike notices that the cut on his finger is all closed up. The scar is thin and faint, like a life line in the wrong place.

  CHAPTER 29

  IT’S GOOD TO BE HOME, BUT FRUSTRATING. MIKE HAS no privacy. It’s like in the hospital except now it’s his mom watching him. Even now she’s right outside the door as he unpacks.

  I can’t work out, Mike thinks. How can I look in the mirror when there’s a pair of eyes on me?

  She has to sleep sometime, doesn’t she? The middle of the night—the perfect time to get back on track.

  In the meantime, she wants to watch a DVD with Mike—a Ray Harryhausen movie, something she’s never done before. So they watch Jason and the Argonauts. Mighty Joe Young sits in Mike’s lap and purrs like a jackhammer.

  Mom (when the movie is over): “That’s it? That’s how it ends, with Jason kissing Medea?”

  Mike: “Yeah.”

  Mom: “Do you know what happens to Jason and Medea?”

  Mike (shaking his head): “They never made the sequel.”

  Mom: “Jason marries Medea and they have two sons. Then he leaves her for the king’s daughter. Medea is so filled with sorrow and rage and vengeance, she kills the new wife and even her own children.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Mom: “See, there are worse things than harpies and dragons. Jason and Medea—they’re the real monsters.”

  What about parents who put their own children in the hospital when they’re not sick?

  When Mike goes to bed, his mom says he has to leave the door open.

  Tell her you need some time alone. Do a few push-ups, at least.

  Mike: “Can’t you close the door for a little while?”

  Mom: “No.”

  She stays with him until he falls asleep, and he sleeps so heavily, he doesn’t wake up until the morning.

  The next day Mike and his dad go to Luncheonette, the place with the rice pudding. They sit across from each other in a narrow booth. His dad orders a BLT for himself and a turkey club with fries for Mike. That’s another hospital rule—Mike can’t order his own meals. He feels like such a baby.

  Why don’t you just sit in a high chair?

  Dad: “In case you’re wondering, I’m still seeing Terry.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Dad: “You want to know how we met? At that old movie place—You Must Remember This. We’d just seen The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

  Mike: “I saw that movie too. At the hospital.”

  Mike’s dad looks stricken. What, is Mike supposed to feel sorry for him now?

  Mike: “Look, Dad, you don’t have to say anything.”

  Dad: “No, I want to.” Pause. “You always seemed fine, Mike. I mean, from the beginning. When you were born, I thought, Here’s a fine, healthy kid. Even when you had problems with your speech, I never thought it was that big a deal. But I’m on board for you now, Mike. I hope you know that.”

  He’s full of it. He’s not on your side. He never was. He just said so himself.

  Dad: “Anyway, after the movie Terry and I sort of walked out together and we started talking. We stopped in a coffee shop and split a spinach knish.”

  How romantic. Were there green bits in her teeth?

  Mike smiles at that.

  Dad: “Is something funny?”

  Mike: “Private joke. Hey, you miss that girl you met at the gym?”

  His dad hesitates.

  Dad: “Honestly? When Laura walked into the gym, the whole place stopped. I miss how other guys looked at her and then over at me, enviously. That’s the truth. I’m not proud of it.”

  Mike notices that his dad looks older, his eyes sadder and more deep-set. Mike can’t help wondering if his dad used to think he knew himself, and now he’s realizing how little he knew—

  He’s not worth thinking about. You have no use for him.

  Dad: “Are you mad at me? I don’t mean right this minute. I mean, deep down. I wouldn’t blame you if you were. Is that why you got sick, because I left?”

  He’s just like Amber’s mom. It’s all about him.

  Mike: “That’s not how it works.”

  Mike thinks his dad doesn’t look reassured.

  You’re eating like a pig. Stop it.

  Dad (pointing to the quarter sandwich Mike hasn’t eaten): “You’ve got to finish that.”

  You should’ve put pieces of it in your lap. Well, just tell him you’re full.

  Mike: “I’m full.”

  Dad: “You have to eat it. I have to watch you eat every bite. I’m getting us a rice pudding, too.”

  Mike can’t stand it—eating so much, not working out. He misses how good he used to feel, strong and getting stronger, infinitely strong.

  This won’t last. Your dad’s not exactly the world’s best parent, by his own admission.

  CHAPTER 30

  MIKE GOES BACK TO SCHOOL. HE’S NERVOUS, BUT I assure him that although he may be a novelty for a day or two, the effect will soon fade.

  Ruby L: “Were you in the same place as Amber?”

  Ruby C: “I heard she’s not getting out until next year at the earliest.”

  Melissa Sacks: “I read about you in Teen Vogue. Well, not you specifically, but boys like you. You had manorexia, Mike.”

  Ralph: “I’ll tell you what Mike had. He had it made! One guy and all those skinny chicks.”

  Mike: “Well, they’re not all skinny.”

  Ralph: “You had it made. Damn!”

  Mike notices that Ralph’s newest T-shirt says TAKE ME DRUNK I’M HOME. He wonders why Melissa isn’t on her cell phone reporting this to her PTA-president mom, but then Ralph puts his arm around Melissa and she snuggles into him. Mike can’t believe it—they’re going out.

  Then he remembers that he doesn’t care. They have nothing to do with him.

  The coach catches up to Mike before homeroom.

  Coach Jim: “Good to see you back. Too bad I can’t use you this year, not if you can’t make the winter workouts.”

  The coach is making it sound like a scheduling conflict, not like something Mike is absolutely forbidden to do. Anyway, Mike doesn’t want to be on the team.

  Coach Jim: “But I hope you’ll come watch a few games. And I’ve got a senior playing center now, so I’ll have a big hole there next year.”

  Didn’t I always want to play center field? Mike thinks.

  That was a long time ago, before you got your priorities straight.

  Oh, no—Valerie.

  She stands close to Mike. He inhales her flowery scent. He sees that tiny scar below her left cheek. His heart pounds in his chest.

  Don’t forget the kind of person she is.

  She can turn on me, Mike thinks, at any moment.

  Valerie: “Wow
, your hair got long.”

  It’s not so long; it brushes the back of his neck. He wasn’t away for months on end, for heaven’s sake.

  Mike: “I guess I need a haircut.”

  Valerie: “No, it looks good.”

  First she compliments you, then she will turn on you. Just wait.

  Valerie: “I’m really busy. I’m in a show in January—Sleeping Beauty. I’m not the lead or anything, but I’ve got rehearsals all the time. I love it, though. Someday I hope to choreograph—if not ballet then modern.” She clears her throat. “Okay, that’s not really what I wanted to say. I just—Mike, I see it a lot, at dance. Kids who get so thin, they’re not strong enough to dance. But I never thought of it with you.” She looks at him, hesitates, and squeezes his arm. It’s a rather strange gesture. She holds on. It reminds Mike of that time she took his arm. It’s like she never let go, he thinks.

  This girl is so utterly not on your side.

  The bell rings. She dashes off.

  Mike sees Tamio. Tamio betrayed me, Mike thinks.

  Move on.

  Mike starts walking, but Tamio follows him.

  Tamio: “Wait. Want to get lunch later?”

  Mike: “I have to eat in the lab with Mr. Clayton.”

  Tamio (walking beside him): “I know, your mom told me. I hope it’s okay I’ve been talking to her. You know, over the past month. To see how you were doing.”

  It’s not okay. He has no right to spy on you like that.

  Tamio: “I got my lunch period changed. It’s all right with Mr. Clayton if it’s all right with you.”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Tamio takes off in the other direction. Of course he’s interpreting Mike’s silence as a yes. Because that’s what Tamio wanted to hear. They’re all alike—they only hear what they want to hear.

  Lunch is weird, as I knew it would be.

  Mr. Clayton is on his computer and Tamio and Mike sit there in silence. Mike eats a grilled-cheese sandwich and drinks a bottle of Ensure. He still has to drink three of those a day, plus three meals and two snacks. It’s enough food for an army.

  Tamio: “I saw something on YouTube you’d like.”

  Mike: “Yeah?”

  Tamio: “These two guys made a stop-motion movie of how they built a Millennium Falcon out of Legos. The animation is seamless.”