A Trick of the Light

by Lois Metzger

  Something sparks inside Mike. I love this stuff, he thinks, don’t I?

  No, you used to love it. Things change.

  Mike: “How long is the video?”

  Tamio: “Just under three minutes.”

  Mike: “How long did it take them?”

  Tamio: “Thirty-eight hours.”

  Mike: “That’s not bad.”

  Tamio: “It got me thinking. We could make a stop-motion movie. My dad just got a special camera that can shoot single frames. I got some special software, too, that helps you line up the camera and go back and forth between images so you can make sure it all looks good.”

  You don’t have time.

  Mike: “I’m behind on all my homework, in case you didn’t know.”

  Mr. Clayton glances up from his computer.

  Mr. Clayton: “Mike, Tamio’s got a great idea. As animators, you’d have to take measurements, study movement and perspective. I think this movie would be perfect for you and Tamio as a year-end project.”

  Tamio: “Cool! We can invent our own creature and film it.”

  Oh, I understand now. They’ve been plotting this—just the way they plotted to send Mike to the hospital.

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

  But I have to do it, Mike thinks. Thanks to Mr. Clayton, now it’s homework.

  Finally Mike has an opportunity to visit Amber in the Sun Room. His dad has to take Mike to the hospital and will sit in the cafeteria until it’s time to take Mike home again. It’s like Mike is in a prison whose walls are everywhere. But at least he gets to see Amber.

  She looks good, Mike thinks; her eyes are clear, her hair’s shiny, there’s color in her face.

  Amber (biting off her words): “Thanks for coming to see me. Where the hell have you been?”

  Mike: “You’ll never guess. Okay if I sit down?”

  Amber: “I really don’t care.”

  The padded chair is as hard as Mike remembers. She’s in a bad mood, he thinks.

  Can you blame her? She missed you.

  I missed her too, Mike thinks with some surprise. He realizes, maybe for the first time, how much he cares about her. Well, it took him long enough.

  Amber: “Did you get my bracelet?”

  Mike: “Sorry. No.”

  Amber: “Thanks a lot. It’s the one thing I asked you to do.”

  Mike looks around the Sun Room. There are some hand-drawn pictures of sunrises and sunsets taped to the wall.

  Mike: “I was in a hospital. Like this one.”

  Now he has her attention.

  Amber: “You’re kidding.”

  Mike: “Nope. I was really, truly there.” As he says this, the weight of it hits him. I thought I was with people who were nothing like me, Mike thinks, people who had no control over themselves. But am I any different?

  You’re badly confused. No doubt because you’re in a hospital setting. It’s warping your judgment.

  Amber: “Were the girls there skinnier than me? I bet you didn’t even notice. Did you eat everything they put in front of you? There’s no way I’d do that. I’d explode.”

  Mike: “You look good.”

  Amber: “I don’t! I’m disgusting.”

  Mike: “How close are you to your IBW? Look at me, I speak the language.”

  Amber: “You mean my Insane Body Weight? That’s what Deirdre calls it.”

  Mike: “How’s she doing?”

  Amber: “She’s not my roommate anymore. She’s down the hall, on a feeding tube. She needs potassium. So I’ve got my own room until they stick somebody else in there. My mom wants to keep me in a single. She thinks the other girls are a bad influence. She’s such a bitch. Miss Cool Hunter! She’ll never understand. What’s cooler than being thin and happy and living life the way you want to live it?”

  Mike: “You can’t live it if you’re dead.”

  I am… appalled. I can’t believe Mike just said that. I don’t think he can believe it, either. He sounds like Darpana, with her obscene talk of death and dying, which I listened to so Mike wouldn’t have to.

  Amber: “Excuse me?” She’s not saying this because she didn’t hear Mike, but because she also can’t believe it.

  Mike: “I’m on your side, Amber.”

  Amber: “You wouldn’t know it!”

  Mike: “I don’t want you to, you know, die.”

  Of course you don’t. But this isn’t what Amber needs to hear right now.

  Amber (glaring at him): “An extra pair of eyes on me—is that what you’re gonna be, Mike? I don’t want that. I don’t need that.” She looks out the window, but it’s dark. There’s nothing to see.

  Apologize.

  Mike: “I barely know you, Amber.”

  That is not what I had in mind.

  Amber: “You know me! You’ve known me since kindergarten.”

  Mike: “Yeah, I remember when you were little. You were always—”

  Amber looks horrified. She’s not sure what Mike is about to tell her about herself.

  Mike: “—really smart. You knew the answers before anyone else.”

  Amber takes a deep breath.

  Mike: “I’ve got to go, but I could come back next Monday. Maybe you could tell me about your aunt and stuff.”

  Amber: “What is wrong with you?”

  I’d like the answer to that question myself.

  Amber: “Anyway, next Monday is Christmas.”

  Mike: “I know.”

  Amber: “Don’t you have something else to do?”

  Mike: “Nothing I’d rather do.”

  Amber half smiles. Mike has never seen that before. It’s not one of her sneaky smiles.

  CHAPTER 31

  MIKE BRINGS HIS PICTURE OF THE TWO-HEADED Cyclops to lunch on Friday, right before Christmas break. He remembers, as a kid, watching the Cyclops (with only one head, naturally) in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. That Cyclops couldn’t talk but he could roar, and Mike loved and admired him for that; nobody misunderstood him or asked him to repeat himself.

  You’re not a little kid with a speech problem anymore. You’re an entirely different person now.

  Mike (showing Tamio the drawing): “What do you think?”

  Tamio: “You drew something like this a long time ago, didn’t you?”

  Mike: “Would he be too hard to make? Maybe something with Legos would be easier.”

  Tamio: “We can use clay.”

  Mike: “If you want to design a different creature—”

  Tamio: “He’s great. He’s perfect. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Val wants to work on the movie too.”

  This is not good.

  Mike: “What?”

  Tamio: “I told her you and I were doing a movie. She likes stop-motion.”

  Mike: “She knew what it was?”

  Tamio: “She’s a big fan of Wallace and Gromit.”

  Mike: “And you told her I was doing the movie too?”

  Tamio: “Yeah. Like I said.”

  Mike: “But she doesn’t have time. She’s always at dance.”

  Tamio: “We have to start without her, but once her show ends, she’ll join us. It’ll be her physics project, too.”

  Mike: “You sure you said it was me?”

  Tamio: “Yes! For the third time.”

  Mike is thinking about stop-motion, how slow and careful and precise it is; you have to get it exactly right so it looks smooth, not choppy; you need to work together closely; he and Valerie, working together, close—

  She’s unstable. She’ll turn on you.

  When I saw her, Mike thinks, she didn’t turn on me.

  Because she was too busy talking about herself. Could she be more self-centered?

  Tamio: “You wanna come over later? We can pick up some clay and make the model. What do you think—film in black and white or color?”

  Tamio starts talking about the advantages of black and white versus color, or vice versa; how in a black-and-white movie you can use ink for
blood and it looks authentic, but color in general is better, and Tamio says he can get his hands on some really good fake blood called Kensington Gore, which, if you add glycerine to it, thickens like the real thing. Then Tamio starts talking about Japan, how he met some girl there; he didn’t think much about it, but now she might visit the city with her parents over Christmas break…. Tamio’s acting as though he just got back from Japan and the past four months never happened.

  But they did so happen. I am living proof.

  Mike goes to Tamio’s after school, though Tamio has to call Mike’s mom first and assure her that Mike will have a snack: oatmeal cookies and a milkshake. If Tamio had any character to speak of, he’d let Mike off the hook, but he’s such a spy and traitor, he’ll probably force-feed Mike himself.

  Tamio’s mom makes a big fuss over Mike. If it were me, I’d find it embarrassing and over-the-top, but Mike doesn’t seem to mind it, even when she gives him a crushing hug (she’s a lot stronger than she looks). She keeps saying how happy she is to see him; meanwhile she has a look of tragedy on her face.

  Mike and Tamio work in the dining room, Mike’s favorite place in Tamio’s house—it’s always sunny, or it feels that way to him, surrounded by pictures of flowers and actual flowers on the table too—carnations. I don’t understand the appeal of flowers. They rot so quickly; what’s the point? Beauty should have permanence.

  Tamio’s mom puts waxed paper on the table so they can spread out the clay they got at an art-supply store, a huge gray mound of it. The model for the original King Kong was eighteen inches tall, except for full-scale models of the head, a hand, and a foot; Mike and Tamio want to emulate that and make the Cyclops eighteen inches tall. Of course it won’t have a metal skeleton the way Kong did, with foam rubber and latex and rabbit fur so it looked like a real gorilla. This thing will probably look, heaven help me, like Gumby.

  Tamio: “Ralph and Melissa. Did you ever think that would happen?”

  Mike: “Not in this lifetime.”

  They talk about Ralph and Melissa for a while, and I can barely stay with them. Then they concentrate on their movie. They decide that the heads will be like those of fraternal twins, not identical ones. Tamio will sculpt one head and Mike will do the other. Mike has never handled modeling clay before, having preferred to be a disc jockey rather than sit with the other kids at the art table. He likes the feel of it in his hands, the slightly outdoorsy smell of it, how it’s soft, but firm enough to hold its shape, adjustment after adjustment.

  Walking. That’s the first thing they decide to film—the Cyclops walking. What does a body do when it takes a step; how do the muscles interact, the arms move, the shoulders, neck, hips? Apparently this is very complicated. Of course Mike should be running, not worrying about how a Cyclops walks.

  Tamio (sculpting his head): “Does he have a name?”

  Mike: [nothing]

  Tamio: “Harryhausen always said his creatures should have some character.”

  Mike remembers what Miranda said about his Cyclops’s loneliness: a mutant in a race of mutants.

  Mike: “Let’s call him Ray.”

  Tamio (grinning his crooked grin): “Harryhausen would be honored.”

  They talk about the story. Ray needs to fight someone or something. Should they create another creature, this one with thumbs and a big head, because, as Tamio points out, Harryhausen said creatures with thumbs and big heads appear more human, and therefore more intelligent?

  I am growing numb with boredom. I would tear my hair out, if I had hair.

  Tamio: “We can use your cat. Film Mighty Joe Young clawing at something, then cut to shots of Ray.”

  The cat? This is so ridiculous, I actually have to tune them out. I don’t do that as a rule, but even I have my limits, and it’s not like I have to stand guard every second. Mike has to do this for school, and I can get him when he’s free again.

  When I catch up to them, Mike is putting the finishing touches on his clay head, adding what looks like a ridged eyebrow over the one eye.

  Mike: “…my idea. Ray has two heads. He has two voices. What if he has to fight one of his own voices?”

  Wait—what? What is Mike saying?

  Tamio: “What’s wrong with the voice?”

  Mike: “Maybe one of the heads is suddenly possessed—by an evil spirit or something. Ray’s a creature, but this thing inside him is a monster, you know? It says stuff. It gets Ray to do things he shouldn’t. It acts like it’s Ray’s best friend, but really it wants to kill him.”

  I am far more angry with myself than with Mike. This never would’ve happened if I’d stayed alert.

  Mike: “You can only see the monster in a mirror. It looks like—a skeleton head.”

  Tamio: “Cool.”

  Mike: “The problem is, how do you get rid of it? How do you stop a voice?”

  Tamio: “Give me a minute.”

  Do you realize how crazy you sound? Look at Tamio—he thinks you’re crazy. He’ll call your mom. She’s probably already on his speed dial. Next thing you know, you’re back in the hospital.

  Tamio: “There’s a pit, okay? A pit of voices. Ray has to lead the voice to the pit. When he gets closer, he can hear all the voices inside, overlapping and trying to be heard, but now they’re stuck in the pit, and anyway there’s too many to listen to and you can’t make out any single voice anymore. Ray has to leave the voice in the pit.”

  Mike: “How?”

  Tamio: “Being near the pit of voices will help. It’s clear that once there, the voices are in a weakened, powerless state.”

  Mike: “And once the voice is in the pit?”

  Tamio: “It’s trapped.”

  Mike: “What if it breaks free?”

  Tamio (nodding): “It might do that.” Pause. “Then we’ll come up with something else.”

  You and me both, Tamio seems to be implying. Well, he’s sadly mistaken. This is only a movie, with a totally imaginary voice as a villain. Whereas I am good for Mike; I am on his side; I won’t betray him, like everyone else. This pointless project means no more to Mike than doing a few algebra equations, soon forgotten.

  CHAPTER 32

  MIKE AND HIS DAD ARE IN SPRUCE HILLS ON Saturday, two days before Christmas, heading for the mall. The streets are so crowded with shoppers that they’re constantly edging out of the way of people with giant overstuffed plastic bags and shiny packages. Snow is coming; the sky is blindingly white; it’s chilly, but Mike has his jacket open. He likes feeling this way, not so cold.

  The cold doesn’t matter when you’re getting fit and strong.

  Then Mike sees her—a woman with spiky black hair.

  Mike: “I know that woman.”

  Dad: “Who?”

  She’s standing right in front of them as if they had all arranged to meet at this exact spot at this exact moment. It’s that client of Mike’s mom. What was her name again? Meg.

  Keep walking. You have nothing to say to this woman.

  But she recognizes Mike too, or thinks she does. She smiles, and her expression is asking a question: Do I know you?

  Mike: “I’m Mike Welles. You hired my mom to clean out your closet.”

  That smile of hers fades fast.

  Mike: “This is my dad.”

  They shake hands.

  Meg: “Your mother called me. She was nice. She wanted to reschedule, wasn’t going to charge me. But… I don’t know.”

  Mike: “What about me?”

  Meg: “What about you?”

  Mike: “I’ve worked with my mom. I know how to clean out closets.”

  Have you lost your mind?

  Dad: “Seriously?”

  Even your dad thinks you’re crazy.

  Meg (looking confused too): “You want to make an appointment to clean out my closet, is that it?”

  Mike: “We’re not far from where you live, right? How about now?”

  I don’t understand this at all. What is Mike up to? What does he imagine
this will accomplish?

  Meg: “What do you think, Mr. Welles?”

  Dad (looking at Mike carefully): “I think he wants to do this.”

  Mike nods.

  You can’t possibly mean it.

  Dad: “So I’ll see you at home for dinner at six, okay? If you get hungry, here’s an energy bar.”

  Mike’s dad sounds like an ordinary dad. Mike is grateful that his dad isn’t broadcasting the fact that his son must eat this snack because he was just released from a hospital.

  Mike (like an ordinary kid): “Later.”

  But this is not ordinary, far from it. Prisoner Mike, he should be called. They walk to Meg’s place. And… wait. I get it. Mike just broke out of prison! Maybe Mike didn’t plan it this way or maybe he did—either way it’s brilliant.

  You just got rid of your dad. Now you can get rid of her, too.

  Mike knows it. He hasn’t been alone in weeks, always someone hovering over him, shoving a bottle of Ensure down his throat, keeping an eye on him, even when he’s in the bathroom. Mike takes a deep breath. The air fills his lungs. He can run, catch up on his running, make up for all the time he couldn’t run. I can be fit, Mike thinks. I can be strong, infinitely strong.

  Yes! Go!

  But, he thinks, my dad trusts me.

  So what? You don’t have to trust him. He hasn’t earned your trust.

  I don’t want to lie to him.

  Lying can be necessary. Lying can protect you.

  No, Mike thinks, that is not the purpose of a lie.

  To my dismay, Mike follows Meg through her lobby to the elevator. This stubbornness of Mike’s—it’s always been a problem.

  Mike separates the stuff into three categories: keep, throw away, donate. A navy-blue blazer and an alarm clock, still in its unopened box, get to stay. Into the garbage go a battered suitcase with no handle, and some coats and dresses with zippers that don’t zip. For the Salvation Army, there’s an endless supply of skirts, sweaters, and jeans, and a tennis racket, a printer, and a popcorn maker.

  As Mike reaches the back of the closet, he sees something. It startles him—it’s a face, staring back. It takes Mike a moment to realize that he’s looking at his own reflection in a small mirror with a silver frame.