A Trick of the Light (10 page)

CHAPTER 26

WEEK TWO.

Mike goes through the routine. He is weighed backward. He drinks Ensure. Last Thursday—was it Thanksgiving? He barely noticed. No turkey for him, just more Ensure. He doesn’t get visitors because this place discourages it. That’s fine with Mike. The only people who would visit are the traitors who put him here.

He’s moved to another table with Allison and Cheryl, while Nina stays at the old table. They have to eat what are called partials. The Ensure was bad enough, but this is real food and more than five bites of it. It’s very tough for him. He puts a piece of toast in his mouth. It’s like they’re asking him to put his hand in a flame.

This is not my real life, Mike thinks while eating the toast. I am not really here.

You are running. Feel the cool air at the back of your throat. Nothing bothers you. Strong body, strong mind, infinitely strong.

Everything in its right place, Mike thinks.

Mike attends lectures on nutrition: “What the Body Needs, What the Body Wants.”

Mike knows he doesn’t have to pay attention. Amber knows way more than they do.

Darpana insults Mike’s intelligence with her lies. She says that of the ten million people in this country who have eating disorders, 10 percent are boys and men.

That’s one million guys, Mike thinks. Who is she kidding?

Just tell her that’s an interesting statistic.

Mike: “That’s an interesting statistic.”

Darpana: “Huh. Not the way I would describe it.”

Mike: “Right. It’s scary. Very scary.”

Darpana tells Mike why he has insomnia.

Darpana: “A Cro-Magnon man didn’t sleep much—he was always thinking about getting the next meal. His senses had to be at full alert, so he could smell food that was ripe, see a small animal trying to hide in the bushes.”

Can you imagine rummaging through the Dumpsters in Belle Heights, scavenging for food like a caveman? Don’t listen to this nonsense.

Mike stops listening. Darpana goes into a whole thing about food rituals, and cuts and bruises that don’t heal, and why eyes are sunken and lips are blue. Mike hears only the rhythm and cadence of her voice, the music of it; he nods or shakes his head based on the tone of her questions and statements; he says yes and no at all the right moments without knowing what he’s saying yes or no to. He throws in the occasional “I understand” and “I can see that now.”

Darpana: “I know about your speech problems as a kid. I know about your parents splitting up. I know you quit the baseball team. These things help me see you, Mike.”

But she doesn’t see Mike. And she never will.

Darpana says other things, too—obscene things. I won’t repeat them now. I wish I didn’t have to hear them in the first place and I certainly don’t want to again.

One afternoon in group therapy, Richard asks everyone what they’d like to be when they grow up. It’s the usual boring stuff.

Allison: “I want to invent a cure for allergies so I can be a vet.”

Cheryl: “I’d like my own show on the Food Network.”

Then, unexpectedly, something interesting happens. Nina speaks up for the first time.

Nina: “I want to be a plant.” She has a soft voice, almost impossible to hear, a whisper of a voice. “I want to exist on nothing, taking nourishment from the air.”

Richard: “We’re talking about professions, Nina.”

Of course Richard feels a need to criticize Nina instead of praising her for joining in the discussion. But Mike finds what Nina said a little creepy.

She’s talking about death, he thinks.

No, she isn’t.

Death is here, he thinks, like it’s another person in the circle.

Does it never shut up, like the rest of them?

Mike thinks about Amber, how she said something about standing in the sun without casting a shadow, and moving so lightly she wouldn’t disturb a spiderweb—

Amber is more alive than anyone you know.

Nina doesn’t show up in the cafeteria that night. She stops coming to group therapy. Mike hears that she was caught throwing up and now she’s in a private room, hooked up to an IV. This doesn’t affect me one way or the other, but Mike takes it badly.

I have to work harder, then, to protect Mike from this place. Difficult and exhausting as it is, I do so willingly, of course. I don’t mean to brag, but where would Mike be without me?

CHAPTER 27

WEEK THREE.

There’s a new girl in group.

She’s enormous.

Clearly she has no self-control, and Mike is appalled at her lack of discipline. A couple of girls roll their eyes at each other. One of them starts to laugh and has to cover her mouth. But it’s not funny. This girl is their worst nightmare. Some have said they’d rather die than be fat. That’s a little extreme, but I understand.

Richard: “This is Miranda.”

Pretty name, Mike thinks, but it’s the only pretty thing about her.

Miranda: “I know what y’all are thinking. I’m the fattest an-orexic you’ve ever seen, right?”

First off—“y’all”? Is she Southern? What’s she doing here? Secondly, her attempt at humor is completely lame.

Miranda: “Okay, I’m not really anorexic. I’m a compulsive overeater. And I make jokes when I’m incredibly nervous. Which I am right now. As if you can’t tell.”

If she thinks it’s charming to make light about being disgusting, she’s sadly mistaken.

But Mike feels a little bad for her. It’s hard enough being here at all, but being a big girl like that—

She’s revolting. You should have nothing to do with her.

Richard seems to find Miranda fascinating. He gets her to talk about where she’s from (West Virginia) and about her family. I imagine they all look exactly like her, but to my surprise her mother was a beauty queen and her sister, Lydia, is one now.

Miranda: “When my mother was eight, she was Baby Miss America and there was a whole parade just for her. Lydia came in third for Miss Teen West Virginia. Which wasn’t good enough, of course. When my sister loses, I know she and my mom blame me. Like the judges got a look at me and decided to punish Lydia.”

She should just stay home, Mike thinks.

Locked in the cellar.

Cheryl: “So why do you go?”

Miranda: “My mom thinks it will inspire me to lose weight, seeing all those skinny girls parading around in bikinis.” She grins. “I guess it hasn’t worked, has it?”

Several girls can’t understand why Miranda doesn’t just throw up after eating.

Miranda: “Because I love feeling full. It’s the only way I can sleep.”

Girl who destroyed the pipes: “But throwing up is the best feeling in the world.”

Miranda: “Maybe that’s why my cat is always doing it. I don’t know why I bother to put food in her dish. I should just put it directly on the floor.”

A couple of girls smile at that. I don’t find Miranda anything but hideous.

Mike doesn’t talk much in group, but he says something every once in a while so he doesn’t call attention to himself for his silence.

Mike: “My cat throws up a lot, too.”

Miranda: “I thought I was the only one with a bulimic pet.”

As they leave group, Miranda looks at Mike and says, “You and I have something in common.”

Mike: “Because of our cats?”

Miranda: “We’re like the answer to the question ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’ I’m the fat girl among the skinny girls. And you’re a boy.”

To my horror Mike almost gets into a conversation with her, about feeling like the odd one out. He’s lonely here—but of course he is! He doesn’t belong here. This isn’t his real life. He isn’t really here.

This girl is a waste of your time.

Mike: [nothing]

Miranda: “See ya, I guess.”

Mike takes off.

Later in the week, the girl who used to sit at the drawing table during activity period goes home, and Mike sits there now. He doesn’t really draw, just sketches a little. I don’t like it, but it’s a small piece of time out of a long day.

Oh, no—the fat girl is here. She pulls up a chair and joins him.

Miranda: “Whatcha doin’?”

You have nothing to say to her.

Mike: [nothing]

Miranda: “It looks like bones.”

Mike looks down at his paper. He thinks it does look like bones, now that she said so, but to me it’s a bunch of meaningless shapes.

Miranda: “Is it some kind of animal?”

Mike: [nothing]

Miranda: “I like portraits. I like going to a museum and looking at the faces on the walls and wondering what the people in those paintings are thinking about. They had to sit there for hours, maybe days or weeks, you know? All they did was think. And the artist captured those thoughts, if you look carefully enough to see.”

She’s an idiot.

Mike is thinking about landscapes, about Ray Harryhausen’s favorite artist, a French illustrator named Gustave Doré, who created dark, moody foregrounds and light-filled backgrounds. There’s one image of a fallen tree with steps leading somewhere. Mike has always wanted to set foot on those steps, see where they go.

Miranda (pointing to his drawing): “Look at that. Your animal’s got two heads. Cool.”

Mike looks. Now he recognizes it. It’s the two-headed Cyclops he drew all those years ago, when he first met Tamio.

Miranda: “Are two heads better than one?”

This is so boring.

Mike stands. He crumples up the drawing and tosses it away. He walks over to the itchy couch and sits there.

Good for you.

But Mike’s thinking that maybe it was kind of rude to get up and leave—

Of course not.

—and he’s sorry he threw away the drawing.

Don’t be. It belongs in the garbage.

CHAPTER 28

WEEK FOUR.

Mike sits at a new table now, with Allison (Cheryl is still at partials) and a girl named Sandy who is instantly forgettable. He eats veggie burgers and tuna fish with mayonnaise. They’re stuffing him like a piñata. He hates it, but he knows he’ll take better care of himself at home and get his body back. For three weeks Mike has been putting up with a lot, and now the end is in sight.

Darpana: “You’ve got some wonderful qualities, Mike. Qualities to be proud of. You’re smart and creative. A hard worker, a straight-A student.”

Why is she complimenting you? She’s up to something.

Mike: “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

Darpana: “Everything that’s good about you—anorexia loves it. Anorexia takes your intelligence and creativity and uses it to lie, repeatedly and convincingly, about why you don’t eat, why you wear long underwear in the middle of summer. Anorexia uses that work ethic to force you to exercise even when you’re famished and exhausted.”

You can run over hunger, remember? And you felt great doing it.

I was so close, Mike thinks. I was almost there.

Darpana: “Anorexia takes a terrific person and turns him into a lying, moody, deceitful, self-centered manipulator.”

In other words, an asshole.

Thanks a lot! Mike thinks.

Mike: “Yes, I wasn’t myself.”

Darpana takes out a blank piece of paper and a pencil. She draws a circle.

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.

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.