A Trick of the Light (11 page)

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.”

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.