A Trick of the Light (8 page)

CHAPTER 21

THE HOSPITAL IS ON THE FAR SIDE OF BELLE
Heights, and Mike takes the Q33 bus to get there. He rides the elevator up to Amber’s floor. When he gets off, he sees a large room with a TV and some couches. It’s dark except for flickers of light from the TV. Several girls are there. One girl is skinny. Scary-skinny, Mike thinks. She has a needle in her arm, attached to a pole with a bag of fluids. She sees Mike staring at her. Mike wonders if she’s embarrassed by this. She yawns.

His sneakers squeak on the shiny floor. There are nurses everywhere—at desks, walking around. A nurse tells Mike that Amber is in the Sun Room. He has to pass a series of closed doors before he gets to an open one with a hand-drawn picture of the sun on it. He sees Amber sitting on a couch. The room is empty except for her. She’s got on a white T-shirt and jeans. Mike has never seen her arms before. He thinks she looks thin but nothing like the girl with the pole.

It’s good, really good, to see Amber again.

Amber (smiling a sneaky smile): “So how do you like the E-D unit?”

Mike: “E-D?”

Amber: “I told you about my boyfriend, Eddie, remember? It’s a joke. ‘E-D’ stands for ‘eating disorder.’” She laughs.

Mike: “Eddie’s not your boyfriend?”

Mike can be a little dense sometimes.

Amber: “No, Eddie’s not my boyfriend!”

Mike wonders why Amber thinks it’s funny that she lies to people about having a boyfriend.

She has a sense of humor.

Mike: “So when can you go home?”

Amber: “Well, it’s my second time, so I have to stay longer. It’s like a rule. Last time I had a bed near the window. This time my bed is near the door. Sit down, will you? You’re making me nervous.”

Mike sits on a padded chair that looks soft but it’s like a rock.

Mike: “So this is the Sun Room.”

Amber: “It’s never sunny, by the way, but it’s usually empty and it’s good to have some alone time. I have a roommate. Her name is Deirdre. The staff calls her a frequent flier because she’s been here three times already. I’m so jealous of her.”

Mike: “Because she’s a frequent flier?”

Amber: “No! Because she’s so much skinnier than me.”

Mike: “Is she in the TV room?”

Amber: “I think so. She’s blond.”

Mike didn’t notice the color of her hair.

Amber: “Deirdre’s so beautiful. Anyone can have inner beauty. Not everyone has real beauty. She’s a size double zero.”

Mike: “How is that even possible?”

Amber: “Deirdre used to do ballet. She was good, too. But she can’t dance anymore. Whatever. She does a different kind of dance now. She dances between the raindrops in the rain.”

Mike: “Dances between the—what?”

Amber: “It’s an expression. Like, I want to stand in the sun and cast no shadow. Or move as lightly as a spider, not even disturbing a web.”

Mike: “I never heard those expressions.”

Amber: “Just because you never heard of something doesn’t mean it isn’t meaningful.”

Mike takes a deep breath.

You could at least smile at her. Stop acting like you’re at a funeral.

Amber: “So is everybody at school talking about me? Not that I care.”

Mike: “They say you had a heart attack.”

Amber: “See? That’s wrong.” She says something Mike can’t understand, so she spells it out: “A-r-r-h-y-t-h-m-i-a. It’s an uneven heartbeat. They say it can lead to a heart attack.”

Mike (thinking it sounds bad): “Isn’t that bad?”

Amber: “It’s not even why I came to the hospital. Didn’t my mom explain?”

Mike shakes his head.

Amber: “She’s such a bitch! You know what she did? She took away my red bracelet. She found out what it meant. Red for anorexia. A-N-A for short.”

Anna—the best friend. Who doesn’t exist. Just like Eddie. Mike’s getting freaked out by the fact that Amber doesn’t have a best friend or a boyfriend. It’s sad, he thinks.

It’s not sad. Amber has something better than friends.

She doesn’t have anyone, Mike thinks.

You are her friend.

Amber: “My wrist feels so naked. Can you get me another bracelet? You can only buy them online. You probably don’t have your own credit card, so you’ll have to use your mom’s.” She shivers. “It’s cold in here.”

Mike: “You want my jacket?”

Amber: “Thanks.”

It’s big and puffy on her.

Mike: “Amber, if you didn’t come here for a heart rhythm—”

Amber: “Arrhythmia. Try to get it right.”

Mike: “—then why are you here?”

Amber (with that sneaky smile again): “Remember, Friday night, there was a new moon?”

Mike: “No.”

Amber: “Well, there was. The new moon is when you honor Anamadim. She’s the goddess of anorexia.”

Mike: “The goddess of—what?”

Amber: “I’m not surprised you never heard of her. I only just learned about her recently.”

Mike knows something about gods and goddesses, mostly because they pop up in Harryhausen’s movies, but, he thinks, a goddess of anorexia—?

There’s a god or goddess for everything under the sun. Listen to Amber.

Amber: “I had to sneak out of the house and make a sacrifice to Anamadim.”

Mike (not sure he wants to know): “What’d you sacrifice?”

Amber: “Food that tempts me. I took some saltines and crushed them in my front yard. Back in my room, I pledged to Anamadim: ‘Fill me with the ecstasy of emptiness, empower me to endure the necessary deprivations, make light the vessel where I sojourn upon this earth.’”

Mike thinks, She’s having a religious experience over saltines.

She cares about something, deeply.

Amber (with a laugh): “It’s a bit much, I know, but it really helps me, okay? To reach my goals. Anyway, I had to write down the pledge and then sign it in blood. Wouldn’t you know it—that’s when my mom woke up. The problem was, when I cut my wrist, I used a really sharp steak knife—”

Mike (alarmed): “You cut your wrist?”

Amber: “I wasn’t trying to kill myself! I just made a tiny cut, here.” She shows him a spot on the side of her wrist, where she has a Band-Aid. “Anyway, it wouldn’t stop bleeding. My mom flipped out. She thought I was a cutter. Like she knows anything. If I was a cutter, I’d wear a black-and-blue bracelet.”

Mike: “They have bracelets for cutters?”

Amber: “And purple for bulimia, where you throw up after you eat. Which is disgusting. I only throw up when I absolutely have to.”

Tamio was right, Mike thinks; Amber does throw up.

Who cares? He never applies himself to anything worthwhile.

Amber: “Anyway, my mom took me straight to the hospital.” She shrugs. “The cut was no big deal. It didn’t even need stitches. But that’s when they told my mom I was severely emaciated. C’mon, do I look severely emaciated to you? Also they found the arrhythmia. And the fact that the mass of my heart had decreased. Weird, huh? I didn’t know hearts could do that.”

Mike: “Amber, are you scared?”

Amber: “No, I’m just mad because I’m stuck here for six weeks, maybe longer.”

Mike notices a closed door in the corner of the room.

Mike: “What’s that?”

Amber: “The bathroom. It’s locked. All the bathrooms are locked. You have to ask permission to go. And they watch you, to make sure you’re not throwing up. They even watch you in the shower. There’s zero privacy here. Before they weigh you, they do a cavity search.”

Mike: “A what?”

Amber: “Some people put rolls of quarters in their butts.”

Mike wants to leave. He wonders what he’s doing here in the first place. Do I even know this person? he thinks.

Of course you do.

I don’t, not really, he thinks. Amber’s always telling me all this stuff she does, but actually nothing about herself, if that makes any sense—

It doesn’t.

Amber had an aunt who died, and they were close—

Why bring up something painful? You know what you need to know.

Mike stands. The chair sticks to him.

Mike: “I have to go.”

Amber: “Okay. Will you come back?”

Mike doesn’t want to.

You’ll come back.

Mike: “Sure.” He notices, for the first time, Amber’s eyelashes. They’re so sparse. He thinks those eyelashes, and his jacket, make her look like a little kid, lost and alone.

She’s neither.

Amber takes off Mike’s jacket and gives it back to him.

Amber: “Hey, will you tell that witch outside that it’s freezing in here?”

Mike goes to the nearest nurse at a desk. Her head is bent over a magazine.

Mike: “Hi, I was just in the Sun Room with Amber Alley. She’s wondering if you could turn up the heat?”

Nurse: “They’re always cold. Anyway, I can’t change the thermostat. It’s controlled.” She doesn’t look up.

Mike passes the TV room again. He sees Deirdre. Is she blond? Hard to tell. She doesn’t have much hair, and the intermittent light from the TV gives him only strobelike glimpses. Someone is sitting next to her.

Mike stops.

He can’t move.

It’s a boy, Mike thinks. He sees short hair, sideburns . . .  an Adam’s apple.

You’re seeing it wrong. It’s a girl who looks like a boy.

I can’t move, Mike thinks. I’ve turned to stone, like in
Clash of the Titans
, when Perseus’s men look at Medusa—

You are not stone. You are living and breathing.

It’s like I’m stuck between frames in a movie.

You can move. Just put one foot in front of the other. It’s only a trick of the light.

CHAPTER 22

OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL, EVERY STEP IS A STRUGGLE.
Mike moves painfully slowly, sometimes stopping just to stare at a—what? A squashed leaf, an ancient cocker spaniel trudging along, a crack in the sidewalk.

There’s the Q33 bus. Get on the bus.

Mike has to be led by the hand like a child, so to speak. He stands the whole ride home even though there are plenty of seats. He stoops over and looks out the window at the darkening sky—it gets dark early now. He starts thinking about another one of Harryhausen’s movies,
The 7th Voyage of Sinbad
. For once I don’t think this is a bad idea. Maybe it’ll calm him down. He remembers the part where Sinbad fights a skeleton. But it reminds him of that girl, Deirdre. He thinks, She’s practically a skeleton; she could end up like the skeleton in that movie, a pile of broken bones.

Don’t let some silly movie upset you. When you get home, go straight to your room, turn on some music, work out.

To my relief, this is exactly what he does—150 crunches, 100 push-ups.

You are becoming infinitely strong.

Mike is sure, now, that he saw a girl at the hospital, a girl who only looked like a boy. That kind of mistake happens all the time.

With some effort, Mike is himself again.

His mom knocks on his door. Quickly Mike puts on a T-shirt and then lets her in.

Mom: “Could you turn the music down, please? The walls are shaking.”

Mike turns it down.

Mom: “Have you had dinner?”

Mike: “I ate in the hospital cafeteria.”

Mom (clearly not believing him but asking anyway): “What’d you have?”

Mike: “Grilled cheese and fries.” He’s memorized what to say by now. He has whole menus in his head.

Mom: “You’re having lunch with your father on Saturday.”

Mike: “What? Why?”

Mom: “He’s your father.”

Mike: “So?”

Mom: “It’s been a long time. He wants to see you.”

No one’s asking if you want to see him.

Mom: “He’ll meet you at a Chinese restaurant. I wrote down the address.”

Mike: “What’s the name of it?”

Mom: “I don’t think he told me—just that it’s on the corner of Belle Terrace and Seventy-Fourth Lane.”

Mike: “Mom, I need the name.”

Mom: “Why?”

So Mike can look up the menu online and see what he can eat, that’s why. He doesn’t tell her that, though.

Mom: “Well, I don’t think your father knows the name.”

Mike: “That’s so stupid.”

Mom: “You’ll find it. How hard can it be?”

Impossible, it turns out. Mike takes a bus to Belle Terrace and Seventy-Fourth Court, a block from Seventy-Fourth Lane. It’s across from the expressway, and there aren’t any restaurants, just fruit stands and depressing, down-on-their-luck stores. One place has mannequins with missing arms. Mike is feeling grumpy anyway because he fell asleep at dawn and woke up too late to go for a run.

A Chinese woman is staring at him. Mike knows what she’s thinking: That boy didn’t run today. He’s so lazy.

Mike thinks, It’s not my fault I have to meet my idiot father for lunch.

Mike (to the Chinese woman): “Stop staring at me!”

The Chinese woman looks at him blankly. Maybe she doesn’t understand English. Or maybe she’s only pretending not to.

Man’s voice (behind Mike): “Mike, is that you?”

Mike turns around. It’s his dad.

Dad: “I can’t believe it.”

Mike can’t believe it, either. His dad has a potbelly. He’s let himself get completely out of shape since the breakup.

Dad (barely above a whisper): “Your mother was right.”

Mike: “Right about what?”

Dad: [nothing]

Mike: “So anyway, where’s this restaurant?”

Dad (numbly, like he’s in shock): “On the other side.”

He means the other side of the expressway. What’s his problem? He wanted to have lunch with Mike. Mike didn’t want to have lunch with him.

The restaurant is large and noisy. Mike and his dad sit at a table in the corner, and a waitress hands them enormous menus.

Dad: “Let me order. I know what’s good here.”

Mike: “That’s okay.”

Dad: “You used to love sweet-and-sour chicken.”

Well, things change.

Dad: “Can I get you the chicken?”

Mike: “No. I’ll have steamed broccoli.”

Dad: “That’s hardly a meal.”

Mike: “It’s what I want.”

Dad: “We can go to Luncheonette after. I know you love the rice pudding there.”

Mike: “No, thanks.” Mike’s had enough rice pudding to last him the rest of his life.

They order. His dad gets the sweet-and-sour chicken.

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 not 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 rose 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.