Read A Trick of the Light Online
Authors: Lois Metzger
A Trick of the Light (9 page)
MIKE WAKES UP AND HE KNOWS—HE JUST KNOWS—
someone’s been in his room. A trickle of panic runs down the back of his neck. He looks under his bed and in his closet; he checks the window, which is still closed as it is every night—it’s too cold to leave it open. He can’t find any evidence of theft, so he heads downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. But his mom is blocking the way.
Mom: “I have something to tell you.”
Mike: “Later.”
Mom: “Now. What I have to say, it’s not open for discussion. It’s happening whether you like it or not. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to like it.”
Mike: “What are you talking about?”
His mom is shaking. Why is she shaking? Mike wonders if it’s because he used her credit card to buy Amber a bracelet. No, wait, he hasn’t done that yet. Sometimes it’s hard for Mike to tell the difference between actually doing something and just thinking about doing it.
Mom: “You’re going to the hospital.”
Mike: “Yeah, I visit Amber.”
Mom: “You don’t get it. You’re the one going to the hospital. I’m having you admitted.”
Mike: [nothing]
Mom: “Do you understand?”
Stay calm. Take a deep breath.
Mike (breathing deeply): “I don’t need a hospital. I’m not sick.”
Mom: “You blacked out.”
Mike: “I took a nap!”
Mom: “Believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought. In fact, it’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
So this is what she’s been up to behind your back.
Mom: “It wasn’t an easy decision, but it’s the right one. I found a facility out of Belle Heights. It’s not even in the city.”
She wants to throw you out, like you’re a piece of junk.
Mom: “I’ve done the research. It’s a very good place. I haven’t been, of course. You’re not allowed to go, beforehand. You can only go as a patient.”
That sounds suspicious.
Mom: “I packed you a bag.”
Mike sees it near the couch, a small duffel like the one his dad took.
Mike: “Unpack it.”
Mom: “I called an ambulance. It’s on its way.”
An ambulance; is she serious?
Mom: “The hospital suggested it. You might be too weak to walk.”
Mike: “I run miles every day! How can I be too weak to walk?”
Mom: “I’ve been in close touch with your father.”
She’s not even listening to you.
Mom: “He was so upset when he saw you. He couldn’t believe it—”
Mike: “Who cares?”
Mom: “Your physics teacher, Mr. Clayton, called me.”
Mike: “I’m getting an A in physics, like in all my classes. What’s the problem?”
Mom: “Mr. Clayton said there’s no doubt in his mind you have an eating disorder.”
Mike: “Is he a doctor, like Dr. Steiner, who said I was in excellent shape?”
Mom: “Tamio called me, too. More than once.”
Mike: [nothing]
Tamio, the betrayer.
Mom: “Your baseball coach sent me emails. He heard from one of the kids that you quit the team.”
Mike can’t believe this. Are they all part of it?
They are all traitors.
Mike: “Well, guess what? I’m not going.”
Mom: “It’s not up to you. You’re not eighteen. I’m the one admitting you, and you’ll stay admitted until the staff says you’re better.”
She’s not shaking anymore. She sounds strong. But she’s never been strong. Mike’s the one getting stronger, not her.
Mike: “How can you just pull me out of school in the middle of the year?”
Mom: “I spoke to your teachers. You can catch up on schoolwork over the winter break, if you’re out by then.”
How will I run, Mike thinks, how will I work out, what will happen to my body, my mind . . . ?
Think of Amber. She’s getting through it. You will, too.
There’s a knock at the door, and Mike’s mom lets in two men in jumpsuits.
Ambulance man (to Mike): “Sit down. I have to take your heart rate and blood pressure.”
Mike rolls up his sleeves. He has on two long-sleeved shirts and a sweatshirt. His mom bites her lip when she sees his arms.
Ambulance man (to the other one): “Get the wheelchair.”
Mike: “Seriously?”
Ambulance man: “We didn’t pull the ambulance up to your house in case you wanted to keep this private. We parked on the next street.”
Mike: “I think I can walk one block.”
Ambulance man: “You might not make it.”
Mike: [nothing]
Ambulance man: “You’ve got bradycardia—your heart rate’s forty-two. It should be seventy-five. You’ve got postural hypotension. That’s low blood pressure. Your body temperature is ninety-two.”
That can’t be right. It’s 98.6, like everybody else’s.
Mike thinks the man is looking at him kindly.
Don’t be fooled.
Ambulance man: “Those readings would be fine if you were hibernating.”
Your mom was hibernating, not you. This is all wrong.
Then—unbelievably—the man lifts Mike up into his arms and carries him like a baby. Once they’re outside, he places Mike in the wheelchair and pushes him on the bumpy concrete. Mike glances up and sees the bottoms of tree branches. He climbs into the ambulance and lies down. He looks at the ceiling. His mom is with him, clutching the bag she packed. They pull out into traffic. No siren. They just drive.
MIKE HAS NO MEMORY OF SLEEP, BUT HE WAKES UP.
Though it still feels more like dreaming than reality. Outside the ambulance, there are rolling green lawns like an endless golf course. There are no connected houses or apartment buildings. The sky is big, a cloudless, piercing blue that hurts his eyes.
Mom: “Did you sleep?”
You have nothing to say to her.
Mike: [nothing]
They stop and Mike gets out of the ambulance. They’re in a circular driveway covered with dead leaves in front of a small building that looks more like a quaint country inn than a hospital. Mike could be here for brunch and tennis. A woman in a plaid dress with a bow at the waist greets Mike at the door.
Woman: “This is the central medical center. Here’s where you get clearance.”
Mike’s heart starts racing. His forty-two-beats-a-minute heart. He’s taken into Admissions. He notices a grandfather clock with roman numerals. It has a steady tick. The furniture is upholstered with thick padding and the carpet has a diamond pattern. The lighting is soft. “Relax” seems to be the message. Mike is not relaxed. He’s practically in shock. Someone tells him that he’ll be the only boy in an eleven-bed wing, but that six months ago they had three boys at once.
They need a blood sample. An incompetent nurse tries to find a good vein, and she finally uses one on the back of Mike’s hand.
Bad nurse: “You have shy veins, young man.”
Shy veins and a lazy lip—Mike’s body parts have so much personality.
Mom (with a quick hug, leaving): “See you later.”
Mike: [nothing]
Another nurse takes Mike to a single room with yellow walls. There’s a nurse at a desk just outside. Mike’s window looks out on tall, leafless trees against the sky, a dark gray-blue now. It’s quiet—no traffic, no airplanes. He can hear footsteps in the hall and footsteps overhead, a dull thumping. A nurse watches as he unpacks his bag—clothes, pajamas, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. He feels like his possessions have betrayed him, following him here. The nurse unlocks his bathroom. There’s a small mirror in there. Actually it’s not really a mirror; it’s some kind of reflective material, nonbreakable. It’s as though he sees himself in a shimmery pool of water.
Another nurse shows up with a doctor’s scale. She weighs Mike backward so only she can see the number. She slides up the bar that measures height.
Nurse: “You’re five nine.”
Mike: “And a half.”
Nurse: “Not anymore.”
How can I shrink? Mike wonders. I’m fifteen. Grandma Celia shrank when she was eighty.
It doesn’t matter. Remember what’s important. Inner growth.
A different nurse shows up and says she’s taking Mike to the cafeteria. She locks Mike’s door behind her. The cafeteria is nothing like the cafeteria at school or like the cafeteria at anybody’s school. There are small round wooden tables, wooden chairs with cushions, and colorful rugs on a hardwood floor. Overhead, a glass chandelier clinks.
Mike: “I’m not hungry.”
Nurse: “You have to eat six times a day.”
Mike is stunned.
Mike: “What if I don’t eat?”
Nurse: “You’ll be hooked up to an IV. You’ll be here a long, long time—a lot longer than four weeks.”
That is unacceptable.
Mike’s pulse races. He can’t eat. He just can’t. He thinks, What do I do?
You’ll do what you have to do, to get out of here.
Nurse: “You start out on the liquid diet. You’ll sit with other patients who are also on the liquid diet.”
She leads Mike to a small table where three girls are drinking from large bottles labeled Ensure. Mike has heard of it. It’s supposed to make you gain weight. Mike sits. He is given his own bottle. He can’t bring himself to drink it. The nurse is watching him. Mike takes a sip. It tastes like strawberry milk. But—the whole bottle? It’s not normal, he thinks.
It’s the opposite of normal. But you have to. This is no time to be stubborn.
The girls introduce themselves—or at least two of them do. One is Cheryl and the other is Allison. Mike forgets which name belongs to which girl. One has olive skin and green eyes like his mom. The other is blond and has a long neck. They’re not that thin, and Mike wonders how they ended up in an eating-disorder clinic. The third girl is the only one who looks thin. She’s not drinking her Ensure. She has dark stringy hair that hangs in front of her face, and she stares ahead as if looking at something nobody else can see. It’s like she’s not here, Mike thinks.
She is somewhere else. That’s brilliant. She’s found a way to be herself, even in this hostile environment.
Cheryl or Allison (to Mike): “That’s Nina. She doesn’t talk much.”
Nina. She reminds me of Amber. She’s beautiful. Maybe a friend for Mike.
Nina is not like the others. Neither are you.
Cheryl or Allison: “Are you from around here?”
Mike: “Belle Heights.” Blank stares. “It’s in Queens, New York City.”
Cheryl or Allison: “Oh, I love the city!”
Mike doesn’t bother to tell them that Belle Heights isn’t the city, not really. Cheryl and Allison talk about how much they love it, and one of them says she took a double-decker tour bus and actually looked in a second-story window and saw a guy in his underwear. Hilarious!
During the afternoon, Mike is taken to the rec room. Some kids are drawing; some are sculpting clay. One girl writes in a journal. Mike sits on an itchy couch.
That night, Mike lies on his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He thinks about doing crunches and push-ups, but his door has to stay open and there’s a nurse right outside his room. He feels like he’ll die if he can’t work out.
Think of Nina. She’s found a beautiful space for herself, away from here. You can do the same. You’re running. The air fills your lungs. You are strong and getting stronger, infinitely strong. Now, dry your eyes.
Mike touches his face, surprised that it’s wet.
IN THE MORNING, MIKE STARTS THE ROUTINE.
• 7:00 a.m. Knock on the door (which stayed open all night).
Mike looks out the window and sees that all the dead leaves are gone. He must have slept deeply, right through the leaf blower.
I can’t believe I’m here, Mike thinks. I don’t belong here.
You are not really here. This is not your real life.
Strong body, strong mind, Mike thinks. Everything in its right place.
A nurse unlocks his bathroom and just stands there. He splashes cold water on his face. He doesn’t look at his reflection. When he leaves the room, the nurse locks the door.
• 7:30–8:00 a.m. Breakfast.
A bottle of Ensure. Mike knows which name belongs to which girl now. Cheryl has green eyes and Allison’s the blonde. Nina, silent, is far away.
• 8:15–8:45 a.m. Exercise class.
It’s a joke. You sit on a hard floor and reach for your toes, then you stand up and bend. Mike looks around and sees that several girls have serious muscles and probably exercised for hours at home. But other girls seem to find even this amount of activity strenuous. One girl breathes so hard, Mike is afraid she’ll pass out.
• 9:15–9:40 a.m. Personal time.
Mike sits on the enclosed porch, which overlooks the grounds. A nurse is at a desk just outside.
• 9:40–10:10 a.m. Snack.
Another bottle of Ensure.
Cheryl and Allison talk about missing their pets. Cheryl has a ten-year-old yellow Labrador who needs hip surgery, and Allison is deathly allergic to dogs but has a poodle because (it turns out) poodles have hair, not fur. Mike, bored, mentions his cat. Nina is smart. She doesn’t say a word.
• 10:15–11:45 a.m. Group therapy.
Mike sits in a circle with ten girls from his wing and a doctor named Richard. Richard has a ponytail. He introduces Mike to the group. Then the girls talk. And talk. And talk.
One girl just got caught hiding high-fiber bars in her hair dryer where the batteries are supposed to be.
Girl who hid high-fiber bars: “Looking in my personal belongings constitutes illegal search and seizure.”
Richard tells her that because high-fiber bars are laxatives, she has lost the privilege of walking the grounds tomorrow.
Another girl says she used to eat everything in sight and then throw up so much at home that all the pipes in her bathroom had to be replaced.
Girl who destroyed the pipes: “It cost a hell of a lot of money.” She grins.
It makes no sense. Mike has such sublime control, and he’s stuck here with girls who are nothing like him, compulsive girls who have zero control.
• 12:15–1:00 p.m. Lunch.
More Ensure.
Mike is starting to panic. He can’t handle all this stuff in his system. He feels it, taking up space.
Amber was always such a big help. Maybe Nina can help you, too.
After Cheryl and Allison get up, Mike turns to Nina.
Mike (quietly): “Do you know a place I can go, to work out a little? Is there a room somewhere that’s not locked, where they can’t see you?”
Nina: [nothing]
Mike: “C’mon, tell me. Don’t keep it a secret.”
Nina: [nothing]
She would tell you, if she knew. She’s on your side.
Nina looks down. Mike realizes he’s got his hand wrapped around her forearm. He feels like he’s holding a bone. He lets go.
• 1:15–2:30 p.m. Individual therapy.
It’s Mike’s first appointment with his one-on-one therapist. She looks Indian. She’s not unattractive, with long dark wavy hair, a silky scarf around her throat, big eyes like a cat’s, and jasmine perfume that fills the air. She sits on a couch, and Mike sits opposite her in an armchair.
Therapist (with a slight accent): “Hello, Mike. My name is Darpana.” And she spells it for him: “D-a-r-p-a-n-a.”
Mike: [nothing]
Darpana: “Do you know how sick you were, to be brought here?”
Remember Dr. Steiner? Tell her what she wants to hear. You didn’t know what you were doing, but you’re here now and you want to get well.
Mike: “I didn’t know what I was doing. But I’m here now, and I want to get well.”
Darpana looks at him. She might not be as stupid as Dr. Steiner.
Darpana: “Why do you think you went from one hundred fifty-four pounds last spring to one hundred three in November?”
Well, you needed to burn off a lot of fat. But you can’t tell her that.
Mike: “Wow, that’s really bad.”
Darpana: “You were starving yourself, Mike.”
Mike: “I was wrong to do that.”
Darpana: “I saw the results of your blood test.”
Don’t listen anymore. She is not worth your attention.
Mike is able to tune her out. I listen, so he doesn’t have to. Darpana says Mike’s electrolyte levels are abnormal; his serum potassium levels are too low; the hair on his shoulders and stomach is called lanugo, and it sprouted, apparently, because Mike has zero body fat, and getting heat to the heart, lungs, and kidneys takes priority over the rest of the body, and the body is doing whatever it can to keep warm. She has no idea, of course, how good Mike felt, how the cold doesn’t matter, how none of it matters when you’re fit and strong, a master of chaos, in total control.
Darpana: “Are you listening to me, Mike?”
Mike: “Definitely.”
• 3:00–3:30 p.m. Snack time.
More Ensure.
• 3:45 p.m. Walk around the grounds.
Everything feels unfamiliar, alien—how the air smells of trees, how the late-afternoon sun slants on rolling hills, leaving long shadows because winter is approaching. Back in Belle Heights, the only birds are pigeons and sparrows. Here the cardinals, blue jays, and crows are louder than any car alarm. Mike never thought he would miss the whoosh of planes and cars, or pigeons.
You are not really here. This is not your real life.
• 4:30–5:30 p.m. Activity period in the rec room.
Mike sees a girl at the drawing table, carefully choosing the color of a marker like she’s deciding her future. Mike sits on the itchy couch. He wants to work out so badly. His body aches for it.
I was so close, Mike thinks. I was almost there.
• 6:00–7:00 p.m. Dinner.
More Ensure. Cheryl and Allison talk about food. Cheryl says she used to eat Sara Lee frozen cheesecake, still frozen, one sliver at a time. Mike notices something about Nina. Sometimes she whispers to herself.
• 7:30–9:30 p.m. TV in the rec room.
They watch reruns, flipping among
How I Met Your Mother
and
Mad Men
and
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
.
• 9:45 p.m. Snack.
Mike drinks another bottle of Ensure.
• 10:30–11:00 p.m. Back to his room for another supervised visit to the bathroom, and quiet time.
Mike looks out the window. It’s dark but the moon is bright. The hills look ghostly. This is not my real life, he thinks. I am not really here.
• 11:00 p.m. Lights out.
At some point later there’s a powerful storm and it wakes Mike up. The rain beats against the window like it’s trying to break through and spray Mike with cold water and shattered glass. He curls up beneath the blankets.
That therapist, Darpana, said I almost died, Mike thinks. She’s seen patients die with better stats than me.
She was lying. She was trying to scare you. You’re not like those patients. You are full of life.
Clearly the occasional stray remark is getting through to Mike. I’ll have to be more diligent. No room for error here.
