Lois Metzger - A Trick of the Light

THE HOME SITUATION IS GOOD. BETTER, ANYWAY. Mike’s mom, sleeping and soaking; Mike’s dad, living out his midlife crisis; Mike is left alone, blissfully alone. He eats what he wants, when he wants to; he runs; he does crunches and push-ups in his room. He does all the chores without having to answer to anyone. This privacy is rich beyond compare.

Until one night in October.

Mom: “Mike, you’re thin.”

She sounds like she hasn’t seen him in weeks. Well, she hasn’t. Of course it’s wildly unfair of her to re-enter the picture just to stir up trouble.

Mom: “Are you eating enough?”

Mike (handling it): “Definitely.” He’s thinking about how Amber said your body is a machine that you can train to run more efficiently and reprogram to respond to food differently. The less you eat, the less you have to eat. Not that Mike tells this to his mom. She wouldn’t get it.

Mom: “Has it been… is it hard for yo

Why this sudden burst of attention?

Mike: “I’m fine.”

He looks a lot better than she does, now that chaos masters her. She’s in an old bathrobe. Her color isn’t good, she’s pale and ashy, and her eyes are puffy. Anyway Mike is more than fine—he’s busy and productive. Getting in shape, Mike thinks, is like my job.

A full-time job, 24/7.

Mike finds that amusing.

Mom: “What’s so funny?”

Mike: “Huh?”

Mom: “You were just laughing.”

Mike: “I guess you could call it an inside joke.”

Good one.

Mom: “It’s been quite an adjustment. When a marriage ends, it’s like a death. The death of happily-ever-after, you know?”

Mike: “I guess so.” He’s ready to go to his room, shut the door, turn on some music, work out. He wants the mirror to show him progress.

Mom: “I can’t help feeling like… well, Grandma Celia always told me I’d be a failure. With the separation and everything, I feel like I’m proving her right.”

Mike (trying to make sense out of what she just said): “You’re not a failure, Mom. You were part of something that failed. But that’s, you know, not you.” He wonders if this is coming out right. They used to talk, he and his mom; sometimes it took a while for Mike to express himself accurately, but he always tried—

Just forget it. You should have a flat line going down your chest. Can you picture how that will look?

Mom: “I dream about Grandma Celia. She’s sitting in a chair. She won’t look up or answer me. She’s silent, which is all I ever wanted when she was alive, but in the dream I’m begging her to talk to me.” Mike sees the whites of her eyes, below the green circles. “She wasn’t a very good mother to me. I’m not a very good mother to you, am I? I’ve been so unavailable.”

Mike: “It’s fine.”

Mom: “It’s not.”

Do you really have to listen to this?

Mike: “Mom, I’ve got stuff to do—”

Mom: “Oh, don’t mind me. You go ahead.”

Mike looks in the mirror. His abs are getting so tight! He does slow push-ups, one leg on top of the opposite ankle. Yesterday he did fifteen. Today he does five more. But something’s bugging him. His mom, when he left the room. She was crying.

Nothing to worry about. You look after yourself. She can look after herself. Everything in its right place.

MIKE HAS A GLORIOUS RUN, ONE OF THOSE RUNS WHERE everything comes together beautifully—the rhythm of arms and legs, the way he can taste the cool air at the back of his throat, how his feet barely brush the ground. He is a joy to behold.

As soon as Mike comes home, however, he smells it. His mom is cooking dinner.

Mike: “Mom, what are you doing?”

Mom: “I’m making shepherd’s pie. Your favorite.”

When Mike was a child, maybe. Not now. Shepherd’s pie—chopped lamb and peas with buttery mashed potatoes on top. What’s she trying to do to him?

Mike: “Why are you doing this?”

Mom: “You need some home-cooked meals.”

At the dinner table, she puts a mountain-sized slab on his plate. The smell of it, heavy and cloying… Mike just sits there.

Mom: “What’s wrong?”

Don’t eat that, don’t eat that, don’t eat that.

Mike: “I’m not hungry.”

This is an occasion—Mike’s first lie. Sure, he’s hungry, but he’s learning to see beyond it. It’s a skill like anything else.

Mom: “Your stomach is growling.”

Mike: “That’s because I drank water after my run. That can make your stomach growl.”

Another lie. He’s pretty convincing, too. He wonders if he should feel guilty about lying.

Lying can be necessary. It can protect you. What’s there to feel guilty about?

Mom: “Just eat, already.”

Mike’s heart pounds in his chest.

Mike: “I had some pizza on the way home from school.”

Mom: “I thought you just came from a run.”

Mike: “It was some kid’s birthday after school. There was cake.”

Mom: “Which is it, Mike?”

Mike: “Eric. He broke his growth plate. He’s a pitcher who can throw a seventy-nine-mile-per-hour fastball, and he’s out for the season.”

Mom: “What?”

Mike is confused. He thought his mom was asking him whose birthday it was. Now he realizes she meant, did he go to a birthday party or did he run? He’s not a very good liar yet. He needs practice. He looks down at the blob of food on his plate. He can’t imagine putting that in his stomach.

If you eat that, you’ll get sick. Tell her you feel sick already.

Mike: “I’m sick.”

Mom: “Now you’re sick? Just eat it!”

Mike takes a bite. Immediately he feels dizzy and bloated.

See what happens when you don’t listen? Call Amber. She’ll know what to do.

Mike: “I have to make a call.”

Mom: “In the middle of dinner?”

Mike: “I’m working on a physics project with Amber Alley. She’s going to the library tonight—”

Mom: “I didn’t think kids went to the library anymore. They just go online.”

Mike: “Mr. Clayton is very old-fashioned. He wants us to look stuff up in books.”

Mom: “Libraries aren’t open at this hour.”

Mike: “Mr. Clayton arranged for a branch to stay open late.”

Already Mike’s better at lying. He enjoys how he can invent a kind of parallel universe—physics projects that don’t exist, old-fashioned teachers, libraries that stay open late. “So I need to catch Amber before she leaves the house.”

Mom (slowly): “Amber Alley. Wasn’t she the one you did that butterfly thing with?”

Mike (surprised): “Yeah—you remember that?” He’s thinking it’s kind of nice that she did.

Don’t be fooled. She’s not on your side. Look what she’s making you eat. Now call Amber.

Mike goes to his room and calls Amber.

Amber answers on the first ring, almost as if she was waiting for the call.

Amber: “Hi, Mike.”

Mike: “My mom just cooked this thing with meat and potatoes and butter. She’s just sitting there, waiting for me to eat it.”

Amber: “Did you eat it yet?”

Mike: “One bite.”

Amber: “Okay, that’s not so bad. Just eat five bites in total. Smush the food around on your plate. Keep count, though, and don’t go over.”

Mike: “Why five?”

Amber: “My friend Anna told me it’s a good number—it makes you look like you’re eating more than you actually are.”

Five. The number of fingers on your hand. It’s your own version of the right-hand rule.

Amber: “But you need to do more. Go to Food-A-Rama after school, buy some extra food to cook and throw out.”