Lois Metzger - A Trick of the Light

Run past your endurance. That’s how you build up strength.

He runs some more.

When Mike gets; d home, his phone is ringing.

Mike: “Hello?”

No answer. He sees a number he doesn’t recognize on the caller ID.

Mike (louder): “Hello?” He finds it hard to catch his breath. He’s practically gasping into the phone.

There’s a low voice on the other end: “Hello.”

Mike: “My mom’s not home.” He doesn’t know if she’s home or not. “Do you want to leave a message?” Though he has no intention of writing anything down.

On the other end: “A message? No. It’s Val.”

Mike actually has to sit down.

Valerie: “I hope it’s okay that I’m calling you.”

It isn’t. What could she possibly have to say?

Valerie: “I’ve been talking to Tamio. He says you’re, I don’t know, having a hard time or something. We both thought maybe you’d talk to me. You were so nice to me when I first came to school. So I thought I’d return the favor.”

Mike can’t get this straight. First Valerie’s friendly. Then she’s freaked out by him. Then she ignores him. Now she’s friendly again. And she and Tamio have been talking about him behind his back?

She’s far too unstable to be trustworthy. She could turn on you at any moment.

Valerie: “Are you there?”

Mike: “Where else would I be?”

Valerie: “Um… what?”

She heard you, all right.

Mike: “So you called me. You returned the favor—happy now?”

Valerie (big sigh): “Just forget it.”

Mike: “Fine.”

Valerie hangs up. The phone rings again. Another unknown number, though vaguely familiar—because it’s the same one as a moment ago? Is it Valerie with Tamio beside her, both of them cracking up?

Mike (answering the phone): “What?”

On the other end: “My man.”

It’s Mike’s dad. They haven’t talked in weeks. It feels to Mike like a hundred years.

That’s because time is passing more slowly for you. You’re living your life more fully, absorbing every moment.

Dad (tapping the phone): “Hello?” The clicks are really annoying.

Mike: “I’m here.”

Dad: “I’m glad I finally reached you. I called your cell and always got voice mail. I tried the house and always got the machine.”

Mike wishes he’d let the machine get it this time, too.

Dad: “How are you?”

Mike: “Fine.”

Dad: “How’s your mother?”

What does he care?

Mike: “Fine.”

Dad: “There have been some… changes.”

Mike doesn’t care about his dad and his changes. Why should he?

Dad: “We—well, there’s no ‘we’ anymore. Laura and I split up.”

Is he kidding? Mike tries to remember how long they were even together.

Dad: “She had this ex-boyfriend. He was out of town when we met. Anyway, he came back and, well, he’s back.” He’s waiting for Mike to say something. But Mike has nothing to say. “It, uh… it wasn’t easy for me. This thing with Laura—well, for one thing, I had to find a place to live. I floated around awhile, finally found an apartment on Belle Boulevard near the expressway. Mike, it’s good to talk to you.”

This could go on forever. Hang up.

Mike: “Dad, I’ve got a lot of homework.”

Dad: “Okay, I’ll let you go. Let’s have dinner soon—I’m close to some good Chinese restaurants.”

Mike: “Sorry, I have too much work.”

Mike unplugs the phone.

IT’S TOO BAD MIKE CAN’T UNPLUG THE REST OF THE world.

Mom (at dinner): “Why are you wearing a sweatshirt? It’s hot in here.”

But the house is so cold, Mike thinks maybe the pipes burst. That happened one winter and they lit the oven to keep warm.

Mom: “You’ve even got your hood up.”

Mike: “I’m fine.”

Mom: “You look tired. Under your eyes, you look… bruised.”

Mike: “I said I’m fine.”

It’s none of her business, if he’s cold or not, how much sleep he gets or doesn’t get. He does homework and studies at night, and works even better without Tamio around as a distraction. Three-page paper on insomnia in Macbeth ? No problem—and unexpectedly appropriate. Test on free-body diagrams in physics? Easy A. Mike’s grades have never been better. She’s not complaining about that.

Mom: “Your father told me he spoke to you. He wanted to tell you himself, that he broke up with that woman."-1p w t”

Mike: “More like she broke up with him.”

Mom (clearing her throat): “Maybe you’re wondering where I’ve been these days. I’m making and keeping appointments. Isn’t that good?”

Mike stares down at his chicken potpie. He takes his fourth bite. One more bite before he can go back to his room. Too bad it’s a potpie—he can’t make a clock face out of it. The bites in his napkin are burning his leg, but at least it feels warm.

Mom: “I’m seeing a therapist. Her name is Nora.” Pause. “Are you listening?”

Mike: “You’re working. You see a therapist. Nora.”

Mom: “You sound so angry.”

Mike: “I’m not angry!” Not about that, anyway. He’s trying to keep count. He wonders, did I just eat my fifth bite, or put it in the napkin?

Don’t let her ruin your concentration.

Mom: “Does it bother you, that I’m seeing a therapist?”

Mike: “Half the kids at school are in therapy.”

Mom: “Do you want to know why I’m doing all this? Trying to pull myself together?” She’s actually waiting for an answer.

Mike: “I give up.”

Mom: “To help you.”

Mike: “What! Why?”

Mom: “Because I can tell you’re unhappy. You don’t sound like yourself. You don’t act like yourself. You need help, Mike.”

Unbelievable. You’ve never been happier. This may be the first time in your life you don’t need help. And where was she when you did?

Mom: “I wonder if you should be in therapy too.”

Mike: “I’m doing great.”

Mom: “You don’t eat.”

Mike: “I eat. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He realizes he forgot to cook this afternoon and throw food out. That must be what this is about. He thinks fast. “Today was Tamio’s mom’s birthday. I was over there for a party. There was pizza and cake.” He gets a sudden ache, remembering Tamio’s house, the sunny dining room, pictures of flowers, Tamio’s mom, always so friendly…. He shoves a huge bite into his mouth.

That one counts as a double. You’ll have to run extra laps tomorrow.

Mom: “How much do you weigh?”

Mike: “I don’t know.” He never gets on the scale. Numbers aren’t important.

Mom: “You went to the doctor last spring. I’m going to look up your health record. Then I want to see what you weight now.” She pushes her chair back.

Mike doesn’t want to get on the scale. She has no right.

Call Amber.

Again Amber answers on the first ring.

Mike: “My mom’s making me get on the scale. What should I do?”

Amber: “Are you wearing clothes with pockets?”

Mike gets on the scale.

Mom (bending down to read the number): “It looks like you weigh—”

Mike: “I don’t care.”

Mom: “Well. You lost fifteen pounds. I thought you lost more.” She doesn’t sound too pleased.

Mike lets out a breath of relief. Those brass paperweights his dad left behind weigh a ton. They fit right into his pants pockets, front and back, and in his sweatshirt pockets too. The metal hunting dog is hidden in his fist.

Good dog.

ERIC, FROM THE BASEBALL TEAM, SEES MIKE IN THE hall and invites him over to watch the World Series. Mike doesn’t even know who’s in it this year.