Lois Metzger - A Trick of the Light

Carrots dipped in mustard.

Mike takes a carrot out of the refrigerator. It’s pale and limp. He opens up some horseradish mustard. Amber recommended it—she likes strong mustards. Mike sticks in the carrot, takes a bite.

Mike: “Gahhh!” It makes his eyes water. He thinks if he takes another bite, he’ll throw up, along with Mighty Joe Young.

Amber also drinks lemon juice in water. Mike pours out a glass of water and splashes in some lemon juice. He takes a sip and finds it disgusting. He wonders if Amber has any taste buds left or if all those FireBalls killed them off.

There’s a loaf of bread. Before I can say anything, Mike grabs the loaf and takes it back to his room like a thief. He pulls out a slice, stuffs it into his mouth.

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

He removes it from his mouth. It’s a soggy ball of bread. He puts it on the windowsill and stares at it. Then he shoves it back into his mouth.

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

He takes it out again, puts it back on the windowsill. It looks like a snowball. He takes out another slice and does the exact same thing. Why is he doing this? Soon he’s got five snowballs on his windowsill.

And he remembers:

In Belle Heights Park, after a snowstorm. Mike throws a snowball at his dad. His dad fires one back—misses. Mike throws one at his mom and she lets out a shrieky laugh: “Ah, it hurts my teeth! I’ll get you for that!” Her aim is perfect. Another snowstorm. Mike and his parents build a snowman in Belle Heights Park. The next day somebody puts a hat on it, a real old-fashioned hat from the 1940s. No question about it, Mike thinks, he’s the classiest snowman in all of Belle Heights. Another snowstorm. Mike wears sneakers in the snow and his feet get really cold and wet. He is seven—a big boy—but his dad carries him home.

Mike keeps putting the snowballs back in his mouth, chewing them, spitting them out. Eventually they fall apart and he throws them away. The behavior is bizarre, but I’m pleased he doesn’t actually eat them.

Mike doesn’t know what else to do. He starts taking down all his baseball posters. That’s fine—he should’ve done this long ago. They rip. He doesn’t care. He wants totally empty walls, except for the mirror.

All you need to look at is you.

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?”