Lois Metzger - A Trick of the Light

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?