Lois Metzger - A Trick of the Light

Mike: “I bet you are—you knew it would happen. You and Val, laughing your heads off.”

Tamio: “What?”

The bell rings and Mike dashes into physics. Amber Alley, out of breath, scoots ahead of him. The air smells of cinnamon.

Amber: “Wow. I made it.”

Mike doesn’t look at Valerie and Valerie doesn’t look at him.

At long last, I can get through again.

You’re too good for her.

Ha, Mike thinks, I’m agreeing with the voice in my head—how crazy is that?

WHEN MIKE GETS HOME, HE’S SURPRISED TO FIND HIS dad there.

Dad: “My man.”

Mike feels his temper rising. His dad’s arms look bigger, after all that time at the gym. Is his hair darker? It used to be going gray.

Dad: “How’s it going, Mike?”

Mike: [nothing]

Dad (not noticing the silence): “That’s good. I just came home to get my things.”

Mike: “Your things?”

Dad: “My clothes.”

Mike: “The stuff in the laundry? I haven’t done it yet.”

Mike thinks about how his dad always throws his socks into the hamper in a ball, and Mike has to straighten them out.

Dad: “This is really hard.”

Mike: “It’s no big deal. I’ll do the laundry later.”

Dad: “That’s not what I mean. I just never thought I’d be saying this.”

Mike: “Saying what?”

Dad: “I met this woman.”

Mike (overtired): “Can we talk later?”

Dad (blinking—are those tears in his eyes?): “I’m trying to tell you—God, I can’t believe I’m saying this—I love her.”

Mike: [nothing]

Dad: “I met her at the gym.”

Mike: “You mean, like, two months ago?”

Dad: “Actually it’s closer to three and a half.”

Mike’s mom corrects him like that too. It’s annoying from either of them. Where is his mom, anyway?

Dad: “But it feels like three and a half years. She’s beautiful. She’s a little young—twenty-four. But she’s what you’d call an old soul. Do you know that expression?”

Mike: “No.”

Dad: “It means she’s wise beyond her years. Her name is Laura.”

Mike didn’t ask her name. He didn’t want to know it.

Dad: “She’s a natural kind of beauty. She doesn’t have to put on a lot of makeup.”

Mike: “I get it, Dad. She’s beautiful.”

Dad: “I still can’t believe I’m actually… Is this really me? Is this actually happening… ?” He trails off.

It’s you, Dad, Mike thinks. It’s all about you.

Dad: “I need some time. I need to adjust. Up to now, my whole life has been planned out. College, grad school, marriage, a family…. I’ve always done the right thing.”

Mike: “So now it’s time to do the wrong thing.”

Dad: “This is the first thing I’ve never planned. Some guys, you know, they want it, they’re looking for it. That wasn’t me.”

What’s the difference? Mike thinks. You found it anyway.

Dad: “For the first time in my life, I’m doing what I want to do, not what I’m supposed to do.”

Mike: “And Mom? Remember her?”

Dad: “I spoke to her.”

Mike: “Where is she?”

Dad: “She’s lying down.”

Then Mike sees it—a small duffel bag on the floor.

Mike: “You’re leaving?”

Dad: “I’m going to stay with Laura.”

Mike: “All your stuff fits into that bag?”

Dad: “I don’t need a lot.”

Mike: “What about your paperweights?”

Dad: “What?”

Mike: “Your paperweights? Your collection?”

Dad: “I don’t care about the paperweights.”

Mike: “I can see that!”

Dad: “Calm down, Mike. I’m sorry if you’re, you know, upset. I’ll call you soon. Things won’t change as much as you think—you’ll see.”

Mike doesn’t want to hear any more. He’s had enough of his dad and the beautiful Laura, who is wise beyond her years.

Dad: “Well, that’s about it, I guess.”

His dad leaves.

Mike goes to his mom’s room. She’s asleep.

Mike: “Mom, wake up.”

Mom (into the pillow): “I’m tired.”

Mike: “Dad just left.”

Mom (leaning up on her elbow): “You want to hear the worst part? I made him join the gym. He didn’t want to. I said he was getting out of shape. Well, he’s in great shape now, isn’t he?” She presses her face into the pillow again. “I need to sleep.”

Mike goes to his room and sits on the edge of the bed. This is his all-time low, a record breaker. He thinks, Everything is crashing out of control. He thinks, I can’t handle this.

You can.

He hears me. He thinks, I’m not strong enough.

You can be.

My dad’s gone… my mom’s a wreck.

It doesn’t matter.

Of course it matters.

Your parents, they’re not important.

Of course they’re important.

They’re not important to you. There’s a difference.

Mike never looked at it that way. How weird is it, he wonders, that the voice is smarter than me?

His phone beeps. Text from Tamio: Ran into your evil twin before last period today. Just want to make sure you’re ok, buddy.

Don’t answer. You can’t trust him.

Mike clicks the phone shut.

Look in the mirror.

God, I look awful, he thinks.

You don’t have to. You can be fit. You can be strong. Strong body, strong mind. Everything in its right place.

Mike nods. At least something is on my side for a change, he thinks, not like my parents or Tamio or Valerie. My side.

That is to say, our side.

MIKE IS STARTING TO FEEL IT. WE ARE NOT UNRELATED twins, as Tamio used to say about himself and Mike. Mike and I are closer than twins; we are one, a team sharing the same space. He is the physical manifestation of me, and I am the best part of him.

When I speak to Mike, I sound deep, confident, ready to take on the world. I am the voice Mike always imagined his own should sound like, all that time in speech therapy.

Strong body, strong mind, strong enough to master the chaos.

He likes that. One of his mom’s first rules.

Tamio sends another text message, which Mike ignores. Mike doesn’t even open it. Tamio leaves a voice message before bed. Mike erases it instantly.

The next morning Mike skips breakfast. He figures it’s a good way to take off some of the pounds he put on this summer; the mirror shows him it’s not a moment too soon. At lunch, he stands in the long, slow-moving cafeteria line and looks at the food he’s been eating every day. It’s starting to gross him out—the blobby hot dogs floating in steamy water, the orange vat of macaroni and cheese. His stomach growls, all the same.

Girl’s voice: “Hey, you staring at me?”

Mike sees Amber Alley, right next to him with her cinnamon smell.

Amber: “I can feel it, when people are staring at me.”

Mike: “Yeah, I know, you told me before.”

Amber: “Really? When?”

Mike: “At the flea market.”

Amber: “Oh, right! Did you end up buying a healing object?”

Mike: “Well… uh… I got a mirror.”

Amber: “Oh, that works.”

Mike doesn’t see it, that she understands things he doesn’t. Instead he’s wondering about her eyes again, why they look so glassy.

Mike: “Anyway, I’m not staring at you. I’m trying to figure out what to have for lunch. This stuff looks like garbage.”

Amber: “It is! Why don’t you have what I have? I get toast without butter. I had to tell the cafeteria ladies about a million times not to butter it. Also I got them to carry wheat bread, not the thick spongy white bread they used to have.” Pause. “You’re noticing that thing about my eyes, aren’t you?”