The Effects Of Light Part 13

as the rain summoned a gray morning, Myla drove around Portland trying to gather herself, trying to avoid the liquor stores and bars she kept noticing. Rage burned in her like a clear white light, purifying her. She wanted to blind herself with alcohol, but she was strong enough to keep herself in the car, even when her body was desperate to slake her thirst. Finally steering her car back in the direction of the house, she hoped-for Samuel's sake-he was gone.

She walked in the front door, and Emma looked up from the couch, where she lay curled under a blanket. Myla checked her watch and realized it was only nine-thirty on a Sat.u.r.day. "What are you doing up?"

"It was kind of hard to sleep," said Emma. "He's gone, though. He left."

Myla nodded. Looking at Emma caused a wave of simultaneous guilt and pride to surge through Myla: she wasn't drunk. But she wanted to be. "Sorry for waking you."

"Don't feel bad for me," said Emma, looking back at her magazine. Her voice carried a trace of resentment that Myla didn't want to hear. Myla went upstairs.

On her way past Jane and Steve's closed bedroom door, she heard the lilt of conversation lull for just a minute. "Myla, is that you?" came Steve's voice.

"Yup. Sorry for all the drama."

"You okay?"

"Sure." She closed her bedroom door behind her. "Just leave me alone," she said so no one else could hear.

She sat down on the bed, still wrinkled with sheets and blankets, and looked at the wall for a long time. So that was that. There was going to be a before and an after. Before Samuel. And then this. She remembered looking across the table as he'd said, "Trust me." So simple. And she had.

She just had to push him out of her mind. Getting wasted was the way Kate Scott had accomplished such tasks. But now that she was Myla again, she wasn't going to allow herself such easy escape, no matter how tempting. Yes, Samuel Blake had obviously come here with one intention: to research her, to get the "unauthorized story" on Myla Rose Wolfe. Yes, she'd been an idiot to trust him. Yes, he'd trapped her with goodwill. But instead of drinking herself into oblivion, she'd simply have to pretend he'd never existed.

The way to begin that was to read. She pulled David's ma.n.u.script out of its manila envelope and flipped to where she'd left off. David would vault her mind out of this place. David would remind her of what was truly important.

Life is so difficult, so challenging, that we desire the Truth. Not the truth of revelation or confession, but the truth of certainty. Certainty is more comforting if others share our convictions; we are social animals, and so the comforts offered by a commonly held belief are sought after. The faculty of Reason, with all its advocates, gave hope to humankind. It was possible to believe that Truth lay at the end of a line of reasoning.

Think about it. G.o.d dwelt in the realm of faith and grace, gifts only G.o.d could give. Reason dwelt in the mind of every man and required only the discipline of thought. Reason, and its child, Science, gave man's mind something vastly important to do, something every man could do. It "takes time" to discover the true nature of reality. But that is ever our goal. And Reason- There was a knock on Myla's door. Sharp. Insistent. Then Emma's head poked in. "Just making sure a suicide's not in progress." She laughed. "I get to say things like that." She looked at Myla, who was madly rummaging under the covers to hide the ma.n.u.script. "Seriously, Myla." Emma stepped into the room. "Are you okay? What are you hiding? Show me." Emma's voice was forceful, and Myla felt ashamed.

"Okay," Myla said. "Close the door." She pulled the pile of pages out from under the bedspread and held it in both hands. "The Book, Emma. David's book."

Then Emma said the most surprising thing. She didn't ask where it had come from, or why Myla was hiding it. She just asked, "Can I hold it? Can I touch it?" Myla handed the ma.n.u.script over, and Emma took the heavy paper in her hands. She shut her eyes, and a smile spread across her face. "I remember your dad was the one who taught me how to write my name. He told me it was like I had four mountain peaks in the middle of it." She laughed softly. "So it wasn't until second grade that I realized my name didn't actually contain four mountains. Kind of an abstract thought for a little kid, I guess. But I remember explaining how confused I was, and Pru not making fun of me. Just explaining how letters mean only one thing-their sound-and how a bunch of sounds together make words. And I remember being horrified by how little possibility that left." She looked down at the book in her hands. She handed it back to Myla tenderly, as if it were a small animal.

Myla felt guilt wave over her. "I didn't tell your parents about David's ma.n.u.script. I don't know why. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" asked Emma, her clear eyes searching Myla's face.

"I don't know." Myla took Emma's hand. "I feel as if I'm doing everything wrong. I wanted to come back here to reclaim . . . I don't know, to try to correct some of my wrongs. But I don't know how to do that. I don't know how."

Emma nodded. "That's familiar territory. But why are you so mad at Samuel?"

"He kept this notebook-"

"I know that. Mom told me. Why really? The real reason."

"He's been lying to me."

"But Myla-no offense, you're the one who's been lying; you've been lying to everyone. You're much more irresponsible than he is. You up and left thirteen years ago and didn't say goodbye to any of us. Then you just show up one day and expect everything to be solved? Mom told me how you just showed up at the house. And then you storm out this morning, and Mom and Dad think you're never coming back. They'd never admit it, but I can tell. And you've been keeping the ma.n.u.script a secret, and you don't talk about where you've been all this time, and you're not forthright with your feelings, and you pretend the pictures never even existed. That's not lying, exactly, but it's close. It's not being honest. And maybe this is mean to say, but I don't think Pru would know what to do with you. I don't think she'd be very proud."

Myla couldn't meet Emma's eyes. "But I don't know how to make her proud."

Emma's voice was full of conviction. "Make her proud by being honest. I know you're p.i.s.sed off at Samuel. I know he did something that makes you feel uncomfortable. But you didn't even give him a chance to explain why he kept that notebook. And yeah, I'm not inside your head, but just in the nearly twenty-four hours I've been here, I see a big connection between you guys. At the very least, you owe yourself a chance at a true conversation. That's the honest thing to do." She paused. "That and telling my poor dad, at least, about this book."

"I'm going to," said Myla weakly. "As for Samuel, maybe it's, you know, just a physical thing."

Emma raised her hand. "h.e.l.lo? Will you listen to yourself? I know you don't believe that."

Faced with Emma's toughness, Myla accepted she was going to have to give Samuel a chance to explain himself. "But he's gone."

"He'll call."

"What if he doesn't?"

"I don't know," said Emma. "But it shouldn't end like this."

Eight hours later, there was still no word from Samuel. The whole family had tried to make the best of it, but Myla knew they were all worried. Even Steve seemed annoyed at Myla for having demanded Samuel's departure. And what she'd initially felt as rage had now ebbed into frustrated curiosity. She wanted Samuel to call her so he could tell her the secrets he'd kept from her.

She called Mark instead.

"I was wondering when I was going to hear from you," he said.

"Have you talked to Samuel?" she asked.

Mark coughed. "Yeah. I have."

"And?"

"I don't know," he said. "I'm in a weird position here. I don't want to be unfair to either of you."

"Oh, come on," she said. "Do you know where he is?"

"I don't know why you care," Mark sniffed. "You're the one who sent him away."

"Yes, I did. Exactly. I sent him away because he was taking notes on me, Mark. Notes. Like in a little notebook. It's creepy and an invasion of my privacy, and we all know that's the worst possible way to impress me, of all people. So I got mad and asked him to leave."

"I understand," said Mark. "But then why don't you just let him leave? He's doing what you asked."

"Because I think we should at least have a conversation before he takes off."

"Okay, how's this?" asked Mark. "You give me a compelling, totally honest reason for wanting to see him again, and I tell you where he is. And I'm serious. No bulls.h.i.+t. Tell me why you want to see him."

Myla sighed. She knew there was no reasoning with Mark when he dug in his heels like this. "I want to give him a chance to explain."

"Not good enough. What about you? What are you going to do?"

"I don't understand, Mark. It's a perfectly reasonable desire: I want to hear why he did this. He broke my trust. I deserve an explanation."

Mark sighed. "I'm only going to say this once. But my G.o.d. Listen to yourself. Listen to how typical you sound. If I've learned anything about you in the last week, it's that you're truly an original. I mean, you're someone who's actually changed your ident.i.ty. Twice. And yet you're whining like every other thirty-something woman who's p.i.s.sed at her boyfriend. I'm not saying you don't have a right to be p.i.s.sed, but don't you see what's at stake here? He's leaving on an airplane tomorrow. This is a man who flew across the country to find you. And he's prepared to leave because you asked him to. He actually thinks he doesn't want to talk to you again."

"Well, if he doesn't want to talk to me again-"

"Oh, come on," groaned Mark. "Act like Myla Rose Wolfe. Act like Kate Scott. Be yourself. Rise above this pettiness. You're not someone who's going to let this man go just because of some stupid misunderstanding about a notebook. The only reason you'd let him leave is that you're afraid. Afraid you might truly care about him. But at least clue him in to that, Myla. He thinks you hate him. You've got to cut through the bulls.h.i.+t and tell him, honestly, what's on your mind. Enough already with the dumba.s.s fight about the notebook."

Myla sat down on the bed. She listened to the dead air for a while, as Mark's conviction swirled inside her. He'd said she should be herself. And his words were making her think. "I don't know," she said. "He fed me all this bulls.h.i.+t about wanting to make me glow."

"Maybe it wasn't bulls.h.i.+t," said Mark. "You don't have to take advice from me; I'm Mr. Can't Keep a Man More Than Two Months. But I think I'm right about this one."

"And I just go to him-and what?"

"This from the woman who knew how to disappear off the face of the earth? Yes. You go to him. And you tell him-"

"But what if I can't tell him?" she asked, her heart starting to beat fast. She had an idea, but it wasn't in words. She didn't even know how to explain it to Mark.

"I don't think I know what that means," said Mark.

"What if I need to show him?"

"Then show him," said Mark. "Whatever that means, you go and show him."

"Okay," she said, filling with resolve.

"Okay."

"So you've got to tell me where he is."

"Oh, right." And then he told her.

I MAKE A PLAN. IT'S BEEN something I've been thinking about for a while, something that's finally ready to say out loud. I want all of them to be there. I'm not going to ask either. I'm going to be as bossy as Myla.

So I invite them-Jane, Steve, Emma, and Ruth-over for dinner. I don't invite Helaine, because she's too scary to boss around. When I tell Myla I want to make them a big feast, I can tell she thinks it's a little weird, but then she says okay. She even helps me make invitations.

The day of the dinner party, David drives us to the grocery store and helps us get ingredients. He wants to pay for the food, but I tell him I'm using my birthday money. Myla says to me, "Do you have any idea what this is going to cost?" And the thing is, I do. I've planned for it. I've paid attention to how much ground turkey costs and which kind of pasta is the cheapest. But I can't let them know, so I act surprised when I see the total, and let David pay for half so he feels like he's helping.

We make spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s and garlic bread, and Emma helps us with the salad when she comes over. We set the table with a tablecloth and my mother's silver, which no one has touched in years. And we've even washed cloth napkins, which we nestle under the forks. The table is s.h.i.+ning with gla.s.s and candles, so when Ruth comes over, she and Jane can both compliment us and don't have to talk to each other.

Everyone is acting like this is a big party, and that's good because I want them to feel that way. Steve is wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt, but he put a bow tie around his neck, and when he comes in the kitchen and sees me, he says, "It's the hostess with the mostest!"

Then we sit and everyone compliments me on the food, and Myla tries to embarra.s.s me by saying, "Pru knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how she wanted Emma and me to help. When we cut the carrots the wrong way, she freaked out."

Then Steve says, "It sounds like we've got another cook in the family," and he smiles at Jane.

They all toast me with cranberry juice and David tells them, "It's the greatest thing, Pru wanting to have this dinner. She felt so strongly about having you all here together."

Then Ruth looks at me, and it's like she can see right through me. "Any special reason, Pru?"

I wasn't expecting to have to answer this question already, but then I realize I might as well tell them. "Actually, yes," I say. All of their eyes look in my direction, even Emma's. I clear my throat. I say, "I've decided I want to give an interview."

David says, "What, sweetheart?"

"I've been thinking about it a lot," I say. "Since you and I had that talk a long time ago about the pictures. I know that people are writing articles and stuff, criticizing the pictures. Talking about p.o.r.nography-" I look at Emma when I say that word. "Sorry." I wish she didn't have to hear this, but I want her to be here too.

I look at David, and I can see he's trying hard to act like this doesn't matter. I can see it worries him. The part of me that wants to protect him, and everyone else, almost makes me quiet. But I want this so badly I have to say it.

"You guys talk about art all the time. And you talk about how you want me to be an artist, if that's what I want. And I do. I want to be a painter when I grow up. But the thing is, I already am an artist. I'm an artist in Ruth's photographs. And everyone is saying bad things about me, about the art I make, and it's my responsibility to talk about my partic.i.p.ation." Then I wait a second. I look at David and I say, "My mother would want me to do this. I know she would." He doesn't say anything.

But Jane does. She says, "Honey, you aren't responsible for anything. You don't have to say anything about the pictures." She's looking at Ruth then, and I can hear blame in her voice.

Steve asks me, "What would you like to say?"

Steve knows it matters to me. He sees that I wouldn't invite them all together like this if it wasn't important. I say, "I'd tell them how much I love the pictures. How much I love being in them, and how important they are for other people to see, because they're about respect and beauty." I turn to Ruth, who hasn't said anything yet. "My whole life, you guys have let me decide about being in the pictures. But now I'm eleven. Now I want to do more than just be in them. I want to tell people how good the pictures are. Why do you think I'm not old enough to do that?"

David clears his throat. "Jane's point is that being in the pictures is all you may need to say. We don't want to burden you-"

"But this is a burden," I say. "Sitting here in our family and pretending n.o.body has any opinions about us."

"Frankly, I don't care what people think," says David.

And I say, "Well, I do. I care. Myla cares." I look at her then, for the first time, because I know she's angry at me for saying this, for planning this and not including her. Sure enough, she's playing with her food and won't look at me.

Steve looks at her too. Then he says, "Myla, what do you think?"

Myla keeps sc.r.a.ping her fork back and forth across her plate. When she looks up, she won't even look at me. Then she says, "Pru can do whatever she wants."

Ruth says, "Don't be rude, Myla. Tell us what you think."

So Myla looks at me, and it freezes me to see how much I've hurt her, leaving her out of this. She says, "Pru should say whatever she wants to say. It's her right. She's the star model."

"No one's saying anything," says Jane. "Nothing has been decided." She says that looking at David.

David sighs and rests his elbows on the table. "I don't know what to say."

"Why is everyone so sad?" I ask. "This is a good thing. Think about it. I'll answer people's questions, and they'll see that I'm really healthy, that I'm smart, that the pictures have made my life better. That will be good. That will help us."

Jane is looking at David like I'm not even here. "You can't give them her voice too. You can't let them into her life like that."

Steve puts his hand on Jane's arm. David sighs. He looks at me. "It's a good idea, Pru."

"It's more than a good idea," I say. I look at Ruth. "Don't you see? It's so much better than you giving interviews. When you give interviews, people think you're just justifying something bad. But if they see that I trust the world, that my family and I are not afraid of the pictures or people's opinions of them, that will make a difference."

Ruth looks up at me and nods. She looks at David, then Jane. "I want to say right now that I knew nothing about this."

"Of course you didn't," says David.

"Of course not," says Myla, and I can hear that she's sarcastic. "It's never your idea, Ruth. It's never your plan. It's just what we want."

"Myla!" says David.

"Let her say it," says Ruth.

"It's like you just walk in and out of people's lives, deciding what you will and won't give them. You give people something one day and take it away the next. Well, I don't care." Myla stands up. "You want my honest opinion? I think you'd be fools not to take up Pru on her offer. She wants to. She asked for it. Do you listen to what people are saying about us? I read the f.u.c.king newspaper. I show the articles to Pru, because I think she deserves to know. Someone has to defend our family." I can see that she's angry, but she's also agreeing with me. She stands back from the table and picks up her plate. "Excuse me," she says, and she leaves the room. We can hear the plate clattering into the sink and then the front door slamming shut.