The Effects of Light

by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

  Then we bundle ourselves upstairs. We take a bath or we just brush our teeth and take our time peeing. Myla always wants us to take as much time as we can before he pokes his head in and says, “You two, B-E-D. Bed. Now.” Then we know we’ve got to scramble into bed if we want a story.

  We have a real girl’s room. It’s the one piece of the house where everything looks the same. All blue and matching, with stars and moons. Myla tells me it’s the room our mother made for her. When I was small, this made me feel left out because it seemed our mother hadn’t made anything for just me. But then Myla explained I was too little to ever be just me when our mother knew me. When our mother died, I was just a baby. I was still a piece of her. And then after our mother died, I became a piece of Myla, because Myla knew I was still too small to be a whole thing on my own. So sharing Myla’s room is Myla sharing a part of our mom with me. I guess I understand that, but it’s still hard sometimes to be four and three quarters and not have anything all to myself that I can keep a secret from Myla.

  David comes in and sits on the edge of our bed. He tucks the sheets around us and always pretends he’s going to leave us there in the dark. But after he says good night, one of us says, “Tell us another one.” So he’ll breathe quiet and sometimes he’ll pretend he doesn’t want to tell us. But he always does. And then the stories paint our room for sleeping.

  “Once upon a time, there were two friends who decided to live and work together in a yellow house in Arles, France. Their names were Vincent and Paul. Vincent wasn’t a very happy man, but he was thrilled when Paul agreed to move into the vacation house for nine weeks in the fall of 1888. They’d work side by side, stretching the boundaries of the work they’d done before this. The work these men did was—”

  “Painting!” says Myla. Each night one of us gets to say this, because each night David makes the stories about people who make pictures.

  “Exactly,” says David, and smiles at us for knowing the answer. “The work these men did was painting. Each day they took long walks in the countryside surrounding Arles, and one evening they noticed a vineyard after a rainfall, radiant with color: reds, yellows, purples. They decided to give themselves an assignment: each would create a painting based on his memory of that vineyard in that exact moment when they’d walked by.

  “We can only imagine what it must have been like for them, working in the same house, using their memories and imaginations to make that vineyard real. Perhaps the next morning Vincent happened by Paul’s studio to find Paul already laying a base coat, already entranced in what he was about to create. Perhaps that afternoon, an idea came to Vincent, and he too began to work in earnest.

  “Vincent and Paul became engrossed in their pictures, and worked from the moment the first light appeared, until just after night had fallen. They probably even forgot to eat. At last came the day when they were both finished, when they’d show each other what they’d created. I imagine they did it in the morning, when the light was warm and soft and at an angle. They flipped their paintings around at the same moment, released them into the world simultaneously. Then Vincent saw what Paul had painted, and Paul saw what Vincent had painted.

  “Paul had painted the vineyard in the background. In the front of the picture, the foreground, was a girl, crying. She was so very sad that it was nearly unbearable for Vincent to look at. Paul had called his painting Grape Harvest at Arles: Human Misery. The painting was dark. There was none of the joy that Vincent had seen on the day he walked by the vineyard.

  “Vincent’s painting, on the other hand, depicted women tending the field, working with their hands to gather fruit. Sunlight bathed the workers. Vincent called his painting The Red Vineyard. The painting was bright. There was none of the sadness that Paul had seen on the day he walked by the vineyard.

  “And that, for me, is the best part of this story: both men painted what they sensed. Neither painted what his eyes saw; instead, the paintings were guided by artistic vision. And because both of their minds saw the world so differently, both painted entirely different works of art. That’s what made them great painters. That element of listening to their artistic selves is what makes both of their bodies of work compelling, even invigorating, today.”

  David stops talking and our three breathings fill the room. Then he says, “Does anyone want to guess who these men were?”

  Myla whispers in my ear, “Pru-y, you know the first one, don’t you? Think. What last name goes well with Vincent?” So in my head I go over some last names I might have heard with Vincent, and then all of a sudden I know, just like Vincent knew his picture.

  “Van Gogh,” I say.

  And David says, “Good.” But we can’t remember the second one and he says, “You’ve probably heard less about him, so I’ll tell you. It’s Gauguin. Paul Gauguin. Tomorrow I’ll show you some of his work. But now it’s time for bed.”

  Then I ask, “What happened after that, after the paintings were made?”

  “Well,” says David, “it becomes a sad story. Paul Gauguin moved soon after, and Vincent van Gogh went crazy. He died. But we have his pictures to remember the way he saw the world when he was happy and working.” David leans over and kisses us on the cheeks. Then, like always, he lies down on the floor next to our bed and holds my hand. “Just a little nap,” he says. He’ll be downstairs flipping through papers all night. For now he’s just for us.

  ON THE AIRPLANE, SOARING above the Midwest, Myla’s brain quickened with dreams. She was too tired to keep them at bay any longer, and settled into an unusually delicious sleep underneath a blue flannel blanket, her head tucked against the body of the plane. The first dream was warm and gentle. All she knew was that there was someone else beside her, pressing against her, keeping her safe. There was orange light all around them, and though she couldn’t see the other person’s face, she knew he was a friend, knew he’d touch her and soothe her and keep her from loneliness.

  The seatbelt light dinged Myla back into semiconsciousness as a flight attendant’s voice warned of coming turbulence. Myla tried to will herself back to the place she’d been, to the soft body of the unknown other, but she took a wrong turn. She was asleep again, but this time the territory was much more familiar. She clenched her stomach in her sleep, as always.

  She was near the ocean. It was in front of her. She could hear the tide moving up and down the shoreline, and she was running toward it, sure she’d be able to reach it at any moment. She ran because in front of her, just out of sight, just out of reach, were Pru and David. There was always one sand dune between her and them, and she could catch pieces of their voices, of their laughter, lilting back over the sand as she sprinted to catch up. She knew they’d have to stop soon, because the ocean was just up ahead, just out of sight. It was only a question of catching up. Then she realized darkness was falling, that soon she wouldn’t be able to rely on their footprints to guide her. So she called their names. She stopped at the top of the next dune and called to them, her hands around her mouth, listening for a response. And then, somehow, she just knew: they were gone. They’d left her. They’d simply disappeared. She started to panic. She told herself that all she needed to do was get to the ocean and she’d find them. But when she listened for the ocean, it too was gone. There was nothing to run toward. There was nothing to want. All around her there was only sand, miles and miles of sand, and the darkness was coming fast.

  AT THE END OF THE SEMESTERS, David invites his classes over for dinner. It’s a nice thing he does for them, without their parents near them, and Myla and I are in charge of putting out the food on the tables and making sure each bowl has a serving spoon. It’s called a potluck, but sometimes David calls it a groaning board because the table is like a board that’s groaning with all the heavy food.

  This time it’s spring. We set up the table inside, but everyone takes their paper plates and napkins and goes and sits in the backyard. The students smell our rosebushes and sit in the folding chairs that Myla and I
put into circles before they came over.

  The class is big, all freshmen. I get confused by what order the years go in, but “freshman” is easy to remember. I memorized the name of this class because Myla taught me how to sound it out, off David’s syllabus, the one that’s been sitting by our telephone all year. This is the Freshman 101-102 Survey of Art History, and the students have been together all year so they’re probably all friends. David invites all the other teachers who helped him to come too, so Mr. Chang brings his son, Frankie, to hang out with Myla and me. Frankie’s all right, but he wants to hold his dad’s hand the whole time. So I walk around and watch the students’ eyes, see the way they look at me and want to be my friend. Other teachers come, all the boring men who have offices on David’s hall. And then a lady with funny hair and Ruth too.

  I don’t even notice that Myla is alone with Ruth and talking to her until one of the girl students says to me, “It must be cool to grow up on campus.”

  I say, “Well, we don’t live on campus, you know.”

  And she nods and says, “I mean, hanging out on campus. Getting to know all the profs.” She pops a potato chip into her mouth and points at Ruth and Myla standing by the roses. “Getting to know them like they’re real people.” Then her friend comes up and doesn’t really know how to talk to kids. So I leave them. I go to Ruth and Myla’s conversation.

  When I get there, they stop talking. Myla smiles at me like she and I aren’t the same right now. Ruth says, “Hi, Prudence.”

  “You can call me Pru,” I say.

  “Hi, Pru,” she says. “We were just talking about those pictures I took of you two.” The pictures seem so long ago that it takes me time to put myself back in that day.

  Myla says, “You know, Prudence, the pictures in Ruth’s studio?” I glare at her. She shouldn’t call me Prudence. I can tell she’s only using the word “studio” to show off.

  “I know,” I say. I put my hand on a rose leaf and wait to see if the edges will slice.

  “Well,” says Ruth, “I don’t know how you’d feel about this, and I need to talk to your dad about it, but I was thinking, if you guys want to, we could take more pictures sometime.” She pauses. “You see, for a long time I’ve been taking pictures of horses! Imagine that!”

  “Horses are beautiful,” I say.

  Ruth looks at me. “Yes, they are.” She smiles. “But honestly, I’d also like to take pictures of you.”

  “Cool,” says Myla.

  “Yeah,” I say, “that would be fun, right?”

  “Well,” Ruth says, “we’ll have to see. With you two, I’d like to do a mix of portraiture and more figurative work—I’m sorry, I must be talking over your heads a little—”

  But Myla is fast. “We know what those words mean,” she says. “Our dad uses those words all the time. ‘Portraiture’—that’s your portrait. ‘Figurative’—that’s more about the body.” And Myla takes my hand and holds it hard. She looks at me and smiles. “Let us know, Ruth,” she says, almost like a mom. “We’d love to work with you sometime.” And then David calls us in for cake.

  proof

  two girls stand side by side. The older one is taller, and her frame fills the right side of the photograph. Her shoulders are square to the camera, her chin level, her eyes piercing. Her hair is pulled back, but messily, and loose strands frame her face. She’s wearing a sundress, and the strap over her left shoulder has slipped, so it rests loosely around her forearm. The other strap, on her other shoulder, is taut.

  The younger girl is shorter, but it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be. Her neck and chin are stretching into the air, and she’s managing a sort of smile in the midst of all that pushing. Her hands rest on her hips, giving her further purchase with which to extend up into air. She’s nude with the exception of a pair of white cotton underpants. She is also soaking wet. Her hair, loose and dripping, sends rivulets of water down her stomach. Each water bullet leaves a pathway behind it, a traced history of its travel down her. Her clavicle and navel bud with wetness. Her underwear is nearly transparent, showing the vague outline of her lower belly and her pubis. In milky patches, the underwear sticks to the contours of her skin.

  You notice the obvious juxtapositions: older to younger, taller to shorter, dry to wet, dressed to naked. And then you look up. Above the younger girl’s head is sky, and in the midst of it, the outline of an unplanned bird, caught in midflight. It soars above her, in that space she cannot yet reach but is desperate to achieve. You see it, but she does not.

  chapter four

  the sky was clear around Myla’s plane as it swooped over the southeastern slice of Washington State. Oregon spread out and out on her left. Only a few clouds ranged over the dry grassy spread of land. Everything was brilliant from above, a sun-bright afternoon of straw-colored land stretching into more straightness. And then, just when the grasses seemed to have pledged a monotonous eternal ownership of the land, touches of green began to show, so slowly that at first they seemed imaginary. As the land came closer and closer, green gave way to lush, dark wetness.

  Then Myla realized she hadn’t been looking straight out the window, only down. Because when her eyes met with the outside, she caught Mount Hood out her window, gleaming and snow-covered. So close was the airplane to the mountain’s point that Myla believed she could touch it; in fact, it seemed as if only the window was keeping her from forcing her arm into the atmosphere and raking her fingers down the mountain’s white face. The sun gleaming off it made her want to sneeze.

  She craned her neck to look down and caught a glimpse of the blue band of the Columbia ribboning against the blanket of green. Things were getting closer and closer every minute. The Columbia curled and waved and caught sharp points of light that made squinting the only way to see. Soon she caught the gleam of Multnomah Falls, a little wave to her of white in the now nearly black darkness of Pacific rainforest. She had to keep her hand over her mouth as they skipped over Crown Point. She could even make out the little visitors’ center. It was too far away to make out people.

  As the plane continued to descend, she noticed the highway, then the cars. Far off, she made out Portland. Sinking into the Portland afternoon, she could already anticipate the warm, moist air springing around her once she was outside. She wasn’t even here on the plane, she thought. She was there, down below, waiting for her body to join her. She knew now that she hadn’t ever been anywhere else. Her mind had been here all along. If only her body could be convinced. If only her body were willing.

  EVEN THOUGH EMMA IS ONLY two and a half and I’m five and a half, Emma’s my best friend. If sisters were allowed to be best friends, then maybe I’d say Myla was, but sisters don’t count, and it’s easier to be friends with someone three years younger than you than with someone five years older. Especially when the older person is Myla. I think Emma is my best friend because I’ve known her since she was a baby, and that means we can trust each other. Also, I can boss her around the way Myla bosses me.

  Emma’s favorite game to play is Dogs, and we play it under the rhododendron bush in my front yard. If we’re over at her house, we make a fort in her room, under the old crib where she doesn’t sleep anymore. She’s always the baby dog, and she’s also in charge of making some of the stuffed animals talk. I’m the mother dog and I take care of all of them.

  One time Myla comes up to the rhododendron bush. I can tell she’s watching us, but I pretend to ignore her. Finally she says, “Emma’s only two, you know. You can’t expect her to do everything in the game.”

  Emma starts barking at her, and it’s funny because Myla doesn’t pay attention to how smart Emma is. Emma just keeps barking until Myla rolls her eyes and goes and sits down next to the babysitter, Leslie. Myla’s bored, I can tell, and bossing us seems like fun. But Emma doesn’t let her win, like I sometimes do, and I like that. Emma guards our house, just like a dog would, just like I’d tell her to if she didn’t know how. We might be three years apart, but w
e fit. And secretly I wonder if Myla’s kind of jealous. There just weren’t as many kids around when she was little like us.

  Another time when I’m over at Emma’s house, we decide that we should make Emma look more like a dog. So I take markers and put a nose and whiskers on her face.

  Then Myla comes upstairs. As soon as she sees Emma, she says, “You two are going to be in big trouble. Jane is going to freak out when she sees what you did to Emma.”

  But then when Jane comes upstairs, she just laughs. I can see that Myla is crossing her arms in the corner of the room and watching to see us get it, but Jane’s not really that mad. She says to me, “You’re so artistic, Pru. Look at our little puppy. But next time, why don’t you draw on paper instead?”

  Then Jane picks up Emma and holds her on her hip, and Emma nuzzles like a real puppy into Jane’s neck. I watch them and I want something, but it isn’t Myla and it isn’t Jane and it isn’t Ruth or even David. I know it’s silly to think I want my mother—because I barely met her anyway, so how can I remember what she felt like—but I think that might be it. I miss her, and she was barely there in the first place. Missing her makes a hollow place inside, one I can’t ever reach by myself.

  MYLA’S RENTAL CAR WAS SHINY, red, and small. The woman behind the counter asked if she needed any maps, and Myla hesitated, then said no. It had been thirteen years, but she knew exactly how to get around. The air around her jumped with possibility.