Glow

by Megan E. Bryant

“Physician?” she repeated. “What physician? We cannot aff…But you see, it isn’t necessary. I just need some Evr-Brite, Lydia. If half these claims are true—”

  “If,” I interrupted her.

  “It would certainly improve my circumstances!”

  I must have paused too long because Edna grabbed my arm. There was wildness in her eyes as she pleaded. “Please, Lydia, please, I know it could help me! See? You see?”

  Edna ripped the bandage from her face, revealing—well, Walter, I shouldn’t like to describe it here. Suffice it to say that the wound on Edna’s face festers in a most unwholesome way; the size, shape, and color of a rotting crab apple. Oh, the smell of it…Tears filled her eyes, though from pain or shame, or both, I can’t say.

  “Of course I will try,” I whispered. I forced myself to move slowly as I closed the book and returned it to Edna’s lap. I patted her hand in hopes of reassuring her. Then I measured my steps to the door, and then I ran from Edna’s apartment—from the gasoline fumes and the stench of decay—all the way home.

  What a wakeful night I spent, Walter. I worried about Edna, who seemed so unwell by the time I left her apartment, and about the promise she forced me to make. I had little choice but to see it through, but I dreaded the thought of paying an uninvited visit to the laboratories upstairs. I resolved to go first thing in the morning and be done with it.

  On the second floor, the chemists wear smart white coats like men of medicine and work at long tables that are cluttered with glass—vials and beakers in all shapes and sizing, fragile tubes and pipes. I noticed, too, that most surfaces are covered in the same fine powder as the dial-painting studio downstairs. I suppose it comes with the industry, but one might expect better hygiene where medicine is compounded.

  Of course my presence as a girl was noticed immediately, and all the men grew silent and turned in my direction. All but one, whose workstation was nearest to the stairs, and so to me. Unlike the others, he worked behind some sort of improvised screen, standing as far as he could from the materials. Indeed, he even handled the vials with a pair of tongs! And yet his supplies were the same as any other chemist on the floor. He did not seem to be working with anything dangerous or corrosive. But I had no further time to ponder. All the attention in the room was on me, a small fish very much out of water.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But I was…do…do you make Evr-Brite here?”

  “We do, miss,” said a large redheaded man, quite obviously enjoying my discomfiture.

  I wished I could speak to one of the chemists in private and not here in the open. But I had no choice but to press on.

  “Would it be possible for me to…procure a small amount?” I said in a rush. “I have a friend—who used to work downstairs—who believes that she would benefit from a dose or two.”

  “’Course you can get her some,” he replied. “They sell it at most every druggist.”

  Was my meaning so unclear to him? I think not, because he continued. “Does Mr. Mills know about this errand for your friend?”

  “N-no,” I stammered.

  “Then you’d best be off before he finds out!”

  How heartily they guffawed at that! I was a joke to them. I know there are worse things than being laughed at, Walter, but at that moment, I would’ve been hard-pressed to think of one. I was about to make my red-faced exit when the strange chemist near me, who had been stone silent to this point, leaned out from behind his shield and caught my eye. I thought perhaps he would take pity and give me some Evr-Brite after all.

  “You have no business here,” he said. “Go on, now. And don’t come back.”

  Well! As if that wasn’t evident!

  So I did as he said and quickly. At noon I found Miriam, whose turn it was to visit Edna that evening and gave her a message to relay: I was unable to procure what she sought. Though I tried my best, I remain unsettled by this entire course of events. Edna is not my responsibility, and yet her circumstances tug at my heart. She should be able to see a doctor, Walter, and she should have whatever medicine she needs. I even popped into the druggist on my way home, but Evr-Brite, in its pretty glass bottle, is too dear for my purse. I tried, though. I did try. Perhaps Albert will find work soon, and then Edna can have the care she deserves.

  The hour has grown late, so I must conclude my letter here, dear Walter. It is astonishing to me how slowly the time passes since you left. I wonder if it would be easier to bear your absence if only I knew how long it could be—or, even better, if your safety and well-being could be guaranteed. How sweet it will be when we are reunited once more! Until then, carry my love with you always, as it will always be yours.

  Love,

  Lydia

  Chapter 7

  My shift was unexpectedly canceled on Monday morning, giving me the chance to mess around with the cheap glow-in-the-dark poster paint I’d bought. My sophomore-year painting final, a sailboat bobbing on an azure sea, had been living under the bed for two years. It had earned me an A–, but looking at it now, I could so clearly see all the painting’s shortcomings, all the large and small ways in which I’d failed to capture the incandescent mystery of light on the water, the invisible power of wind in the sky. I didn’t have a problem testing the glow paint on this canvas; I couldn’t possibly make it worse.

  First, I swirled some paint around in my palm. It was sandpaper-rough, full of particles that were suspended in a sticky medium, probably glue-based. The roughness indicated that the particles were relatively large, which meant they must have been really weak to glow so faintly. I’d need some pretty sophisticated equipment to find out just what was making the paint glow, but if the Internet was right, it was probably zinc sulfide with a copper activator. For some weird reason, glow-in-the-dark formulas were guarded almost as carefully as state secrets, but the zinc-and-copper combo had been around for a long time. It was found everywhere from glow sticks to those plastic stars you could stick on the ceiling, the ones that shined so much brighter on the package than they did in real life.

  So there I was, dabbing poster paint onto the waves around my sailboat, thinking that at the very least I could get some interesting luminosity out of this, like those phosphorescent waters off tropical islands in the Caribbean. But the paint was too gritty; too pasty. I tried thinning it with a little water, but that just made a runny mess that pooled across the canvas. I’d thought I couldn’t make my painting look any worse, but I was so wrong. The globs of glow paint looked like seagull crap bobbing on the waves. It was a disaster. Even the faintest application was completely visible in the light.

  This paint sucks, I thought, wishing I could get my four dollars back. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t be able to re-create LG’s magic with this cheap gunk. Already I was calculating how many hours I’d have to work to buy that cool glow paint I’d seen on the Internet.

  I turned away from my artistic disaster to look at the two paintings I’d purchased from Lost & Found. In the morning light, there was no trace of the glowing images, but I knew they were there, especially those secret initials. Who are you, LG? I wondered. The paintings were old—that much was obvious—but she might still be alive. Maybe I could find her. Maybe she lived in a nursing home, and I could visit her, bringing cookies along with my questions. Maybe we’d have long afternoon chats…Maybe we’d even paint together…But first I had to find her. How?

  Newark University must have an art history department, I thought, remembering my visit to campus. Maybe one of the professors knows how to find a local artist. LG could’ve had shows in the area or taught at an art school, even. She could be known.

  In less than a minute, the art department secretary answered the phone.

  “I’d like to schedule an appointment with a professor,” I said.

  “Are you a student?” she asked.

  “Uh…” I had to think fast. “Prospective student. I’m thinking of applying.”

  “Oh. Well, we have a departmental open ho
use for prospective students in the first week of October,” she said.

  “But…that’s three months away,” I replied. “Isn’t there anyone I could meet with sooner?”

  “Hold on just a minute,” she said.

  I flopped back on my bed and frowned up at the ceiling. Look at me, sleuthing, I thought. I could already tell it was going to be one of those things that seemed so much easier on TV. Real life, like always, was ready to throw a bunch of stupid obstacles in the way.

  Then the secretary was back. “Most professors don’t hold office hours during the summer,” she said. “But Professor Maxwell is in today, and he said he could meet with you any time before one o’clock.”

  “That’s great!” I exclaimed. “Thank you so much!”

  By the time I rinsed my brush, it was already after eleven. As I was on my way out, a voice called from the kitchen. I stopped, hand on the doorknob, considering for the briefest moment whether I could just crash out the front door, make a lot of noise, and pretend that I hadn’t heard her. If I was going to do it, I should’ve just done it. Because in that pause, my mom called my name again.

  Now there was no escape.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Good morning, sweetie,” she said, looking up from her coffee. She was still wearing her bathrobe. “Where are you off to?”

  “Newark University. I have an appointment.”

  Mom’s eyes widened. I should’ve known she was going to make a huge deal out of it. “Oh, Julie, is it an interview?” she asked breathlessly. “Did you apply for admission?”

  “No, of course not,” I told her. “I’m still going to Parsons someday. Or NYU.”

  She sighed and took off her glasses. “I wish you would consider other options,” she said. “Just because your first choice is out of reach—”

  “It’s not out of reach,” I interrupted her. “It’s delayed. There’s a difference.”

  “You shouldn’t put your life on pause, Julie,” she urged.

  My life is on pause? I thought. You’re the one who barely leaves the house. I had to be careful; there was no point in getting angry. Yet that was exactly what would happen if I didn’t leave. “I should go, or I’ll be late.”

  My mom swallowed funny, like she was holding back something she wanted to say. “Julie. I don’t think you need to be so hostile to me.”

  “I’m not being hostile, Mom. I just have to go. I can’t talk about this now.” Or ever.

  “I don’t understand why you’re treating me like this, Julie. It was only a suggestion. You don’t want to go to college? You don’t have to. No one’s going to force you. You had so many dreams, honey. It breaks my heart to see you walk away from them.”

  Incredible. She seemed to actually believe the words coming out of her mouth.

  “Don’t talk to me about walking away from dreams,” I said. Then I escaped before she—or I—had a chance to say anything else. It was better that way. We hadn’t even gotten started, my mom and me; we hadn’t even scratched the surface. Her know-it-all tendencies, her tedious lectures, her outdated advice: she didn’t know half as much as she thought she did. About me. About life. About anything. If she did, she never would’ve gotten us into this mess.

  Even so, remorse started crawling over me before I pulled away from the curb. I imagined her sitting on the couch all by herself, with no one to notice if she was lonely, no one to care if she was sad. But I couldn’t bring myself to go back inside and talk to her. So what if her feelings were hurt? My whole life hurt. I had nothing to apologize for.

  To prove it, I played the radio really loudly for the entire drive, but it still couldn’t compete with the wind howling through the open windows. By the time I parked, my hair was a ratty mess, but it was worth it. And it felt good, too, fighting all those snarls, yanking a brush through the tangles until my eyes stung with tears.

  A few minutes later, I found myself sitting across from Professor Maxwell in the art department. He peered at me through gold-rimmed glasses as if my appearance in his office was a puzzle that he couldn’t quite figure out.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Chase?” he asked.

  “I have some questions about how to identify an anonymous artist,” I began. “I have these old paintings that are marked only with the artist’s initials, LG. And I was wondering if you have any advice on figuring out who she is.”

  I fumbled for my phone. “Here,” I said. “I took some pictures.”

  Professor Maxwell barely glanced at the screen. “These look very amateurish to me,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

  “Thrift stores, consignment shops…that kind of thing.”

  His knowing smile made me bristle. “So you’re a fan of Antiques Roadshow.”

  “Sorry?” I said, confused.

  “Listen, I’m not an appraiser, but I don’t think they have much value,” he continued.

  “I wasn’t asking about their value,” I said. “I want to know who the artist is. There’s a fascinating technique used here…These paintings glow in the dark—”

  Professor Maxwell winced. “Oh, how unfortunate,” he said. “A gimmick like that is generally used to mask a talent deficit.”

  I stared at Professor Maxwell for a moment. He can’t hear me, I thought. There wasn’t a single thing I could say that would make him listen. He’d judged the paintings without even seeing them, and that judgment had seeped into his perception of me too. I saw myself as he saw me: insignificant, trivial, childish. He clearly thought I was as worthless as the paintings.

  Wrong on all counts, I thought. “Thanks for your time,” I said, before walking out of Professor Maxwell’s office. Jerk, I thought, shoving through the doors into the blinding sunshine. Of course they have value. They’re valuable to me. My steps were hard and purposeful, as if I could stomp out the professor’s condescension, my mother’s inertia, and—especially—my own inadequacies.

  If only it were that easy.

  I glanced around the empty quad. I knew what I was looking for, but I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself. And still I lingered, waiting, as if by wanting to see him I could make it happen.

  If the quad hadn’t been made of concrete, if the sun wasn’t so high and so hot, if I could have sat down casually, like I had a reason to be there, I might have been more patient. I might have left things up to chance. I definitely wouldn’t have texted him.

  Hey, it’s Julie. Remember me? From admissions office?

  Julie? I know a lot of Julies

  But I only know one Jubilee

  Yes, that’s me

  Good to hear from you, Jubilee

  Don’t

  I mean it

  OK

  Julie

  So what’s up?

  I’m standing in the quad, wondering where my tour guide is

  Moi?

  No, the other guy who told me he was at my service 24/7

  I regretted that one after I sent it. Did it make me sound slutty? I couldn’t tell.

  Whoa, now. Didn’t know I had so much competition

  Ugh. So it did.

  ANYWAY

  Want to give me a tour?

  Of course I do

  But I can’t

  I scrunched up my face as I read Luke’s text. He can’t? After he was the one asking me to dinner? Um, okay.

  I’m in the lab monitoring an experiment and can’t leave

  Care to join me?

  Really? That’s allowed?

  The moment I sent that, I groaned. What a dumb thing to say.

  Sure. If you bring the coffee

  Think I can handle that. How do you like it?

  I’m pretty sure I’d like anything that you brought me

  But since you’re asking, milk, no sugar would be perfect

  Done. And where are you?

  Bldg B—science. 5th floor chem lab. Can’t miss it

  I’ll be waiting for you

  I pocketed my phone, then re
alized that I didn’t have a clue where to buy coffee on campus—and I wasn’t even sure that I had enough money to pay for it. It took me an embarrassingly long time—twenty minutes!—to track down the dining hall, get the coffees, and make the hard choices like hot or iced. By the time I located Building B and took a slow ride on the creaky old elevator to the fifth floor, I wasn’t sure what I was doing anymore. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

  When I peeked through the narrow glass window in the door, I saw Luke, his head bent low as he scribbled in a notebook. His hair was so dark, so shiny, that I wondered what it would feel like between my fingers.

  I shook the thought from my mind and knocked with my foot on the door. I wasn’t trying to kick it in or anything, but I realized—too late—that was probably what it sounded like.

  He looked up at once, his eyes bright and intense from behind a pair of safety goggles. A slow smile spread across his face as he crossed the room and swung open the door.

  “Delivery,” I said, holding up the two coffees.

  “Thank you, Jubil…Julie,” he corrected himself quickly.

  “No problem.”

  Luke hovered in the doorway for a moment, and I suddenly thought: I’m not supposed to be here after all. Now he doesn’t want to let me in.

  “I can go—”

  “Oh no,” he said. “It’s just…I have to ask you to put on some goggles. Safety first and all.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Luke led me into a small room off the side of the lab, where I put on a pair of goggles and glanced up at him through plastic lenses. “What do you think?” I asked. “Am I working the mad scientist look or what?”

  “All you need is a white coat,” he replied.

  “Actually, what I need is an elastic,” I said, gesturing toward my hair. The old rules from high school chem lab were kicking in.

  “Oh right,” Luke said. “Sorry. Didn’t even occur to me.”

  He was back in a moment with a rubber band, the kind that would pinch when I pulled my ponytail out later. Then the weirdest thing happened. As I held out my hands to give him the coffees, Luke—well, I think this is what he was trying to do—reached for me, as if he would pull my hair back by himself. It was just a moment, but there was something there, a dangerous wobble in my world. Something had shifted on its axis, and I wasn’t sure how to put it right again.