I could not assume the burden of making these masks if I were the only one in the world who could do it. I cannot bear the responsibility. If I should err in my work—if my clumsy hands should misalign the filters or insert the goggle glass too loosely—the calamity that could result is more than I can bear. Surely our soldiers deserve better. I can hardly paint a watch dial to satisfy a man as oafish as Mr. Mills. Something as critical as a gas mask should be left to more capable hands than mine. That is my cowardly confession to you.
You keep so many of my secrets these days, Walter. Here is one more that I alluded to earlier. There is something between Liza and Mr. Mills. I stumbled upon them in a stairwell, locked in a tender embrace. His thick and calloused hand, pressed to her chest, held a petite bundle of mistletoe. Oh, my high-spirited sister, with the wildness and temperament of a runaway horse! What mischief has she engaged in now, and with someone so uncouth as the foreman at ARC? In our room that night, I confronted her. She gave denials, but I could tell from the hollowness of her voice that they were false. Finally, she acquiesced and asked me what I intended to do with my knowledge of the affair.
“That is not the issue,” I told her. “I want to know why, Liza. Why on earth would you involve yourself with Mr. Mills?”
From the length of the silence that followed, I thought she wouldn’t answer, but at last, she spoke.
“He makes me laugh,” she said simply. “I know he is too coarse for your highbred sensibilities, but he makes me laugh. And he pays attention to me like no one else ever has.”
“For shame,” I hissed. “And you leading on that poor captain overseas!”
“Who could be writing to dozen different girls just like me!” she retorted. “Really, Lyddie, your mouth is all puckered like a prune. There’s no need to age yourself just to express your contempt of me. I will live my life while I can, regardless of whether or not it pleases you.”
“Or Mother,” I said, just to be quarrelsome.
At last, I had Liza’s attention. “You mustn’t tell her, Lydia.”
Now it was my turn to be silent. And in a sudden and brilliant flash, I knew exactly how to get what I needed.
“I want some of your Lumi-Nite,” I told her. “The stash under your bed. I want some.”
“You goose,” she said, laughing. “Where do you think I got it from? Who do you think gave it to me?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “But give me some, and I want to know how you paint with such speed too.”
“And you won’t tell Mother?”
“I promise,” I said. (But she never made me promise not to tell you, Walter.)
“Tip more,” she said. “After every stroke.”
“That much?”
“Yes.”
Then Liza approached my bed. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.
She peered into my mouth as if I were a thoroughbred on inspection. At last, she found what she was looking for and plunged her hand into my mouth. I twisted away from her, but she moved with me.
“Right here,” she said, tapping two teeth on the lower left side of my jaw. “Tip your brush in this space between your teeth.”
I must have looked at her quizzically because she grinned and pulled down her lower lip so that she looked like a baboon in the zoo. “I have it too,” she said. “That same space between the teeth. It is even more effective than lip-pointing the brush.”
“And how much of the Lumi-Nite?” I asked greedily. “How much of that will you give me?”
“As much as you want,” Liza said with such a lack of care that I might as well have asked her for the dust beneath her bed. “I’m glad you know about it. Now I can put it to use.”
“To what use?” I asked.
Then Liza, eyes shining, shut off the light. She shoved me aside in the bed and clambered in next to me, both of us huddled beneath the blankets like we were small girls again. “A mural!” she said. “A celestial nightscape across our walls and ceiling. Oh, Lyddie, wouldn’t it be lovely?”
I could see it at once: our walls as plain as they have ever been by day, but in the darkness, great swirls of glowing galaxies, an endless cosmos of gentle light, and stars to shine sweetly on us while we sleep.
“I would need your help, of course,” Liza continued, as if my silence was a sign of reluctance rather than wonder.
“You’ll be able to get enough Lumi-Nite?” I asked. The walls, suddenly, seemed very large.
“He’ll give me as much as I want,” Liza replied.
“I want my own supply.”
“For what?”
“For canvases. To paint them in the modern style.”
The words tumbled out of my mouth before I understood them; it was the sort of brilliant inspiration that reveals itself wholly formed. How enchanting it would be, I thought; self-lighting artwork, and I knew with the most delicious certainty that no one has yet attempted such a thing.
“I am sure that can be arranged,” Liza said.
And as we reached this agreement, the bonds of our sisterhood were strengthened as they had never been before. We have already begun to paint, starting with the ceiling over Liza’s bed, of course; but I can still see it from where I lie.
So I conclude this letter, Walter, with much optimism for my own small days and nights: that they shall be filled with painting and practice, and that I—that Liza and I—will create something beautiful. In our war-weary world, beauty is in such short supply, and the growing darkness makes it hard to find the light. If every person living strove to create something beautiful, mightn’t we brighten the world enough so that all could see the path to peace?
We have passed the shortest and darkest day of the year, and I take comfort knowing that from now on there will be more light—just a little, every day, and then a little more, and then a little more after that. I pray that this coming new year will bring peace. It cannot possibly bring more suffering.
In my mind’s eye, this is what I see: two chairs by the fireplace, a small evergreen gleaming with strands of golden tinsel, carols playing softly on the wireless, and your hand in mine. Next year, let it be so.
All my love,
Lydia
Chapter 11
One urgent text and ten minutes later, I pulled up at Lauren’s house. She was perched on the hood of her car with her beach bag slung over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a big rush. “I wasn’t trying to blow you off. It’s my only day off for, like, a week. It was slipping away from me. I had to go.”
She didn’t say anything.
“But look,” I said, holding out the note. “Look what I found! It was hidden in the diary. It has an address!”
Lauren glanced down to read the note. Since I couldn’t see her eyes, there was no way to guess what she might be thinking. At last, she said, “Where?”
“Where what?”
“This address,” she said. “Where is it?”
I gestured to my car. “Let’s find out.”
“Now?” Lauren asked. “You want to just…go there?”
“Why not?” I said. “Please come with me, Laure. You can go to the beach any day. But this is really…I think it’s really important!”
Her eyes shifted back and forth a little as she weighed her options. Then she gazed warily at the sun. “It is getting kind of late for the beach,” she finally said.
“Come on!” I said, jangling the keys in my hand.
“In your car?” She shook her head. “Let’s just take mine.”
“I can drive,” I offered.
“But wouldn’t you rather go in mine?”
What could I say to that? Sorry, Lauren, that I’m too poor to drive anything nicer? Sorry that you’re too good to go anywhere in my car?
I locked up my hatchback and climbed into the passenger seat of Lauren’s SUV, wondering where the GPS would lead us. A mansion or an apartment building? A factory or an office complex? Or, worst of all, a parking lot, a place where
history had been paved over like it had never even happened?
This part of Orange was not like West Orange, not even close. There were no overpriced boutiques here, no sidewalks washed daily, no perfectly manicured trees. From the passenger seat, I saw twenty-four-hour day cares and check-cashing joints. I saw weeds proving their dominance over cracked concrete. I saw barred windows and graffitied bricks. We were getting closer—and closer—
“It should be on the right,” I said.
Lauren pulled over to parallel park, which was easy since there were hardly any cars on the street. I tried to pretend that wasn’t a bad sign.
“Jules,” she said. “Where are we?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Let’s take a closer look.”
I could tell she didn’t want to get out of the car, but I pushed ahead anyway. A tall chain-link fence surrounded a large brick building, two stories tall, with walls and walls of windows and a clock tower that had clearly stopped ticking long ago. Even from a distance, two things were clear: its function was industrial, and it was deserted.
“What do you think that building was used for?” I asked Lauren. “A factory, maybe?”
“I have no idea,” she replied.
“I’m going in.”
“Are you nuts?” she asked. “What about the fence?”
I shrugged. “I’ve climbed fences before.”
“Julie! That was back in fifth grade!” Lauren exclaimed. “This is trespassing. You don’t even know what’s in there. It could be a gang headquarters or…or…a colony of homeless druggies.”
I shot her a look. “Don’t be like that. It’s obviously abandoned. And if it’s not, we’ll come right back.”
“We?” she repeated incredulously. “Oh no. No, no, no. You could not pay me money to go in there.”
“Good, because I’m broke,” I said. Then I slipped my toes into one of the holes in the fence. As I hoisted myself up, I felt like Cinderella. The hollow place in the fence fit my foot perfectly.
Lauren grabbed my ankle. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t do this. I’m really nervous.”
“I’ll be five minutes,” I replied, wriggling free and scaling the fence before she could hold me back again.
“What am I supposed to do?” Lauren asked with a pout.
“Be a lookout?” I suggested. “Text me if there’s anything sketchy I should know about.”
That suggestion only made her face more pinched. “Be quick, okay?”
“I will,” I promised.
I flung my legs over the top of the fence, then dropped onto the dry dirt on the other side. I was completely exposed as I hurried over to the building. Anyone who gave even a passing glance would know that I definitely didn’t belong here. The doors were chained shut, and that might’ve been the end of it except for the windows. More than a few of them were broken, the frames a gaping, glassless portal that was plenty big enough for me to climb through. At first, I just peeked inside. There was a thick layer of dust on everything—and I mean everything—which made it immediately obvious that no one was around. I couldn’t even see mouse tracks.
I glanced over my shoulder at Lauren, who was staring at her phone. She wouldn’t notice if I slipped inside for a minute or two. I barely had to duck my head to clear the window frame.
I had every intention of staying objective—until I found myself in a large, open room, where the air itself seemed enchanted. Miniscule particles drifted on unseen currents, glittering in the late-afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. I could swoop my hand through the air, and they would dance in response: fairy dust, gold motes, snippets of stars swirling in a microscopic universe. When I stepped forward, they parted for me, opening a path even as they helped to fill the emptiness of the room.
There wasn’t much to see besides long tables that had been bolted to the floor, too cumbersome or inconvenient to steal, I guess. Had there once been chairs? Benches? Rickety stools perched on too-tall legs? Even the overhead lights were gone. Only a tangle of dead wires remained, looming in the rafters like a nest of snakes.
This must have been a factory, I thought, looking at the tables and all that dust. The wires overhead meant this place had electricity, but there were no signs of machinery. Maybe the work that happened here was done by hand, tasks too delicate for machines that were just as likely to mangle flesh as metal.
All that light, though—those enormous windows and the artificial illumination overhead. It was the perfect place to create art. I stood at one of the long tables and imagined myself here with an easel and palette. I was about to write my initials in the dust on the table when I thought better of it. Instead, I made the letters L and G. “Were you here?” I whispered into the emptiness.
If so, she’d left no trace.
Crumbling stairs in the corner had once led to the second floor, but the wooden planks had since rotted to splintery weakness. That ruled out a trip upstairs—but there was a door on the other side of the room, and I could think of no reason why I shouldn’t open it.
I reached for the tarnished handle and eased open the door. Without the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows, it was considerably darker inside the little room, but there was just enough light that I could see rows of hooks lining the wall and several midsize cupboards, their doors dangling from rusted hinges. Unlike in the open, ethereal workroom, the air in here was close and confining. It wasn’t just the battered cupboards that left me feeling claustrophobic. There was a deeper sense of something…bad. A thing that could not be spoken or known, just sensed in ways that were both intuitive and untrustworthy.
What happened here? I wondered.
I had no proof that something had gone wrong. There was nothing overt to make me feel so alarmed. So I steadied myself and continued to observe. A long bench, bolted to the floor just like the tables, ran through the middle of the room. Against the wall stood a tiny sink with a splotched mirror hanging over it. Was this a storage room—or maybe a break room?
My footsteps made no noise as I explored the room, peeking into each compartment. Nothing had been left behind, of course—or if it had, it was looted long ago—but it would’ve been stupid not to check. I tried to imagine what it would’ve been like to work here, how I would’ve walked into this room every morning.
Here’s where I would hang my coat, I thought. And here’s where I would stash my bag. I crossed the room to the sink. And here’s where I would wash my hands.
I reached for the faucet handle, which was cold in my hand as I tried to turn it. I didn’t expect anything to happen when suddenly a tremor rushed through the pipes, followed by a rattling howl deep within the walls. A spurt of brown sludge burst from the tap, startling me so much that I jumped—
And glimpsed a glowing face watching me from the mirror.
I would’ve screamed, but shock closed my throat. I would’ve run, but terror froze my legs. The seconds were impenetrable—that face, her eyes wide with fear, her features incandescent as they cast haunting shadows over the rest of her—
Then, in a jolt of understanding, I recognized that face.
The girl in the mirror was me.
I laughed, a loud bark of relief and embarrassment, and so did my reflection. This is what happens when you stop being objective, I scolded myself. But a smaller, stronger part of me disagreed. Losing my objectivity, even for the briefest of moments, made it personal. Made it real. Now I knew—I knew—they were all connected: the paintings and the diary and the love note and this old, hollow place that was both empty and full, reverberating with history and memory and secrets I was determined to learn.
“Lauren!” I yelled as I ran out of the factory. “Lauren!”
“Julie!” she screamed.
“It is connected!” I cried as I started climbing the fence. “I went in…and I saw…What? What’s wrong?”
Lauren’s face was streaked with tears. “You have been gone for an hour!” she said, punctuating each word with an excl
amation point of outrage. “I didn’t know what to do!”
I shook my head. “No way,” I said. “Maybe ten minutes. Fifteen, at the most.”
In response, Lauren thrust her phone in my face.
One glance at the time proved that she was right.
“I—I have no idea how that happened,” I stammered. “It only felt like a few minutes. Why didn’t you text me?”
“I did. Like a hundred times,” she said.
“I forgot to even check! I’m so sorry,” I said, so heartfelt that Lauren’s face softened, anger morphing into disapproval. With a critical frown, she reached over and ruffled my hair.
“You are filthy,” she said, but I didn’t take offense. “Yuck. What were you doing—rolling around in a crawl space?”
“It’s just dust,” I assured her. “Nobody’s been in there for a long time. But listen, it’s definitely the right place. That dust, Lauren…It glows! It has to be connected to the paintings. I mean, what are the odds?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe you can calculate them while you clean up. Let’s go. It’s getting dark.”
As we trudged back to her car, we saw the sign at the same time.
WARNING: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS PRESENT. NO TRESPASSING.
I swallowed, and my skin started to itch, as if each individual speck of dust was vibrating. “How did we miss that?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “Did you…in there—”
“No, nothing,” I cut her off. “It was just dust. I’m fine.”
Neither one of us had much to say after that. I noticed Lauren kept her distance as I slapped at my clothes, my arms, my hair, trying to shake the dust off as best as I could. On the way home, I googled furiously on Lauren’s phone, but none of my searches could answer the question of what exactly had been located at 482 Dover Street. The address was one of many in New Jersey that had been slated for remediation. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. My parents tried mediation before their divorce reached levels of epic hostility, but this seemed different.
Glow Page 9