Glow

by Megan E. Bryant

  Please, she wrote again.

  And then the pen slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

  “You’ll tire yourself out,” I told her. “Rest, my sweet. Rest so that you may heal and be strong again.”

  She would not look at me, Walter, and she would not close her eyes.

  So I spoke to Mother, and at the earliest opportunity, we brought Liza home, to her room, to her bed, to her stars. She seems more comfortable, at least, and the doctor comes every day. When she is hungry, I unwrap some of the bandages from her face, and she tilts back her head like a baby bird so that I may dribble some broth down her throat. It is good broth that Mother makes, rich and gold from boiled bones and bright vegetables. I am sure it is nutritious. Then Liza holds up her hand when she is finished, and we dress her face with fresh bandages, and she drifts back into a dense fog of morphine. Sometimes her eyes don’t close and I can watch them move back and forth. I wonder what she sees.

  It is still too soon to gauge the operation’s success, but I thought, as I replaced the bandage this evening, that I noticed that old familiar scent of decay wafting from her face. I made a note to tell the doctor tomorrow. I pray that I am wrong, and it was merely the memory of the smell as I viewed the wreckage of her face. For if the operation was for naught…if whatever eats at her continues to devour her…

  If she has gone through this great swath of suffering only to suffer more…

  Only time will tell.

  How precious are these moments with my Liza; how hopeful I still am for her recovery. There will someday exist a world without her, yet it is not one that I have ever known, and I hope that I never will.

  As for my last letter, where I believe I mentioned a problem with my tooth, well, that was just a very silly little complaint of mine, and certainly nothing for you to worry about. I have seen the dentist, and he has assured me that all will be well. I apologize profusely for causing you even a moment of worry.

  I just want to apologize once more. For everything.

  All my love,

  Lydia

  Chapter 23

  I drove for hours through rain-slicked streets, bleary candy-stripe lights glinting off every raindrop the windshield wipers missed. I didn’t have any destination in mind. I didn’t know where to go, but it felt good, at some elemental level, to keep moving. Body in motion and all that. I knew the truth, though. There was no way to outrun radioactivity.

  I think it comes for me.

  If it was in me, it was in me deep, in all the dark places of my body—hibernating in the marrow, sailing through the blood, burrowing in the teeth. Inside, was I a shining supernova of imminent disease, a ticking time bomb of radioactive decay?

  Before you break, the cracks will show.

  And if I was? What would that mean? I tried not to ask myself questions I couldn’t answer. Luke’s eyes had already told me more than I could bear to know.

  Nothing good can come from this.

  I had made a mess of so many things—more things than I could even count—and yet some small, strong part of me wanted to believe that there was still a way to fix them. That there was still a chance to make amends. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

  We are running out of time.

  Then I was coasting on fumes. Then I was so tired that my eyes were slamming shut, and I could feel the steering wheel swerve under my hands. I was about to do something really, really stupid. I had to get off the road. I had to stop running. I had to find somewhere to go.

  Only one place came to mind.

  It wouldn’t be so bad to go home, I told myself. I could slip in, and she might not notice. I knew how to be so quiet.

  The front light was on. I went upstairs, so silent, like a shadow, like a ghost. I stopped at the top of the stairs and took a deep breath. The house still smelled like home to me, or maybe it was my imagination working overtime. Clean clothes hot from the dryer, sugar cookies shining with sunbursts of jam, and, faintly, a hint of my mom’s perfume, carrying a lifetime of memories: the softness of her hugs, the whisper of her kisses, the smell of her hair. Her fierce mama-bear protectiveness when I’d been wronged by a teacher or hurt by a friend. All those times I’d fallen, how she always helped me get back up. When I was small, no matter what went wrong, she always knew how to fix it. She used to know. Maybe she still did.

  Her bedroom door was ajar so I nudged it with my foot until I could see her sleeping silhouette. I watched the way the old quilt moved up and down, up and down, with her breathing. Every part of me was willing her to wake up—Mom, I need you; Mom, I need you—but I couldn’t remember how to say the words.

  Still, I thought I’d better try.

  “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  I tried again.

  “Mom?”

  “Mommy? I—”

  My voice caught in my throat, but she didn’t move. I sank to the floor and wondered how I’d ever find the energy to get up again.

  She suddenly lunged in the bed. “Julie?” she asked, panic in her voice. She fumbled for the light, and I blinked in the sudden brightness.

  “Julie, oh my God, what happened?” Mom asked. She was at my side in an instant. “Oh, Julie, who did this to you?”

  My clothes were crusted with mud; my hair was stringy and damp. No wonder she was freaking out. I started to cry. “My mouth hurts. I don’t want to die, Mom. I don’t want to die.”

  She wrapped her arms around me. They were stronger than I remembered. When was the last time I’d hugged her? Or let her hug me? Sitting on the floor of her bedroom, she held me while I wept. The story stumbled out of my mouth in fractured phrases. Sometimes the words were wrong, and even I could tell that I wasn’t making much sense. But she understood. She understood enough.

  Mom didn’t say anything as she pulled me to my feet and led me into the bathroom. She filled the tub with hot water and lowered her eyes while she helped me undress. While I sat in the bath, I heard her moving around in my bedroom, and then there was a long silence, but I didn’t care. Then she was talking to someone on the phone in a low voice, and I also didn’t care. My body, distorted by the rippling water, was equal parts wonder and revulsion. Who could say what lurked under my skin?

  “Ready to get out?” Mom asked from the doorway.

  Maybe I nodded, or maybe I just thought about nodding. Or maybe she made the decision for me. I was all fuzzy—in my eyes and in my head and in my body, which went limp as my mom helped me to her car. She drove east, where the pink light was rising. From the backseat, I wished we could drive straight into the sunrise: rose-colored obliteration.

  That’s not what happened. Instead, Mom pulled into the ambulance bay at University Medical. I didn’t realize that the entrance was wrapped in reams of paper for my benefit, or that the cluster of nurses and doctors, all cloaked in yolk-yellow suits, were waiting for me.

  Time got all screwed up then. I know the car had stopped only for a minute, but it was long enough for Mom to grab my hand and squeeze it. “I’m not going to leave you,” she said.

  But that was not a promise she could keep.

  Our cocoon cracked open then as someone yanked on my door.

  “Let’s get her into Decon,” he said.

  I walked down the paper aisle all by myself, like a big girl.

  “She shouldn’t even be here,” one of the nurses hissed. “Eighteen isn’t peds. Why is she in the peds ED and not the adult ED?”

  “Too late now,” someone whispered back. “No sense contaminating both departments.”

  “In here, Julie,” another voice called, and her eyes were blue and kind. That was all I could see of her, kind blue eyes behind a clear plastic screen. The rest of her was wrapped in plastic—purple gloves, goldenrod suit, rubbery green boots, all with the waxy sheen of a new box of crayons. I followed her into a plain cement room. The panels of lights overhead tried to brighten it, but the grayness was overwhelming, as if it could drain all the color and hope from anyt
hing that entered.

  “Put your clothes in here,” the nurse said, holding up a red biohazard sack. “Then stand under the shower and scrub every bit of you. I’m sorry the water will be cold. It’s better that way.”

  “But I just had a bath,” I said, surprised that I didn’t choke on the words. “It was hot. Is that—”

  “Shower anyway, Julie,” she said. “That’s what the decontamination room is for…decontaminating.”

  She left then, and when I heard the soft click of the door, I wondered if I’d been locked inside. If anyone would ever come back for me.

  * * *

  I spent two long, terrifying days alone in an isolation room, marking time in six-hour spaces between blood draws, blinking back tears as a nurse in a protective suit scanned my body with a Geiger counter. I strained my ears for the clicking static, but this machine must’ve been better than the one in the lab. It had a digital display kept carefully hidden from my spying eyes.

  There were thick binders with the words Radiation Emergency Protocol blazing on the cover. There were doctors who examined every inch of my naked body. There was my dentist peering into my mouth and finding a hairline crack in one of my teeth. It wasn’t from radiation exposure, though. It was from all the grinding. I could hear Lauren saying, “I told you so!” before I remembered that I’d be lucky to ever hear her voice again after what I’d said.

  Scientists from the Environmental Protection Agency came to see me, twice, asking the same questions for hours: Where did I find each painting, and when, and who did I expose, and how? Lauren. Luke. My mom. Anyone who had been in the presence of the paintings had to be tested too, their blood whirled through a centrifuge, separated to reveal any secret contamination. I was way more worried about their test results than my own.

  Colorless liquids dripped into my veins through long snakes of tubing. Monitors with blinking lights and red numbers kept me company through the loneliest parts of the night, times when I refused to sleep because of what I saw when I closed my eyes: the girls in the factory…the people at the dance…the paintings, always the paintings. They lurked in the darkness behind my eyelids, glowing through the perpetual night.

  That left nothing for me to do but look long and hard at the person I’d become. Last spring, there had been this one bright, true moment, looking at my mom’s crumpled face, when I knew that I would give—that I would do—anything for her. Something mean and ugly had happened to me since then, gnawing away at what was most important until it started to consume me too. Now I had to wonder, though—what did it really matter? Maybe this wasn’t the life I expected to live, but it was still a life I loved. There had to be a way to fix everything I’d wrecked. I would claw myself out of this crater of self-pity until my fingers started to bleed, if that’s what it took.

  I just had to get out of this hospital first.

  * * *

  On the morning of the third day, Dr. Margolis came into the room with her nose buried in my chart. My mom followed her and perched on the edge of the bed. I noticed right away that Dr. Margolis wasn’t wearing a protective suit. For the first time, a spiral of hope coiled inside me.

  “Julie,” Dr. Margolis said. “How are you?”

  I had to think for a moment before I realized the easiest answer would be: “Fine.”

  “And the pain in your jaw? Does the temporary crown help?”

  I ran my tongue against my teeth. “Yeah. I think so.”

  She made a note in the chart. “I’d like you to follow up with your dentist as soon as possible,” she said. “Perhaps he has an appointment today so you can be seen for a permanent crown fitting.”

  “Today? So I get to—”

  “You’re discharging her?” Mom interrupted me.

  Dr. Margolis looked up. “Julie’s test results have stayed normal over the last forty-eight hours,” she said. “That’s exactly what we hoped to see.”

  “So…I’m going to be okay?”

  There was a pause. “At this time, there is no indication that you are suffering from any of the immediate effects of radiation poisoning,” Dr. Margolis said carefully. “We’d be very concerned if you had burns or sores, or if your hair was falling out, or if you had severe gastrointestinal upset.”

  I waited, breathless, for her to continue.

  “However.”

  And again, that killer pause.

  “There’s no safe level of radiation exposure, Julie. And even if there were, everyone responds differently to radiation. You might never have any problems. I might have half the exposure you’ve had and get cancer in five years.”

  “So I could still…?” I couldn’t even say it.

  “It’s possible. But remember that everyone is exposed to radiation, every single day. Ever eat a banana? They’re radioactive, you know. In fact, some people have suggested we stop using the sievert to measure exposure to radiation and replace it with the BED—the banana equivalent dose!”

  Dr. Margolis was the only one who laughed. She quickly cleared her throat. “You’ll need to be particularly vigilant with your medical care for the rest of your life, Julie. Complete physicals every six months, including blood work and thorough cancer screenings. I’m happy to provide your follow-up care. We’ll watch for anemia and signs of skeletal weakness. Call me right away if you break any bones. Or if you have any symptoms of anemia—exhaustion, weakness, lack of energy, fainting…”

  She stood up then and shook my hand. “Julie, without a doubt you’ve been the most excitement this hospital has seen in a long time. Before you came, we’d only gotten out the radiation emergency protocol during drills, thank God. Please take care of yourself. And if you have any questions—any concerns at all—don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Margolis,” I managed to say.

  The doctor hadn’t even left the room before my mom reached for me, and I clung to her in a cloud of relief. Suddenly I was four years old again, and we were always going to be on the same team, and nothing could break us, nothing could tear us apart. I held on longer than I should have; I held on tighter than I needed to; because I already knew that this togetherness wouldn’t—couldn’t—last.

  * * *

  When we got home, I moved slowly, tentatively, like a guest who didn’t want to intrude. But Mom ricocheted between the kitchen and the living room, talking nonstop.

  “Are you hungry? You must be hungry. Hospital food, yuck,” she said. “I went to the store, and I made chicken soup. The kind you like, with fresh noodles. And I got everything to make Nana’s macaroni. Does that sound good? I could make it right now. It doesn’t take too long. Or maybe a sandwich? We have hummus and lettuce and tomatoes or, um, sliced turkey? And cheese? Or what about something sweet? I bought cupcakes. Chocolate-chip cookies?”

  “I’m not…” I started to say. And then she stopped moving for a moment, hovering in the doorway with her eyes all watery. They were pleading eyes, maybe even begging eyes, and I realized that it didn’t matter if I was hungry or not.

  “Mac and cheese sounds good,” I finished. “If that’s not too much trouble?”

  It was the right answer. Her whole face brightened as she ducked back into the kitchen, still carrying on both sides of the conversation. I took a deep breath and tried to figure out how I could start to apologize in the middle of her monologue on the price of whole chickens. It was hard to focus through her rambling and the cacophony of my own thoughts, but it’s not like I could go to my room, where all those radioactive paintings were lying in wait. Or were they? I wondered if I’d ever see them again.

  Then my cell phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, but the number was unfamiliar. “Hello?” My voice was so leathery that I had to clear my throat.

  “Is this Julie Chase?” a man asked. “My name is Bert Rawlings. The owner of Lost & Found called me. About your letter? Those paintings you bought…They used to belong to me.”

  I sat down hard.

  “You had a question?” h
e continued. “About technique? I’m afraid I can’t really help with that as I don’t know much about art. I inherited these paintings from my father—”

  I started talking fast. “I have other questions about the paintings. About the artist…If you know anything about her…or why she was painting them…”

  I held my breath, waiting. Hoping.

  At last, he spoke. “I know a little bit.”

  “Oh my God, for real? Can I…can I ask you some questions?”

  “Uh, sure. Go ahead.”

  My voice dropped to a hush. “Do you want to get some coffee? Are you anywhere near the Panera on Elmwood?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Rawlings said. “When? Now?”

  “That would be perfect.” I hung up and started thinking fast about my car and how it was out of gas. About the way Mom’s hands kept capping my shoulders, guiding me here and there, and how I’d let her, like I was a little kid. About the look on her face if I said, “Gotta go meet some stranger about the paintings that could’ve killed me!”

  There was only one thing to do.

  I slunk into stealth mode, slipping on my sandals, picking up my bag in slow motion to silence the loose change clanking around in it. I crept toward the door, pocketed Mom’s keys, and eased outside, shutting the door so carefully that the click was nearly noiseless. Then I was in the sunshine, and in her car, and driving down the street before the adrenaline could even kick in. At the corner, I passed a news van and wondered idly what it was doing on our street. And then I wondered about coincidences—like why would this Bert Rawlings call me today, when I’d given up hope that I’d ever hear from him.

  What I didn’t know was that the fallout had barely begun.

  * * *

  The Panera was pretty empty at two o’clock on a Tuesday. I chose a table with a clear view of the door so that I could watch for Mr. Rawlings. I could tell it was him the moment he walked in, from the way he glanced around like a twitchy rabbit, looking for me. I raised my hand like I was in school.

  “Are you Julie?” he asked. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”