Things Not Seen Read online

  I stand up so fast that my chair tips over backward with a big bang. I yank the towel from around my waist and throw it onto the table.

  “Well, how about this?” I’m shouting. “How about if I just disappear for a while? You two go ahead and do all the clear thinking you want to. I’ll just drop out of sight—you know, lay low a little. Then, I’ll let you know what I’ve been thinking!”

  I take three silent steps backward and stand near the doorway by the telephone.

  Five, six, seven…ten seconds.

  “Bobby?” Mom is on her feet, looking at where I used to be. But she can sense I’m not there. “Bobby! You stop it this instant!” Now she’s panicked. She’s figured out that I could be out the door and on a bus by now. She’s looking every which way, wringing her hands and biting her lower lip, and then yelling. “Bobby? BOBBY!”

  And Dad—Dad is just sitting, palms flat on the table, staring at the floor, shaking his head. It’s the logic again. Dad sees right away that I have all the power, so he’s not wasting energy.

  But then come the tears. Mom slumps down in her chair and starts crying, and I can’t take that. I can never take that. I have to fold.

  So I say, real quietlike, “All right, all right. I’m right over here. But remember, I’m the one with the problem here, not you.”

  Because that’s what they do, both of them. Like if I get in trouble at school, suddenly they’re the ones on trial, and they have to figure out what they have to do. It’s always about them.

  Mom’s mad, but mostly relieved. “Robert, that was just mean. It’s not fair to…to hide that way. Promise me, promise me, Robert, that you will never do that again.”

  And now I’m not the “young man.” Now I’m Robert. And I’m doing this to her.

  But I promise—with my invisible fingers crossed, of course.

  Then I say, “But guys, do you get what I mean? I mean like this isn’t just some—phenomenon. And it’s not like I’ve got the chicken pox or the flu or something. This is completely…different, and it’s happening to me, and it means that I can’t do anything like I did it yesterday. So that’s why I’m saying…what do I do?”

  And now I’ve got myself scared too. Because it’s true.

  Horribly true. Here I am, standing here with my feet cramping up on the cold floor, imagining the rest of my life as the ultimate weirdo.

  I can’t go anywhere. Clothes are supposed to have a body inside them, and mine is missing. I could go out naked. But that’s not something sane people do anytime in Chicago, especially not in February.

  School? Gone. Off the air. Not that I care much. It’s the U of C lab school. It’s where the professors and the local geniuses and all the rest of the university creeps send their kids. It’s supposed to be so great. Better than Francis Parkman. Better than North Shore Country Day. Blah, blah, blah. Most of the time I can barely tolerate it. Except for the libraries. And jazz band.

  I mean, it’s not like I’m some psycho loner or anything. I’ve got friends, kids I eat lunch with, stuff like that. But I’m just not a private-school kid. I go there because my family moved here six years ago. Plus, my mom teaches at the university, so the tuition is cheap. Maybe my school’s a great place if you’re a show-off genius or a soccer god or something. But if you’re me, it’s just school.

  But that’s over, at least for…well, at least for today.

  I stand there in the kitchen, naked and shivering, and I look at Mom and Dad, still sitting at the table. They’re stumped. I’ve never seen them this way. And that might be the scariest thing of all. With parents like mine, you get used to having them tell you what to do next. But I can see they don’t have a clue. Not about this.

  And suddenly I think, Why did I ever believe they had all the answers for me, anyway?

  I mean, they do know a lot of semi-interesting stuff. Mom knows politics and history and English literature inside out, and Dad’s a certified brainiac, so he knows tons. And that’s fine for them. But all that, that’s got nothing to do with me, not right now.

  So I look at them sitting there and I say, “I’ll be up in my room. I’ve got to figure out what to do.”

  And it’s true. I’ve got to figure it out. Because this, what’s happening right now, this is about me.

  chapter 2

  EXPERIMENTS

  A minute later I’m sitting alone on my bed. I’ve got my dark green robe on, so when I look down at my legs and my arms, the shapes are right. But I hold up my hand and the floppy sleeve slides down my arm, and I can’t see the arm or the hand on the end of it.

  I get up and turn on my desk lamp. It’s a bright light, and I put my hand under it, palm down. I can feel the heat. I can’t see my hand, but I do see something else. I see a very faint shadow of my hand on the green desk blotter. I start opening and closing my hand, watching the shadow of something I can’t see.

  I’m so into it, I don’t notice my dad until he’s right next to me. He says, “That’s interesting,” and I jump, and my hand hits the light, and the shade makes this BONG. I should have locked my door.

  Dad says, “So what do you make of that? You can’t see it, but it makes a shadow—except it’s not a normal shadow, is it?”

  I know that tone of voice. It means Dad already has the answer, and he wants me to say, “Duhhh, I don’t know,” so he can show me how smart he is. Again.

  But I know the answer, or I think I do. So I say, “It means my eyes can’t see my hand, but the light from the lamp can’t go all the way through it…I guess.”

  Dad is nodding. “Bingo! When you came to the kitchen you said you were invisible, and you are. But what does that mean? You know the Stealth Bomber? The Air Force calls that plane invisible. Well, is it?”

  I say, “No, not really invisible. But radar can’t see the plane. So it’s invisible to the radar.”

  Dad says, “Bingo! That plane is invisible to the radar. But does the plane make a shadow when it flies between the earth and the sun?”

  “Yeah, because the plane’s still there, right?”

  “Bingo! And you’re still here too. But you’re invisible to the human eye. Now, how does that eye work?”

  I’m playing along because this isn’t one of Dad’s usual lectures, like where he sucks all the fun out of a roller coaster by talking about g-forces and potential energy. This stuff is important to me. I may not be the greatest student, but I read all the time and I remember everything. I know a few things too.

  So I replay some sixth-grade science for him. “The eye picks up light through a lens, and the light makes an image inside the eye, and that image gets sent into the brain.”

  “Bingo! So why can’t we see this hand?” Now he’s got hold of my hand at the wrist, and he’s shaking it up and down under the light.

  “Because the eye isn’t getting an image?”

  “Bingo! Because what does it need to make an image?” Dad’s too excited now, so he answers his own questions. It’s one of the things that stinks about living with a genius. “The eye needs light! And there isn’t any light bouncing off your hand and into our eyes. Look at my hand.” He holds my hand next to his big hairy one, the one with the Cal Tech ring on it. “Same light, and bingo! There it is, because the light bounces off of my hand and into our eyes. We see one hand, but there are two shadows on the desk. How come? Because even though your hand doesn’t reflect any light, it’s not transparent. And the reason that your shadow is faint and mine isn’t must be because my hand stops the light, and yours just bends it some—that’s called refraction. Bingo!”

  My dad needs one of those collars like they put on dogs that bark too much. Then, when he says “Bingo!” he’d get a shock.

  “Now,” he says, “lay your hand right on the desk.” And I do, and he says, “See that? That outline? It’s the shape of your hand, but there’s no color, no definite form, and the desk underneath is hidden. And see how the edge seems all wavy? That’s because of the refraction. Now pull
your hand up slowly.” And I do, and as I do, the hand shape disappears.

  “Hold it there!” Dad’s excited. “See that? When you get six or eight inches away from something—bingo!—you’re gone. It’s like our brains fill in around the shape, and you go completely invisible. We’re just not wired to see nonreflective, low-refractive matter!” I feel like one of those mice in the movie they made from Flowers for Algernon. If I let him, Dad will think up little experiments for me all day long.

  I say, “So how does all that help?”

  Dad watches my robe as I go sit on the bed again. He looks puzzled. “Help?” he asks.

  “Yeah, how do all these observations help me?”

  “Well, I’m not sure yet, Bobby. But it’s something…and it’s pretty interesting, don’t you think?”

  I’m glad Dad can’t see the look on my face. And I don’t say anything right away because sarcasm does a bad thing to Dad’s brain chemistry.

  Then I say, “Well, I’m going to try to get some sleep, Dad.” Which is a lot nicer than saying, “Get out! Leave my room, and take all your interesting little factoids and theories with you!”

  So Dad says, “Okay, Bobby. Sure. That’s a good idea. Rest is always a good idea.”

  But I don’t want to rest, just be alone. When Dad’s gone, I jump up and shut my door. And I lock it before I go back and flop onto my bed.

  Alone isn’t new for me. I spend a lot of time this way. When I’m not at school, I mostly read. That’s why I like the library, the big one between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh Street. It’s part of the university, not the high school. I can hang out there as long as I want.

  But it’s not like I need to go there to find books. Our whole house is like a library, which figures since Mom’s a literature freak. If she catches me looking bored, she grabs a book and shoves it in my face and says I have to read twenty pages, and then if I want to stop, I can. A lot of the time I get hooked. Like on Lord Jim. That was a strange one. And Hemingway. She made me read In Our Time, and then I read all his books. And she gave me Catch-22 and Cat’s Cradle. So I got hooked on Vonnegut. And I even read Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. High density, but good.

  On my own I read stuff like Tolkien and A Wrinkle in Time. And Michael Crichton. And I just finished The Odyssey. That was a surprise. It was actually good. And I’ve found some good books on Dad’s shelves—Richard Feynman especially. He’s this very funny physicist—which are not words that usually go together.

  Mostly I like books that have a world I can get into. And I guess that’s because books have always been so much more interesting than my life. Until today.

  After a few minutes lying down, I go over and open my desk drawer. I grab a ballpoint and write “Bobby” on the palm of my left hand. I look at the letters, and I wave my hand around in front of my face. My name is like this floating blue string.

  Then I see a pack of gum. I walk to the mirror above my dresser. I unwrap a piece of Doublemint and stick it in my mouth. I open wide, and it’s there on my tongue. I shut my mouth and it’s gone. I chew with my mouth open, and I see the gum, moving around between my teeth like a gray caterpillar. Then I swallow the gum, just to watch what happens—all gone.

  Then I work my tongue around in my mouth for about ten seconds, and I spit at the mirror. And I can’t see anything on the mirror. I rub my hand over the glass, and my hand feels wet. Invisible spit. I have invisible spit.

  Then I think about the gum I just swallowed. It’s gone, but of course, it’s not. It’s just down inside me, and like Dad said, I’m not transparent. Because if I was, I’d still be able to see the gum, right there inside me. So then the gum goes through my stomach and everything…and then what?

  Only one way to find out.

  I unlock my door and head down the hall. I’m still shaky on my feet—I’ve got no visual fix on my own place in space. The robe helps, but I really miss my legs and feet. And here’s the bathroom report: Most people go number one or number two. I go number three and number four. The sounds and the smells are very familiar, but there’s nothing to see.

  So it’s like this: Something like a glass of water or a bowl of Cheerios starts out normal, but after it goes through me, it won’t reflect light. It’s too weird.

  I flush and then open the bathroom door, and Mom’s standing there.

  She blinks, and her eyes bug out as she sees my robe, and then they wander around, looking for my face. “Are you all right, Bobby?”

  I say, “Yeah, fine. I usually go to the bathroom several times every day, Mom. Do I need permission now?”

  She gets this hurt look on her face, and for a second I feel like I ought to give her a hug or something. But I don’t. I just step around her and carefully float my green robe down the hall to my room, and I shut my door. Then I punch the lock button so she can hear it loud and clear.

  I get in bed and lie back, staring at the ceiling. I close my eyes, and it’s dark. More proof that I’m not transparent. If I were, then I’d be able to see through my eyelids, right? I shiver, partly cold, partly scared.

  I pull the electric blanket over me and crank it up a notch. I shut my eyes again and lie still, just trying to think, to calm down.

  And I guess I do, because the next thing I know, I’m driving this dune buggy at about a hundred miles an hour across a burning desert that looks like the surface of the moon.

  I sit up in bed, and I’m all sweaty, and there’s a second or two when I don’t know where I am or who I am, or what day it is, or anything. I’m still half in the dream, with sand hitting me in the face. There’s my alarm clock, and it’s 1:47, and I panic because I’ve overslept, like I’m late for school.

  Then everything comes crashing back into my head. I jump up and go to the mirror over the dresser, and there’s only my robe. And I can see some smears on the mirror—it’s my spit, not invisible now. The robe’s soaked with sweat, so I peel it off and pull on some boxers and jeans and a T-shirt. And socks, because I remember how cold the floor was at breakfast.

  I go down the back stairs to the kitchen. “Mom?…Dad?”

  There’s no answer.

  Then I see the note on the kitchen counter.

  Bobby—I couldn’t get a sub for my Yeats seminar, so I’m prepping now at my office. I’ll be in Adler Hall from 3:30 to 4:30, then I’ll come right home. I called the office at school and said you had the flu, and Mrs. Savin will hold your homework for me at the office. Dad will be home early, a little before 4, right after a meeting with his team. Don’t worry, Bobby. Just watch TV or something. Call me if there’s an emergency. Everything’s going to be all right.

  Love, Mom

  And then a second note scribbled below that.

  Bobby—Please be careful.

  Dad

  My folks. They never lose sight of the important things. Like keeping up with homework. And poetry seminars. And Dad’s atom-smashing team—well, we all know how vital that is to everyone.

  I can’t believe what I’m reading: “Watch TV or something”? And then, “Call me if there’s an emergency”?

  So let me get this straight, Mom: Your kid goes invisible, and that’s not an emergency?

  “Watch TV or something.” That’s what the note says.

  So I say to myself, Fine. But I think I’ll do the “or something” part.

  chapter 3

  OUT THERE

  The good thing about February in Chicago is that no one thinks it’s weird if you’re all bundled up. When I get on the city bus headed toward campus, I’m just another person who doesn’t want to freeze to death in the wind chill. The stocking cap, the turtleneck, the scarf around my face, the gloves, it all looks natural. Except maybe Dad’s huge sunglasses. They make me look like Elwood from The Blues Brothers.

  It’s about a half-mile bus ride from home to the stop at Ellis and Fifty-seventh Street. Bouncing along, my heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it crinkling my eardrums. It probably isn’t such a great
idea to be going to the library. But I have to. I have to. I mean, what if I sit at home all day and watch TV, and then tomorrow, I wake up and I’m my regular self again? It would be like nothing happened, same old same old. So I’m going to the library to see what it’s like. To be like this. At the library. As long as I get home before Dad does, no problem.

  Looking out the window of the bus, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get into the library. It’s the big one, the Regenstein Library. You have to show an ID at the entrance. If the person on duty wants to check my face against the picture on my lab school ID, things could get messy.

  But I come here a lot, and I know the guy who’s working at the security desk today. He’s a college kid.

  There’s no line, and I hand him my card. “Hi, Walt. How’s it going?”

  He looks at my picture and runs the card under the scanner. He smiles and says, “Everything’s good, Bobby. You out of school early today?”

  I nod. “Yeah, working on a special project.”

  He smiles and says, “Well, don’t get too smart all at once, okay?”

  I start to walk toward the elevators and Walt says, “Hey…”

  I turn back, and he grins and says, “…nice shades.”

  I know exactly where I’m going. The elevator takes me to the top floor. There’s a men’s room up on five, and I’m betting it’s empty. It is. I shut myself into the stall against the wall and take off my clothes. I wrap everything in my coat. I look around and realize my little plan has a flaw: A public washroom does not offer a lot of places to hide a bundle of clothes. And they have to still be here when I get back.

  Then I look up. The ceiling’s like the one in my basement at home. It’s not too high, and by standing on the toilet seat, I’m just tall enough to lift up a ceiling tile, push it to one side, and stick my bundle of stuff up there next to the light fixture. Then I pull the tile back in place.