The Illumination_ A Novel Part 1

The illumination.

by Kevin Brockmeier.

Carol Ann Page

The strong in spirit wear bright clothes of fire.They dance and burn. The light is worth the pain.The light is worth the pain.The pain stops when the flame dies out.-Hugh Blumenfeld

It was Friday evening, half an hour before the light struck, and she was attempting to open a package with a carving knife. The package was from her ex-husband, who had covered it in a thick layer of transparent tape, the kind fretted with hundreds of white threads, the latest step in his long campaign of bringing needless difficulty to her life. She was sawing along the lid when she came to a particularly stubborn cross-piece of tape and turned the box toward herself to improve her grip. Her hand slipped, and just that quickly the knife severed the tip of her thumb. The hospital was not busy, and when she walked in carrying a balled-up ma.s.s of wet paper towels, her blood wicking through the pink flowers, the clerk at the reception desk admitted her right away. The doctor who came to examine her said, "Let's take a look at what we've got here," then gingerly, with his narrow fingers, unwound the paper from around her thumb. "Okay, this is totally doable. I don't mind telling you you had me worried with all that blood of yours, but this doesn't look so bad. A few st.i.tches, and we should have you fixed right up." She had not quite broken through the nail, though, and when he rotated her hand to take a closer look, a quarter-inch of her thumb came tilting away like the hinged cap of a lighter. The doctor gave an appreciative whistle, then took the pieces of her thumb and coupled them back together. She watched, horrified, as he fastened them in place with a white tag of surgical tape. "Miss? Miss?" The room had begun to flutter. He took her face in his hands. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name, Miss? I'm Dr. Alstadt. Can you tell me your name?" His hands were warm and soft, like the hands of a fourteen-year-old boy deciding whether or not to kiss her, something she remembered feeling once, a long time ago, and she gave him her name, which was Carol Ann, Carol Ann Page. "Okay, Carol Ann, what we're going to do is bring in the replantation team. They see this kind of thing all the time, so I don't want you to worry. You hang in there, all right? Is there anyone we can call for you?"

"No."

"A husband? A parent?"

"No. Not in town."

"All right then. It shouldn't be longer than a few minutes. In the meantime, I'm going to give you something to ease the pain," but instead he jotted a few sentences onto a clipboard and left the room. She lay back and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the doctor had been replaced by a nurse in dark green scrubs, who said, "You must be the thumb," wiped the crook of her elbow with a cloth that smelled like chlorine bleach, and gave her a shot. The shot didn't extinguish the pain so much as disguise it, make it beautiful, ease it, she supposed, just as the doctor had said it would. The nurse hurried out, and Carol Ann was alone again. A moment later, when she saw the light shining out of her incision, she thought she was hallucinating. It was steady and uniform, a silvery-white disk that showed even through her thumbnail, as bright and finely edged as the light in a Hopper painting. Through the haze of drugs, it seemed to her that the light was not falling over her wound or even infusing it from the inside but radiating through it from another world. She thought that she could live there and be happy.

After the surgery, when she woke, her hand was encased in an odd little glove that immobilized her thumb but left her fingers free to open and close. Her neck was stiff, and her lips were dry, and in her mouth she detected the iron-and-b.u.t.ter taste of blood. At first she thought she was making a sort of mental clerical error, mistaking the aftereffects of thumb surgery for the aftereffects of dental surgery, but when she swept her tongue over her teeth, she brushed up against a pad of cotton batting. She pushed it out onto her palm. A pale glow flickered from somewhere and then went out. She remembered her dream of light and consolation, the sensation of peace and abundance that had come over her, and a voice saying, "This is really freaking me out. Isn't this freaking anyone else out?" and a second voice saying, "We have a job to do, Clayton. Nothing here changes that fact," and then the feeling of escape as she stared into the operating lamp and sleep pulled her under. She was thirsty now, but when she to tried to sit up in bed, a boy in mocha-colored scrubs appeared by her side and said, "Whoa, there. You're still zonked out from the operation. What do you need? Let me get it for you." She asked for something to drink, and he took a bottle of Evian from the tray beside her bed, twisted the cap off, and brought it to her lips, his hand performing a slow genuflection in the air as he tipped the water out. She drained nearly the whole bottle without once pausing for breath. When she was finished, he nodded, a short upward snap of the chin, impressed. "Is there anything else I can help you with? The doctor should be in to check on you soon."

"My mouth. I cut my thumb-just my thumb-but when I woke up, I found all this...stuff in my mouth." She was still holding the square of spit-soaked gauze she had discovered. When she opened her fingers to show it to him, he made a nest of his two good hands beneath her broken one so that she could dump it out. An image of her father came suddenly to mind: the sun was bright and the sky was clear and he was kneeling beside a stream in a state park, making a nest of his own good hands to give her a sip of water, and she paused and frowned, staring into the tiny pool he had created, transfixed by the way the light sent gray blooms of shadows gusting over his palms, and when she pointed it out to him, he laughed and called her his little Impressionist. in my mouth." She was still holding the square of spit-soaked gauze she had discovered. When she opened her fingers to show it to him, he made a nest of his two good hands beneath her broken one so that she could dump it out. An image of her father came suddenly to mind: the sun was bright and the sky was clear and he was kneeling beside a stream in a state park, making a nest of his own good hands to give her a sip of water, and she paused and frowned, staring into the tiny pool he had created, transfixed by the way the light sent gray blooms of shadows gusting over his palms, and when she pointed it out to him, he laughed and called her his little Impressionist.

The orderly had taken her chart from the foot of the bed. "Says here you bit down on your cheek during the operation. Normally that doesn't happen. Just sometimes if there's an anesthesia problem you might wake up for a second and feel a little pain, and you'll have what they call a bite response. A B.R.-that's what this stands for."

"Brrr."

"Are you cold? I can turn the heat up if you want."

"No. I'm fine."

"Okey." That was how he p.r.o.nounced it. "I'll be back in to check on you in a little while."

She had spoken to him for only a few minutes, and she felt so weak, and he was no one who loved her, and when she propped herself up on her elbows to watch him go, her head swam with a thousand colors. She spent a while studying her room: the television pinned by a metal arm to the ceiling, the window looking out on a stand of pine trees, the empty bed, with its sheets in a dead calm. In the hallway, a man walked by wheeling an IV tower with a sack of clear fluid on one of its hooks, his stomach glimmering through his hospital gown. Then a woman stumbled past carrying a flashlight in her left hand. By the time Carol Ann thought to wonder why she was pointing her light down a corridor that was already so clearly illuminated, the woman had slipped out of view. Her arms were trembling from supporting herself, so she lay back down again. The bed's side rails rattled as the mattress took her weight. The pillow rose up around her ears like bread. More and more she had the feeling that she was missing something.

It must have been another hour before the doctor who had first inspected her thumb, Dr. All-That-Blood-of-Yours, Dr. Alstadt, arrived and pulled a stool up to her bed. He sat down and asked her how she was feeling, then leaned in with his stethoscope. He was so close that her gaze was drawn to the smooth spot on his neck, a shape like Kentucky just above his Adam's apple, where the stubble had failed to grow. He smelled like mouthwash, and he used her whole name when he spoke to her. "Well then, Carol Ann Page, let's take a look at that hand of yours, shall we?" He undid the Velcro on her glove so that the material fell away like the peel of a banana, then unwrapped the bandage from around her thumb. Later she would find herself unable to remember which she noticed first: the quarter-inch of her nail that was missing, a straight line exposing the featureless topside of her thumb, or the way the light she thought she had hallucinated was still leaking out from around the wound.

"Your color is good," Dr. Alstadt said. "Can you go like this for me?"

She flexed her thumb in imitation of his. A thrill of pain pa.s.sed through her hand, and the light sharpened, flaring through the black x x's of her st.i.tching.

"Range of motion good, too. It looks like we got to you before any major tissue damage set in. Let me wrap you back up, and you can get a little shut-eye."

"Doctor, wait. What's happening to me? Don't you see this?"

He didn't need to ask, See what? See what? She noted it right away. She noted it right away.

"I forget you've been sleeping all this time. Well, I don't know much more than you do, I'm afraid. It started at eight-seventeen last night. That's locally speaking, but this isn't exactly local news. In fact, I bet if we...here." He picked up the remote control and turned on the television. An episode of an old courtroom sitcom filled the screen, the one with the lecherous prosecutor and the hulking bailiff, but when he changed the station, Carol Ann saw footage of what looked like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Silver sparks appeared to swirl through the bodies of the traders like the static on a broken television. The doctor changed the station again, and she saw a child soldier with his arm in a sling and his shoulder ablaze with light. Then the president of the United States stepping into a helicopter, raising a hand glowing with arthritis at its joints. Then a pair of boxers opening up radiant cuts on each other's faces. The images came one after another, so quickly that she barely had time to identify them. A woman in a blue burka, long pencils of light shining through the net of her veil. A team of cyclists with their knees and feet drawing iridescent circles in the air. A girl with a luminous sc.r.a.pe on her arm, her face caught in an expression of inquisitive fear. When the news anchor addressed the camera, saying how from all around the world today we are receiving continuing reports of this strange occurrence: light, pouring from the injuries of the sick and the wounded how from all around the world today we are receiving continuing reports of this strange occurrence: light, pouring from the injuries of the sick and the wounded, Carol Ann noticed his eyes narrowing and saw something like the flat pulse of heat lightning flashing from his temples. A phenomenon so new and unforeseen- A phenomenon so new and unforeseen-the anchor winced almost imperceptibly as his forehead grew momentarily brighter-that scientists have not yet devised a name for it.

Dr. Alstadt had finished dressing her thumb. Gently, as though cradling a bird's egg, he fit the glove back onto her hand. His voice came out tired and ragged. "Funny how quickly a person can get used to a miracle. Or how quickly a miracle can come to seem commonplace. If that's what this is, a miracle." He stopped, gave himself a derisory sniff, and for the first time since he had entered the room looked her directly in the eye. "See what I mean? 'If that's what this is.' The problem is we're in a hospital. Not exactly an environment conducive to quiet reflection. Well, Carol Ann Page," he said, and he smacked his knees as he stood up. He told her he would be willing to discharge her that afternoon, but that the hospital would be more comfortable if she would consent to stay until Sunday morning so they could watch the area of the injury for any signs of tissue rejection.

Those were his exact words.

The hospital would be more comfortable.

The area of the injury.

Tissue rejection.

When she agreed to remain overnight, he returned her hand to her stomach and said, "That's my girl." He muttered so softly that she wondered if he realized he had spoken. As he left the room she caught the briefest glimpse of the nape of his neck, where a hundred threads of light were twisting like algae in an underwater current.

She filled the morning with daydreaming and television and eating amorphous sogs of peach and pear from the fruit cup on her breakfast tray, and around noon she swallowed some blue tablets a nurse gave her out of a Dixie cup, and shortly after, she came to understand that there was no such thing as pain or solemnity in the world, as remorse or exertion, an anxiety that would not be stilled or a mourning that would not be comforted. She was not sure how long she spent idly pinching her arm, watching the light on her skin bud open and fade like a pair of lips, nearly outside of time, but eventually a couple of orderlies wheeled another patient past her, a woman her own age, and lifted her onto the second bed. "One and two and-" Three Three, Carol Ann finished for them. They brought the woman's blanket up to her chest and tucked a pillow under her skull, allowing her long hair to catch beneath her shoulders. Her head was fishlined to one side, exposing her neck to the air, but the orderlies did not seem to care, and who could blame them, who could blame them, in a room that drifted so lightly through the universe, who could blame them? They left a stack of the woman's belongings on the cabinet by her bed-a journal, a pocketbook, a plastic bag with her clothes and shoes inside it. She had the flawless features of a fashion model, and a face as placid as a kitten's, but there was a wound inside her so bright that Carol Ann could see it burning all the way through the layers of sheets and blankets.

"Are you awake?"

The woman's eyes were open, blinking every so often in a way that seemed almost deliberate, but she did not answer right away. Eventually she said, "I hope not." It was a hope Carol Ann understood, though it was not her own. From the earliest days of her childhood she had harbored the opposite hope-that when she was sleeping, she was actually awake. Her dream life had always been filled with fantasy, whimsy, beautiful reminiscence-never a chase scene, never a nightmare. She would follow a lost ball into a forest where she could understand the conversations of the animals. I hope that I'm awake I hope that I'm awake, she would think. She would take two steps into the air and begin b.r.e.a.s.t.stroking over the rooftops. I hope that I'm awake I hope that I'm awake. She would lie down next to her husband in the years when their kindness to each other was easy. I hope that I'm awake I hope that I'm awake. Every morning she rose from sleep with the same feeling of vague disappointment she experienced when she picked up a ringing phone and heard only a dial tone. Someone had hung up on her.

The pills must have been losing their effect because she no longer felt as if her hands had been cast off from her body, and a thorn of pain went through her thumb when she tried to bend it. She was lying on her side, looking directly at the woman in the second bed, whose blue eyes watched her as she winced and gritted her teeth. "I cut my thumb. What happened to you?"

The other woman struggled free of her reverie. When she spoke, it was like a small bird pausing to appraise the landscape as it hopped across the gra.s.s, carefully forming each sentence before moving on to the next: "The car flipped over on the interstate," and then, "We hit an ice slick when we were going over the river," and then, "There was the truck carrying the steel rods, which we missed, but after that there was the concrete pillar," and finally, "Jason was driving. Not me."

"Who's Jason?"

"My husband."

"Is he all right?"

"They won't tell me. They say I need my rest. But I don't see how he could have..." Her voice sank out of hearing. "I kept asking him if he was okay-'Are you okay? Answer me if you're okay'-but he wouldn't, wouldn't answer. He just hung there upside down in his seat belt." Already Carol Ann had seen several hours of footage about the strange illumination of the injured. She imagined an incandescent lightbulb flooding the car with light until it burned out with a pop. She watched the woman swallow and then bow her head, inadvertently pulling her hair taut. "Every morning he left a note for me on the refrigerator with a different reason he loved me. He never missed a day. I write them down in my book. Would you like to see?"

She indicated the journal lying on the cabinet between their beds. Carol Ann reached for it and let it fall open to a random page: I love those three perfect moles on your shoulder-like a line of b.u.t.tons. I love the sound of your voice over the phone when you're trying to hide the fact that you're doing a crossword puzzle from me. I love your lopsided smile. I love the way you leave a little s.p.a.ce between each piece of bacon on your plate: "amber waves of bacon." I love the way you sway and close your eyes when you're listening to a song you like-a dance, but only from the waist up. I love that moment in bed when you first climb on top of me, and the uprooted smell we leave behind when we're finished. I love the feel of your hands on my cheeks, even when they're "'cold as tea.' 'Hot tea?' 'No, iced tea.'" I love the fact that when you accidentally pick up a hitchhiker, what you're worried about is that he'll steal the DVDs you rented. I love your fear of heights and bridges. I love the way you can be singing a song, and all of a sudden it will turn into a different song, and you'll keep on singing and won't even realize it I love those three perfect moles on your shoulder-like a line of b.u.t.tons. I love the sound of your voice over the phone when you're trying to hide the fact that you're doing a crossword puzzle from me. I love your lopsided smile. I love the way you leave a little s.p.a.ce between each piece of bacon on your plate: "amber waves of bacon." I love the way you sway and close your eyes when you're listening to a song you like-a dance, but only from the waist up. I love that moment in bed when you first climb on top of me, and the uprooted smell we leave behind when we're finished. I love the feel of your hands on my cheeks, even when they're "'cold as tea.' 'Hot tea?' 'No, iced tea.'" I love the fact that when you accidentally pick up a hitchhiker, what you're worried about is that he'll steal the DVDs you rented. I love your fear of heights and bridges. I love the way you can be singing a song, and all of a sudden it will turn into a different song, and you'll keep on singing and won't even realize it.

Carol Ann shut the journal, letting the silk bookmark trail over her wrist. "That's beautiful."

The woman in the other bed nodded, and it might have been intuition, or commiseration, or just the last timed dosage of the blue pills Carol Ann had taken, but she could tell that what she meant to say was, Yes, it was beautiful. It was. It was Yes, it was beautiful. It was. It was.

"You keep it," the woman told her.

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I couldn't bear to read it again."

"You don't want to give something like this away. It's too intimate."

The silence that followed had a strange bend to it. It drew itself out while an old man pushed a walker with tennis b.a.l.l.s on its feet to the nurses' station at the far end of the hallway, then pivoted around with a series of metallic clacks. Eventually the woman let her breath run out, turned her face away, and said to Carol Ann, "You don't understand at all."

Later that day, around four in the afternoon, Carol Ann was watching a hawk wheel over the pine trees outside the window when the woman in the other bed lit up like a signal mirror. The glare was so bright that it suffused the gla.s.s, extinguishing the hawk in midflight. A team of doctors and technicians rushed to the woman's side. Carol Ann shielded her eyes as they worked over her body with their equipment, saying things like, "She's in full arrest, cardiac and respiratory," and, "Sungla.s.ses! I need some sungla.s.ses here!" and, a few minutes later, "S.C.D. at four...thirteen. You can stop now, Miriam. I've called it." One by one the doctors left, and the room fell quiet. The outlines of the shadows began to soften again. The light arising from the woman's bed slowly dwindled until her skin held only a cool spectral glow, like phosph.o.r.escent moss in a cave. Carol Ann did not have enough faith in her powers of observation to tell exactly when the light winked out, only that there came a moment when it appeared the woman's pain was no longer radiating from her body. Her hair had been freed from beneath her back. She lay with her eyes closed, her lips parted as if to take a breath. Once again, it seemed, she was confined to the borders of her flesh.

When the same orderly who had helped Carol Ann drink from the Evian bottle that morning came to box up the woman's possessions, Carol Ann stopped him from taking the journal. She slid it to her own side of the cabinet and pinned it down with her bad hand.

"No, that's mine."

The orderly shrugged. "If you say so, ma'am."

He turned his back to her as he finished his work, avoiding her eyes as he emptied the woman's lunch tray, folded her blanket, and with the help of another orderly hoisted her onto a gurney. Carol Ann knew that she would probably never see him again, and also that it would not matter if she did, for in that instant she had become a thief to him.

Soon after she left the hospital, Carol Ann developed a preoccupation with her wound, testing it a dozen times a day for signs of light and pain. Dr. Alstadt had warned her to avoid the temptation, but she could not resist it. At work or at home, whenever the thought crossed her mind, she would remove the glove splint from around her thumb so that she could trace the cut with her index finger. Her nail had grown over the top line of the incision, but the front and the sides were still exposed, and a narrow welt had formed there, healing up around the st.i.tches. The pain was not as p.r.o.nounced as it had been before, and neither was the light, but if she bent her thumb just right, guiding it into the injury, it would begin to radiate from the inside, pink and warm, showing a tiny net of capillaries and a curved silhouette of bone. It reminded her of the sleepover parties she used to attend when she was in elementary school, how all the girls would take turns shining a flashlight through their hands, making their palms sway around in the dark like j.a.panese lanterns. When she was finished examining herself, she would put the glove back on and seal the straps, and she would think about the hospital and the stand of pine trees and the tranquillity the blue pills had brought her, and if she was at home she would let her eyes drift to the light from the window, and if she was at work, to the light from the computer. She was employed by a subscription news service, compiling accounts of the day's major stories for various players in the stock and banking industries. Every day she devoted a portion of her a.s.sortment to what people had begun to call the Illumination. There was the story of the presidential task force that had been formed to investigate the phenomenon. The story of the Midwestern teenagers cutting luminous tattoos into their skin. The story of the Korean scientist who had spliced a gene of fluorescent jellyfish protein into a feline embryo to create a kitten that glowed in the dark. The story of the Palestinian suicide bombers who interpreted the footage of their brothers' lives ending in an explosion of golden mist as a sign that their cause was blessed by the Lord. She knew that some of these incidents would have no foreseeable effect on the marketplace, but since neither her boss nor her clients seemed to object to them, she kept including them in her packets.

Frequently her mind returned to the woman she had met in the hospital. Maybe it had something to do with her office door, which swung closed with a hitch at the three-quarters mark, brushing against the carpet and then continuing on with a pair of clicks, a sound that suggested the way the woman's voice had broken. Or maybe it was the simple fact that Carol Ann had never seen another person die. She remembered the woman's clear blue eyes, and her deliberate style of blinking, and how long it took the incandescence to fade from her body after the doctors p.r.o.nounced her gone. And why, Carol Ann wondered-why would it have lingered like that? Were we outlived by our pain? How long did it cling to the world? She had held on to the woman's journal, and every day, after she got home from work, she allowed herself to read a page as she relaxed on the sofa: I love the ball you curl into when you wake up in the morning but don't want to get out from under the covers. I love the last question you ask me before bedtime. I love the way you alphabetize the CDs, but arrange the books by height. I love you in your blue winter coat that looks like upholstery fabric. I love the scent of your hair just after you've taken a shower. I love the way, when I take my wedding ring off to do the dishes, you'll put it on your finger and walk around the house saying, "I'm married to me, I'm married to me!" I love how nervous you get when I'm driving. I love the way you say all the things you dislike are "horrible"-and how, when you're really upset, you p.r.o.nounce it "harrible." I love the little parentheses you get beside your lips when you're smiling-the way the left one is deeper than the right. I love the fact that I know I can keep telling you things I love about you for the rest of our lives and I'll never run out I love the ball you curl into when you wake up in the morning but don't want to get out from under the covers. I love the last question you ask me before bedtime. I love the way you alphabetize the CDs, but arrange the books by height. I love you in your blue winter coat that looks like upholstery fabric. I love the scent of your hair just after you've taken a shower. I love the way, when I take my wedding ring off to do the dishes, you'll put it on your finger and walk around the house saying, "I'm married to me, I'm married to me!" I love how nervous you get when I'm driving. I love the way you say all the things you dislike are "horrible"-and how, when you're really upset, you p.r.o.nounce it "harrible." I love the little parentheses you get beside your lips when you're smiling-the way the left one is deeper than the right. I love the fact that I know I can keep telling you things I love about you for the rest of our lives and I'll never run out.

Sometimes she liked to imagine that the journal had a voice and that it was speaking directly to her-a gentle baritone that developed a bit of gravel when it used her name.

I love to wake up in the middle of the night and listen to you sleeping ( (Carol Ann, she added): the funny noises you make when you dream, the tiny pop of your lips separating the funny noises you make when you dream, the tiny pop of your lips separating.

"You're too sweet. Stop it."

I love kissing your tattoos one by one-first the bracelet on your ankle, then the heart on your shoulder, then the Celtic knot on the small of your back.

"That's some imagination you have. There's not a single tattoo on my body."

The truth was that she could extract any line from the book, any line at all, and find more kindness in it than she had heard from her husband in their four years of marriage. In the beginning, when they first started seeing each other, she had been just young and naive enough to mistake his parched inhumanity for an elaborate comic routine. She still remembered the feeling of uneasy awareness shading into panic when she realized he meant every word he said, that Nothing smells worse than an Asian who's just discovered dairy Nothing smells worse than an Asian who's just discovered dairy and and Fat is still fat, even if it's only your wrists Fat is still fat, even if it's only your wrists were not examples of insurrectionary humor, as he saw it, but precise statements of fact. The day she arrived home from the hospital, she had mopped the blood from the kitchen floor and cleaned the tacky brown deposits that dotted the wall and table. She had even washed the carving knife that she somehow found the presence of mind to put in the dish drainer before she left. But she ignored his package, the one that had caused so much trouble, allowing it to sit there on the counter in its jacket of threaded tape. Maybe it was no more than a trick of the subconscious, but every time she saw it, she felt a sudden glinting sensation in her thumb. A week pa.s.sed before she finally built up the nerve to finish opening it. This time she used a pair of scissors, wincing as each white thread burst apart like a tendon. Inside, beneath a mound of excelsior, she found that month's alimony check. His idea of a joke. were not examples of insurrectionary humor, as he saw it, but precise statements of fact. The day she arrived home from the hospital, she had mopped the blood from the kitchen floor and cleaned the tacky brown deposits that dotted the wall and table. She had even washed the carving knife that she somehow found the presence of mind to put in the dish drainer before she left. But she ignored his package, the one that had caused so much trouble, allowing it to sit there on the counter in its jacket of threaded tape. Maybe it was no more than a trick of the subconscious, but every time she saw it, she felt a sudden glinting sensation in her thumb. A week pa.s.sed before she finally built up the nerve to finish opening it. This time she used a pair of scissors, wincing as each white thread burst apart like a tendon. Inside, beneath a mound of excelsior, she found that month's alimony check. His idea of a joke.

She spent eight hours a day sifting through stories about the economy and the Illumination, the vaccine shortage in Africa and the latest defense postures in the Middle East, so much misery that it made her head ache, and the last thing she wanted to do when she got home was watch the news. Usually, after reading a page of the journal, she would make a simple meal of soup or pasta for herself, take it to the dining room, and flip through one of the catalogs that had arrived in the mail that afternoon. Sometimes, in the endless inventory of throw rugs, wool sweaters, and fireplace cribs, she would momentarily forget everything that had ever happened to her, closing the last page and returning to her own life like a moviegoer stepping out of a darkened theater, dazed by the angle of the light.

She found it relatively easy to cook while she was wearing the glove, and to eat and type and drive, but not everything came so effortlessly. Shoes were a problem. Washing the dishes. Shaving beneath her right arm. She liked to knit every night before she went to bed, but knitting was impossible now, so instead she took to lying on the sofa watching rebroadcasts of various daytime talk shows-the one with the straight-talking Texan who walked offset holding hands with his wife, the one with the people who threw chairs at one another. Whenever the talk shows' guests were blindsided by grief, a kind of nimbus would settle around them, a colorless shimmering cloud that seemed to be exhaled directly from their pores, fainter even than the light from a hangnail. Was she seeing their emotional pain, she wondered, or its physical counterpart, like the raw throat that followed a bout of crying, or the stomach cramps that accompanied a wave of anxiety, or the gripping sensation you felt in your chest when you realized the man you were married to despised you? Physical or emotional, it didn't matter-the aura was unmistakable. Even on her old eighteen-inch Curtis Mathes, she could always tell when the people on the talk shows were really suffering and when they were merely playacting for the cameras.

She began to notice the same aura when she was out in public. She saw it on crossing guards, panhandlers, neighbors, coworkers. It was a simple matter of training herself not to dismiss the sight as a mirage. One day, a couple of weeks into the Illumination, she was on her lunch break when her joints began to ache and her skin felt cold to the touch and she knew she was coming down with a fever. The bottle of Advil in her purse was empty, so she pulled up to a convenience store and ran inside for a packet of pain relievers. A man was blocking the pharmaceutical shelf. Even from behind, she could see that he was distraught about something. The air wavered over his body like the air around the edges of a flame. He took a bag of cough drops from a hook, then looked up at her and gave a weak smile. "Carol Ann Page," he said, and tapped his thumb with his index finger.

In an instant she recognized him. "Dr. Alstadt."

"How's that thumb of yours?"

It was stinging, she realized, stinging and cold. A frigid glow had spread down through her glove, radiating past the bones of her wrist. "Not so good today. Are you all right? Did something just happen to you?"

He touched his brow, a nervous tic, smoothing down a cowlick that must have stood far back in the thicket of his hair when he was younger but projected from the bare curve of his forehead now like a minnow leaping out of a still pond. "And here I thought I was hiding it so well. A bad day at work, that's all. But here-let me take a look at you." He undid the glove from her hand, a gesture that seemed strangely intimate in the buzzing luminosity of the soda cabinet. A noise of concern escaped him. "Oh, Carol Ann. My. How long has it been like this?"

"Like what?"

"Do you see how the color changes here at the scar line? That's a sign of severe vasoconstriction. Let me ask you, does it hurt-does it light up and sort of tighten tighten when you expose it to the cold?" when you expose it to the cold?"

"Yes. It does do that."

"And when did you first notice the symptom?"

"'The symptom'? I didn't know it was a symptom. It's been sensitive to the cold ever since I came home from the hospital. Is that what you're asking?"

"No, that's to be expected. What I'm asking is when did you notice the color color change?" change?"

Just now, she supposed. Just this moment. When she cut her eyes across the floor, she saw a starfield of spinning dots, and she had lived in this world for so long, and she wanted so desperately for someone to be in love with her, and for a moment she had to lock her knees to prevent them from buckling.

"Dr. Alstadt, I'm not feeling so well."

He took her by the elbow. "Are you good to drive? I think we need to get you to the hospital." She waited to see if the dots would leave her head, and when they did, she straightened her back and nodded. "All right. Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to ask you to follow me, okay?" he insisted. "Let me check out first, and then we'll go."

He took the cough drops to the counter. While he was paying for them, she called the office and explained that she would be late returning to work that afternoon: "A medical emergency. I'm not sure really. Hopefully by three o'clock." She hung up and put the phone in her purse, listened to the cashier clearing his lungs. Glancing at him, she saw two dim blossoms of what must have been cancer showing through his polyester shirt. Cancer or maybe emphysema.

A mid-afternoon gloom had settled over the city, making the trees darker than the sky. A light rain was falling. As she followed Dr. Alstadt to the hospital, she thought about all the times she had sat in the backseat of the car when she was small and her parents were young and they were driving her to church or to school, watching windblown fleets of raindrops chasing one another across the gla.s.s.

The hospital's main doors opened onto an atrium with a gently sloping ceiling of metal trimmers and polished gla.s.s. She kept looking up at the rain on the roof and then down at its reflection on the floor, hundreds of semitransparent shadows that flowed across the tiles like snakes. A bird had built its nest into one of the ceiling's upper struts, and she wondered what it did on days like this: Did it tuck its head beneath its wings or just stand there stolidly and wait for the weather to turn?

She followed Dr. Alstadt down a chain of hallways and through the emergency ward, where a nurse was sorting patients into admission groups, saying, "Green group, green group, yellow group, green." In the last few weeks, it seemed, the hospital had established a system of treating patients based on the strength of the light emanating from their bodies. The Illumination had ushered in a new age of critical care. Doctors no longer had to rely on their patients to tell them how badly they were suffering. "Head light and heart light take priority, of course," Dr. Alstadt told her, "along with any obvious major traumas. Then we take all the other lights and make a visual determination of their severity."

The walls were tilting toward Carol Ann suddenly. She became aware that he had paused between sentences, and she made the noise she seemed to recall normal people making when they wanted to show an interest in something. The doctor steadied her with his hand. "Good Lord. You're really not feeling well, are you? Let's get you a bed."

He showed her into an examination room.

"You rest here a minute, and I'll go find the vascular specialist."

The curtains ballooned outward as he left, then settled back against the window. She saw that the pain a.s.sessment chart, with its six faces transforming from glee to agony, had been taken down from the wall. It was no longer necessary, she supposed, now that the Illumination had taken hold. She felt a pulse of blood traveling through her thumb, too much of it for so small a s.p.a.ce, and she closed her eyes and waited for the twinge to pa.s.s, and before long Dr. Alstadt had returned with a young Indian man he introduced as Dr. Kimberley, his neck starlit with a fresh shaving rash.

Dr. Kimberley said, "I understand your injury has been misbehaving on you, Miss Ann-Page. Let's see what we can do about that. May I?" He removed her glove and took the base of her thumb between his fingers, pressing against the two indentations the splint's metal stays had left there, compacted to a smooth pale sheen. He was like a carpenter using a wood clamp, and as he tightened his grip, she watched her thumb change colors, instantly reddening below the line of the cut and gradually pinkening above it.

Dr. Alstadt made a grimacing noise with the corners of his mouth. Dr. Kimberley shook his head. "You see," he said. "This is what happens when you skip your follow-up appointments."

"But I didn't skip my follow-up appointments. I had a follow-up appointment last week. I have another follow-up appointment on Thursday."

"Oh. Well. Then sometimes these things happen."

The rest of it seemed to transpire very quickly. Once again she was given a shot in the crook of her elbow, and once again her skin began to tingle, and once again she had the sensation that all her life until just that moment she had been falling toward the ground and suddenly, instead, she was floating above it, and the world looked so handsome, and the light so sweet and welcoming, and she cried as she lay there waiting for the orderlies to take her into the strange, blue, humming, capacious elevator. When she woke up and tried to wipe the grit from her eyes, she found that there was a boxing glove on her hand, and then her mind cleared and she realized that the boxing glove was a bandage, wrapped so tightly that it had fixed her fingers together into a sort of trowel. A machine beeped next to her left ear. A woman in dark green nursing scrubs came in to check on her. When Carol Ann asked her how the operation had gone-where was her glove? could she go home now?-the nurse looked at her chart and said, "Maybe we should wait for the doctor to explain things to you," and then, "Calm down, now, Miss, calm down. There's no need for us to raise our voices, is there?" and finally, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but your thumb has been amputated at the knuckle." It took almost a full minute for Carol Ann to understand that the schools of fish swimming in slow spasms across her vision meant that she was holding her breath. The nurse opened a water bottle, placed a pair of the blue pills on her tongue, and helped her swallow them. Then came the long hours of careless a.s.sent and easy reminiscence she had dreamed about while she was sitting behind her desk at work. Memory after memory leafed open in her mind like buds on a tree. The time she found her babysitter rubbing one of her mother's bras against his cheek. The night she spilled her popcorn on the usher at the movie theater. The Matisse and Duchamp posters with which her college roommate had decorated their dorm room. The fountain outside the library where someone had arranged the coins to spell Mike Rules! Mike Rules! Her recovery suite had a single bed this time, and she could run the lamp or change the position of her mattress without fear of disturbing anyone. She did not recall turning the television on, but on it certainly was, and she watched two men in cheap suits debating how the Illumination had affected our duty toward animals, or "the lower creatures of the world," as they kept calling them. One of the men's ties was sending irritated little glimmers up his neck. An abscessed tooth was radiating from the other's mouth. Every so often there was a film clip of a stack of poultry pens in the bed of a trailer, the wire cages giving off innumerable white flashes; or a jockey hieing a horse around a track, its knees and shoulders burning with the strain of the race; or a gang of children flinging gravel at a stray dog, beads of light opening on its body as it tried to twist out of the way. Her recovery suite had a single bed this time, and she could run the lamp or change the position of her mattress without fear of disturbing anyone. She did not recall turning the television on, but on it certainly was, and she watched two men in cheap suits debating how the Illumination had affected our duty toward animals, or "the lower creatures of the world," as they kept calling them. One of the men's ties was sending irritated little glimmers up his neck. An abscessed tooth was radiating from the other's mouth. Every so often there was a film clip of a stack of poultry pens in the bed of a trailer, the wire cages giving off innumerable white flashes; or a jockey hieing a horse around a track, its knees and shoulders burning with the strain of the race; or a gang of children flinging gravel at a stray dog, beads of light opening on its body as it tried to twist out of the way.

Dr. Alstadt must have gone home already, because the girl who came to replace her bandages that night could not have been older than twenty-five, fresh out of medical school, her hair held back with a pair of tortoisesh.e.l.l barrettes. At first Carol Ann was too apprehensive to look at what remained of her thumb, and she kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling until the girl was finished, but a few hours later, when the same doctor returned to change the dressing again, a nurse had fortified her with a second dose of the blue pills and she was able to investigate the amputation. It was not as gruesome as she had imagined it would be. She had a neat little half-thumb now, homely but not repulsive, the crease along the center sewn so tightly together that the st.i.tching looked like one continuous black thread. The injury shone like a penlight where the tendons had been sliced apart, and she was aware of the pain, but she did not mind it nearly as much as she suspected she should. The doctor swabbed her thumb with a clear, sharp-smelling liquid that evaporated almost immediately, then cushioned and rewrapped it. She was saying something about the importance of keeping the area disinfected when Carol Ann drifted off to sleep.

She woke with a start. It was three in the morning. For a moment she thought she had left the television on, but the flickering she saw from the corner of her eye turned out to be her own arm, flung haphazardly over the pillow. Waves of light were following each other all the way from her hand to her shoulder, a display she might have found hypnotic if it hadn't hurt so much. Her head ached, and so did her back. She was grinding her teeth, and there was an awful tightness in her stomach. Obviously, the pills had worn off, and with the sickness came the desperation-it had always been that way. The serenity she had accepted so naturally just a few hours before was gone now. She could hardly remember what it felt like. Here, in this place, her life seemed like one long litany of wounds, ending in these sweat-drenched sheets with half her thumb missing and stretching back through time in an unbroken sequence of bone fractures and muscle strains, sunburns and concussions, black eyes and canker sores. There was a light in her hand, and a light in her head, and doubtless a light in her memories, too. She had known days of happiness and beauty, rare moments of motionless wonder, but trying to relive them after they had vanished was like looking out the window at night from a partially lit room: no matter how interesting the view, there was always her own reflection, hovering over the landscape like a ghost. That face, it was the problem. Those eyes and that skin. She wished that she could throw the gla.s.s open for once and see things as they really were.

If she remained absolutely still, she thought, then maybe, just maybe, she would fall asleep again, and she lay on her side for a while watching the bands of light travel up her arm. When she realized the cause was hopeless, she got up to use the bathroom. After she was finished, she made the mistake of reaching for the faucet with her left hand and was. .h.i.t by a jolt of pain so severe that her legs locked upright and she had to Frankenstein-walk back to her bed. It took a long time for her knees to loosen up, and even longer for the glow in them to subside.

Shortly after the sun rose, an orderly brought her a breakfast of orange juice and scrambled eggs. A nurse followed behind him with a chaser of blue pills. A few hours later, Dr. Alstadt found her staring out the window at the cars on the freeway, just sedated enough to be comfortable but just sober enough to be clearheaded. "h.e.l.lo, Carol Ann," he said. He reached out as if to take the loop of hair that was dangling over her eye and brush it back with his fingers, then thought better of it and dropped his hand. "How are you holding up?"

"Where's Dr. Barrettes?"