Fake Secret

The view from my window offers landscapes that painters could only dream of. Acres of grassy fields with squirrels and birds playing a merry game of chase. And every day I long to be able to experience the outdoors, without a piece of glass separating me from that magical world.

As far back as I can remember, I have never been outside. And I can remember far back. I have to, memories keep me from going mad out of boredom.

I am seventeen; I have never gone to school. My parents have taught me all I know. They’ve even attempted to get me to take online classes. But I’ve never cared for learning because I’ll never apply it to anything.

So I sit on my shadow seat, like a window seat, but in the shadows, opposite the window. I stare out of it every day, as if expecting to find something I didn’t see yesterday. I always do. And I’m always longing to be a part of the beautiful outside world, almost close enough to touch…

But I can’t do it. I mean I could. There’s no law against it and my parents aren’t home or anything, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

The window is open, too, but only because it’s stuffy in here, letting the summer breeze flutter in. I can smell it, and it’s so tempting to just go over there and stick my head out and say hello to the butterflies, beckoning to me from the window. I want to go out there so badly.

But doing so would kill me.

My parents told me that a few days after I was born, I was diagnosed with a severe allergy to UVA and UVB rays. This pretty much means I’m allergic to sunlight. On the bright side, it’s likely I’ll never get skin cancer.

Bright sunlight hurts my eyes, too, but I look out the window so often, it doesn’t bother me so much anymore.

There are complications with it, too, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the allergy, it’s probably just me. I’m always cold, even in the summer. Even now, with the warm breeze flowing in. I’m jittery and anxious a lot, but that’s to be expected, being cooped up inside for seventeen years. I was clinically depressed when I was fifteen, no one could guess why.

I don’t interact with anyone but my parents, and they aren’t even home half the time. My dad’s a miracle surgeon, or so the people say. Mama’s a lawyer, but works part time at a bookstore so she gets me books all the time, whatever seems interesting. My favorites are the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. I envy her characters so much, and they’re complete works of fiction.

It’s likely I’ll never leave the house. I’ll never have friends or a job. I’ll never get married or feel the grass beneath my feet, or travel. I’ll never understand the real world. It’s like I’m in prison, the open window being my torture chamber.

Mama says the real world is harsh and I should be grateful that it’s something I don’t have to deal with. But you can’t be grateful for what you don’t know. You’ll just be miserable.

Every time my parents come home and I tell them I’m hungry, Mama and Dad exchange glances and Mama announces that she’s off to the bank. Every time she comes back with some special thick red stuff that she puts in my drink, claiming that it’s supposed to make me stronger. I always feel more energetic and alert, but that just makes me want to go outside even more.

But this time they ignore me, maybe they didn’t hear me. So I say it again, louder this time.

“Mama, I’m hungry,”

She still doesn’t answer. I say it again. This time she turns to me with a faraway look in her eyes. It’s then that I realize she’s been crying.

“Mama?” I ask, careful not to upset her. “What’s wrong?”

But she just shakes her head at me and tells Dad to go to the bank for her, because she’s tired.

That’s never a good sign. Last time she sent Dad out to the bank, she was sick. Something is definitely up.

She sits on my shadow seat with me, something she never does, because it’s a shadow seat. Mama loves the sun.

“Mama?” I ask, entering hysterics but careful to keep it out of my voice. I have to be strong for Mama.

She just starts crying, like actually, painfully crying. Mama never cries.

“What happened?”

She looks at me and sobs some more. I wait, sitting with her on my shadow seat. She has to talk sometime.

Suddenly, she cries “There’s no cure!” and it comes out all muffled and weird-sounding, but I understand.

My dad’s been looking for a cure for my sun allergy for some time, now. Apparently Mama’s given up hope. It makes sense; right, to stop trying after seventeen years of failure? I guess I’ll never see outside.

Mama tries to stop crying for me, I think it’s hit her harder than it has me. I understand that she tries to be strong for me, but she’s been through so much. How long can you really keep lying to yourself that everything’s okay and some crap like that and expect to stay strong? I’ve accepted it long ago. I’ve never expected a miracle. My luck doesn’t work that way. And if you expect less, you’ll never be disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” she says after her tears have mostly subsided.“I had hoped for so much better for you. I guess it will have to be one of my useless dreams.” She looks like she’s about to burst into tears again.

“Mama, it’s okay,” I try to comfort her. “Of course there’s hope,”

But she shakes her head. “I’ll never see a cure.” She cries.

“Why do you say that?” I want to know.

She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “This has been around for ages and we just found out about it seventeen years ago. No one believes it exists, even though they’re informed of it, but no one finds it realistic enough.”

At least she’s calmed down a bit. Maybe I’ll get some information.

“What if I just go out at night?” I try. “Then I can go to night school and really build a life for myself.”

But Mama gets this horrified look on her face and her eyes open wide. “No! No, you can never go out only at night!”

I stare at her blankly, wondering why this idea is so repulsive to her. Normal people do it all the time.

She explains without me asking. “If you corrupt your normal sleeping patterns, you could die. I read that while researching, because I had the same idea. And the moon beams are actually sunbeams, you’re still allergic to them.”

I don’t believe the first one, because people that go to night school have to sleep sometime, and it’s getting a bit popular. Although I’d heard that if you don’t get enough sleep, you get sick.

The second one is true; I have to admit, but what about the new moon? There's no light then. She can’t protest to that, can she?

“Okay,” I try again, wanting freedom so badly, I can almost taste it. “What if I wear all long clothing and carry a sun umbrella?”

She’s about to protest, but I interrupt. “I don’t care if I look like a freak, I practically am one.”

But she goes on. “The sunbeams reflect off the sidewalk and into your face,” she answers right away, as if my questions are to be expected.

I get fed up with her evasiveness. I want answers. I’m so impatient that I’m practically shouting. “What will really happen if I go outside? Huh? Would I die? Will I get severe sunburn? Can’t I just wear SPF five thousand? Is it really that bad?” I’m firing questions so fast that even I’m confused.

But she tries to answer anyway, because she wants me to understand. But all she can do is stammer out “I--uh, I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”

And the door slams open and Mama is out of her seat saying, “I’d better fix your food.”

Dad is home. I’ll admit that I almost completely forgot that I was hungry. Mama goes to help Dad with everything, avoiding my questions. But there is plenty of time for questions later.

Every day, I have the same thing for dinner. And every day it tastes different. Like, every day, Mama gets a different brand.
But today is especially different, probably because Dad got it. My ‘energy drink’ and sandwich (of turkey or ham, depending on the season, lettuce, mayonnaise, cheese and tomatoes) does get a bit repetitive, but it’s always a surprise. I’ve always wanted to know why.

So I ask, “Mama?” I say. “Why does my food taste different every day?”

I see the look of panic cross Mama’s face, distorting her features, and Dad stiffens in his chair, as if preparing to die.

“What? Did I say something wrong?” I ask, worried.

“No, dear,” Mama recovers quickly. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because my food tastes different every day,” Obviously.

“What do you mean?” Dad wants to know. I almost forget how his voice is, he hardly ever talks anymore.

“The question was perfectly clear.” I inform him almost smugly.

“It shouldn’t taste different. Are you feeling okay?” Mama says.

Now she’s really getting on my nerves, her and Dad both.

I am so infuriated that I get up out of my chair and shout. “What is the matter with you?"

My parents are taken aback. “Sit down right now, young lady, you’re at the dinner table.” My dad says in a stern voice that made me want to run to my room and hide.

I glare at them, expecting nothing, but sit down after a while, giving up the staring contest. As soon as I’m done, I run to my room without excusing myself from the table.

I slam my door shut, fuming. Why couldn’t they just answer a simple question? I notice they’ve been doing that a lot lately, being evasive and spacing out. Sometimes they just pretend they didn’t hear me and ask me what I said. I never bother asking twice in one day. They even have the nerve to go all out and ignore me.

But something is up, and I want to know what it is. They're doing that of late, too. They make cryptic remarks that are supposed to explain something, but end up leaving me with more questions than I started out with.

I wish I could be in a book, so I could go outside in theory. So I pick up a random book from my bedside table. It's Twilight, one of my favorites. I begin reading, remembering how I envy Bella and sometimes even Edward. They're both free in a sense and had endless possibilities for them.

And being a vampire sounds so cool, outside of the troubling factors. They could have special abilities, like seeing the future, and they could practically fly. And they could be outside all they wanted to, when it wasn’t in front of people. This makes me envy the Cullens even more.

It is then that I contemplate running away, like if they wouldn’t give me the answers, I would go out and get them myself. But that isn’t something you just decided to do out of nowhere, is it?

And the health complications getting in the way, like I can’t just go outside and avoid the sun. It's like going to the beach to escape water. It just doesn’t make sense. Not that I’m the type of person to make sense anyway, but still.

So I make a promise to myself. Tomorrow, or whenever I get around to asking them, if my parents don’t give me the answers I need, I’ll stick my hand into the sun. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s a big deal as far as my parents are concerned.

Satisfied, I fall asleep.

I always have vivid dreams. Tonight, I am a vampire, running as fast as the speed of light, in a rainy forest. My curly brown hair that extends to my waist flows behind me like a cape, my blue eyes glistening with anticipation. I am with someone that I don’t recognize, laughing with me as we speed through the forest.

This is probably because I just read Twilight. But I realize that I look a little bit like Bella Swan. Not just in the dream, but in reality. We have the same hair, but mine is way longer. We’re both pale, but that goes without saying; I’m never in the sun. The only real blatant difference in our appearance is that
I have blue eyes and her eyes are brown.

I wish I could sleep forever. I realize now that I’m not afraid to do that; I’m not afraid to dream or sleep forever. I realize, also, that I’m not afraid to die.

But dreams get repetitive and boring after a while, so you have to wake up eventually. That is exactly what I do.

I wish I could say that I wake up to sunlight streaming through my window and into my eyes. But, alas, this is not the case, and the blinds of my windows are tightly shut. So tightly shut, in fact, that it could be night for all I know. I decide to get up anyway. There’s no point in procrastinating, I figure.

I try to find my way through the darkness and out of my room. I head to the window to open the blinds. I do this by myself all the time. I just have to stand far to the side so a ray that falls to the wayside doesn’t hit me.

But I am suddenly blinded as I come from the hallway leading from my room. The blinds are already open. That means it is past noon. That means I slept in. That means my parents left already.

I sink to my shadow seat in defeat. I missed my chance and overslept. I feel so stupid. How does that happen? I never sleep in, that I know of. Why do I choose now to sleep in? Self-fulfilling prophecy, I tell you. Mark my words.

The way I see it, self-fulfilling prophecy is kind of like the opposite of what you expect. Like you’re sure as the sun will rise tomorrow that someone’s going to ask you this one question that you don’t want to answer at all. So you’re up half the night wondering about the story you’ll make up to cover it, or how you’ll get out of answering it, etc. You go through all these possibilities in your head. And then the next day, they don’t ask you anything. Not even a casual remark in the conversation. Nothing.

Either that, or you’re hoping and praying with every fiber of your being that something happens or doesn’t happen. And the opposite of what you wanted to happen, happens.

I may have invented that, with just my luck alone. I have the worst luck ever. But that’s a given.

As I sit on my shadow seat, I hear a noise. Not like a normal noise like the house settling in the mid-summer heat, but a noise more like footsteps on the wood floor. But that’s impossible, right?? Because nobody’s home, right??

Wrong.

I definitely hear footsteps. Who could it be, I wonder. It’s a bit creepy to hear footsteps that aren’t my own, especially at this hour.

Mama emerges from the shadows. She never emerges from the shadows; she’s too bright to blend in.

I am immediately confused. “Mama?” I ask. She should know what I mean.

“It is weird that I’m home, isn’t it?” she asks, a crooked smile on her face and an apology in her eyes.

“Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I say in bewilderment. “Why?” I ask after a pause.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Mama says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe she’s sick; she said she wasn’t feeling well yesterday.

“Okay,” I say awkwardly. I look up at her expectantly.

She sits down with me again. She sighs, like she’s been expecting everything the whole time, and it will take forever to explain.

“You know how you’ve been asking all these questions lately?”

I nod. How can I forget? She takes that as a cue to go on. But she hesitates, like she doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Do you really want to know what will happen if you step out into the sun?” she asks.

I nod, standing up, eager to finally leave the house.

“Sit down, you really don’t want to do that,” she says, pulling me back on the shadow seat. I sigh. “Don’t even think about giving me a guilt trip.” She warns. “What will happen if step into the sun is your skin will get all red like a rash and it’ll hurt. A lot. Enough exposure and the radiation will kill you. She says forlornly, but like a strict admonition, too, and I can tell she’s been planning this speech for a long time.

I pause. “Why didn’t you tell me this before??” I almost whisper.

Mama softens a bit. “Oh, honey, we didn’t want to scare you,” she says.

“It’s more scary that you didn’t tell me. What else are you not telling me?” I want to know.

“We’ll tell you when the time is right,” she says, avoiding my question. “I’m going to the bank, I’ll be back,” she gets up and leaves, giving me a look that says, ‘don’t try anything funny,’

Now I have time to think. It doesn’t make any sense. The allergy to sunlight is real enough, this I know. But the radiation isn’t reflected, is it?? Without an answer, I assume it isn’t.

So what is really wrong with me, then? What is really wrong with me being in the shade outside? It’s better than nothing. I’d suggested it a few years back, but still got a “no”

I contemplate going outside just to see if my parents are really telling the truth, or if there’s a different reason as to why I can’t go outside. To me, it seems like a good idea.

But I decide against it; Mama will be home any minute and, if she’s right, I don’t want her to see me dead on the floor.

No. I’ll wait for tomorrow, when I’ll really be alone.

I glance out the window again. Funny, how I could swear I saw a person there a second ago. I shake my head to clear it. My peripheral vision is probably playing tricks on me. I can only hope so much for company. I sigh, expecting no change.

When Mama returns, I eat in silence. But she surprises me.
When I finish, she asks “Ari, are you okay?”

Again, I’m surprised. The only names my parents really call me are pet names, like ‘honey’ and ‘sweetie’, or nothing at all. Instead, she calls me by my nickname. This surprises me more than it did when I found out I will never step outside in my life.

I hesitate. Something must be up.

“Ari?” Mama asks, careful not to upset me, it seems.

“It’s nothing, Mama,” I say carefully. “Why did you call me Ari?”

She softens a bit. “You never hear your name. I don’t want you to forget who you are.” And with that she leaves me in my state of confusion.

I wander to my room, wondering what she could possibly mean by she doesn’t want me to forget who I am. How can I possibly forget?

My rational side suggests that she’s genuinely worried about me, that I’m always by myself, wrapped up in my dreams, that I don’t focus on what’s happening now. I don’t live in the moment. In my daydreams, I could live in a completely different place and have a completely different name for all she knows. And I could agree with that.

My imaginative side counters well, though. It suggests that something might actually be wrong with me. That the fact that she used my nickname is an omen and a bad omen at that. I can’t find it in myself to figure out the details, but I can’t help but think that this is true.

I can’t even escape the theory in my dreams. It’s like the feeling is etched in my brain, my bones. It’s unshakeable; it won’t cease to exist until the terror passes. And this scares me more than anything. More than death.

In my dreams I’m running. From what, I don’t know. All I know is it’s too dark to see, but I can feel a roughness beneath my feet. This simply means that my dreams have forcefully dragged me outside, though not against my will.

I hear a voice I don’t recognize yelling at me to run. But I don’t know where I’m supposed to run. I can’t even see the ground beneath my feet. But I don’t stop. I can’t, knowing that upon stopping, or even slowing, my life will abruptly come to a permanent halt.

I jolt awake, panic-stricken. It takes me a minute to calm my breathing, realizing that it is only a dream. The only reason that I don’t realize this before is because I never have bad dreams.

Relief and panic wash over me at the same in an impenetrable wave.

Relief: the omen proved true, and the bad has passed.

Panic: the omen proved true and there may still be worse to come.

I decide to calm down for now, and go back to sleep. The clock tells me it is one in the morning. I have sleep to catch up on. Though I don’t know if I’ll be able to get there unless I stop thinking about bad omens.

Satisfied, after a few moments, I fall asleep, hoping not to have any more dreams for the time being. Hope is usually on my side.

But now, you never can tell.

I drift off to sleep, trying not to think of the decision I will have to make when I wake up again.

I wake up in the morning for the second time from a restless, dreamless sleep. I am still a little tense and would probably jump five feet in the air at the drop of a pin.

With a sigh, I climb out of my bed, sauntering into the living room to open the blinds. I am beyond noticing anything strange.

I sit on my shadow seat, thinking of what Mama said yesterday. She was saying something about telling me everything when the time is right. To her, that day may never come.

So what will I do in the meantime? Wither away into nothingness while awaiting permission to die? I can’t have that.

Considering that, what do I have to lose?

The same thoughts run around in my head all day. I chase them, being dragged in endless circles.

And when I think I have an answer, it dances away, always on the periphery, never within reach.

I’m thinking so hard that I don’t even hear the door open, or Mama walk into the room and gasp. I can guess what she sees. I’m concentrating so hard on what I should do, about to make a decision. My face sometimes betrays my emotions, though not always.

So I have to struggle to compose my features to assure Mama I’m all right.

She rushes to my side, immediately concerned. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.

I turn towards her, as if just realizing she’s there. I half-smile to assure her that I’m all right. “Perfect,” I say.

She looks me over skeptically. “You’re a horrible liar, Ari,” she says, moving my bangs so they’re out of my face. She can probably see the faraway, glazed look in my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

I sigh, giving up on trying to make her feel better. “Just thinking of what you told me yesterday. I look her in the eye and immediately regret it. She looks so pained, like she really doesn’t want me to know anything.

“Mama?” I say tentatively. “I need to know. What else is there?” I try to make my voice reasonable but firm. And I don’t want to sound whiney.

A look of terror crosses her face and I almost take the words back. Almost. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling horrible about the whole thing.

She looks down at her hands folded on her lap. I never saw her sit down next to me. I wonder when I missed that. She glances up at me from underneath her eyelashes, takes a deep breath, and whispers, “I would tell you if I could, you know I would. But I-I just can’t right now.”

Never before have I ever seen Mama struggle for words. I am overwhelmed with sympathy, and relieved that she would tell me, but neither surpasses my unyielding curiosity and desire, no, needing to know.

I put a hesitant, cold hand over Mama’s in comfort. “Mama,” I say. I change my question at the last minute. “Why can’t you tell me?”

She looks up at me with shocked and fearful eyes. “You won’t be mad?” she asks.

I almost scoff at that, but it won’t help anything if I do. “Of course not, Mama,” I assure her.

She looks up at me still, with a mysterious edge in her eyes. “I never wanted to keep this from you, Ari,” she takes a deep breath, preparing to tell me, it seems.

She never finishes her sentence, though.

I hear a door slam open, and Mama gasps. The sun streaming through the half-open window is momentarily clouded with shade, but when I look toward the window, the sun is back, not a cloud in the sky.

“MILLISCENT!!” I hear in a booming voice that has me cowering against my shadow seat in fear, covering my ears.

Mama sighs, but tenses, getting up to see what Dad is yelling about. Dad never yells.

I hear hushed, quick voices in the kitchen, and my ears are sensitive enough to make out rustled leaves outside the window.

I wonder why the sun was briefly blocked from my peripheral vision a moment ago. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky there still isn’t.

My mind does some quick calculating, connecting it to all the other weird things that have been happening of late.

It only figures.

The voices from the kitchen are getting quicker, like interrupted, unfinished thoughts, but louder, as if they don’t care whether or not I hear. I’m sitting less then ten feet away, after all.

I can only make out bits and pieces, and if I lean far enough to the left I can almost hear.

“But she has every right in the world—“ Mama tries to say.

“Some things are better left unsaid.” Dad interrupts.

“She wants to know.” Mama says in an almost pleading voice.

“You don’t know what this could do to her.” Dad says, sounding overprotective and on the borderline edge of denial.

“Neither do you,” Mama contradicts. Dad says nothing. The silence lasts only a second, but it screams tension and anger and defiance.

“And,” Mama continues, taking advantage of Dad’s momentary lapse in speech. “It can’t be any worse than her reaction when we told her she couldn’t play with the neighbors. Surely you remember,”

I remember well. It was a perfect spring day, and I was three. It’s my first memory. I’d skipped up to Mama, hearing the squeals and screams of the neighbors as they played tag in their yards, their parents talking.

I’d pulled Mama’s skirt to get her attention. “Mama,” I’d said. “Can I go play with the neighbors? Please?”

I remember craning my neck to see Mama’s reaction. Her face turned ghost-white and she nearly dropped the egg she was about to crack. “No, honey,” she’d said. “You can’t go outside,”

I’d looked at her quizzically, cocking my head to the side. Clearly that was not the question I’d asked. Nor was it the reaction I’d expected.

I remember her telling me that I could never go outside, and she explained it to me. Clearly she edited.

I’d sulked in my room for three days, not coming out of my room, the blinds drawn. Complete darkness. Alone.

I shake my head to clear it. I can’t think about that right now; Dad’s speaking again.

“Exactly my point. She’s never been the same it would have been easier if we’d told her to go ahead and play with the neighbors.”

I frown. That doesn’t make sense.

“She would be so much better if she had the truth. She deserves it. And then if she decides to go, she can. It’s her choice. It’s her life. And I’m not going to be responsible for breaking it. She has too much to lose. She needs to live her life.” Mama says firmly, defiantly.

“Don’t you think it’ll be worse if she tall her? She might hate herself for what she is. Hell, it comes straight out of one of her books!” Dad exclaims.

I frown again. This makes even less sense than it did before.

“She loves books. She’s lived her life in them. They’re her only variety in her day. She can’t stay locked up inside for the rest of her life. She has the ability to change the world, for crying out loud! Everyone has this potential. If it was someone else, would you have the same reluctance?” Mama counters.

I agree with Mama wholeheartedly. Though it seems neither of them are winning at all.

Dan says nothing. The house is silent for one long, immeasurable moment.

“Please?” Mama asks, breaking the silence. “She deserves so much better than this. Please?”

I hold my breath, anticipating—what? Approval? Denial? What am I expecting besides more confusion?

I hear a grim smile in Dad’s voice. “We’ll talk about it later. The walls have ears.” They finally acknowledge my presence, able to hear them. It took them long enough.

The tension ebbs and Mama sighs almost in relief. “Thank you,”

“Don’t thank me.” He says firmly.

Mama smirks, I am sure. “Not yet,” she says.

I sit back against the wall, curling into a ball, my chin on my knees, pretending I didn’t hear a thing.

After a moment of silence, I’m sure they’re done talking now. I go into the kitchen, grab my already-prepared food, and walk back out, never once meeting their gazes.

I make my way back to my shadow seat and eat in silence.

Eventually I hear the door open and close again and mama’s hesitant footsteps on the floor, coming towards me.

I look up at her almost expectantly. I shouldn’t be expecting anything. This much I am sure of.

“I’m sorry,” Mama says almost sheepishly. “But I have to get back to work.”

I nod, sighing. “That’s okay.”

She smiles at me, then turns and leaves.

I lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. How dare I expect anything else? I should know better than that. But is it even possible, considering the circumstances, that there is something more extraordinary going on? Just beneath the surface of mundane life? Is it possible that the lingering tension in the room hints at something more? Because the only answers I get leave something to be desired.