Under the Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

D.C., standing on the stone steps with a giant looking down on us. We never felt the heat of the volcano in Hawaii or smelled the beasts in the darkened lion cage at the Bronx Zoo, but the colors and the light—and the strange sounds—it was amazing.
    Even so, even with the beauty of the view from Mount Rushmore and the stars above us in the Yosemite Valley and the foggy view from the Golden Gate Bridge, I stopped staring at the scenery.
    It was fascinating how his face was a constant—the lighting changed the shadows and lit his features in different colors, but his gaze on me was unshakable.
    “The Great Wall of China,” I said, and around us a gray ribbon of stone materialized like the arching back of a dragon. I could see the tiny reflection of it in his eye. I looked closer to see if I could find myself reflected there, but I could never get quite close enough.
    “Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas,” he said, and an enormous fountain appeared in a golden glowing hotel lobby.
    “Beautiful.” I asked, “If you hadn’t said ‘Las Vegas,’ would we be in Rome right now?”
    He laughed. A small dog came by in the arms of an elderly woman—when it kept its gaze on him and began to growl, he growled back and the pitiful thing ducked into the armpit of its owner.
    “That was weird,” he said. “Are you sure I’m not a ghost?”
    “The stage of Ford’s Theatre,” I whispered. Everything went black and the only way I knew we were in a darkened theater was that an amber safety bulb backstage illuminated the bars of lights and loops of ropes forty feet above us. His face was in the dark, but his hair was lit from above. Or did I just imagine that?
    “The Sea of Tranquility,” he whispered. We were in a chalk gray landscape with an ink black sky. His face half-lit made me wish I had a camera. Would he show up on film? Then I noticed the earth hanging in the sky in crisp blue, black, and white. The idea of being on the moon frightened me. I closed my eyes and he laughed at me.
    We were not solid, but we could touch each other, see each other, and definitely we could feel each other. When he took my face in his hands and gave my head a playful shake, I felt as if I were spinning around until I fell down, just like I had when I was a little girl. He was smiling. In return I gave him a gentle push on the shoulder, and from my fingertips, up my arms, all through me, I buzzed with the pleasure—like swinging on a playground swing, that weightless joy at the far end of each sweep. That was how I felt, as if I was always moving toward him and away from him and back to him again.
    “Your turn,” he said.
    “The Eiffel Tower,” I whispered. Iron lace towered upward.
    “The crazy cars at Fun Zone,” he said.
    I took one look at the spinning faces, laughing tourists circling us in a blur, then closed my eyes again, holding on to him for balance. His arms folded me into his energy, our combined spirits making their own electric charge.
    The speed of our game was getting to me. Maybe he sensed this, because he asked, “Should we slow things down?”
    “Yes.”
    “Hollywood Wax Museum,” he said.
    The museum was closed—it was almost pitch-black, but there was just enough light from an exit sign to make out a row of figures looming over us, one directly beside us. A faint glint in the unblinking eyes was eerie enough, but I could also make out the unhealthy camel color of the wax cheeks and the frozen smile of Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz.
She stood right at my left shoulder. We were standing with the Lion and the Tin Man and the Scarecrow—there was a painting of the Emerald City behind their heads. That storybook setting should have made them seem friendly, but I felt small and terrified. It wasn’t the texture of Dorothy’s cheek or the disturbingly permanent wave of her hair that made me feel sick. It was imagining sitting in front of a mirror and looking into her eyes and maybe in my closet door seeing the