The four of us are playing Monopoly in the dining room when Uncle Marty struggles into the house with his arms around a box, walking it in on top of one shoe.
“Good grief,” says Mom. Mom, Linda, and Dad crowd around him while I stabilize the game. Mom was winning.
“You thought Christmas was over,” he tells the family, “but it’s not. A late Christmas gift for the lord of the manor—my big brother, Bill.”
Even Dad is impressed. When Marty lays the mammoth gift in the center of the living room, Dad crouches over it to peel away the Christmas paper. Large block letters on the side of the box say VITA-LITE.
“I can’t get the flaps open,” Dad says over his shoulder.
“I’ve got it, bro, no problem.” Marty borrows my pocket knife and pries off the heavy-duty staples.
Dad removes several sheets of crumpled newsprint and slides out the light box. It’s about the size and depth of a small kitchen table. Marty pulls out the rear leg to stand it upright.
“Thank you, Marty,” Dad says.
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait till you see this.”
Marty crawls under the Christmas tree, reaches for the outlet, and unplugs the holiday lights.
“Oh, no!” Mom complains.
“Mom,” Linda says, “it’s January eighteenth. It had to happen sooner or later.”
“But it was so cheerful.” She drops into a seat in the conversation area.
“Sorry, Adele,” Marty says. “But this thing uses a good flow of juice. I wouldn’t want you to short anything out.”
Half the lights in the house pulse, then flicker. The part of the living room where Dad is gets flooded with white light, like a prison courtyard during an attempted break.
“Aack,” Linda says, lifting an arm to shield her face.
“I think it’s too strong,” Mom agrees.
“But this could be just the thing for Bill,” Marty argues. “Don’t close your eyes, bro—open them. You have to have them open so it can act on your retinas.”
“It’s going to blind him.”
“No, it has to be strong in order to work. Look at him—I think he looks better already!”
“That’s because he’s getting a tan,” says Linda.
“Such a costly gift, Marty,” Mom says. “You must have spent several hundred dollars.” Normally Dad would have said something like this too. He was always warning Marty that his credit card balances were too high.
“It’s just a way of saying thank you, Bill, for all the support you’ve given me this year, with everything I’ve gone through. I can honestly say that this has been the worst year of my life. Without you to talk to, I don’t think I would have made it.” He presses one eye with the back of his knuckles.
Then he takes Dad by the elbow. “Sit down, bro, and I’ll tell you more about how it works. This unit runs at twenty thousand lux—that’s up to forty times the brightness of normal indoor light!”
“What good does that do?” Linda asks.
“You just sit in front of the light each morning—”
“For how long?” Mom asks.
“Up to about an hour—and the light travels up your optic nerve and basically tricks your brain into thinking it’s summer. The light tinkers with the chemicals in your brain, and you, you know, just stop being depressed. Everyone is happier in the summer and sadder in the winter. Haven’t you ever felt that way? Doesn’t it make sense?”
“The theory sounds plausible,” Mom says. “But the execution is so extreme.”
“It only seems that way, Adele. You find yourself getting used to it. Come on, bro, we’ll sit in front of it together and test it out. You don’t have to look right into it, you just glance at it from time to time. The instructions say you can read if you want to, or knit. Come on, buddy.”
“Dad knits?” Linda asks.
“It’s so big—,” Marty begins.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Mom says.
“It’s so big that I suggest you decide on a permanent spot for it,” Marty continues. “So it won’t be in the way.”
“Why don’t you put it against the north wall there,” I tell him, referring to the divider between the living room and the kitchen. “That way Dad can get light from this in the early morning, and then natural sunlight from the picture window in the afternoon.”
“Marty,” says Mom, “all kidding aside, I just have to question whether this is really safe.”
Marty drops into the loveseat opposite Mom. “I thought you’d all be pleased, Adele. This technique is medically approved. By the American Medical Association and the National Institutes of Mental Health.”
“And the electrical utilities, no doubt,” Mom says. “I’m sorry, Marty. I shouldn’t joke. I do appreciate that you’re only trying to help.”
At last I join the family in the living room. “Well, I think it makes a lot of sense,” I say, as if I just decided.
“Good boy,” Marty says, and winks at me.
The others have no idea that this was all my suggestion. I read about it, I researched it on the Internet before Christmas, and I got Marty to pay $729 for it. Soon, I know, Dad will be well, and the expense will have been worth it.
“It’s so bright, though, Billy,” Mom says. “Just look at it. I’d be afraid of it burning a hole in my retina or something. Marty, isn’t it dangerous to look directly into the sun?”
“Mom, this isn’t anything like the sun. The sun is—I don’t know—probably a million lux, probably. A lot more than this, anyway. And remember: It’s only for a few weeks.”
“Well,” Mom says, “I speak on behalf of my husband when I say that it’s very impressive, dangerous or not.” Mom all at once looks younger—but just a couple of months younger, like the way she looked when we started going to Fritz.
“Why don’t we try an experiment?” Marty suggests. “Everyone, make note of your mood right now. Then we’ll try it for ten minutes and see if anyone feels better.”
“Okay,” Linda says, “name your mood. Amused. Next?”
“I didn’t mean name your mood like name that tune, hon. I just meant make a mental note of it to yourself.”
Mom, Dad, and Marty line up on the couch facing the north wall, while Linda and I sit on the floor in front of them.
Actually, once I experience the light I almost think Mom has a point. Its intensity is hard to get used to, like it might burn away even the memory of color. But Dad seems calm. So we keep doing it.