I was able to look into his gentle eyes again. For about fifteen minutes the following day. I also saw a toe, two non-adjacent fingers and a nose.

“Stop it!” I yelled at him. I’m sorry. I know it must be difficult for him, too. But you can’t know what it’s like. Anyway, I yelled, “Stop! If you’re not going to reappear all the way, don’t reappear at all! You’re just doing this to torment me.”

“I’m not,” he insisted. As if he was fooling anyone. Mom said he was passive-aggressive, and if this wasn’t an example, I don’t know what is.

“Help me in the lab,” he pleaded. “It’s hard for me to mix chemicals when I can’t see my hands. I always break something.”

I pointed out that maybe he should have thought of that before he invisiblized himself.

And you know what he says? He says, “Mary, dear, ‘invisiblize’ isn’t a word.” He’s always such a know-it-all. I told him, if that was his attitude, he could count me out.

Now he’s downstairs again. I don’t know if he’s sulking or “experimenting,” and I don’t care.