Mending Michael

by J. P. Grider

  "I wonder if I'll ever figure you out," he whispers.

  "Probably not," I answer truthfully.

  Returning my gaze out the window, I finally take a look at his backyard. "Was that a pool?" I ask, referring to the faded turquoise concrete rectangle filled with leaves that looked to be dead for several decades. Where a rusted ladder climbs out of the deep end of the hole, lies a pool of dark brown water. Crunchy leaves as old as the ones that fill the pool outline it. If the trees around the yard weren't blooming with flowers, it'd look like we were in the midst of a snowless January.

  "Yeah," Mick says slowly. "That was a pool."

  "Guess you're not much of a swimmer," I joke.

  "No."

  Okay, he's not in the mood for jokes. I get it. He's hurting.

  Forcing my hand toward the back of his shoulder, I pat it. "Let's start cleaning this place up. I bet we get a lot of thinking done while we clean." I rummage through the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. "And we need to think if we're going to come up with a plan."

  "What are you doing under the sink?"

  Pulling my upper body out from the cabinet, I stand, saying, "Where's all your cleaning supplies?" In my house, we keep them under the sink.

  "Oh. I keep them up high in the linen closet." Mick shrugs as he drops his gaze to his feet. "I was always afraid Kenna would get to them when I wasn't here, so..."

  His dark eyes look back at me, and they're full of shame and embarrassment, as if it were his fault his sister is a drug addict.

  I follow Mick to the linen closet down the dark hallway. "Is there a light switch somewhere?"

  Over his shoulder, he says, "No. No light fixture."

  In the linen closet, Mick pulls out a flashlight and shines it on the disheveled closet. Like he said, the cleaning stuff is on the top shelf, so he pulls them down, along with a bucket and some used rags.

  "Go to town," he says, shoving the bucket and cleaners at me. "If you really think this is gonna work."

  Following him back to the living room, I tell him, "It's better than doing nothing at all."

  He bends down and picks up some broken pieces of glass he hadn't gotten before.

  "Got any brown paper bags? You should put the glass in a bag before you cut your hands."

  He stands from his crouched position and smirks. At me.

  "What?"

  He groans out a soft laugh and says, "Nothing," but he leaves the room and goes into the kitchen. Seconds later, he's back with the brown bag.

  After a while, Mick and I separate, and we each take over different rooms to clean and put in order. I'm surprised by the junk that lies around this house. Like the brown leaves out back, most of it looks decades old. Even the few pictures on the wall look ancient. And they're not new photographs meant to look vintage. They actually are old. At least fifteen years old, maybe more. In fact, recalling each room I've gone through, I don't remember seeing anything that could have been purchased after the 1990s. Come to think of it, the TV in the living room, the only TV in the house, is one of those ancient tube TVs encased in dark wood.

  "Mick," I call, walking into the back master bedroom where he is packing old knick-knacks in cardboard boxes. "You say Charity lives here now? Like, yesterday?"

  He nods, eying me speculatively. "Yeah. Why?"

  "It just... it looks like no one's lived here for years. I mean, nothing's new, and I don't even see recent pictures on the wall."

  Mick bites on his cheek again, and returns to packing the boxes.

  "Oh...'kay?" I shrug and walk out of the room.

  I reenter what looks to be an old boy's room. Only at closer inspection, the room doesn't have that abandoned look. It's tidy, not much dust, and a Cycle World magazine from last month sits atop the nightstand, along with an alarm clock that reads the correct time. Though I'm only here to clean and straighten, I peek inside one of the mirrored dresser's top drawers. Three pairs of white ankle socks and three pairs of plaid boxers. The drawer beneath it reveals several faded t-shirts, the top one promoting a 2010 Bike Week in Daytona Beach. I close the second drawer and leave this room alone. Clearly, it belongs to Mick.

  The cute little ranch-style house, as my mother would put it, is not as small as it looks from the outside. Pushed back behind the cluttered and dusty dining room are two more bedrooms. The smaller one on the right has to be Kenna's room, since it, at least, has colorful, and thankfully current, toys tossed about the room. Pink blocks are piled up next to the white castle-looking plastic toddler bed, and a baby doll that I recognize as one of those itty-bitties from that huge doll company in the city, sits in an old white rocker. Taking care to put her puzzles back together and gather her doll stuff neatly into the corner on the floor, I spot a framed picture of Mick about the time I'd first met him. He's holding a newborn baby girl who I'm guessing is Kenna. Mick is not looking at the camera, and he's not smiling. Instead, he's gazing agonizingly at the sleeping baby, as if it hurts him to be holding her. Then I wonder...who on earth would ever frame such a heartbreaking picture?

  I toss the thought to the back of my mind, place the picture on the tall white dresser, and finish straightening up the little girl's room.

  Across the hall is another small room, just a hair bigger than Kenna's room. Without a doubt, this bedroom belongs to Charity. Tiny female clothes are strewn about the floor. A pair of ripped short denim shorts lay at the bottom of the bed where a pair of worn black ankle boots sit on the floor beneath them, as if she took off her boots and shorts and climbed up into the stained sheet-covered mattress. Not knowing if any of the clothes were clean or dirty, I pick them up and throw them all in the wicker basket that sits outside the curtain-covered closet.

  It is when I am tearing the sheets off the bed that I see them. Carelessly laid out on her nightstand is paraphernalia I'd only seen in drug-related movies. Small burnt pieces of foil, a blackened candle and charred spoons, used cigarette pieces, cut-up aluminum cans, broken rubber bands, a few used books of matches and a lighter, and skinny syringe-style needles, all just waiting there for a junkie and her three year old to help themselves to.

  I am rendered immobile and speechless when, behind me, Mick says, "I see you found my sister's room."

  23

  MICK

  It's almost surreal to watch my sister's secrets reveal themselves to Holly. I'm embarrassed, and I'm angry.

  And I'm terribly sad.

  Returning to my senses, I hastily brush the contents on top of the nightstand into the garbage bag I had in my hand when I walked into the room. "I'll get this room, Holly. Maybe you...take a break. You've done so much already..." I stop, because she's still standing there, dumbstruck and quiet. The dark blue bandanna she now has tied around her head like a headband adds to Holly's naivety and innocence.

  I let my hand rest on her shoulder and take a fortifying breath. "She hasn't always been this bad."

  Her dark eyes finally turn from the nightstand to me. "What if Kenni got to this? What if..."

  "She didn't. And that's why we're doing this, right?"

  She nods. "Yeah." I watch as she slowly fingers that dimple between her collarbones. "I just...it's so... I've never seen this kind of...." She stops, obviously too in awe of seeing real live drug paraphernalia. It'd be nice to say I was as naive to the unpleasant world around us, but sadly, I am all too aware of it.

  "Look. Let's just... we'll both take a break," I suggest.

  My instincts are to take her hand and lead her out of the room, but my head says we're barely tolerating each other as it is. That may just be too much. So I walk out in front of her and figure she'll follow me out.

  "How 'bout I order us a pizza?"

  We've moved to the living room, which I'd already vacuumed, straightened, and dusted.

  "Sure," Holly says, her back to me, her eyes scanning the old pictures sitting on the piano.

  "Are these...of you guys when you were small?"

  "Pretty much. You like anythi
ng on your pizza?" I ask quickly, deflecting the question that will obviously come next.

  "Um. Anything. Sausage, pepperoni, pineapple. Anything."

  "Yeah. Pineapple. I'll get that," I say sarcastically.

  "Who's the..."

  "Play something."

  She turns to me with crazy eyes.

  Which makes me laugh.

  "I know you play. I heard you on the keyboard at Donny's."

  "No one was paying attention to me. That was different."

  "I won't pay attention," I lie.

  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Just order the pizza." She grabs the huge remote. "This thing is ancient," she says, turning the remote in her hand. "Is it from this century?"

  "Ha, ha."

  Aiming it at the old television, she asks, "Do you have cable or doesn't this TV go past thirteen."

  "Again, very funny," I say dryly, but pick up the remote that's sitting on top of the stereo. "Look. A cable remote." Then I point to the digital box in the cabinet beneath the TV. "And what's this? A cable box." I aim the remote at the box, turn it on, and toss it to her. "Here. Watch to your heart’s content. I'm gonna order the pizza then go get some snacks. My sister has nothing here. Want anything?"

  "No, but I'll come with you."

  "Then I won't be able to strap the pizza to the back of my bike, so..."

  "Have it delivered."

  "I gotta run out anyway...for the snacks. Make yourself comfortable."

  I order the pizza and get the hell out of there before she asks me about those pictures again. I'm just in no mood to talk about my past.

  24

  HOLLY

  The house that time forgot.

  That's how I'd describe it.

  This house is creepy, and being here, with Mick gone, gives me the chills. The cable box is probably the only thing made in this decade. How can a mother and her child live here without having anything new? Well, aside from Kenna's toys. They at least look new.

  After flicking the channels for several minutes, I get up off the blue and pink floral love seat and lift the top of the piano bench. A handful of old pieces of sheet music are in disarray inside the bench. I carefully pile them in my hand and sit on the bench, sorting through them to find a full song.

  The first full set I pull together happens to be my favorite piece—“Canon in D” by Pachebel. I spread the sheets against the piano stand, even though I can play this song by heart, and let my fingers commandeer the keys. When I'm finished with Canon, I go through the rest of the sheets and find a few Journey songs. Though I'm not too familiar with Journey, I find the tune to "Open Arms" pleasant and continue playing it until I get it right. It's a sweet sounding song and even though the lyrics are too syrupy for my taste, I enjoy playing it on the piano. When I've had enough of reading notes, I stick the music back inside the bench and play the songs I've taught myself—"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen, "Bella's Lullaby" from the Twilight movie, and my favorite, Ms. Hepburn's song, "Moon River."

  It's while I'm playing "Moon River" that Mick walks in from the kitchen. I stop playing immediately.

  "Moon River," he points out, walking toward me.

  I stand, done playing and ready to eat. "You know it?"

  "Breakfast at Tiffany's. Audrey Hepburn."

  If it is at all possible, I feel my heart smile. My favorite movie, and he's heard of it. "Have you ever...watched it?" I ask, hoping.

  "I have. When I was young. With my mother...you remind me of her." Did I just see him blush?

  "Of your mother?"

  He shakes his head, his mouth is turned up at the corners, but his expression remains serious. Intense. "Of Audrey Hepburn."

  It is possible for my heart to smile, because I can feel it spread across my entire chest. I love Audrey Hepburn. She is my idol, and I try so hard to emulate her...her inner beauty, her refinement. But alas, my snarcastic—yes, I made that up—personality camouflages my efforts. But it pleases me to know Mick sees it. If it's my inner beauty he's talking about anyway.

  "Thanks," I say, probably blushing, definitely embarrassing myself.

  "Come on." Mick waves two fingers backwards. "Let's eat while the pizza's hot."

  In the kitchen, I grab a few paper towels off the rack, instead of searching for plates, but Mick beats me to it and pulls out a couple paper plates.

  "I got two six-packs of soda. Take your pick," Mick tells me, while he puts a slice of pizza each on our plates.

  I snap a can of lemon soda off the six pack and open it. "Thanks," I say, holding up the can.

  "Thank you. For everything."

  Mick looks embarrassed, so I underplay my willingness to help him. "Yeah, well, I'm doing it for that little girl of yours, so don't flatter yourself." My words come out harsher than I'd intended, but I shrug it off. Better to keep him on his toes than not.

  "Well, thank you anyway."

  The rest of our pizza is eaten in awkward silence, neither one of us comfortable enough around each other to just shoot the breeze, as my mother would say.

  Once we've cleaned up the kitchen, Mick finally speaks. "I don't know where to go from here."

  Now since we had been eating in silence, my mind had wandered on such topics as What would kissing Mick taste like? or What does Mick look for in a girl? or I wonder what those long fingers would feel like circling my skin, and my breasts... and well, I digress. So when he says he doesn't know where to go from here, my mind immediately thinks he is talking about us and a potential relationship. But once I get my flaky head out of the clouds, I realize he's talking about what to do when we're done with the house.

  So I try to keep from turning too bright red and say, "Well, you need to get someone in to fill in that eyesore out back. I'm sure no social service woman is going to find that safe by any means."

  I notice Mick cringe, but he nods.

  "Then, I guess, you need to figure out some sort of schedule. You know, for Kenna. Something solid, like daycare, and I think you need to be here for her at night. Just my opinion," I say, holding my hands up in that all too cliched fashion.

  "Right. Like that's gonna be easy for a nighttime bartender."

  "I'm just thinking, being home in the evenings is probably important to those people. I mean, daycares are only open during the day, right?"

  Mick walks away, but not before I catch him muttering profanities under his breath.

  I follow him to Charity's room. "Is there a basement I should clean or something?" Figuring it best to change the subject, considering his reaction.

  He continues clearing off the rest of her bed covers and doesn't answer me.

  So I stand there, not sure what to do. When a few minutes go by, I decide to search for the door to the basement myself. The closed door at the end of the long hallway looks like it could lead to the basement, but when I go to check, it's locked.

  As soon as I return to Charity's room, not one of my feet has even entered the doorway, Mick growls, "The basement isn't a finished one. It's just the laundry room, but feel free to check it if you think it'll make those people happy."

  Okay. He's back to being Mick. Cautiously, I ask about the locked door and if it was the door to the basement.

  His back straightens and his fists clench before he turns around. "That's not the basement door," he snarls.

  "Oh." I back up, an action I hadn't been aware I was doing until I'd hit the wall across the way.

  Dropping his shoulders, but not unclenching his fists, he opens and closes his mouth, then, "Are they going to ask about that room?"

  Still backed up against the wall, I lift a shoulder. "I mean I would think so and all. For... all they know, a... dead body could be in..." As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I'm fully aware they shouldn't have been said.

  There's a new level of intensity in his eyes. Could there be a dead body in there?

  "Um. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." I falter. What does one say when they think there really could be a
dead body in a locked room down the hall?

  "I have some phone calls to make," he states.

  "Oh...kay."

  "Right. So... I'll see you... tomorrow or something."

  "Oh." Did he forget he drove me here?

  "Thanks," he says, and walks to the front door and opens it.

  "Um. I... uh, I just... need to... my purse." He has me so flustered right now that my words are getting caught in my throat. But I grab my purse off the back of the kitchen chair and slip it across my chest. Walking out his front door, I turn one last time, just to be sure he's not joking, but he's already slammed the door.

  Okay. I guess he wasn't joking.

  The urge to bang on his door and demand he drive me home wriggles at me, but my gut tells me to leave it alone.

  Thank goodness for the GPS on my phone, otherwise I'd never get out of these winding suburban roads. I type in the address for Donny's and start the 6.2 mile walk back to my car.

  25

  MICK

  Suppressed secrets have a way of taking root, planting themselves firmly and intricately within the foundation of who we are, then sprouting at the most unseasonable time.

  Maybe she should have minded her own business, then I wouldn't have kicked her out.

  The doorbell rings, and I think I am not in the mood to explain. Not now. But I answer it anyway. It's not Holly. It's Lara.

  "What?"

  "Mick." She grabs me by the arm and hugs me, gripping really hard. "Oh my God. Luke told me. I am so sorry."

  Pushing her away, I let her in and shut the door.

  "How ya gonna get her back?"

  "I don't know," I say, not in the mood to talk to her either.

  But she ignores my obvious irritation and hugs me anyway.

  And again, I push her away. "Not now, Lara."

  "They can't keep her, can they?" she asks, undeterred.

  "I don't know," I growl out at her.

  "Damn," she utters to herself, then sits down on my couch. As if I invited her to stay. "Was that girl the social worker?"