Mending Michael

by J. P. Grider

  47

  MICK

  Sleep does nothing to stop the thoughts.

  In actuality, it makes them worse.

  Because in my sleep, I can see the images more clearly.

  And there is no way to escape them.

  But in my wake, out here, where it all started, I start to see things more clearly. And maybe I have to try harder to make things right again.

  48

  HOLLY

  The pink leather jewelry-case style Audrey alarm clock on my dresser reads 4:16 p.m., and my headache is still raging. I'm sure it is mostly due to my intrusive hangover, but the disturbing dream I had did nothing to help alleviate it. Mick's body, lying face down in the muddy water of an abandoned pool, being poked and prodded by an angry black-sheathed Mick, while a half-dozen Micks donning police garb stand around the derelict pool, is an image I won't very soon get out of my head. I know it was only a dream, but I can't shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.

  I decide it's time to call Mick.

  A shaky female voice answers his cell.

  "Um, I'm looking for...Michael. Um, Mick Ross?" I ask with uncertainty.

  "Uh, Mickey's not... here." Her answer sounds uncertain as well.

  "Do you know where Mickey is?" Now I ask with my cute annoyed voice.

  I hear a sniffle, then, "No. I don't."

  "I don't mean to point out the obvious," but I really do, "but you have his phone. How do you not know where he is?"

  "Because he left it here two days ago," she responds just has curtly. "I haven't seen him since."

  Now I'm worried. In a less testy tone, I now inquire if she has any idea where she thinks he may have gone.

  "Is this the girl from the bar? Holly something or other?" she asks in lieu of an answer to my question.

  "Yes." My tone becomes impatient again. "This is Holly. Do you know where he may have gone?" I ask again, my teeth clenched.

  She doesn't answer right away, but then I hear a sniffle again. "I thought he went to you," she says quietly, worry coloring her tone.

  "No. I haven't seen him."

  "Oh boy." Her voice is shaky again.

  "Lara. This is Lara, right?"

  "Yes. Listen, I haven't spoken to Mick since Friday afternoon, and if he's not with you, then..." she pauses momentarily, "I think he may be somewhere drinking." Her words come out in a rush, and it sounds like she was holding back tears.

  "Well, that's what I'm worried about. You've known him a lot longer than me, do you have any idea where he would go, besides Donny's?"

  "He frequents a lot of the bars in Haledon. Your guess is as good as mine. And Holly...if you find him...take care of him."

  "Huh? Yeah. Right. Of course." I hang up, confused, but half-way out the door before I realize I'm in last night's clothes and have no shoes on. I grab a stick of gum out of my purse, take out my keys, slip on the flip-flops I use for the shower and head to my car.

  Instead of checking all the bars in Haledon, since downtown averages one bar per block, I start where my gut tells me to start. Mick's backyard. The one with the abandoned pool.

  For shits and giggles, I try the front door, but I just know it's going to be locked. Something tells me he hasn't been inside at all. Slowly, almost fearfully, I creep around toward the back of the house. His motorcycle isn't out front, nor is it in the driveway, but the pull toward the backyard is strong, so I continue.

  Trudging through broken branches strewn across the ground, beyond the overgrown brush, I spot him. Leaning against a tree that has seen its last days, wearing the same suit he'd looked so beautiful in on the day he'd lost Kenna to the law, Mick looks lost somewhere in the past. In his wrinkled, days-old clothes, his hair matted in some spots, defying gravity in others, he doesn't hear me approach. Though my feet crack branches and crunch leaves, the sound is silent to Mick, at least I think it is. As I close in on the distance between us, he still doesn't turn in my direction. I carefully seat myself beside him, tossing a tree limb or two aside, and I gently, slowly so as not to startle him, place my hand on his bent knee.

  Unsure of what to say, I remain quiet, allowing him to adjust to my company. If his appearance is any indication, he's been here since he left Lara on Friday night. It's been nearly forty-eight hours since he's probably eaten anything, and depending on when he ran out of the bottle of Smirnoff that lies empty next to him, it’s been about that long since he'd had anything to drink. Who knows what type of mood he's going to be in when he reaches earth again.

  After watching his eyes for several minutes, or it may have just felt that long, he finally blinks. And his eyes slink in my direction. I take this as my cue to say something. "Can I get you some water?"

  His eyes drift back towards the leaf-filled pool before he shrugs.

  "I got a bottle in my car." I hop up and say, "Be right back."

  In my car, I grab the water and a package of brown sugar toaster pastries that I forget were lying on my center console, and return to Mick in probably less than sixty seconds. He is no longer in the same deadlocked position, he is now sitting up straight, his legs extended, and he's flexing his sock-adorned feet. I hadn't noticed before that he wasn't wearing any shoes.

  He gulps the bottle of water pretty much all at once and before I even get back down on the ground next to him. I hand him the toaster pastries, but he just holds the package without bothering to open it.

  "I can get you more water if you want."

  He shakes his head with very little movement. "No. I'm good," he answers quietly.

  "You are?" I bite back the sarcasm, hoping I come across as concerned instead of obvious. But he is clearly not good, and by the expression of his side glance, I take it he heard my unintentional dig.

  I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. "So what's the significance of this pool?" The question comes out before my filter stops it. I'd wanted to ask it more subtly, but sometimes when something's on my mind, it spews out of my mouth too quickly.

  He doesn't ask me how I know this abandoned pool is significant, or why I think it is. He doesn't get defensive and deny it either. Nor does he look at me when he simply and regretfully tells me, "My brother drowned in this pool."

  Since the pool has long ago seen its last sign of life, I'm guessing his brother was merely a child when he'd drowned. And then it clicks. The 1998 drowning the judged mentioned in court the other day. He hadn't asked Mick about it, he just read it off some list in front of him.

  "Was he an older brother or younger?"

  "Younger." Mick's bottom lip trembles, but he quickly sucks it in.

  "How old... when he..." I can't bring myself to finish the sentence.

  "He was five," he says, the words coming out in a rasp.

  As I'm thinking of how to respond to that, Mick begins speaking again. "I was watching him." This time he doesn't hide the tremble of his lip. "I was the one who let him drown."

  Oh my God. Mick blames himself. Why?

  But I don't ask him why. I don't ask anything.

  Still fiddling with the unopened silver pastry package, his gaze continues on something, or nothing, out in the distance. Only the sound of our breathing and the stridulating crickets can be heard in this early twilight evening. The thick clouds rolling in amidst the setting sun out here in this forsaken backyard is eerily on target with Mick's mood and his recent disclosure.

  Since it is so quiet, I hear Mick suck in a huge breath. When I turn to look back at him, his eyes are closed and his lips, pursed. At the same time his eyes open, his mouth makes a popping sound as he spits out the breath he was holding. "I was in charge of him, Holly." His voice is suddenly strong, determined, as if he has been holding those words in since the actual event God knows how many years ago. "My mother put me in charge of my little brother. And I let him drown."

  He brings his knees up to his chest and runs his hands over his face. When he removes them a minute later, his face is wet with tears. I sti
ll don't know how to respond to him, but I do take his wet hand and hold it between my two.

  "I tried to save him. I jumped in. But, but I was afraid of the water, so I had never learned how to swim. He was in the deep end, and I couldn't get to him. I...I tried, but...I watched him. I watched him sink."

  Since taking Mick's hand, my eyes haven't left his face, but since he started talking, he hasn't looked at me once. His eyes are kept squarely on the pool, as if he were watching the scene take place all over again.

  But then he does look at me. And when he does, he says, "I lost her, Holl." He gulps. "I lost Kenna."

  I squeeze his hand to let him know I care, I'm sorry, I'm here. But I can't say the words aloud, because my voice is being choked by what I remember feeling for him on Friday when I saw him sobbing. He was in so much pain, holding so much sorrow, that I couldn't help but empathize with him. And I'm feeling that pain for him now as well.

  "They said I couldn't have her." He's staring directly into my eyes, grasping them, and it hurts. To see through to his devastated soul. But I don't turn away. I wouldn't dare. Michael needs to know I am here for him. "They don't trust me with her." His voice breaks at the end of the sentence, but he keeps searching my eyes.

  I want to give him what he's looking for, but I don't know what that is.

  "Oh, Michael," I say weakly, my voice cracking and unsure. "You are trustworthy. You are. They just don't know you."

  He nods his head as if in agreement, but I don't think he agrees at all.

  "Michael? Can you fight it? The ruling? Can you appeal?"

  His eyes finally break free of mine when he looks down at the ground and says, "Yes. It's a temporary order because it's a neglect case, or something like that, and it's my sister's fight really. I just don't want her with strangers, you know?"

  I nod. Of course, I know. "Are you going to? Appeal?"

  His brown eyes find mine again. "Yes. But..."

  "Michael? Is the judge basing his decision on what happened to your brother? Because..."

  "No," he answers, shaking his head. "I beat someone up so badly I nearly killed him. I went to jail for it." His eyes search mine again, and this time I know what it is he's looking for. Judgment.

  But I don't judge him. I won't. "What did the guy do? To make you want to kill him?"

  "He fed my sister heroin. Then raped her."

  49

  MICK

  "Oh my God. Oh my...Kenna?" Holly asks, shaking her head in disbelief.

  "I don't know. Charity won't have a DNA test done, and she said it could have been any number of guys."

  Holly's eyes flash wide for a tenth of a second. I may have missed it had I not been looking into her eyes so deeply. I want to know what Holly really thinks of me. Does she judge me? Does she think I'm a horrible person? You know, the usual things one wonders when he's with good people and they find out he's not what they might have thought all along. I can't believe I'm telling her all that I'm telling her right now, but these past couple days I've just wanted to scream. I wanted to die too. But then I thought about Kenna, and if I weren't here to keep an eye on her, who would? Just because Charity is in rehab right now, it's no guarantee she'll be recovered. No. I have to be here for Kenna. Even if the judge thinks I'm unfit. If I'm alive, I'm at least here to fight for her.

  "Well I hope that guy went to jail too," Holly states adamantly.

  "Yeah. He did. And I only had to serve three months."

  "You shouldn't have had to serve time at all. He deserved it."

  "Yeah. But...So, you're not afraid of me or anything? Now that you know I can get angry enough to nearly kill someone."

  "You're kidding right? Why would I be afraid? Because you gave an asshole what he deserved?"

  I am so utterly relieved to hear Holly say that, because I had been so worried about what she would think of me. She may be a smart-ass, but she's also refined and quite classy. I wondered if she'd even want a barbaric man like me in her life. But right now, I am so thoroughly grateful that she doesn’t find my actions reproachful, that I reach over, and without thinking, grab her behind her head with both hands and assault her mouth with mine. She opens her mouth and allows me in, sweeping her tongue over mine as I release all my stifled emotions in this one kiss. I kiss her with such fierce intensity I don’t even realize I’d pushed her down on her back and have her restrained beneath me. It isn’t until I feel a punch to my arm that I become conscious of what I’m doing. Holly’s shirt is rumpled above her chest, her navy and white polka-dot bra askew over her breasts.“Get off me, Mick. Now,” she commands.

  With my offending hands, I fix her bra and pull her shirt back down. “Oh my God, Holly, I am so,” I lift her up by her hands and brush the soil off her back, “sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  She pulls on the hem of her shirt to fix it and chastises me with her eyes.

  “I’m really so sorry,” I say, already starting to cry. “I…oh my, God, Holly, I was just so, I’ve wanted you so badly, and I’m not thinking clearly, and I…”

  “I know. Look, I was into it too, but then…what did you think? I’d just let you fuck me out here in the yard?” she asks seriously.

  “No. No, of course not. I, you, just, felt so good beneath my hands that I…I was moving too fast, I’m so sorry.”

  “I wasn’t even supposed to let you kiss me until…well, until, I don’t know. Just…not out here. Not now…not,…”

  “I know. Holly, it won’t happen again. I’ve got like all this alcohol in me,” I say, lifting the empty bottle next to me, “and I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “No. No, it’s fine. I’m totally sober, and I wanted you to touch me like that, it’s just…you were moving way too fast. I don’t like that. You may not believe this, but I am a fucking virgin for a reason. I don’t like to be in a submissive position. It’s, well, it’s something I’m uncomfortable with, so…I’m sorry if my punch hurt you.”

  I laugh, because, though I felt it, it did not come close to hurting.

  “You’re laughing at my fucking punch? I’ll punch you again if you’d like,” she jokes.

  I hold up my hand, “No, no, I’m good...so…you’re a virgin?”

  “Yes,” she says, her tone clipped. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Of course not,” I say, feeling my cheeks go warm as I watch hers turn red.

  She shakes her head and says, “Drop it.”

  “It’s dropped,” I promise.

  After an intense and yet another awkward silence, Holly slowly says, "You know, Michael, it's not your fault about your brother. You were, what, eight? Why were you the one in charge anyway?"

  I wasn’t expecting her to bring that back up, but I find myself more than willing to talk about it with her. "My parents had friends over," I begin, remembering angrily how much I hated my parents’ friends. How my parents would ignore us anytime they had one of their parties. They'd make us stay in our rooms, or go outside. We were forbidden to enter the living room when their friends were over. And we were forbidden to bother them. "Friends who drank. Friends who did drugs. Friends who did...other things."

  "Other things?" Holly asks innocently.

  "Sex things." I cringe at the memory of walking into my living room filled with naked men and women doing awful things to each other.

  "Sex things? Oh my God, like swinging?"

  "I guess," I say, embarrassed. "Lots of drugs and drinking too."

  "And you were told to watch your brother while they partied and orgied?"

  I nod. "Yup. And I don't think my parents were sober another day in their life after that."

  Holly looks at me, questioning me with her warm brown eyes.

  "Like me, they blame themselves. That's why the house looks the way it does. After Frankie died, my parents stopped living. Stopped doing things, buying things...except for their drugs and their booze. They bought that, of course. My father continued working his screen-printing busine
ss, but he just went through the motions after that. Then... T got raped, then pregnant, and they couldn't take it anymore. They sold the business to get the money, left us with the house and all its terrible memories, and moved. We haven't heard from them since, except for a postcard three years ago saying that they found a place and now live in Florida. Nice, right?"

  Her eyes are wide, her mouth frozen in awe. When she finally closes her mouth, it opens back up to say, "Oh, Michael."

  "I like when you call me that," I decide to tell her. I like that it makes me feel worthy.

  "Michael? You have to be starving. Let me get you something to eat."

  "Yes, I'm starving. But I need a shower first."

  "Have you really been sitting here since Friday night?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Oh my God, what about sleeping...or going to the bathroom?"

  I chuckle beneath my breath. "I'm only in the backyard. I'm not in the woods. My house is right there, and so is my old apartment," I say, pointing to the room above the garage. "I slept in my old room. The one that's supposed to be my new room."

  "In the house?"

  "Yeah. I moved all my furniture. The apartment above Donny's is empty now."

  "So... you weren't sleeping out here all weekend?"

  Now I laugh out loud. "No. I'm not that crazy. I slept inside. Shit inside. Grabbed some old booze I found in the basement. But I spent my days out here. I hate that house. I really do."

  "It's in your name?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then sell it. Buy a new house. A house you're proud to live in. A house you'll be proud to raise Kenna in."

  Just like that, it's all there in front of me. How stupid have I been? Sell the house. "Yeah. I can buy a two-family, so Charity has a place to live too. I'm such a dumb-ass. I don't know why I hadn't thought of that, Holly."