Mending Michael

by J. P. Grider

  "Mick."

  He cringes.

  "Michael."

  His eyes drift close, waiting.

  "There's no one else."

  His eyes open.

  "No one I want to be with. So. For now," and acceding is not something I do lightly, "I'll wait."

  He looks at me like I just told him he'd won the lottery. Never before have I seen a smile so wide on Michael Ross. Smiles don't come easily for him, yet here he is, grinning cheek to beautiful cheek, because I told him I'd wait for him.

  Does that make me pathetic? Because I'd wait for a man?

  At the moment...I can't think of a reason why I wouldn't wait. There's something special about Michael. A gentle soul residing inside a serious man. It's not like he's asking me to wait while he pursues other women. He's asking me to wait for him while he puts together his niece's life, his sister's life, his life. When I think about it that way, how can I not wait?

  "Oh, Holly," he whispers, smiling. "I wanna take you out on dates and spend every night just talking to you, kissing you. My God, to just hold you...all night long." He lifts his hand to run alongside my neck, his fingers tangling my hair. "If you can wait...until this...this nightmare that has become my life is settled, I promise... promise... we'll start off right." His thumb comes up to caress the outline of my jaw. "I just can't give that to you right now. I'm sorry."

  I cover his hand with mine and remove it from my neck, but we keep our hands together. "It's okay. We had this conversation before. I get it. I just...I don't know what happened after that. The night at the pizza place. I guess after seeing you with your ex, I assumed... I don't know and I got...defensive. I'm...I'm sorry."

  He brings one of my hands to his mouth and kisses it. "We'll start over. I promise. Friends?"

  "Friends."

  "For now," he adds.

  "For now."

  67

  MICK

  The next two weeks, Holly and I get along well. Working together runs smoothly, and though her sarcastic jabs are ever present, the mean intent that usually accompanies them is non-existent. Neither one of us brings up our impending relationship or our current one, and there are times it seems like our whole conversation was just a dream. But then sometimes, I'll notice a warmth in her eyes when she looks at me, and I'm comforted with the fact that it was real. I can breathe easily. Holly is the strength that pulls me forward. If I make it through the bleakness, the nightmare, I'll be able to reach the light and bask in happiness for a change. I'll be able to make the time for Holly.

  But today, I go to court with Liz and Charity. Hopefully coming home with Kenna in our arms.

  Less folks attend court this time around than last, so we are called up to plead our case about thirty minutes in. There's a more confident air about Carmine as he speaks to the judge, but I gather that due to the fact that Liz is a more suitable guardian than I am, Carmine feels more sure about winning the case.

  This time, the judge's questions are shot at Liz, but her whip-smart answers and upstanding citizenship surprise and impress His Honor. When she hands him her proof of residence, he asks if Charity and I intend to live with her.

  "No, your Honor. My niece is residing with her friend while she continues her recovery, and my nephew moved back into his studio apartment last week. It will be only Kenna and myself living in her house until my nephew closes on it. Then we will be moving into a two-family house that he bought for his sister and I to live."

  The judge eyes me and then my sister. "Is this true?"

  "Yes, your Honor," we say in unison. I had suggested to Liz that she move into my new house when I close on it next month. This way she and Kenna can be near Charity. Liz will pay me rent, and that will go towards my mortgage. Since Donny only charges me minimally, living back in my studio won't be a financial burden.

  "Where will the girl's mother live?" The judge asks.

  "She will be living in the second floor apartment alone. Kenna and I will be living downstairs."

  "We are requesting, your Honor," Carmine adds, "that the mother have unlimited supervised visits with the daughter, and that the uncle have no restrictions whatsoever, since there is no evidence to state that he shouldn't. My client intends to use her nephew as caretaker when she is at work. We'd also like to make the motion that as soon as Miss Charity Ross is fully recovered, we can request custodial rights once again."

  The judge allows Carmine's motion, and Liz is granted sole physical custody of Kenna, and Liz and Charity both will share joint custody until we bring the case back to court. The four of us sigh in relief and then Charity cries. Taking her hand, I walk her to the back of the room and hold her. She sobs into my neck for a long while before Carmine's hand rests on my shoulder. "Let's go get your little girl."

  ***

  We're all a little nervous following Madeline up the front steps of Patty Reynolds’ house, but Charity has us beat. In my arms, she is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. I use all my strength to keep her moving forward so she doesn't crumble under my arm while we ascend the steps. When the door opens, Patty's smile is big and wide, but it doesn't mask her emotions. She'd been crying. I'd never given much thought to what she would feel when we'd finally come for Kenna, but evidently losing a child after having her for a short while isn't without its difficulties. Fostering is not for the weak, and I suddenly have a new respect for the woman who'd cared for my sweet niece this past month and a half.

  As I reach for Patty's hand in greeting, I notice Kenna's little Rapunzel backpack leaning against her pink duffel. Floppy, her stuffed bunny, sits on top. In my chest, the constant ache, my companion for the last month and a half, turns sharp. Stabbing. My God, it's been too long.

  "Come in," Patty tells us. "She's finishing her cupcake with my girls."

  Her face is covered in violet icing when she spots us in the doorway.

  "Mommy!" She jumps off her knees and runs for T.

  The pain in my chest screams at the same time tears threaten to flood my eyes. My hand is soon covering my mouth to keep from crying out loud.

  T does nothing to stop her tears. She hugs the hell out of Kenna and isn't concerned that we're all watching. But after about sixty seconds of Kenna's head pressed into the crook of her mother's neck, my little niece looks up and sees me.

  "Uncle Michael!" she exclaims, as happy to see me as she is her mother.

  "Hey, baby," I say so softly, my tears strangling my throat.

  Any other words I'd meant to say are silenced as well. Like Charity, I take Kenna in my arms and hug her like I've never hugged her before. It's my niece who breaks the embrace after several seconds; if I had my way, I'd spend a lot more time with her in my arms.

  "Are you and Mommy better now?" Kenna asks, looking at me with the widest of eyes...and a tentative smile. She's unsure. Afraid of what's next. I can't help it, but I break down with her in my arms, as unable to control my emotions as my sister.

  "Kenna, baby, we're much better now," I choke out. Barely. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My words are a whisper, but I need to say them out loud. I'll never forgive myself for failing her. I'll never forgive myself for losing her in the first place. My sister may have misplaced her here and there, but I'm the one that couldn't hang on to her and protect her the way I should have. I have to hand Kenna back to Charity; the pain in my chest is unbearable, and my stomach is working on tossing its contents out from my mouth.

  Once Charity has hold of Kenna, I hold my hand to my mouth and look at Patty, who's already pointing me in the direction of the bathroom.

  I lift the seat and hurl.

  When there is nothing left to come out, I flush, wash, lower the seat and cover, and drop to the floor. My back against the tub, my knees against my chest. My chest clutched in my hands.

  Sixteen years have gone by...

  And nothing has changed at all...

  I'm still responsible for fucking up my family.

  68

  HOLLY

&
nbsp; "You look a mess," I decide to tell my boss, whose eye sockets are dark lavender.

  "You ready to be on your own? I'm barely standing."

  "Mick didn't come in again?"

  "No. He's having a hard time at home. I just need to sleep."

  "You look it. Go." I wave my hand for him to leave. "I'll be fine, Don. Easy peasy."

  "Thanks." On his way out the door, over his shoulder, he calls, "I'll be upstairs if you need me."

  "Hey, Holly." Tabitha skips over with an empty tray. "You ready to be on your own?"

  "I was born ready."

  "Good. I need one Apple Martini and one Toasted Almond." Business is slow, so she slides her tray to me and sits on a stool to wait.

  "So what's up with Mick? Donny says family issues?"

  "Pretty much. I guess. He doesn't talk much about it." It's not a lie, he really doesn't.

  "Hmmm." I push the two drinks to her, and she takes them while I wipe down the tray she'd just given me.

  I hear the door open and it only takes a few seconds to realize who it is. I've gotten used to his sporty scent.

  "Holly." He sits at the bar with a smile.

  My new bff. "Hey, Ben. What's going on?"

  "Not much. Got tired of studying for my final. Came in for a burger."

  "Plain or cheese?"

  "Cheese... and fries. And a coke."

  "You're so all-American, Ben. Want apple pie for dessert?" I joke.

  "If you have it," he says in all seriousness.

  I laugh and fill his glass with Coke. "No. No apple pie. Be right back."

  When I come back from putting in Ben's order, Tabitha is sitting on the stool next to him. "I can't believe I've never seen you on campus. I go to all the parties."

  "That's the problem," Ben points out, "I don't go to any."

  Boy, Ben really is the all-American goody-goody boy next door. He makes me miss Rose.

  "You don't party, boy?" Tabitha's stunned. "Whattya do for fun?"

  "Play ball. Study." Ben shrugs.

  Tabitha's facial expression is hilarious. If her eyes weren't snugly fit inside their sockets, they'd have popped out and rolled right across the bar top.

  "Tabitha. Leave him alone and take care of your customers." I make sure to keep a smile on my face, since I don't want any tension between me and my co-worker, and possible new hang-out buddy.

  "What's your next session class, Holl?"

  "Experimental Psych."

  "Mornings?"

  "Yeah."

  "Me too."

  "Oh my God, Ben. That's a relief. We can work on assignments together again."

  "Yay, us?" he says sarcastically, with a roll of his eyes. "So what's going on with that bartender of yours?" He asks me. I had filled him in on Mick's and my non-relationship, plus he had a good laugh over my little fib about dating Ben.

  "It's going. Still just friends," I say, using finger quotes.

  "Why bother, Holl? If he really liked you, he wouldn't be stalling."

  "Ben," I scold. "Stop. He's got major things going on. I get it."

  He tilts his head, giving me that pathetic look of sympathy. “Let's just be friends. Isn't that what we all say when we want to break up with someone?"

  "You're so blunt."

  "I can't help it. I'm Italian." He winks.

  Tabitha walks over with Ben's burger. "You order this?"

  "I did. Thanks."

  While Ben eats his dinner, I serve some other customers and think about Mick. Was Mick just delivering me a line?

  No. I don't believe that.

  I know Mick loves me.

  Right?

  69

  MICK

  "No," Kenna demands, her usual response lately to my sister's requests.

  "Kenna. Please eat your applesauce. Please."

  "Charity." I snap. "If she doesn't want it, stop forcing her."

  "Mickey," Liz chimes in. "She needs to listen to her mother. Don't get involved."

  "Don't get involved," I restate. "A little too late for that now, don't you think?"

  Kenna tosses the applesauce across the table and shouts, "No," again.

  For the past two days, this is pretty much how things have gone at my childhood home, for lack of a better word. The only ones actually supposed to be living here are Liz and Kenna, but for Kenna's sake, I've been staying here as well. Charity still goes back to Luke's, but not until Kenna falls asleep. She's back when Kenna wakes in the morning.

  After Liz's insistence that I mind my business and don't get involved in the parenting of Kenna, I storm out the back door and slam it behind me. Not two minutes later, Liz is sitting next to me on the back step, handing me a cup of coffee. Really? Do girls actually think coffee is a cure-all? I take the cup and say, "Thanks."

  "I didn't mean it to sound how it came out," my aunt says quietly. "Kenna needs to learn to listen to Charity, and Charity needs to build confidence. I'm only her legal guardian as far as the law is concerned. But I want Charity to be her mother. It was not a slight on you, I swear."

  "I know that." I keep my gaze straight ahead on the newly landscaped yard. It's odd to look out and not see that haunting reminder of why our lives have turned out the way they have. It cost a lot of my savings, but even though a potential buyer would not have obsessively haunting memories of the forsaken pool, it still had a darkly eerie feeling about it, thus rendering my house unsellable.

  "Mickey." Liz punctures my thoughts. "Go to work. Get out of the house. Leave us to handle Kenna...for your sanity."

  "No. I'm gonna go start packing up this house."

  "Why? You don't close for a couple weeks. You have time. Doesn't Donny need you?"

  "I can't."

  I get up, walk through the kitchen where Charity is cleaning up the applesauce mess and Kenna is playing on her tablet, and head straight for the basement for some boxes. I text Donny to tell him I'll be out again.

  The first room I tackle is the hardest one to face—my brother's. Above the door jam, I reach for the long metal piece of hanger I'd cut and put there in case in an emergency, for whatever reason, I'd need to get in. With the metal piece inside the doorknob hole, I locate the button and pop it open, unlocking the door to Frankie's room, which hasn't been open in eight years. The last time being when my grandparents died and I wanted to feel my brother with me.

  A musty scent is the first thing to assault my senses, but a second later, my eyes fall upon the room that hasn't changed in sixteen years. Aside from the deep grayish cast that has settled around the room. The once bright blue plush rug is now matted and dark gray. My feet, kicking up the thick dust as I cross the room, causes a cough to escape. I run a finger through the inch thick gook on his dresser and sigh. Even the photo of Frankie and me beaming behind the huge orange Matchbox car race track that Santa left under the tree can hardly be seen. The dust covering the room is both sad and symbolic. It is exactly how I've been walking around since I watched my brother die—behind a cloud of thick dust, masking the man inside, and seeing life through that same dusty cloud. The revelation leaves my heart heavy with remorse, feeling sad for my brother, and sad for the life I'd sacrificed because of it. My own.

  Frankie's little clothes are still spread out on the bed I made for him the night he drowned. I remember picking up his room, folding his clothes, shoving them in his drawers, and keeping the outfit he had worn that morning, before he'd switched into his swim trunks, laying out on the bed. It was me who picked out his little suit for the casket too. Mom had been crying too much, so I went in there, found it, and brought it to her. She couldn't even say thank you, but at the time, I couldn't blame her.

  It takes me three excruciatingly painful hours to go through Frankie's stuff and pack it in boxes labeled Goodwill, keeping only a little red baseball cap that I remember him wearing all the time. When I'm finally finished, I take my hat and my beaten heart and close the door. This time, leaving it unlocked.

  Without a word to anyone
, I leave the house, drive away on my bike, and head for the nearest liquor store. I return home with two pints of vodka and walk to the back of the house, not bothering to go inside.

  Finding my spot by the tree, I ice up my bruised heart and blur today's events with my usual therapy.

  70

  HOLLY

  I sit at the ignored keyboard and ready myself for my first gig.

  Donny never did hire anyone to entertain his patrons during the slow hours, so he'd asked me to do it for the after lunch crowd three times a week. I’m happy for the opportunity, because it allows me time playing piano, which I’ve been missing, and I’m getting paid for it. It’s a win-win. Music is like therapy for me, so I’m glad I not only have my guitar to get me through the lonely times, but now I have the keyboard as well..

  Since Mick has continued to call in sick the entire week, Donny has me tending bar at night and making the extra money playing keyboard after lunch. I can't say I miss waitressing, because I enjoy tending bar so much more. Today, I'm playing a few songs to the Friday afternoon crowd of about six. Starting with "Sweet Home Alabama," after a few notes, I'm so lost in the music that time flies along with my renditions of "Smoke on the Water," "Sweet Child O'Mine," and "Piano Man"—minus the vocals, of course. When my gig is up, I take my hour break at home, Griffin's home, grab a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and continue reading Running Barefoot.

  Now that my final is taken, yesterday was the last day of Psych Statistics, I'm finding it hard to keep thoughts of Mick out of my mind. The longer I don't talk to him, the more I allow doubt to seep in, and the less confident I am about where I stand. Which means, I'm unsure about shooting him a how-ya-doing text. A good friend would, most definitely, I decide, so I start typing.