The Guardian's Playlist

by J Powell Ogden

  “Michael…”

  He sat up and turned toward me, his jaw set and his eyes forthright. “I’m a drug addict, Catherine,” he said flatly.

  “You’re not a…” I stopped when I saw the stone sober look in his eyes. “Yeah, but you changed.”

  “Just because I stopped using, doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. That I don’t still want to.”

  That revelation shocked me. Still? Even now? Jason’s words rolled through my head. If anyone had reason to be on drugs, it was Michael.

  “But Michael, after the stuff you went through? Anyone would have—”

  “No, Catherine. You’re still not listening! You’ve got some crazy idea in your head that I was just a victim. Always the victim. Poor Michael, none of the stuff he did was his fault. But you’re wrong!” He started to fade and flicker in waves. His eyes were narrowed and filled with savage self-hatred.

  “After I finished my probation? I didn’t just lose my halo. I tore it off my head, blowtorched it and threw it under a bus. Understand?” He leaned toward me, his eyes challenging me to face facts. He was right. I didn’t want to face them. I didn’t want to hear them.

  “Michael…” I groaned.

  “Just shut up and LISTEN! You need to know who you’re mixed up with, who has access to your mind!” He leaned back and ran his hand through his hair and then slowed his speech down and lowered his voice.

  “My mom petitioned for custody after I pled out on the assault charge. She’d cleaned herself up and was working two jobs to pay the rent on a crappy one-bedroom apartment for us over here on the west side. She was never home. At the time, I would have defined that as good. It meant I could do what I wanted when I wanted. That’s when I met my good friend, Devlin.” A dark squall hijacked his eyes at the mention of Luke’s name, which came out as a deep-throated hiss.

  “Yeah, Devlin. He was only a freshman at Saint Joan, and he was already dealing. He needed help. I gave it to him. Did you hear that? Are you listening now? I helped your favorite drug dealer. Got that? And no one held a gun to my head either. No one forced me. It was my choice. My stupid…” His jaw twitched, and he had to take a moment to steady his voice.

  I was miserable watching him struggle through his confession. “Michael, you don’t have to—”

  He raised his eyebrows over hard-edged eyes and pointed sharply at me. “No more secrets, remember? Your rules. Not mine.” He paused and leaned back over his elbows.

  “So…I made contacts and deliveries for him in the neighborhood while he handled the school, and for that he hooked me up with pot for free. Sometimes we even shared a bottle of Captain Morgan or a line of coke or whatever else he happened to have on hand.

  “Once he got a whole bottle of Oxy in trade, and he gave me a handful just because we were friends. A handful! Do you know how many Oxycodone pills are in a freaking handful? I was damn lucky I didn’t have a regular source for those, because they would have taken me down hard. I mean it, Catherine. For the first few weeks after I finished them off? All I could think about was the incredible high they packed.” His gaze drifted away from me to the forest, and then his eyes lost focus as he remembered, as he craved. I could see it now, and my heart ached for him. He blinked a few times to get back on track.

  “See, for me, it was all about pain relief. Shit, I figured I was entitled to a little pain relief by then, and I was willing to do almost anything to get it. Stealing. Dealing. Girls. It didn’t matter to me.” He paused then and buried his face in his hands. “Christ! Why was I so stupid?”

  “But you changed,” I soothed.

  “I should have changed sooner! Maybe then I could have—”

  “What, Michael?” I prompted softly. “Could have what?”

  He looked away.

  “No more secrets,” I whispered to the back of his head. He turned his gaze back on me, his gray eyes filled with deep regret and heart rending loss.

  “I was placed with the Gardiners, because my mom started shooting up again when I was a freshman at Fairview, and you know what, Catherine? I didn’t even care! I was too busy feeding my own drug habit.” He ground each word out bitterly. “Maybe I could have helped her. Maybe I could have saved her. Maybe she wouldn’t have overdosed and died—”

  “You’re not responsible for your mother’s death.”

  He rolled his eyes, and then said under his breath, “You have no idea, no idea at all.”

  He pushed himself roughly up off the log and walked a little way into the forest. He was quiet for a long time, his arms folded across his chest, his scarred back bared for me to see. It was snowing harder, and his subtly wavering form blended softly with the heavy curtain of silent flakes that fell around and through him. I waited for a while, and then I stepped quietly into the woods and stood next to him. His eyes were closed, and his chin was lifted. He was listening.

  “The darkness, the quiet, it still calls to you, doesn’t it?” I whispered. He remained still for another minute and then looked sideways at me, his eyes full of fatigue.

  “I’m tired, Catherine. I’m tired of thinking. I’m tired of feeling. And with the dreams, the thoughts…maybe it would be better if—”

  “Don’t say it!” No way, I thought. “You’re meant for something more. There’s got to be a reason you’re still here! You didn’t fight your way through your whole life just to fade away!” A tiny black hole was born in my chest in that moment. It started sucking the breath out of my lungs.

  “But Catherine…don’t you see now how screwed up my head is? How much crap is locked up inside it? I hate that any part of my mind has touched yours! I might as well be some evil spirit who—”

  “Would you just stop with the whole evil spirit thing?” I interrupted harshly, adding more softly, “My mind isn’t so perfect, either.”

  “Christ!” he cried. “I don’t understand any of this! Maybe if I knew how I was connecting with you! Maybe if I knew why…”

  It was then that I remembered the last dream, the one where I’d been in the hospital. I still wasn’t convinced it was Michael sending me the dreams, but he believed it, and that scared the crap out of him. I thought knowing about the fourth dream, the one in which he tried to save me, might reassure him that he wasn’t all bad.

  “You were in another dream I had before Halloween. Did you know that?”

  The startled look on his face told me he didn’t.

  “In the dream I was sick. Really, really sick. I had pneumonia like when I was eleven, and suddenly my hospital room was submerged underwater, and I was drowning. I was trapped in the same pool as the other dreams, only this time it was you who tried to pull me out. Don’t you see? I don’t think they’re just nightmares, Michael. I think the dreams are someone’s way of telling us that we need each other. That I—”

  He snorted derisively. “What could you possibly need me for? There’s nothing I can do for you. Ever since I saw you leave with your telescope, I’ve been stuck in these woods.” He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Where do you get this stuff anyway?”

  “Syfy Channel,” I deadpanned. Well, it was sort of true.

  “Shit, Catherine. You’re impossible,” he sighed, but a reluctant smile fought the corners of his lips, and then a small crease deepened between his brows. He took a step closer, his scarred chest hot and steaming in a dimension far beyond my own, and reached out unexpectedly to brush his ripped fingertips through the outer layers of my hair. A soft muffled rush of electricity caressed my scalp wherever they traveled.

  “You have these tiny perfect snowflakes caught in your curls,” he murmured.

  I turned my face into his open hand, my heart racing as his static tingled through my cheek, forehead and chin. His signature fragrance saturated the nerve endings in my nose, and I opened my mouth to breathe him in deeper, but he pulled his hand abruptly back and cleared his throat.

  “Um…you should go. It’s getting late,” he said, yanking his shirt back on over
his head and stuffing his arms through the sleeve holes.

  “Right…” I blinked a few times and then checked the time on my phone. It was after five and the sun would set soon. There was never enough time.

  As usual, he started to disappear without even saying goodbye, but before he was gone, a thought occurred to me, and I called out impulsively, “I’ll find out, Michael!”

  He was almost completely transparent, but he paused and asked, “Find out what?”

  “What happened to Cherish,” I said. Maybe that would give him something else to hold onto. Maybe it would give him another reason to stay.

  His image strengthened slightly.

  “Ex tech-stalker boyfriend?”

  I nodded.

  His eyes filled with hope, just a little, and he returned my nod wordlessly. Then he was gone.

  I felt empowered. After all these months, I’d finally found something I could actually do for him, and as soon as I reached the deeper snow of the field, I was yanking off my snow-stiffened mittens and digging my cell phone out of my pocket. I needed to apologize to Jason, and then I had two favors to ask. He’d forgive me. He always did.

  SEVENTEEN

  EVERY PART OF ME

  IT WAS THE second Sunday of Advent, the season Catholics all over the world prepare for the coming of Christmas. My mother loved going to Mass during Advent, but she would miss it again today to care for Mina and, as my dad, my sisters and I left for church, I marveled again at the sacrifices she was willing to make for her.

  Another warm front had blown through the north shore—at least warm for Cleveland in December. It was in the upper forties and had rained for the past few days, and except for a few sooty snow piles clinging to curbs, the snow was mostly gone. Soggy brown leaves flattened themselves against the driveway, and a dreary overcast sky pressed down upon us.

  Inside the church, it was different. It was warm and peaceful and quietly alive. Just inside the entrance, we paused to look at the miniature stable, which was nestled in a pile of fragrant straw. Mary and Joseph, a shepherd and his sheep, a cow and a donkey, and a few of God’s faithful Angels were all gathered inside to wait for the birth of Christ. Baby Jesus, of course, hadn’t arrived yet.

  The Mass itself was subdued, and the altar was adorned simply with a few evergreen sprays and loops of purple ribbon. Two of the purple candles were lit in the Frasier fir Advent wreath, which was set on a stand to the right of the altar. The remaining pink and purple candles would be lit during the next two Sunday Masses.

  No, we weren’t celebrating Christmas yet. That would have to wait until Christmas Eve. The transformation that took place every year between the fourth Sunday of Advent and Christmas Eve was pure magic. There would be full-sized, live Christmas trees with red bows and thousands of tiny white lights flanking the altar and dozens of gloriously full poinsettias arranged down in front. The whole church would smell like a joyful pine forest and melting candle wax. I imagined the ladies from the church spent all night making the change happen.

  For now, though, we were waiting. My faith wavered depending upon the events of any given day, but the deeply-held beliefs and traditions of Advent lifted it up and strengthened it. It was hard not to believe in God this time of year. As I sat through the quiet Mass, my heart ached for Michael who couldn’t be there with me to experience the warmth and hope that the season of Advent brings.

  He’d stayed. And he was waiting, too—waiting for word on his beloved little Cherish. She would be five now and in kindergarten if she’d been able to escape Michael’s fate.

  It would be a gross understatement to say Michael had no Christmas spirit. The Sunday before, when I mentioned to him that Advent had begun, and it was only a few more weeks ‘til Christmas, he scowled and then disappeared for a while, refusing to come out until I promised to keep my “merry freaking Christmas” thoughts to my seriously delusional self. He didn’t believe in God, and he wasn’t going to be forced to celebrate a stupid holiday in His honor just because…blah…blah…blah…

  But I wasn’t going to give up that easily, and he knew that, so he told me not to bother coming back on any more Sundays until after Christmas. He said, “I’ll be too busy celebrating my own personal holidays by thinking deep, dark demon-type thoughts that only I can understand.”

  If only I could bring a little bit of the Advent season to him. He was already surrounded by evergreens. All I needed were the candles, and I knew just where to find them.

  When we got home from church, I ran up the stairs toward my room, but was brought up short by the sound of my grandmother arguing heatedly with a man in her room. There was no place to go in the house to keep from eavesdropping, so I didn’t bother to try.

  “I’m so sorry Philomina, but that was over twenty years ago. We don’t do things that way any—”

  “Get out…breathe…of my room…breathe…you sniveling twat!”

  “I can understand your anger, but you need to let go of the hate in your—”

  “Robbie was my…breathe… son. If you think…breathe…I will ever—” Her words were interrupted by explosive coughs, and I peeked through the crack in the door. Here we go again, I thought.

  “I think I’d better go,” said the man, who I recognized now as Father Rocci, Saint Paul’s middle-aged parish priest. “She has free-will Anne. She needs to make her own choices. I can’t keep intruding on her like this. If she wants to see me, she’ll call.”

  “Out!” my grandmother choked.

  Father Rocci gave Mina a genuine smile and said, “I will be praying for you, Philomina.” He pushed his way out the door but stopped when he saw me standing in the hall.

  “So you won’t come back to see her?” I asked him.

  “Not unless I’m invited. I have to respect her wishes,” he said gently and started to leave again, but he turned around and added, “By the way, Catherine, I never did tell you personally how sorry I was about the death of your friend, Michael.”

  “Did you know him, Father? Did you know his parents?”

  His brown eyes grew sad, and he nodded. “Yes. It’s terrible what happened to them. Just keep praying for him, Catherine. Michael was a troubled soul.”

  I know, I thought, intending to do a lot more than pray for him. He needed more than prayers. Even I was smart enough to know that. He needed me, no matter how ineffective or faith-weary I turned out to be. He had no one else.

  I ducked into my room to continue my search for candles, getting down on my hands and knees to pull my memory box out from under my bed. It was crumpled at the corners and covered in dust. I pulled off the torn lid and sorted through its internal treasures—my grade school yearbooks, a pair of size 3T Cinderella shoes, a crystal wand, my First Communion veil.

  I found what I was looking for nestled within the veil’s pearly crown: the Advent wreath I’d made in preschool. It was made from four cups of a cardboard egg carton. Each cup was filled with green clay, and stuck in each lump of clay was a candle, three purple and one pink. A piece of green tinsel garland was wrapped around the candles to hide the clay and make it pretty.

  I held it up and looked it over. Well, pretty it wasn’t, but it was small and portable. It would do the job, I decided, so I stuffed it into my now fairly ratty pink bag. If I couldn’t bring Michael to our church’s Advent celebration, I’d bring the Advent celebration to him, whether he liked it or not.

  I checked to make sure I still had matches and dressed for the cold, wet weather. Hiking boots, wool socks, old jeans, long-sleeved shirt, sweater and fall jacket. It was too warm for the marshmallow. Before heading downstairs, I rolled up a bandana and tamed my hair with it.

  “Mom! I’m going to Jai Ho to study!” I called from the foyer. “Dad, can I take the Demon?” I don’t know when it happened, but lying to my parents had become second nature to me. I felt a twinge of regret over that fact, but I didn’t know how it could be helped.

  “Sure!” called my dad.

 
“Wait!” hollered my mom.

  I stopped, annoyed. She came around the corner with that “sorry, but too bad” look on her face. “Catherine, I need you to get your flu shot this afternoon. Your pediatrician’s office—”

  “But Mom! I have tests this week.” Another lie.

  She ignored my protest and went on in a louder voice, “Your pediatrician’s office is having a flu shot clinic this afternoon and—”

  “Can’t I get the shot next week?”

  Mom paused and looked up at the ceiling. “With your asthma, you’re a high risk patient,” she said, making a strong effort to keep her voice even.

  “But Mom…”

  “Catherine! It’s important! Do it today, or there will be consequences. Do you understand?” Her voice was hard-edged, her eyebrows were raised, and her teeth were starting to clench together. Bad combination. Time to cut my losses and run.

  “Okay…” I agreed, then turned on my heel and was out the door before she could call after me the automatic and obligatory, “I love you.”

  I tried to pull open the Demon door, but it was locked. Shit. It took me several minutes to find the “sweet spot” that allowed the key to turn. Shit. Shit. Shit. I guess it would be safe to say I was in a bad mood now.

  When I pulled into my pediatrician’s parking lot, I noticed way more cars than usual. Doctor Fontana’s office was on the first floor, and I knew it well. It would be impossible to list the number of times I visited over the last sixteen years with allergies, colds, asthma. I was what they called “a frequent flyer.”

  There were at least twenty-five people waiting in chairs and a few kids sitting on the floor. I approached the receptionist’s window, and she didn’t even look up.

  “Flu shot?” she asked and then waved toward the sign-in sheet. I didn’t bother to nod. I looked at the sheet and my heart sank when I saw the long list of names already on it.

  I leaned over the counter and asked, “How long?”

  “At least an hour, probably more.”