chapter 16

Charlie got to see Michael one more time before it all hit the fan, and that was a good thing for Michael Tibbs. Charlie tends to act on your immune system a little bit the way a good shot of B vitamins will. Just the thing if you're headed for stress.

Of course none of us knew what was going to happen. We spent those next few days in blissful innocence, doing my math and getting to know each other. I'd sit there by the hour, listening to Caulder bantering with Michael over some aspect of political science. They were both world aware and mean-witted, and when they saw things differently—which was more often than not— things could get very entertaining. Above all, Michael seemed to be a moral person. He was always interested in the right thing—which did not always mean politically correct—and in the truth. I guess, because he'd been lied to, truth was very important to him.

He was always on us about what we took for granted: two parents, a family, a house, money, love, respect, education, art. I tried to tell him it wasn't like he'd been totally deprived, himself. And then he'd smile at me and tell me, well, that was right. He wouldn't fight with me. And there was not another moment in those days when Michael and I were alone together.

Every day, we expected the doctor to tell us that Michael was going home. Every day, he seemed happier and stronger, and the shadows behind his eyes didn't seem quite so deep.

Then came this one Friday, early in December. It was one of those days we were running a little late—Caulder had a big date scheduled with Hally, and he was fussing over it, one of those drive-into-the-city-have-dinner-in-a-real-restaurant things. I, having canceled a date myself, wasn't real happy about having to cut the visit short, but Caulder had the car, so what could I do? Anyway, once again, we forgot to check in with the doctor when we got there.

I think I heard the monitor before we even got to Michael's door, but it never crossed my mind that I'd find it hooked up to Michael again.

Caulder stopped in the doorway of the room; I almost piled into him. “What happened? “ he asked. I tried to see around him.

Michael was flat on his back in the bed with the IV bottle hanging up over his shoulder. It was like somebody had just erased the last two months. He turned his head when we came in and gave us a little wave. He looked very groggy.

Caulder dropped all his books on the table and went straight to the bedside. I took off my coat, watching. Michael made a stupid, druggy smile for Caulder.

“My gosh,” Caulder said, glancing up at the IV.

“Surprise,” Michael said. His voice was all muzzy and he blinked very slowly. “Said they'd call.” He sighed. “They didn't.”

“Look,” Caulder said, putting a hand on the bed. “You can tell me not to ask, but I've got to know what happened—”

Michael lifted his hand again. “Fine,” he said. “Me.” He closed his eyes. “Just tired. A little bit tired.” He made another smile for Caulder. “Go home,” he said.

Caulder glanced back over his shoulder at me. He looked sick.

“I can't leave you like this,” he said.

“Listen,” Michael said, slurring. And then he patted Caulder's hand. Caulder looked down at that hand with something like shock. I don't believe Michael had ever touched him before. “Go home,” Michael said, talking through a dream. “Fine.”

Caulder glanced up at the clock.

“Don't lie to me,” he said. “Smitty, I can't stand it.”

Michael let go of his hand. “I don't lie,” he whispered. And he closed his eyes.

Caulder came back to where I was standing. “I can't leave,” he said. “I don't know what to do.”

“I'm here,” I whispered. “You go on. I have a lot of reading to do for Monday. I'll just sit here and do it. My mom will come get me. No reason for both of us to stay.”

He looked back at Michael. Michael hadn't moved. Caulder gritted his teeth.

“Go on,” I said. “It's fine.”

Caulder looked up at the clock again and then checked his watch. “Okay,” he said. “But if you find anything out, you call me.” He picked up his books and backed out the door. He finally waved and trudged off down the corridor. I watched Michael for a moment, then I carefully moved a chair close and sat down. The whole place was very quiet. The monitor blipped softly away in the corner. I could just hear the wind, sighing outside the window.

I opened my book, but I couldn't read. I kept looking at Michael. Wondering what in heaven's name had happened.

“Still here?” Michael asked. He hadn't even opened his eyes. But of course—Michael the mystical; he could sense my presence.

“I just thought I'd stay for a while,” I said, biting back questions. “I won't bother you.” A tough promise to make.

He did something between a laugh and a sigh. “You bother,” he said, “always, always.” Then, “Too far away,” he complained. I got up and pulled my chair closer. “Why?” he asked, trying to look at me. “Your date,” he said.

“Don't have one,” I said.

“That's nice,” he murmured. “Go home. Get ready.”

“Michael,” I said, beginning to feel a little hurt.

“ Zabrisssski,” he said. “Tonight. Big deal.”

“I postponed again,” I told him, all of a sudden wondering if this could have been the thing that had put him back in bed.

And then somebody said, clearly and accusingly, “You didn't check in with me.” I jumped. It was the doctor, standing in the doorway.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “We didn't have much time, so we just sort of dropped by.”

“I wish you had. I would have sent you home. I should have called, I'm sorry. But this isn't a good night for you to be here.” There was something odd about her too.

“Not ready,” Michael said, almost clearly. He was talking in her direction.

She straightened her back and then leaned against the door frame, looking at him.

“I think you are,” she said quietly.

“You think,” he said.

“Smitty—” she said.

“I am Michael,” he said, still slurring, but managing to sound shockingly testy. “Read the admissions.”

The doctor even looked a little surprised. Then she turned to me, and opened her mouth to say something.

“No.” Michael said abruptly. The doctor shut her mouth. A moment went by. “No,” he said again. “I'll tell,” he said softly.

She folded her arms.

This was really beginning to scare me. The room went quiet again. I was watching the doctor's face, and she was frowning at the bed.

“My brother,” he said at last, “comes.”

Now the doctor met my eyes, but still didn't say anything.

“Secret. Till this morning,” he went on, his voice very sloppy. “They were afraid—” he held up the arm with the needle in it. “No time. Not ready.” He took a breath and then groaned softly. “By what right?” he said, and took another breath.

“As for my right,” she said levelly, “I have your parents' consent. But I didn't do this to you, Michael. This just happened. In the way of real life. I didn't tell you till this morning, because I didn't know. Your father jumped the gun on me, and I'm sorry. But better here and now than some other time in a worse place. You can't hide from this forever, Michael. You just have to deal with it. And I believe you can.”

He turned his face away from her.

“And I believe you will,” she said again. She pushed away from the door. “You want me to goose up that drip a little?”

“No,” he said. “I'll deal.”

“Fine,” she said. You want me to dial it down?”

“No,” he said. Then, “Yes. Can't think.”

She came in and adjusted the IV. “He needed it this morning,” she told me, and gave me a look that screamed understatement. “I'll be in to check on you later,” she said. She turned on her heel, and she left the room.

He put the heels of his hands against his eyes and groaned again. Then he lifted them and glanced at me—evidently, just to make sure I was still there. He put his hands down and took a breath. “Don't ask,” he said.

I huddled quietly on the chair.

“I can't,” Michael said after a moment. “—about him. I can't.”

“I didn't ask,” I said quickly.

“I know,” he said. He tucked his hands up under his armpits and shivered. “Can't go forward,” he whispered, “can't go back.” He lay there for another little time, and I still sat beside him, not touching him, but feeling the ebb and pull of his work. He whispered, a little wonderingly, “I can't talk about him.”

The hem of his pillow slip was coming out. The thread hung down from the bed, and I began to tug at it absently. Then I saw I was pulling the stitches out. I didn't know what to do with it after that.

“I know,” he said, “I'm safe. Public place. Witnesses. I know.”

I had tucked the little thread back behind the edge of the hem, all the time, trying to think clearly. I had my forehead pressed against the bars of the bed.

“My brother,” he said. And then, “Nemesis.”

There had to be something I could say that could defuse this. That could make him feel strong enough to handle it. But I couldn't think of anything. Nothing.

“So cold,” he said. But here was something I understood. And something I could do about it.

“Move over,” I told him, leaning over him.

“What?” He blinked up at me.

“Shove over,” I said. So he did, and I climbed up on top of his blankets, and lay down, my back against his side, the covers between us. For the next few minutes, his body felt about as hospitable as a brick bed, which was no big surprise. But after a while, he began to relax against me just a little, and then a little more, until we were just there together. It was not comfortable, but it was companionable.

And then he said softly, “Talk, Ginny.” His voice was sounding clearer. “Talk about the family.” I felt him drop his cheek against my hair. “About Paul. And Charlie. Make me see. Make me angry. Make me safe. Talk.”

That, also, I could do.