Mending Michael (18 page)

MICK

I lost Kenna, and it's all my fault.

Just like it was my fault Charity ended up pregnant with Kenna in the first place.

Just like it was my fault my parents depended on drugs and alcohol to function day to day.

Just like it was my fault Frankie drowned in our pool sixteen years ago.

This whole fucking joke of a life we had is all my fault.

No matter what I do to make things right, it all goes to shit in the end.

They'd all have been better off if I'd just never existed.

Maybe that's how I can make things right.

For Frankie.

For my parents.

For Charity.

For Kenna.

HOLLY

Mick's bike is nowhere in sight.

Neither is his sister's car.

So it's safe to say, Mick is not at Donny's tonight, nor is he home in his apartment.

My nerves are more settled now, and I'm glad that Rose talked me into going out tonight. She's right, I would have been more of a wreck sitting alone in our small dorm if I'd stayed home. Even though I would have had my guitar—I'd brought it back with me from New York—playing it all night long would have just left me sad. Especially since in between laundry loads, all I'd been playing were love ballads.

We take our normal Saturday night table to the far right of the establishment, a space in an alcove that fits three tables usually occupied by regulars. Griffin and Cali aren't there yet, but Braden, Hurley, and Hurley's sometimes girlfriend, Meredith, are already starting on some appetizers.

When I see Cali's friend Tabitha walking towards us, at first I think she's going to sit with us, then it registers that she's wearing the black Donny's apron and official red polo that his waitresses wear. "Tabitha. You're working here now?" I ask pointlessly.

"Yeah. Got your job," she explains with a silent, lighthearted chuckle. "What can I get you two?"

"Oh," I look to Rose, then back to Tabitha, "I'll have a Sangria," I say, taking my seat, then looking at the menu, since I am suddenly starving. At the diner, I barely touched my chicken Caesar salad because I'd been so worked up about tonight. But since it's Donny behind the bar, I have no reason to feel apprehensive.

Though a tiny voice is prodding me, alerting me not to get too comfortable. I turn a deaf ear to the voice, reminding myself that if Mick comes in, I can just ask him how things went yesterday. He knows I have another job. Let him think I was just too busy to text him yesterday, and I waited until I'd see him in person to ask him how things went. Yeah. That's what I'll tell him.

Tabitha sets our drinks on the table just as Griffin and Cali get there. Griffin greets me with a kiss on the cheek, while behind me, Cali and Tabitha chatter on about something.

"So how's the job, Holl?" Griffin asks. "You finished a full week, ready to quit?"

"Pretty much," I joke.

He rubs the top of my head. "Watch the hair, Griff," I tease.

"Hey, guys."

"Hey, Cal," we all said in unison.

When Tabitha takes our order, I feel a small pang of empathy for her, not that I feel empathy often, but because I've been in her shoes, taking orders from friends, I feel her slight humiliation. Unless Tabitha is different from me, and doesn't feel humiliation over trivial things like serving friends. Once we place our orders, and everyone is chattering on about nothing in particular, I decide to take a seat at the bar.

"Hey, Holl, whatchya drinking tonight?" Donny sets a coaster in front of me.

"Well I was drinking a Sangria, but I think I'll have a glass of Merlot right now."

"Boring."

"Yeah, well, that's the mood I'm in."

"'Cause you quit your job here. You weren't bored when you were working here," he concludes, placing a glass of red on my coaster.

"That's cause I had you to look at, Don."

"Enough with the wisecracks. We know who you were looking at."

I sigh. "How is he?"

"Heartbroken."

"I bet," I say quietly. "Do you...have you seen him?"

Donny shakes his head, his eyes cast down. "No, Holl. I haven't even talked to him." His eyes look back at mine. "I spoke with... Lara," he says her name with apprehension, as if he's embarrassed to tell me. "She said he's not doing well at all."

"Hmmm. Is that, uh, is that where he's staying? With...her?" I try to keep the edge out of my voice, but it's hard when my heart hurts just thinking about it.

Donny nods. "I think so. Don't know for sure."

We're both silent for a bit. I drink my wine; he serves his patrons.

"So how's your internship going, Holly?" Donny's voice is warm, his question, sincere.

"It's going. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I'm getting paid a good chunk of change."

"A good chunk of change?"

I laugh to myself. "My dad's phrase. I do get paid well though."

"So you gonna work on Wall Street when you graduate?"

"I doubt it. I don't understand half of what they have me doing. I'll probably get let go before the internship is over." This I say with regret, because if my father's company lets me go, then I'll never hear the end of it from my dad. He'll be the laughingstock and all that.

"You want to get let go?" Donny asks innocently.

"Not really," I admit. "My dad would flip."

"Can you get tutors for a job?" Donny's joking, I know, but it doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

"I better get back to the guys." I shrug my head in the direction of my table. "Catch you later, Don."

"Later, Holl."

By the time my burger comes, I'm not hungry again. My stomach twists from hearing about Mick. He's heartbroken. And he's with his ex. Which of these bothers me more? Truthfully, it's hard to tell. It breaks my heart that he lost Kenna. It tears me to pieces to know he's so sad. It should make me happy that he is with someone who loves him at a time like this. But it doesn't make me happy. It makes me sad.

I guess my change in demeanor gets noticed, because suddenly all eyes are on me, as well as all the questions. Fortunately, I dodge them by telling them it's my time of the month. Rose, Cali, and Meredith chuckle, knowing I'm kidding, but I get the expected response from Griffin, Braden, and Hurley scrunched up faces and throaty groans.

Switching from wine to hard liquor helps, and by the time we close down the bar, I'm just as giddy as the rest of my table. We decide to go to the local diner and by now, I'm famished. Drunk off my ass, but famished.

Sunday morning, I wake up with two skewers shoved through my eyes and my head between a closing vise. The pain is so intolerable that I can't even manage to open my eyes. When I try to, it's like pulling those skewers out from my impaled eyes. I want to scream, but it takes too much effort. So I lie there instead, praying for sleep to take over again.

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.

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 still 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."