Stacy's Song (5 page)

 

The next few days were downright depressing. My headache developed into a fever that was gone every morning but returned by la
te afternoon. Mom pampered me, h
owever, I insisted she leave and take Andy to the pool each day. There was no point spoiling things for them. It was great swimming weather, hitting over ninety degrees every day. As for me, I stayed in the air-conditioning, moped around my room and tried to study vocabulary and reading for the SATs. I felt too rotten
to bother coping with the math,
the sight of which made me sick even when I felt well.

I only heard once from Karen the entire week. She and Randy were spending a lot of time together. When the phone rang on Friday evening and Mom said that it was for me, I assumed it was my friend calling. “Karen?” I asked.

“No, it's a boy.” Her eyebrows rose.

“Wrong number, most likely.”

“No, he asked for you,” Mom said with a smile.

That surprised me. As far as I knew, there weren't any boys interested enough to phone me. I took the call at the telephone that sat on the nightstand in my parents' bedroom. Okay, I admit I wanted some privacy. Just in case. I mean, every girl has hopes, right?

“Hello,” I said uncertainly.

“This is Michael, Michael Norris. Remember me?”

“Of course.” How could I forget?

“How are you feeling?” His voice sounded funny, as though it had thickened.

“I've been better. Why did you call?”

“Isn't that obvious, to find out how you are.”

“Liz must have told you to phone, right?”

There was a hesitation at the other end.

“What if she did? I did the calling, didn't I?” He sounded angry, defensive. Same old Michael! Some things never changed.

“How much do you
care about other people's feelings?” I could get angry too.

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“I don't know, do you?” I countered. Then suddenly I heard him laughing and I found myself joining him.

“Okay, truce. I concede the fact that I'm a selfish jerk. Now do you feel better? Can we stop playing dueling questions?”

“I don't know, can we?”

“Always have to have the last word, don't you?”

“Nope, that's you
,
Michael. No more questions for me. I accept your apology for acting like a rat.”

“You're all heart, Stacy.”

“Yeah, that's me, even my heart is big, just like the rest of me. Anyhow, the fact you can apologize and admit you're wrong about something means there's hope you'll change.”

I heard him sigh. “Not necessarily. Just because I admit to my faults doesn't mean I'll improve any. But for the record, I didn't exactly apologize. I suppose you think I should apologize to you for the way I acted and admit that I was wrong?”

I could hardly believe this was the same Michael Norris. “As a matter of fact, I would appreciate an apology.”

“Good, then it's settled. I'll expect you at practice Monday evening as usual. You should be feeling better by then. Goodnight.” He hung up, not giving me a chance to say another word.

As I heard the click at the other end, I realized that he'd gotten the better of me. How disgusting! He never actually did apologize or say he was sorry, but I felt certain he would tell Liz that he had. How totally impossible he behaved! And yet our brief conversation had for some unexplainable reason improved my mood.

***
*

By Monday, I had gotten most of my strength back and decided I'd go to band rehearsal. My mother was still saying I should visit the doctor with her, but I refused.

“If I go to the doctor's office, in my rundown state, I'll probably catch something else. I hear there's a new virus going around.”

Mom gave in and dropped me off at Michael's, unwilling to let me wait for the bus. There's a sign on the back of her SUV that says: Mom's taxi. I'll admit it's appropriate.

At first, no one answered the door at Michael's house. I rang a second time, glancing at my watch. It read seven p.m. yet there w
as no sign of Jimmy's beat-up
van. I supposed I'd been the first to arrive. Michael answered after the third ring. His hair was tousled and he was dressed casually in worn-out jeans and a faded black tee shirt.

“Michael, did you cancel practice and not tell me?”

“Sorry, Liz was supposed to phone you about that but she probably forgot. I just assumed she'd take care of it and didn't double check that she had.”

“Well, my mother's already gone so I might as well come in for a while and keep you company.”

His expression was doubtful. “You'll be running the risk of getting sick all over again. I came down with something nasty myself.”

“I'll take my chances.” I walked past him into the living room and realized that he must have been lying down on the couch because a pillow had been tossed down there. “Besides, you probably got sick from me in the first place.”

He sat down unsteadily on the couch and I came over and plopped down beside him. I gave a light touch to his forehead.

“Nice cool fingers,” he commented.

“I think you're running
a
temperature.”

“I do feel kind of chilled.”

“Are you drinking liquids?”

“Now and then.”

“Not good enough. You've got to drink continually.”

“Yes, nurse.” He seemed amused.

“That's doctor to you!”

“Whatever you say. I'm in no mood to argue.”

I knew he must
be sick if he wasn't going to argue with me. “Where's Liz?”

“She went out shopping for groceries. Jimmy took her.”

“I'll be right back,” I told him.

I'd never been in the kitchen of the Norris house before, but I had no difficulty finding it. Unlike the living room, the kitchen had a cheerful quality to it, maybe because it was large and old-fashioned. I located glasses in the cupboard over the sink, found juice in the refrigerator, and brought it out to Michael who was sitting unusually still. He drank the orange juice I handed him without any comment. Then we sat together for a time, an awkward silence between us.

“Maybe we could agree to a non-aggression pact,” I suggested.

“Like Russia and Germany in World War II?”

“Hopefully ours would work out better. I do prefer friends to enemies.”

“I never think of you as my enemy,” he said in his serious way. “Lo
ok, when Liz and Jimmy get back
I'll ask Jimmy to drive you home, okay? I'm sorry about the mix-up tonight.”

“Don't put Jimmy to any trouble.” Again there was a tense silence between us. I found it difficult to talk to him. “Michael, it occurs to me that I don't know anything about you.”

He adjusted his dark glasses carefully. “Nothing
to know. I'm a real dull guy.”

“You're a musical genius. That hardly qualifies you as dull.”

He seemed embarrassed by my compliment. “That remains to be seen. Would you be offended if I lay down for a while? My head is splitting.”

“Of course not,” I said, standing up. “Why don't I get you something for the fever. Where do you keep your medicine?”

“Don't bother, I just need to rest.”

I took the juice glass back to the kitchen, washed it out and put it back where I'd found it. In the cupboard over the stove, I found several cans of soup. I took down chicken noodle, located a can opener and went to work. Nothing like chicken soup, it's mother's penicillin. Like the old joke went, it might not help but it couldn't hurt.

About ten minutes later, I was back in the living room carrying a bowl of soup for Michael. He was lying on the couch face up, breathing in and out in shallow rhythm. I realized he'd fallen asleep; so I put the bowl down with a quiet motion over a magazine on an end table. The soup was too hot for him right now anyway.

He looked so vulnerable when he was sleeping, like a little boy. He even had a cowlick like my b
rother. But he was nearly a man almost six feet tall
with
features that seemed sensitive
almost handsome in repose. I even detected a touch of the same vulnerability I had observed in Liz. Seeing Michael with his guard down provided an enlightening experience.

He moved, restless in his sleep. Then he thrashed around and started moaning. Suddenly, he was sitting up, shielded his face with his hands. “Watch out!” he yelled, knocking his glasses off.

I saw his scars for the first time and shuddered.

“No! No!” Perspiration stood out on his forehead like small pearls.

“It's all right,” I told him in a comforting voice. I placed my hands on his. “You were just having a bad dream.”

He was shaking all over now. I spied a blanket draped over a faded wing chair, brought it over and wrapped it around him in spite of the summer heat.

“Same dream every time,” he said, his chest heaving.

“About your accident?”

He turned his unseeing eyes toward me, a surprised expression on his face. “You know?”

“Sometimes it helps to talk about it with other people. Maybe then the nightmare might go away.”

He shook his head, running his long, t
apered fingers through straight
sand-colored hair. “There's nothing to say. I just keep reliving that night.”

“What happens in your dream?”

“It's always the same. My father's driving. I'm beside
him. The radio is playing. Dad is
listening to the news. Suddenly, without any warning, there's this other car coming at us out of control from the opposite side of the
road. My father tries to swerve
but it's too late. The other car smashes into us, catching us head-on. The last thing I see are the headlights so bright against the darkness of the night, so bright they bli
nd me.” In spite of the blanket
he was trembling, his body racked with perspiration.

Impulsively
I placed my arms around Michael and held him. “I'm terribly sorry,” I said. I wanted so badly to comfort him, to ease his pain. At the
same time
I couldn't help being aware of how much I liked the touch of his skin against mine.

He moved away from me and cast off the blanket. “I don't want your pity or anyone else's!”

“I'm just sorry
you were in such a terrible accident.”

“If what happened to me were the worst of it, it wouldn't matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad,” he responded
,
his voice grim
.
“
H
e was killed. The police said the other driver was drunk. The ironic part is that lousy drunk just walked away from the accident with only a few scratches.” There was no mistaking the look of agony on M
ichael's face. “Awake or asleep
I don't think I'll ever stop reliving that moment.”

“But you've got to! Don't you see? You can't stop living. I'm sure your father wouldn't have wanted that.”

He lifted his pillow into his arms and began crushing it in an anguished manner. “You don't understand. It was my fault. I killed him!”

“You're
right. I don't understand.” Is
the fever making Michael irrational?

“I'm responsible for my father's death. It was my fault we were out that night. I
insisted he go to the ball game
even though I
knew he'd come home from work
tired. I was supposed to pitch that game
. I had to have him see me play. It was
me and my big ego.”

I took his damp hands in mine. “You're wrong. Think back. There were plenty of other people on the road that night, weren't there? Did anything happen to them? Blame it on bad luck, bad timing, and
most certainly the other driver
but never blame yourself.”

“I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

He began to put the dark glasses back on again with an air of finality. I touched the place at the corner of his left eye where an angry red scar stood out. “That can be fixed with plastic surgery.”

“Some scars never heal
,
” he said in a soft voice. I had the idea he was talking to himself more than to me.

“Anyway, I heated you some soup. I want you to try it.”

He appeared exhausted and meekly accepted the bowl I placed in his hands. He'd even finished most of the soup by the time I heard
the unmistakable sound of the van
engine.

Liz walked into the living room followed by Jimmy, both carrying big brown paper bags and smaller plastic bags laden wi
th groceries. I gave Liz a hand
taking one of her bags out to the kitchen.

“Market sure was busy tonight,” Liz said cheerfully. I helped her and Jimmy put things away and then we went back to the living room to Michael. “How's he been?” she asked me.

“Never mind that,” Michael said, his tone stern and accusing. “You forgot to let Stacy know that practice was cancelled for tonight.”

“Sorry, was i
t a problem?” Funny
,
Liz didn't
look sorry at all.

“I don't mind. It gave me a chance to get to know Michael a little better.”

Liz beam
ed at me. “That's great! I mean
we should all get better acquainted because we're part of a team, right?”

Michael flinched at her comment. “We
're a group, a band, not a team
Liz.”

I wondered why the use of the word team had so bothered Michael. I picked up the soup
bowl
to bring out to the kitchen. Liz came after me.

“Please don't bother. I'll take care of that.”

“Not a problem.”

We walked out to the kitchen together while Michael and Jimmy talked in the living room.

Liz took the soup bowl from me, placed it in the sink and
ran some water over it. “You're
good for Michael. Anyone can see that.”

“Except Michael.” Liz's compliment had embarrassed me. “Michael mentioned his accident while you were out shopping.”

Liz tilted her head to one side. “Do you understand him any better now?”

“I think so. But I don't understand why he blames himself for what happened.”

“I agree with you,” Liz said, forcing her tongue with vehemence over her front teeth. “Only it'
s hard to convince him. You see
our mother thinks pretty much the
same way. Y
ou might say she put the idea in his head.
Not that she meant to hurt him
but she did hold Michael responsible for Dad's death.”

“That's so unfair!” I blurted out. “Doesn't she realize Michael had no control over what happened?”

“I guess not.” Liz fixed her eyes on the faded linoleum.

“Have you ever discussed it with her?”

Liz looked uncomfortable. “My mother reasons with
her heart not her head. Anyway
she won't talk to me about it. She still thinks of me as a kid. Mom needs to talk with someone who isn't close to her. She would never listen to me.”

Michael was shivering when we returned to the living room. “I'm going upstairs to lie down,” he said rising unsteadily to his feet.

“Let me help you,” I responded
moving fast to lend him support.

He put his arm around my shoulders and we walked toward the stairs together. The touch of his hand made me feel
funny, made my stomach flutter and
my senses focus with awar
eness. I helped him to his room
all the time feeling this strangeness inside myself.

He lay down on his bed with a groan.

“Okay
where do you keep the aspirin?”

“Don't bother. I'll get it myself when I want it.”