The Mating of Michael (19 page)

But Lance’s words felt a little too much like the kind of thing you say to a has-been, a recognition that James had once done something great.

He was proud of
Turncoat,
of
course, and he always would be. But it was upsetting to think his best work was done before he was nineteen, that he’d never have that kind of success again. And though he still got trickles of royalties on
Turncoat,
it didn’t pay the bills. Nor was it going to help him keep his publisher, not if his sales kept tanking, not if he didn’t win the Millennial Award.

What was the old saying? You’re only as good as your most recent hit. His publishers had been loyal, but they weren’t in the charity business.

Devon didn’t say anything to refute Lance’s loyal tirade, but he and Allison exchanged a look. James didn’t miss the
be nice
warning on Allison’s face.

“Sure,” Devon said coolly. “Just being nominated is huge. So are we going to play another game or what?”

W
HEN
L
ANCE
dropped James off at his house, it was after midnight. After he got James’s chair out of the back and made sure James was settled into it, he turned to get back in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, have a great month. And congrats again on the Millennial Award.”

James didn’t want to be alone. He thought about trying to talk to Lance, but they really weren’t that close. Lance had a wife and five young kids, a job. He had his own life.

“Thanks, Lance. Good night.” James rolled up to his door and let himself in. Lance drove off.

Once inside, James was finally able to let down his guard. He sat for a moment in his chair inside the door, with the lights off, trying to catch his breath. It felt like a weight was settling down on top of him, like that old medieval execution method of crushing someone under a huge stone. He knew it was stupid for him to allow Devon to get so far under his skin. But it wasn’t just about what Devon had said. It was the list of nominees for the Millennial Award. The truth was, James agreed with Devon—he didn’t have a prayer. If there was a dark horse on that list, it was J.C. Guise. And the horrible, breath-stealing disappointment of that made him realize how much hope he’d been pinning on the thing.

But of course, he had. Hadn’t he agreed to do a public book signing? Go to an award dinner? He’d pushed himself to do those things because he had this secret hope that winning a Millennial Award would salvage his career, turn the light on the descending darkness of his life, and chase the boogey-men of reality away.

That wasn’t going to happen.

He rolled over to the couch and got himself out of the chair. He made himself turn on the lamp on the end table. He sat there, suffused with a numbing blackness.

The truth was, he’d been going downhill for a few years—bouts of depression, having to force himself to write, uninspired, unhappy. Broke.
Lonely
. His discouragement over his reviews and sales had sapped his confidence and made his writing even more stilted, mechanical and forced rather than swept out on a wave of passion. He’d accumulated a ten thousand dollar credit card bill just trying to keep afloat. And he’d been isolating himself too much. That was why he’d stuck with dating Chris, even though nothing about it had felt right, until finally Chris dumped him. James was pathetic, a twenty-nine-year-old virgin with no family and a handful of casual friends. He was tired of living alone, struggling on through life alone. He was tired of seeing other couples like Devon and Allison, while he himself was unloved, untouched.

He had fought so hard to be independent. Maybe, just maybe, he had overshot the mark.

Portland, Oregon, 1992

“J
AMES
,
GET
dressed.”

Felicia put his clothes within his reach on the bed—a pair of pull-on pants, a T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes. She started to leave the room.

“I need help!” James said petulantly. How stupid was this woman? He’d been at the home for two weeks, and she always helped him dress.

“James, your arms are perfectly fine, and you can bend your legs up—I saw you do it while you were playing on the floor. If you can reach your feet, you can dress yourself.”

One of his three roommates, Danny, stood by his bed watching James intently. James thought about how he would have to roll around on the bed to get his clothes on. He hadn’t had to dress himself since he got sick, and he didn’t know if he could do it.

He didn’t want to try.

Felicia stood waiting. James glared at Danny.

“I can tie my shoes. Want me to tie your shoes?” Danny asked. His face was open and eager.

“James can tie his own shoes. Go on downstairs, Danny. It’s time for breakfast,” Felicia said patiently.

Danny left.

James pushed his covers aside. He was wearing flannel pajamas, and he pushed them down to his thighs. He was still mad.

“I can’t,” James said when he’d gotten them down to his knees. It hurt to bend forward any farther—it was tight in his back. He flopped back and waited for Felicia to take over.

But she just looked at him. “Bring your foot up. You can grab the pants at your ankle and pull them off.”

“But I can’t move my leg!”

“Use your hips, James, and your hands. Pull your leg up toward you with your hands. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor yesterday when you were working on that floor puzzle, remember? Try to sit like that in the bed.”

James hadn’t been aware of it at the time. But now he tried to pull his worst leg in, pulling at it with his hands. He brought it up to midcalf on the opposite leg, but he was stiff and it hurt.

“I can’t!” He flopped down again, now angrier than ever, angry that Felicia had made him try and fail, had made him prove how stupid and weak he was.

“James, you can do it,” Felicia said firmly. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

“No!” James shouted, a denial of everything that was wrong.

“If you want to eat breakfast, get yourself dressed and come downstairs,” Felicia said with a trace of steel. Then she left.

She
left him
.

James lay there all morning. He had a bedpan by the bed in case he had to go in the night, and he used it. He had a glass of water too, and he drank it. He was mad, and then he was just stubborn, but he wasn’t going to try it again
ever
. That stupid lady was not his mother, and she couldn’t tell him what to do. Anyway, his mother would have been happy to help him. Because she lov—

She loved him, she
did
.

I want my mommy.

In the afternoon, Danny and Rick came in to get a game. “Felicia says we can’t help you, you have to do it by yourself. I can tie my shoes. Want me to show you how to tie your shoes?” Danny asked. He looked very worried.

“No,” James said with an angry pout. Then because Danny looked sad, he added. “No, thank you. I’m okay.”

That evening, while the other kids were at dinner, Felicia came into his room. She held a plate with some macaroni and cheese and applesauce. She didn’t say anything, but she sat on the bed while he ate it, starving.

“Why are you smiling?” James asked her when he was done.

“You have a very strong will,” Felicia said with a sigh. “That will serve you well one day, even if it’s a pain in the ass for me right now.”

She said
ass
, which surprised James. Mommy’s friends said bad words, but James wasn’t allowed to, even though he knew a whole lot of them. But he’d never imagined one coming out of Felicia’s mouth. She looked so… teacherly.

“Will you get me dressed now, please?” James asked. He used the magic word because he’d been in bed all day and he was sick of it. He wanted to go downstairs and play games.

“No. James, I want to talk to you.”

James crossed his arms and pouted.

She touched his leg over the covers. “I need to tell you something. Your legs are going to be like this for the rest of your life, James. Forever.”

She sounded very serious, and the words made James’s chest hurt like crazy. “No.” His throat got hot.

“Yes, James. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth.”

James couldn’t speak because if he tried to he would cry, and he wouldn’t cry in front of Felicia. Still, he could feel wetness leaking from his eyes to the pillow. “When I’m as old as Danny?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

Felicia nodded. “Yes. But you’re a very, very bright boy. And you have good use of your arms and hands. You can be independent if you work hard.” He frowned at her, not knowing what she meant. “I mean that you can live in your own house someday and have a job, maybe even get married and have children of your own, be a daddy. None of that is out of your reach. But you have to choose it. You don’t want to live in a group home like this forever and ever, do you?”

It wasn’t a question. There was a heavy weight in her voice. James thought she was the meanest person he had ever known, but her meanness was not the kind like when kids poked a stick at a snake or pulled your hair. It was more like the kind that just
was
, like a dead kitten at the side of a road, like the meanness wasn’t even her fault.

“But my momma will come for me,” James whispered.

Felicia’s eyes looked sad. She shook her head. “No, James. I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t, couldn’t, say anything. But something in his chest
broke. Maybe it was the polio. Maybe his heart was becoming useless, too.

“We have a therapist come a few days a week, and I can have him show you some exercises to make you more limber so it’s easier for you to reach your feet. Okay? But you can now, James. I know you can do it if you try. The more you can do things on your own, the less you will need someone to take care of you. And when you don’t need someone to take care of you, you can go wherever you want in life. Do you understand that?”

James looked down at his hands clutching the covers and nodded. In truth, it would take him a long time to understand everything she’d said, like about a job and going anywhere he wanted. But what he did understand at that moment was this—his mother wasn’t coming back. His legs would never be better, and no one would be there to love him, to take care of him. He had to learn how to take care of himself because no one else wanted to. No one else would.

Felicia got up. “Good night, James.”

James cried himself to sleep. They were real tears this time—adult tears. The next morning, it took almost an hour, but he dressed himself.

Seattle, Washington, 2014

J
AMES
LOOKED
in the bathroom mirror. The overhead light was harsh and brutal, and his face was stark, his eyes empty and haunted. He looked like a textbook definition of defeated. He felt edgy and unsettled in his own skin, as if a million ants were crawling around inside him. Desperate. Was this rock bottom? If not, he was close enough to see the light reflecting off it from here. He needed… he needed something, and he needed it bad. Something had to give.

He opened the medicine cabinet door and looked at the bottle of pills on the top shelf.

There’s always a way out.

Last year, he’d researched suicide methods. Not because he was all that serious at the time, but his depressive spells had been becoming more frequent and he wanted to know he had an option if things got too bad financially, the old Frank Herbert poison gas tooth. He refused to ever be in a place where he could no longer live independently, whether because of his health or money. He’d gotten a bottle of the recommended drug, Pentobarbital, illegally off the Internet. He knew how much to take and what to chase it with.

Michael.

Michael’s face popped into James’s mind, making a wave of longing sweep through his body. Michael was the best thing to have happened to James in a long time, a new friend, someone willing to put up with James’s limitations and eager for his company. He made James laugh, made him feel… brilliant, happy, full of life. But Michael wanted more. How long would he tolerate being kept at arms’ length? Having their progress be a prisoner to James’s insecurities? He would find someone else.

James put his hands on the sink and leveraged himself out of his chair, grasped the bottle of pills, looked at the label.

James.

The single word was spoken quietly, beseechingly, in his head. The voice wasn’t that of his own conscience, or that of Amanda or Felicia. It was a soft, male voice.

James.

Something had to give.

M
ICHAEL
WAS
dragged from sleep by the ominous notes of the
Twilight Zone
music—his cell phone. He kept it on his bedside table just in case there was an emergency with one of his patients. Its sinister song was creepy in the dark night, and he sat up, shaking off his dreams. The caller ID said “James.”

“Hello?” Michael answered the phone anxiously. It wasn’t like James to call in the middle of the night.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” James said, his voice rough.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Michael sat up fully, swinging his legs out of bed. “What’s going on?”

“I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just—”

James didn’t finish the sentence. The skin on the back of Michael’s neck prickled at the tone in his voice. He clutched the phone harder. “Bad night?”

Breathing. “Yeah. Bad night.”

“I’m coming over.”

“You don’t have to.” But the plea was there.

“Babe, I’m coming over. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Michael hung up.

H
E
GOT
to James’s house around two in the morning. On the drive over, and now, standing at James’s door, Michael felt a strong sense of urgency, a need to be with James as soon as possible. Michael trusted his gut. James needed him.