I pretend not to notice. “When you’re older,” I tell him, starting the engine, “I’ll teach you to drive this.” The sound is powerful and the car shakes with the energy.
“Cool.” He is agreeable. “How about next year, when I’m eleven? I’ll probably have a growth spurt by then and be able to reach the pedals. Research says that kids usually grow up to be somewhere between the height of their parents. You and Mom are, were, are both tall. So I’ll be tall too, and I think next year would be a good year to start growing into it.”
“You bet.” There is no fucking way he’s going to drive this car next year, but the fact that he’s talking so easily about next year makes me agree to anything.
While we eat, he calls me Dad the entire time and tells me about a Robotics project he wants to do with his new friend Brandon. He and Shai have been going to Robotics Club on Thursday afternoons, and he’s making new friends. He’s more social that he’s been in months; he’s acting like himself, the boy he was before he got sick: Funny, connected, into his buddies.
I promise to go to Tech Town, the store that apparently sells the parts that robot builders need (who knew?) tomorrow, and I’m even excited about it. They need an analog sound sensor and a 180-degree range servo motor. And I need all of this.
The next week is hard. I’m seething with defensiveness from the talk with Allison, but determined to get back on top of my work. I’m curt with Gabriel, because I’m embarrassed. Even though we have great conversations and I love spending time with him, it’s not like he’s ever said anything. Plus, he’s still dating Arielle. She came over the other day to drop off something for Gabriel. When she showed up, Michael didn’t talk to her; he went to his room instead. She stayed just long enough to let me know that she was still number one. And long enough for me to hear her kiss Gabriel goodbye.
I need to get my head clear. He likes me, I understand that. He’s attracted to me, obviously. But he’s with someone, so any flirtation we do is going nowhere. It’s fun for both of us, but it’s only surface fun.
I spend time in the office, meeting with my team, coaching them on problems. After a few days of heavy hours, I have a lot of it cleared up, and my team members are friendly. I made it clear that I didn’t hold any grudges that they talked to Allison about me, and that opened the floodgates. I’m able to fix scheduling issues, deal with a family that never shows up on time for therapy and then yells at LaShonda for the lack of progress. I give Martin ideas on how to engage his six-year-old client who refuses to talk at all during sessions. We schedule a team builder for next week, a movie and lunch date.
I’m ready for Michael, but he’s extra surly to me and awful to Gabriel, almost like a setback. I told him how well he was doing, how pretty soon he won’t need therapy anymore. After that, his behavior slid backwards. Michael tests me now, talking back, cursing, doing things I tell him not to do. He stalls on homework. He pushes every button Gabriel has, and each time I come, they’re in a fight or some kind of sulk.
Michael’s even rude to the cashier at Walgreen’s when we pick up his prescriptions on the way home from Montrose Beach, calling her a “toad” under his breath, in a tone carefully calculated so she can hear. It’s kind of hilarious, if it happens in a sitcom, but she’s a real person, and the way her face drops makes me sick.
I talk to him in the car. “Michael. That cashier is a person with feelings. Your words have power, and you used it badly in there. It’s not nice to hurt someone on purpose.”
“People call me names.” He’s sullen. He won’t meet my eyes, even though I twist back to look at him, the engine running in the parking spot. “Strangers probably even do, like them.” He points out the window. A couple walks by in thick matching parkas, white ones with fluffy fur around the hoods. I notice there are no strings on hoods anymore. Choke hazard, probably, but it makes the hoods sort of useless.
“Who does?”
“Some kids. Whatever. When I was at school. Maybe once at Robotics this week.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“No. I won’t and you can’t make me.” He crosses his arms and glares. “I won’t talk about it, ever.”
I make a mental note to pursue this later, but leave it for now. “So you know how bad it feels. Why do you want to pass on the pain?”
“Because I want it to go away!” he screams, and hits the glass of the window with his fist. “Ow!” He starts crying. “I want it to stop!” He’s sobbing.
I get out of the driver’s seat and get into the back, beside him. My voice is soft. “Michael. The pain won’t go away by being mean to other people. That makes it worse. You make it go away by being strong and kind and compassionate. Or at least, you can lessen it. I can’t promise it will go away entirely. But I do know for sure that being unkind only makes you angrier and uglier inside.”
“Well, I’m ugly on the outside, so why not match?” His voice is bitter.
“You’re not ugly. You’re perfect the way you are.”
“My face is fat and I want my hair back again.” He leans his forehead against the glass. “I don’t like mirrors. Not even the window, like this. It lets me see my horrible face. I’m the toad.”
“You’re not a toad.” I take a deep breath.
“I am. I should dig into the cold ground and hibernate. Or die.”
“You should not do that.”
“I should kill myself.” He shoots me a sidelong glance.
“No.” I pull him into my arms, horrified. “You shouldn’t. There are too many people who care about you. Your dad. Natalie. Your friends. Me.”
“I didn’t mean it.” He leans into me. “Sometimes I just say stuff like that.”
“Are you sure you don’t mean it?”
“I’m positive. I don’t know why I said that.” He’s sincere, scared now, his eyes wide. I feel relief. I’ve worked with enough children over the years to read truth and lies, and he’s not lying right now. Still, the fact that he even needs to say something like that—even for attention—is troubling, and we need to address it.
“We can figure out why,” I tell him. “Michael? Your hair is going to grow back. Your face isn’t puffy anymore since you stopped taking the steroids. You know that, right? But even if you stayed bald forever, and your face didn’t change, you’d still be amazing. Do you understand me? It’s what is on the inside that counts.”
“Right. And that’s why my father dates supermodel idiots like Arielle instead of ugly NASA scientists.”
I want to laugh and cry at the same time. “Please don’t assume that all scientists are unattractive, or that such a thing matters. That’s an unfortunate stereotype. The truth is that a person’s real attractiveness comes from what they offer in their personality, their words, their actions. Yes, a pretty face might get more attention at first. But to keep the attention, you need to be awesome all the way down deep to the core. Awesome like you are.” I hug his shoulder.
“You think so?” He looks up at me, wiping his eye.
“I know so. And so does your dad. Be patient with him, okay?”
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Um. Do you think we should go back into the Walgreen’s and you can tell her I’m sorry for calling her a toad? I would but I’m scared, kind of.”
I think about this. Would it make it better, or worse? “What do you want to do?”
“I think I just want to go home.”
“Then we’ll go home.”
Back at the house, I make him a smoothie with fruits and veggies using a recipe that Natalie left for me. It’s dairy free; we use a frozen banana to make it creamy. You don’t even taste the spinach and carrot blended in.
While we sit at the kitchen table, Michael kicking his feet underneath, making scuffing sounds on the floor, I start.
“When you said you wanted to kill yourself, I wonder if what you meant was, there are things about yourself that you wish would change. You want certain things about yourself to go away. C
ould that be right?”
He nods, not looking at me. “Maybe.”
“Okay.” I wait. A few seconds go by, with him scuffing.
“Well, like I said. I want things to go back the way they were, before kids at school were mean. I just—I wish I never had cancer.”
“Was someone mean to you today?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I exaggerated just now in the car. It’s just that I don’t like people looking at me weird. I’m sick of being stared at. This one kid’s little brother looked at me and started laughing and I just got so mad. It was like some three-year-old and then his mom pulled him away and gave me this look.”
“Are the other kids okay?”
“Yes.” He answers right away. “The older kids are all fine, and they don’t treat me like I’m different. And I guess I started to feel like I wasn’t different. And when the small kid started staring and saying things, it was like this sick feeling that rushed in, reminding me, oh yeah. You ARE different. You were sick. You don’t look like everyone else, yet.” He sniffles and wipes his face.
“So you don’t want to die, yourself. You want the sadness to die and go away, leaving happiness. You want the cancer to die, leaving you healthy.”
“I would never hurt myself. I want to be healthy and get to be a grownup and do cool things. I just—I get so mad sometimes. I don’t know what to do when I get that angry. It’s like I can’t control it and it’s the only thing that makes me do things. And saying horrible things make me feel better. I know you said it doesn’t, but it does.” He sounds defensive. “You’re not in my head, so you don’t know how I feel.”
I nod. “The thing about saying mean things. You’re right—immediately afterwards, it feels awesome. Amazing. You feel powerful, right? But when that feeling fades, what you’re left with is the guilt and shame and unhappiness. Tell me. Do you feel good about what you said to that cashier?”
He shakes his head. “No.” He starts to cry. “I didn’t mean to call her a toad. I feel like a jerk.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. But see, you hurt her feelings in that moment, and you hurt yourself, too. You’re still hurting. Next time you feel that anger, take a deep breath and count to ten in your head. Try to wait before you say anything. You have all the time in the world to say something mean if you want to. Just take some time and be sure you want to. Often, it gives you the chance to change your mind. And then later you’ll feel proud instead of guilty.”
“But what if I can’t do that?”
“You just keep trying. It’s okay to mess up. We all mess up. Just try again next time. Okay?”
He nods. “I guess. What if I don’t know that it’s a situation where I’m supposed to count to ten first?”
“I’ll give you a signal, if we’re together. I’ll cross my hands together like this.” I place my hands on top of one another, crisscross, like I’m clapping one silent clap. “I’ll do it small, but it will remind you—ten fingers, ten seconds. Okay? Nobody else will know but us.”
He does the gesture, too. “Okay.”
“It has to be something we talk about a lot, so you get it into your head that you’re going to wait when you feel angry words. And it’s not going to work the first few times, so you will need to be patient with yourself. Changing a habit, especially one like that, takes time. Don’t beat yourself up if you toad a few more people.” I smile at him, and he frowns.
“Shai, am I a bad person?”
“No!” I touch his hand. “You’re a great person. You’re dealing with difficult things. You should be proud of how well you’re doing so far. I’m proud of you. So is your dad.”
“Really? I feel like I mess up all the time.”
“I feel like you do good things all the time. Your math is off the charts amazing. You’re rocking the other classes, too. And Robotics? Wow! Your manners to your dad get better all the time. I’d say you’re making great progress.”
“I didn’t know that.” He thinks about it.
“It’s true. So we’ll keep working on your outbursts, and keep thinking about all the good stuff you do, too.”
Michael is driving me mad. His scowling face is burned into the circuitry of my brain, and I think that this is the only thing I will see, forever and ever. It will be the thing I see imprinted on my eyelids every time I close them for sleep. It will be the last thing I see before I die. I try to get other images into my head and all I can see is his angry expression, his hatred, his rage. And mine.
I try to take Shai’s advice. “Be patient with him. He’s going to push back harder for a while. It will get worse before it gets better. But if you can stay strong and make it through, you’ll get to a good place. I’ve seen this happen many times, and it will happen for you, too. You need to stay the course and be a rock for him.”
Fuck this. Even rocks get worn away by constant chip chip chipping. Has Shai ever heard of the Grand Fucking Canyon? That masterpiece of nature is ten million tons of rock worn away by an asshole of a river that wouldn’t shut the fuck up, ever.
I’m not sleeping well. I’m angry. I want Shai, and I don’t want to want her, and that makes me frustrated. What worries me is the look I see on her face. She’s a good person, Shai. She’s not just sexy as fuck, she’s the kind of woman who deserves more than a one-night stand. She’s the kind of woman who insists on more and I don’t have that to give. I’m tapped out just trying to deal with what’s already on my plate.
Arielle and I broke up over an argument about Michael. I got tired of her attitude, the way she never wants to hear about him. I know that what she and I have is designed to be a respite from life. But sometimes, for a minute or two, we’re going to need to discuss what goes on when we’re not together. I made the mistake of comparing her to Shai.
Her eyes, so narrow, flashing at me. Her body, taut and trembling with emotion. “How can you possibly say that? It’s her job to talk about him and to him and spend every waking second with him. That’s what she is paid to do. Don’t you get it? She doesn’t do this because she loves him. She does it for the money, Gabriel. It’s her career. And yes, I’m glad she’s good at it. But don’t you make the mistake for one single second of thinking that she actually cares about either of you beyond her job. Okay? I’m the one who cares about you. The one who knows how to make you forget your worries. The one who makes sure you have a good time so that when you go back home you can deal. Remember me? The one who sucks your cock and gives you her body so you feel like the king of the world?”
She cried, tears running down her face. “I do that because I care about us, Gabriel. I care about us spending time together and figuring out how to deal with life. Okay? And if that means nothing to you, then maybe we should stop seeing each other.”
We did stop. And then she called, asking to try again. Reminding me of the good times. Saying she’d make all the plans for our favorite resort when she joined me at my next business trip. That she’d do a better job talking about regular life if I’d try to relax more.
What we have together, it’s not perfect. Far from it, I know that. It’s fucked up, even. But I understand it. The limitations keep me safe—from her, and from myself. She doesn’t want forever, she doesn’t want more than I can give, she doesn’t want to force me into something permanent. She gives me the “right now,” with the option to keep stringing along the “right now” into a chain of diamonds, bursts of enjoyment, without any terrifying commitments or declarations of love that make me dig into my heart with a spoon.
So I said yes.
“I wish you were staying.” Michael’s mouth twists into a grimace and he drops his fork onto the plate. Throws it, really, and I’m glad it doesn’t chip, although the fork bounces onto the tablecloth, taking with it a smear of bright orange sauce and a flap of soggy parsley. “I want you to see me compete at the Pokémon convention this weekend.”
“I know, Michael. I’m sorry. I’ve had this trip planned for several months n
ow, and it’s an important one with my investment team.” Gabriel’s eyes are serious as he gazes at his son. “But you’ll have Shai here. That will be fun, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Michael shrugs. Then he turns to me, quickly. “I mean, Shai, you’re awesome, and I’m glad you’ll go with me. I just… wish Dad could come, too.” He bites his lip. “I mean… can’t you cancel, or something?” His face is hopeful.
When Gabriel asked me to accompany Michael to the Pokémon convention this weekend and stay over at the house, maybe, if it got late, my heart leapt into my throat—until he explained that he was going away for the weekend, and he knew Michael would rather stay with me than Natalie, even though she was available and willing to watch him.
I said yes, I’d stay. The thought of staying in Gabriel’s home, being part of his life—even if he wasn’t being part of it—was too tempting to pass up. I am reminded of Harry Potter and how characters wander into and out of their paintings at will. Being in Gabriel’s home without him there will be a little weird, like I’m visiting the Mona Lisa and only seeing the background. I’m The Girl With The Pearl Earring, but it’s only an earring, shining on the dirt floor. It’s everything by Magritte and Dali—lonely, isolated, even when full.
Allison would flip. Would she fire me? I push back the guilt that surges. I’m not just blurring the boundaries, I’m erasing them so completely that they never existed. But I don’t care. And I’m not telling her. As long as I stay on top of the office job and my management duties, she’ll never know or ask.
I won’t be lonely; I’ll have Michael. The thought of him alone with Natalie, even though she’s pleasant and kind, sort of made my heart break. She’s too old to do the things he likes. I was going to take him to the convention tomorrow anyway for an extra therapy session, so what’s the big deal about turning it into a weekend thing?
A Handful of Fire Page 13