Falling Back to One

by Randy Mason

  BAKER’S SLEEP WAS FITFUL, his dreams surreal versions of the day’s events. In the wakeful periods between nightmares, he found himself dredging up everything that had ever happened with Micki, everything he could’ve seen if he’d only opened his eyes.

  He wanted to rip his own heart out.

  At 2:00 a.m. he flung back the covers: he needed to return to the hospital. The premonition was so strong that he didn’t shower or shave, and with no traffic on the roads, the drive was short. But once he arrived, he was at the mercy of the nurses, who initially rebuffed his request. Looking unabashedly pitiful, he pled his case, then waited while the women talked amongst themselves: it was a breach of ICU rules to let someone visit outside of official, posted times, but at such a quiet, early-morning hour, who was to know? The teen’s life was still hanging in the balance, and the rugged, handsome cop was so distraught. The nurses granted him ten minutes and no more.

  She had yet to take a breath on her own.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE CHAIN-LINK FENCE SHIMMERED in the summer heat while the stone wall’s endless loops of barbed wire looked unforgivingly cruel and bleak. Heart straining and weakening with every beat, she ran, gasping for air as if in a scorched and arid desert. Sweat was trickling into her eyes, burning and stinging, further blurring the hazy, heat-ravaged landscape. Yet she felt so terribly cold. And so tired. She longed to lay down and sleep. Forever. And all she had to do was stop. Whatever was chasing her was not far behind, determined to finish what it hadn’t before, determined to destroy the very light that was burning inside her. And for the first time, she understood that what she was running from was death.

  The wall appeared in the distance, and the ground ahead of her ripped apart. But this time a mist—thick, black, and foul—rolled in to swirl beneath her feet, long wisps reaching out like greedy fingers to wrap around her legs. Unable to breathe, her limbs too heavy to move, she waited to be engulfed by the twisting, turning vapors—only to be carried upward on a pillow of air and gently delivered to the brink of the precipice. Sleepy, she looked down into the void while shadow fell over the brick wall beyond.

  And it was then that the mysterious hand reached out—out of the shadows from across the divide. Palm upward, it began to grow until it was so large it could carry her safely across the chasm. But she was drawn to the infinite darkness that was spreading out below: just one more step and she would disappear. Into nothingness.

  Still perched on the edge, her mind soft and lazy, she watched the hand withdraw, returning to normal size while the gap between them widened. But as time ran out, it was the hand’s owner who leaned forward, reaching for her, his face finally entering the light.

  Baker.

  Filled with rage, she jumped into the ravine, even as he seized her arm and plunged into the darkness after her. She experienced a euphoric sense of triumph at the realization that she was taking him with her into death. But as they hurtled through the pitch-black space, it rotated, becoming a tunnel, causing them to float instead of fall. Arms outstretched, she was weightless, gliding like a bird through the boundless tubular corridor.

  Up ahead, dazzling and bright, a tiny light appeared, incredibly small but growing larger. It was throwing off sparks and cutting through the darkness, leaving sprays of glowing embers like little trails of glittering gems. Baker’s hand, holding on tightly, had slipped down to hers, but she no longer cared that she was dragging him along. Her entire being was fixed on that light. It was beckoning her to enter, summoning her to come home. It was the light of Heaven. She’d heard about it once on the radio.

  But the brilliance was already fading. And she began to hear odd sounds and voices—authoritative ones, not the angelic ones she’d been expecting. Contorting her body, she tried to pull back, but Baker floated past and pulled her forcibly behind him. Faster and faster, they accelerated toward the light, the noises growing louder and louder—

  Micki’s eyes fluttered open, and a strange gurgle escaped her throat. Though disoriented, she knew she was very much alive—and staring at Baker, his hand still tightly gripping hers. She started to thrash around, but Baker pinned her down. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. People in white surrounded her, and Baker disappeared. She closed her eyes.

  At least the son of a bitch was gone.

  chapter 27

  THROUGHOUT THE MORNING, MICKI faded in and out of consciousness. Baker sat in her room—in the clumsy, motel-style chair—watching her sleep and listening to the heart monitor’s beep. His mind was empty; his body, heavy and depleted. Whenever he noticed any sign that she was coming to, he got up and left—something that confused the nurses to no end. But shortly after noon, while he was staring out the window, Micki opened her eyes to see his back.

  “Get the fuck outta here,” she said. Her voice was a painful-sounding rasp—a consequence of the endotracheal tube they’d removed.

  He spun around to see her struggling against the restraints.

  “I fuckin’ hate you,” she said.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Go fuck y’self.”

  “I’m glad you’re alive, Micki.”

  “Yeah? Well I’m not, y’son of a bitch. I wanted out. Who the fuck asked y’t’interfere, huh?”

  Heart aching, he left—and had his first real session with Dr. Lerner. He sat down, lit up, and didn’t stop talking until the outpouring of words had highlighted almost every abuse he’d ever heaped upon Micki. Finally pausing, he said, “I can’t believe that was me; I can’t believe that I could do those things. But from the minute I saw her—no even before that—I hated her. Really hated her. And once I met her, I hated her even more.”

  “What made you feel that way?”

  “I don’t know; I guess I resented Dr. Tillim’s whole therapy scheme—I thought it was total bull. Plus I was fed up with the leniency of the juvenile justice system. I’d made up my mind from the start to hate the kid, whoever they were.”

  “But what made you hate her even more once you’d met her?”

  He exhaled a large stream of smoke. “Well, for one thing, the fact that she was a girl. Nobody’d let on to me about that; they even went out of their way to actively cover it up. But I have to say, they knew what they were doing: I took it as an insult to have a female charge.” He gave the doctor a wan smile. “That is, until I realized what a tough little bastard she was. But I hated her just the same.”

  “Yes, but why? Do you remember any of the thoughts that came up?”

  The smile faded, and he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  When Baker offered nothing more, the doctor asked, “Have you ever hit one of your girlfriends?”

  “Jesus, no! Never. I never—never—hit a female before hitting Micki.”

  “But you hit men.”

  “No. Well, yeah. I mean, I started hitting perps—y’know the scum I apprehended. That’s what got me into this mess.” And he went on to briefly relate the episode with Daryl Cole. “But you have to understand: I want to be Micki’s guardian now. I didn’t then, but, y’know, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “What’s different now?”

  Baker shifted his weight in the chair. “I guess, y’know, I feel sorry for her and all. She needs someone.”

  “I see.”

  Baker stubbed out yet another spent cigarette and went to light a new one while the doctor observed the tremor in his hands. “Sorry for subjecting you to all this smoke,” he said. “But since I stopped drinking yesterday, I’ve been smoking like a fiend.”

  “What made you decide to stop drinking?”

  “I think … I think this was a wake-up call.” Taking a short pull on the freshly lit Camel, he appeared about to say something else, only to stare down at the cigarette, which he was rolling back and forth between his thumb and index finger
. Finally, his voice small, he said, “I—I had sex with Micki once.” When he shot a glance at Lerner, he was caught off guard by her neutral expression. And as she waited for him to speak again, a singular, undefined space gently opened up between them.

  The doctor became the only person besides Gould to ever hear what had happened that night.

  “But that was it,” Baker said as he finished. “That was the only time. I never had any sexual contact with her after that. Or before, for that matter. None. Zero. If I hadn’t been so wasted, I would never have done what I did then, either. When I started coming down, I was—I was horrified …” His voice trailed off, and his eyes drifted. Seconds passed before he said, “It seems like that was years ago. Things changed so much after that.”

  “In what way?”

  “I started seeing her more as a kid. Pretty ironic, huh?” He drew heavily on the cigarette, then tapped it sharply on the edge of the ashtray. Exhaling, he said, “But I know it hurt her terribly—y’know, my having had sex with her like that. She wouldn’t admit it, but I knew. And she’s already pretty messed up when it comes to men.” He looked straight at the doctor again. “She thinks we don’t have any feelings—well, any nice feelings like love and all that stuff. She thinks we only pretend. I guess I didn’t help much as far as that goes.”

  “I’m afraid our time is up for today.”

  In fact, they’d gone over by nearly another session’s worth. Yet Baker stood up reluctantly.

  “If it would be at all possible,” Dr. Lerner said, “I’d like to meet with you at least three more times this week. This is a very complex situation, and it’s important that I get as complete a history as possible. I’d get most of it from Micki herself except she’s refusing to talk to me. I’m hoping that will change once she’s transferred here later today.”

  “Sure. Of course,” Baker said. “Whatever you need.” And he left the ward feeling a little less stressed. Until he got on the elevator and considered what he’d done: agreed to talk to a shrink. Willingly. Three more times. In one week.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  WHEN HE STOPPED BY Micki’s room again, she was still in restraints. She closed her eyes and kept them that way as if he weren’t there. And eventually, he wasn’t, finally taking his cue and leaving. He felt like all of the hospital staff were watching him—talking about him. And not in a good way.

  And of all things, the damn social worker had called the high school that morning. Earlier, when he’d checked in with Warner, he’d gotten the message that Miss Gutierrez wanted to meet with both him and Micki to see how things were going. What the hell was he going to tell the woman? He’d intended to ask Dr. Lerner for advice, but by the session’s end, he’d completely forgotten. Well—fuck it; there was nothing he could do about it now.

  He drove home and checked in with his answering service, then threw himself on the bed. And finally slept.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  HE HAD JUST STARTED climbing the stairs when his flashlight died. Swearing silently, he waited for his eyes to adjust, then continued up, gun drawn, feet carefully planted, the air around him fetid and cold. When he reached the second floor, he heard a crash and then his partner cursing from the other side of the building, something heavy clattering down the fire escape there. Moving toward the sound, he entered a large room to see the suspect near a broken-out window, aiming a small pistol at a downward angle.

  “Don’t do it,” he heard his partner say.

  But the man merely snickered. “You’re a fuckin’ pig, man. You’re dead—”

  The .38-caliber Smith & Wesson exploded twice in Baker’s hands, flashing fire, the sound reverberating through the cavernous, empty space. And the moment of silence that followed—absent of breath, borne of darkness—slipped away, unseen, into the farthest corners of his mind.

  As if to be forgotten.

  Baker’s eyes flew open.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BAKER STOOD IN THE dark by the living room window, Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection playing on the stereo. After sitting in silence for hours that morning, he needed something to listen to—definitely not the TV. He stroked the scratchy bristles on his chin. He needed a shave, too.

  His ears pricked up as the haunting notes of a plucked harp marked the introduction to “Come Down in Time,” one of two songs on the album that were like a religious experience to him, sparking the creation of vivid, otherworldly landscapes—hidden places—that belonged to him alone. This one led to images of tall blades of grass rustling softly in waves under a sepia-colored moon, an intense, indefinable energy pervading the dark, ghostly scene. He closed his eyes and listened with reverence, the music and words inducing, like a reliable drug, heightened feelings of sorrow and loss.

  He took a deep breath. He needed to call Cynthia. Needed to tell her what had happened.

  But just as the song was ending, giving way to the next, he heard two men get out of their cars and begin arguing on the street below. From the increasing volume and frequency of cursing, he could picture the escalating altercation, the macho posturing and threatening gestures. But he wasn’t going down there. For all he cared, they could blow each other’s brains out. Over a fucking parking space. What assholes.

  His cigarette was beat. He stuffed the stub into the empty soda can he was holding and turned on the lamp. Then he picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Please don’t hang up, Cyn.”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “Micki tried to kill herself.”

  “Oh, my god …”

  With a slight quaver in his voice, he said, “I really fucked up this time; I really did.” After a pause, he added, “I’m sorry for—so many things. You were right in just about everything you ever said to me.”

  “Oh, Jim …” And she could feel his sadness, could picture him standing there, alone, in the dark.

  And he could hear that she was crying. He told her which hospital Micki was in and where it was. “But if you’re going to visit,” he said, “don’t go alone. Take”—he tried to remember the actor’s real name—“Mark with you. Or you can always deliver a message through me. I’ll be going there every day.”

  “Tell her I send my love.”

  Baker ended the call, his heart aching so badly he had to sit down. But eventually he got up to flip the album over. Back at the window, he watched the people down on the street going on with their lives as if nothing had changed; as if nothing had happened; as if what had happened was nothing at all. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, the music pulling him into “Where to Now St. Peter?” …

  He was in a small wooden boat on a river, colored leaves cascading down under a grey autumn sky. Warm and relaxed, he drifted downstream, water sparkling now and then as sunlight peaked through the clouds. But the grey turned black as the moonless night completely swallowed the sun, the river now an ocean, his boat a tiny spec. Darkness all around, there were no lights to bring him in. The world was silent.

  Except for the water that was lapping against the weathered wood of the boat.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  BACK AT WORK, BAKER was distracted and feeling guilty for being at the high school, though there was no point in hanging around the hospital all day. He called Miss Gutierrez’s number and drummed his fingers on the desk while waiting for the line to connect. When the receptionist told him the caseworker was out in the field, he felt like a huge weight had been lifted. At least, temporarily.

  Hoping to see Micki before his session, he arrived at the hospital early, stopping at the gift shop first to pick up a pack of cigarettes. Stuck on line for the cashier, he noticed the array of stuffed animals on display. A cute white bunny with long, floppy ears caught his eye, and he thought about his conversation with Mr. Antonelli the previous day. The restaura
nt owner had been fuming because Micki hadn’t shown up for work the night before—hadn’t even called so he could get a replacement. But after Baker explained why, Mr. Antonelli had made little clucking noises, saying, “She never-a happy. I never see her-a smile. Always look-a so serious. Is-a no good-a; she’s-a too old for her age-a.”

  Baker purchased the bunny and headed up to the fifth floor, where the nurse who unlocked the door to the ward mentioned he ought to bring Micki some of her own clothes to wear.

  “Has she seen Dr. Lerner yet today?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  His face fell. “Then she hasn’t talked to her at all?”

  With a subtle shake of her head, the nurse said, “No.”

  “And what about the restraints?”

  “They were removed last night, but she became violent and had to be sedated. So far today, she’s been behaving, so she’s in the dayroom.”

  As soon as he entered the community area, Baker spotted Micki at a table in the far left corner. Slouched in a chair, she was wearing green hospital scrubs. He walked toward her, trying to ignore the other patients: the unkempt, middle-aged man who kept touching himself all over as if to make sure all of him was still there, the grey-haired woman rocking back and forth on the floor near the right-hand wall.

  Micki was sitting quietly, staring vacuously. But before Baker was halfway across the room, her head whipped around.

  He said, “Hi, Micki.” She turned her back to him. He walked around in front of her. “How do you feel?”

  “How d’ya think I feel?”

  “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Yeah, I mind! Why don’tcha just go home and leave me alone.”

  “I want you to get better.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  A woman who looked to be in her thirties started shouting, “I’m so good I could’ve should’ve stood on the wood hood. Bleed greed the deed. Maybe we three can see the tree and free some tea …”

  “Why don’t you talk to Dr. Lerner so you can get the hell out of this place?” Baker asked.