by Randy Mason
“Hello?”
“Hi, Cyn. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
♦ ♦ ♦
“HOW CAN YOU SAY he cares about me when he treats me the way he does?”
“He has a lot of problems,” Dr. Lerner said, “and, unfortunately, he’s taken a great deal of them out on you. But he’s very sorry for what he’s done.”
“That’s such bullshit,” Micki responded. “Not once has he ever said, ‘I’m sorry.’ His few apologies have been nothing but half-assed excuses.”
“But he is sorry—”
“Why are you defending him?”
The doctor’s tone was soothing. “I’m not defending him. I’m simply trying to show you there’s another side to this; things aren’t so black and white.”
“Yeah? So his hitting me doesn’t mean anything?”
“It’s wrong, Micki; it’s very wrong. But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.”
“He treats me like nothing more than a goddamn prisoner. Y’know how many times he’s handcuffed me?”
The doctor paused. “What would’ve happened if he hadn’t?”
“What?”
“Well, let’s take, for example, the time you ran away on the side of the highway. If he hadn’t handcuffed you, what would’ve happened?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“Humor me,” Lerner said dryly. “Just tell me what you imagine would’ve happened.”
“Like what?”
“Well, would you have surrendered and returned to the car because he told you to?”
Micki snorted. “No way. I would’ve done whatever I could’ve to get away again.”
“Such as? Hitting? Punching?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So then what would Sergeant Baker have done?”
Chewing her lower lip, Micki could see where this was going. An edge to her voice, she said, “He would’ve tried to stop me.”
“Which, if he wasn’t going to use handcuffs, would mean what?”
“I guess he’d’ve hit me back.”
“And what do you think the final outcome of that would’ve been?”
“He’s twice as big as me!”
“Yes, he is. And he’s well aware of just how easily—and how badly—he could hurt you.”
Micki broke eye contact.
“And speaking of his size,” the doctor continued, “even on the snow, it must’ve been terribly painful when he tackled you. He has to weigh well over two hundred pounds.”
Glaring at Lerner, Micki said, “It didn’t hurt at all.”
Eyes large with mock surprise, the doctor said, “That’s amazing! How could that be?”
“’Cause I fell on top of him,” Micki retorted.
“But he tackled you, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, but somehow I ended up on top.”
Lerner’s voice was soft. “Do you think that was by chance?”
“So what?” Micki shot back. “So what? I mean, what the fuck does that mean? It’s all just for show. It’s all just bullshit.”
They sat in silence till Lerner asked, “Is it true you think men don’t have any real feelings?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. Okay. So I said it.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Yeah.”
“You think this about all men?”
“Yeah.”
“Even Tim?”
Micki shrugged one shoulder.
“He died trying to protect you.”
Micki’s eyes turned sad.
“And what about Sergeant Kelly? Why do you think he helped you?”
“I have no fucking idea, okay?”
“You don’t believe it was because he cared?”
“It could just as easily’ve been that they needed some sorry-assed, scapegoat kid for Sergeant Baker’s therapy.”
“So all men are heartless bastards, is that it?” When her question was met with silence, Lerner said, “Maybe that’s why your boyfriend—”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But Rick was—past tense—your boyfriend, wasn’t he?”
“No! Never! I would just have sex with him; that’s all. It didn’t mean anything; I told you that.”
“Is that all you want?”
Though Micki wanted to answer yes, she found she couldn’t say anything.
“If all men are shits,” Lerner said, being unexpectedly crude, “then it really doesn’t matter who you pick, does it. And choosing someone like Rick is actually a way for you to confirm your theory about men. More importantly, not having any emotional involvement also means you’re never close enough to get hurt.”
“Oh, please,” Micki shot back. “All that love stuff is phony. Who needs it anyway?”
“You do,” the doctor said. “In fact, that’s why you’re here.”
chapter 31
A PADDED CELL SEEMED LIKE a very fitting place to take finals. Unfortunately, the closeted little space—four walls of uninterrupted white bathed in a sickening fluorescent glow—soon turned oppressive. And yet, question after question, Micki filled in blanks, picked the best choices, calculated answers, drew diagrams, and wrote essays in a large, messy handwriting.
When she finally put her pen down, it was late Saturday afternoon.
And she couldn’t keep the grin off her face.
chapter 32
ANOTHER NIGHT OF NOT sleeping, another morning of not eating. For Micki, Monday was like any other day until, halfway through her session, Dr. Lerner broached the issue of discharging her from the hospital. Tuesday, after a daytime excursion to the high school to take the New York State English Regents exam, Micki could spend her final night on the ward. Assuming all went well, her last session as an in-patient would be Wednesday. With school still in recess, she’d have time to gradually readjust to her regular life: first returning to work, then starting the new semester after the weekend. Her therapy would be reduced to one session on Mondays after school.
Before the doctor had even finished explaining the plan, Micki agreed to it. But the next day, when she went to take the test, the world outside seemed different, as if everything had been slightly altered. To avoid having to talk to anyone, she waited in the security office as long as possible before going to her assigned room. But students had been grouped alphabetically, and no one from her science program was even there.
And though she was no longer feeling all that confident, when Wednesday morning rolled around, she small-talked her way through her session, packed her things, and headed out of the hospital.
“Did you say goodbye to everyone you wanted to?” Baker asked as they walked through the parking lot.
Not having said goodbye to anyone, she replied, “Yessir.”
He caught his breath.
They drove through the drab, graffitied streets without even the radio to negotiate the space between them. When he started searching for a parking spot, she said, “I can go up myself. I just need my key.”
“I’m going up with you.”
Eyes throwing daggers through the windshield, she silently cursed him.
They climbed the stoop and then the stairs inside, everything looking smaller and shabbier than she remembered, the smell of the building’s interior causing a flood of memories that swiftly drowned her sense of freedom. But then she was standing in front of her door, holding out her palm while he produced a shiny new set of keys that he dangled above it.
“I put in a really good deadbolt and changed the cylinder on the other lock,” he said. “But I want you to understand”—he finally relinquished the keys—“that it’s going to look a l
ot different. The place was pretty much trashed.”
Her eyes dulled, and her shoulders sagged. But when she went inside and turned on the light, she gasped. In place of her old, ratty mattress was a real bed, complete with Harvard frame and two fluffy pillows. It had a brown blanket, cream-colored sheets, and—folded neatly at the foot—a rust-colored afghan. The walls had been painted a warm beige, and her old curtains had been replaced with new ones in a crisp white linen.
When her gaze came to rest on the fire escape window, he said, “I put that gate on for security.”
She shifted her attention to the kitchenette table, its mocha-colored Formica blending nicely with the dark brown seat cushions on the accompanying chairs. Then she took in the dresser and desk made of plain stained wood. There was a matching night table that had—a phone? She pointed to it.
“The bill goes to me,” he said. “Just do me a favor and don’t start making calls to China.” But his grin quickly dissipated in light of her expression. “I’m not going to use it to check up on you,” he said. “If you don’t want to, you don’t ever have to answer it. It’s here in case you need to talk to someone—or you need to call for help.”
“How am I supposed to pay you back for all this?”
“I don’t expect you to pay me back for any of this.”
“But I’ll owe you—”
“Nothing,” he interjected. “You don’t owe me anything. I did this because I wanted to.”
She continued to glare.
“It’s okay,” he remarked dryly. “You can still hate me.”
She turned away.
Talking to the side of her head, he said, “I bought you some groceries. But this”—he took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet—“should tide you over till you get paid again.”
She faced him. “I don’t need your money. I—” It was gone, of course.
“If you want to, you can pay this back when you’re able to.”
Avoiding his eyes, she took the cash and shoved it in her pocket.
“Are you going to be okay here tonight?” he asked. “Do you want me to stay? Or I could come back later. You can always stay at my place if you want to.”
“Y’can’t watch me every fuckin’ minute. If I really wanna shoot up or kill myself again, there’s nothin’ y’can really do about it.”
He felt like he’d been hit. He went to the door. And left.
From the window, she watched him as he headed down the street.
♦ ♦ ♦
UNABLE TO SLEEP, MICKI sat at the kitchen table, trying to read The Fellowship of the Ring. But she kept looking around the newly decorated apartment, feeling like a stranger in someone else’s home. Nice as it was, it was just another example of how everything in her life was always changing—and how nothing was ever really hers. Even worse, now it felt like everything was his. She went to make a cup of cocoa, pausing to stare at the small white teakettle sitting on the stove. He’d bought her hot chocolate, too.
Fuck it. It was his fault she’d tried to kill herself, his fault she’d ended up in the hospital. Therefore, somehow or other, it was also his fault that her apartment had gotten trashed. In the end, all these new things merely made up for what he owed her.
She filled the kettle with water and set it on a burner, then took down an oversized white mug and poured a packet of cocoa into it. Virtually everything had been replaced, right down to the towels and dishes. The cobalt-blue and clowny polka-dot mugs were gone. The cereal bowl with the faded rose on the bottom was gone. But tucked away in the closet, there were also a couple of weird, new things; namely, a sleeping bag and what seemed to be an empty—yet locked—metal box. And for the first time ever, there were barred windows that weren’t meant to keep her in, but rather to keep others out. Yet despite the added security, she actually felt less safe now than she did before. A small shiver rippled through her: she was all alone.
As she waited for the water to boil, she leaned against the counter and eyed the telephone on her desk. A plain black rotary model, it sat there, waiting patiently, like a device left behind by aliens. Earlier, while getting ready to go to sleep, she’d gingerly lifted the receiver to listen to the dial tone.
The water hadn’t boiled, but she turned off the stove and then the light, took off her jeans, and crawled back into bed. Snuggled under the covers, she almost giggled as she pictured Baker wandering around stores, picking out stuff and color-coordinating things.
Then she started to cry.
♦ ♦ ♦
HE LIT A CIGARETTE and leaned back in his chair, waiting for his hot chocolate to cool down. Bold and black, Micki’s number stared at him from alongside the phone on the kitchen wall. She probably wouldn’t pick up anyway. He could drive over to see if she was all right, but he could just imagine the frosty reception that would get.
He wondered if she liked everything.
♦ ♦ ♦
CLOUDED OVER AND WINDY, Thursday’s outlook was bleak. The knock on the door jarred her out of her reading. She closed the paperback and checked her watch. It was almost time to leave for Bel.
Voice gruff, she said, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Micki.”
She opened the door with her brow deeply knotted. “Did you forget your key?”
Gazing at her steadily, Baker said, “No.”
She stepped aside to let him in.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“I have to get ready for work.” She sat on the bed to put her sneakers on.
“Did you sleep okay? Was the bed comfortable?”
“Yessir.” She stood up and busied herself by checking pockets for money and ID. Then she grabbed her jacket from the closet and put it on. “Well, I gotta go now.”
Still standing beside the table, he said, “Okay.”
“Whatta y’want?” she demanded.
“I just want to know how you’re doing.”
“Are y’gonna stay here?”
“For a little while, yes.”
“Are y’gonna toss the place?”
“Yes.”
She grunted in reply as she opened the door. But then, in a monotonic flurry of words, she said, “Everything looks real nice—thanks.” And she slammed the door behind her before running away.
When Baker heard the downstairs door slam, too, he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.
Micki wasn’t feeling as good as he’d hoped.
♦ ♦ ♦
SINCE BAKER REFUSED TO leave his apartment that night, the guys made a last-minute change of venue and held the poker game at his place. Gould, stricken with the flu, stayed home. But no call came from Micki, and Baker broke even.
After the others had left, Malone hung around, helping to clean up. He was pouring uneaten pretzels back into a bag when he said, “I’d like to know what happened with the kid.”
Baker put down the glasses he’d been collecting and looked at his superior. “I’m surprised you waited this long to ask.”
“I was hoping you’d want to talk to me. But now that she’s out of the hospital, I have to have some answers.”
Lowering his eyes, Baker shook his head. Then they sat down, and Baker told his story—or at least as much as he could safely reveal. When he was finished, he said, “I can’t explain it, but sitting in that emergency room was like waking up from a bad dream.”
Malone nodded, and they both fell silent.
“Y’know, I asked her if she tried to kill herself because of you,” Malone said.
Baker’s eyes widened. “When did you see her?”
“When she was still in the hospital.”
“Jeez! She never said a word. But I guess that shouldn’t surprise me; she’s still not talking to me.”
“I ask
ed her about that, too.”
“And?”
It was hard for Malone to keep a straight face. “She says she hates you.”
Baker’s face fell.
Chuckling, Malone slapped the younger man’s shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard. Typical angry teenager.”
Baker’s mouth fell open.
“She said she was just very depressed,” Malone added.
“What?”
“When I asked her if it was your fault,” he said. “That should tell you something, Detective.” They stood up and walked together, Malone retrieving his coat from where he’d thrown it on a chair. About to open the door, he said, “So you really care about this kid.”
Baker’s voice came out choked. “Yeah.”
Smiling, Malone thumped Baker’s back twice. “You take care, all right? And I want you to talk to Dr. Tillim. And I mean talk—not just sit there like a vegetable for an hour.”
“Okay,” Baker replied.
“Okay!” Malone echoed, grinning broadly as he left.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, THE Long Island Expressway became a parking lot when an overturned tractor-trailer spilled its load of dishwashing liquid across most of the westbound lanes. By the time Baker reached Long Island City, Micki was already at Bel, so he drove on into Manhattan and went home.
But with only the muted, tinny sound of a neighbor’s radio coming through the wall, his apartment felt too quiet. Again. He dropped his keys and wallet on the night table, lit a cigarette, and stood beside the phone. Overcome with feelings of loss, he listened to the Five Stairsteps’ “O-o-h Child”—until the neighbor shut the radio off.
Then he lifted the receiver and dialed.
“Dr. Tillim’s office,” a woman said.
♦ ♦ ♦
GETTING BACK INTO THE swing of things at Bel Canto wasn’t so easy, the stress and heat much worse than Micki remembered. When her shift was over, the short distance back to her apartment didn’t look nearly short enough.