by Randy Mason
“Are you depressed because it’s Valentine’s Day and you don’t have a boyfriend?”
Her eyes flashed. “I’m through with boys!”
“Micki—”
“You think I’m kidding?”
“I think you just need some time to heal; I can’t picture you as the type to stay celibate for the rest of your life. Besides”—he tucked the list under a corner of her telephone—“boys around your age tend to be especially big assholes anyway.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m thinking that maybe what Rhonda said was true.”
His tone was gentle. “Don’t say that. Y’know, I’m sorry about what happened over that Reiger boy in the auditorium. He seemed like a nice kid. You ever see him at all?”
“No.” And she looked away.
Baker bowed his head.
The silence grew heavy.
He looked up. “I’ve got to buy an anniversary gift for—a friend. I’ll be going out to Fortunoff’s in Westbury on Sunday; I thought maybe you’d like to come along. You could help me pick out something.”
“Me?”
“We could spend the day out there, and then you could stay over again like last week.”
She gave him a canny look.
As he was leaving, he said, “Have a good night at work.”
Over at the window, she watched him cross the street, get in his car, and light up. He always looked so confident. So self-assured. What could he possibly want her for? What if he woke up one day and decided she was nothing more than a burden—a mistake?
What if he woke up.
♦ ♦ ♦
THAT NIGHT, MICKI HAD another dream.
Wearing black patent leather Mary Janes and a short, crinolined dress, she couldn’t have been more than five. Her hair was cropped to just below her ears.
Her father, standing over her, said, “The dress’ll have to come off. It’s dirty.”
Feeling very small, she tried to hold back the tears. She didn’t want to take off the dress. “No, it’s not!” she argued in her high-pitched voice, for she’d been extra careful to keep it clean.
“Yes, it is,” her father insisted.
And when she looked down, she saw that it was all stained.
♦ ♦ ♦
ALL OF SATURDAY AFTERNOON, the snow and sleet kept coming down, making the walk to work a slippery, nasty mess beneath her worn-out sneakers. For the entire shift, Micki kept to herself more than usual, then went home and spent a restless night—fearful of dreaming, fearful of waking.
When she saw Baker’s car on Sunday, trolling down the street in search of parking, she suddenly resented the intrusion. Instead of saving him some trouble by going down to meet him, she planted herself on the bed and glared at the wall. What was the point of going to the stupid store with him anyway? But when he knocked, she opened the door and found him smiling down at her.
And the day seemed full of possibility.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE DRIVE TO LONG Island was a breezy escape under a sky of turquoise blue—engine humming, radio blasting. With few cars on the road, they cruised along at sixty for most of the trip. Once inside the store, Micki was awed by all of the things on display: fancy knickknacks and fine jewelry, shiny silver tea sets and glittering crystal, kitchen gadgets, clocks, watches … But too afraid to actually touch anything, she kept close to Baker while they combed through the floors.
They settled on a large, earthenware bowl heavily decorated with patterns of small vines and leaves in brown, gold, rust, and forest green. And though Micki was the one who’d spotted it, she still had no idea who it was for—and never asked.
By the time they got back to the city, the sun was disappearing below the horizon, igniting an incredible mixture of fiery pinks and blues. Micki did some homework while Baker watched hockey on TV. When she finally joined him in the living room, a commercial was on, and she picked up a novelty catalogue that was lying around on the coffee table. There were pictures of bathmats, mugs, bookends, bookmarks, purses, wallets, hangers, coasters … She jumped up and ripped the catalogue in half. Then she took one part and ripped it in half again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Baker asked.
Shaking with rage, she shouted, “I hate this shit! Why the fuck is it everywhere? It’s everywhere; every fuckin’ place y’look!”
Standing up and holding out his hand, he said, “Give it to me.” The page that had sparked her reaction was in two large pieces on top. When he put it together, he saw a picture of ice cubes shaped like naked women’s breasts with the caption: “A bevy of beauties to brighten up any beverage.” Another picture showed a roll of toilet paper depicting a woman stripping further with each square. Yet another advertised a deck of cards illustrated with women in various positions and in various states of undress.
“What’s the big deal?” he said. “It’s just a joke.”
“Fuck you.” She stormed out of the living room and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Mouth hanging open, Baker stared after her. Then he tossed the torn pages onto the coffee table, went to the study door, and knocked. “Micki?”
“Go away!”
He entered the room and saw her sitting in the dark on the floor. She had her back against the bed, arms wrapped around bent knees. When he switched on the desk lamp, she turned away, pressing her left shoulder against the mattress.
“Leave me alone,” she said.
He sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of her. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Tears were rolling down her face. “I wish I was dead.”
“Because of that?”
Eyes full of fury, she said, “How would you like it if they were selling ice cubes shaped like—like—like your—y’know …”
He let the image fill his mind, then chuckled. “I don’t know. I, um, I have to tell you that—well—I think this is one of those things that doesn’t quite have the same effect when you reverse gender.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “I suppose there are lots of reasons for that.”
“But you think that kind of shit’s okay?”
He opened his mouth to answer, then placed his elbow on his knee and rubbed his forehead instead. “I don’t know. Maybe not.” He tried to imagine himself as a woman. “I guess it is kind of obnoxious.”
“Men hate women; that’s the truth, isn’t it? I mean, look at all those sick magazines.”
“Only some men hate women. And, yeah, some men like that stuff because it’s a put-down. But some men just don’t realize that it would upset anybody. They see it as a joke; that’s all.”
“Like you,” she retorted. “So that makes it okay?”
He rested his index finger across the crease between his lips, then said quietly, “No. No it doesn’t.” And he was reminded of an old Greek fable he’d once heard as a kid. When he said he wanted to tell it to her—at least, as best he could remember—her expression became guarded.
“Two boys,” he began, “were playing by a pond, throwing rocks to see who could hit the most frogs on the head. After a while, an old man happened by and said, ‘What on earth are you doing?’ One of the boys answered, ‘Don’t worry; we’re just having some fun. It’s just a game.’ So the old man said, ‘To you, it’s just a game, but the frogs hurt for real.’ ”
It took a second before Micki’s face relaxed. “So you understand what I’m saying, then, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But your reaction is sort of out there—way out there. I mean, I know women who don’t like any of that stuff—or the magazines for that matter. But I’ve never seen anyone react the way you just did.” Yet, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself ripping up the smut rag Falrone had sent him.
Looking down, she played with the grey shag carpet. She w
as always surprised at how rough it felt beneath her fingers.
“Have you ever talked to Dr. Lerner about this?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“What does that mean?”
She merely shrugged again.
“Well—do you know why it gets to you this way?”
“It’s wrong!” Eyes still on the rug, hands clenched into fists, she felt fresh tears welling up. As she wiped at her face, she said, “You must hate the way I cry so much now.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“Yeah, right. You probably think I’m weak—and—and naïve—can’t handle the big, bad world.”
He snorted. “Not exactly.”
She looked up at him, her face full of pain.
His eyes turned sad. “What I think,” he said, “is that right now you’ve got … open wounds. You’re sort of falling apart so you can put yourself back together.”
When the tears continued to roll down her cheeks, she turned her head.
“Listen to me, okay?” he said. “It’s all right for me to see you like this. I’ll never tell anyone anything—except maybe Dr. Lerner.”
She changed positions so she was sitting cross-legged like he was. A childlike expression was looking back at him.
“Sometimes,” he said, “you’re like a little girl.” When she started to object, he interrupted. “I like the little girl, Micki. I like all of you. And that includes whatever you were before and whatever you’ll become as a young woman. I take them all, sight unseen—unconditionally.” As her eyes became edged with tears again, he reached forward to gently stroke her face. Then he pulled her silver cross out by its chain until it came to rest on top of her shirt instead of under it. When his hands were once again on the carpet between them, she moved her right one forward just enough so their fingers touched. He gave her a reassuring smile, then stood up. “I’m going to start dinner. Why don’t you take a few minutes, and then come set the table for me.”
Watching him leave, she thought about what he’d said: “You’re falling apart so you can put yourself back together.” She worried that maybe she was just falling apart.
♦ ♦ ♦
IN THE DARK OF early morning, Micki woke up, remembering the end of a dream:
A whole squad of uniformed police officers were walking toward her on a Times Square subway platform, two of the men pushing an empty baby stroller. It was her stroller from when she was a baby.
Short as it was, the dream was disturbing, and though she wanted to go back to sleep, it was difficult to block it from her mind. All at once, she sees a young girl, brightly lit, standing in a long, dark corridor. Her hair, wavy and blonde, is being tossed back by a fan-blown breeze while around her, side-lit and misty blue, is a rolling fog—like in a movie. The girl’s eyes widen in horror, and Micki’s heart starts to pound: she is looking at herself.
The scene shifts, and now she’s somewhere else, lying on her stomach in an empty room. She feels a pulling sensation in her leg, and it starts to cramp up, reminding her of the episode as an infant. But then she’s hanging above the bed, looking down at herself and seeing that the dress she’s wearing is dirty. Even worse is the filthy blonde hair, the grime no longer camouflaged by bright light: it’s a wig.
Back in her body, she feels as if she’s waiting—waiting for something terrible to happen. And though she tries as hard as she can, she can’t lift or turn her head, her entire body dead, like she’s been drugged. There’s a quick flash of blue neon on the wall, its shape the outline of a girl’s head. Oversized musical notes are burning …
And then she’s back in Baker’s apartment, heart thumping, eyes open wide. And though she has yet to see his face, Micki hates her father.
♦ ♦ ♦
BREAKFAST MONDAY MORNING WAS strained, almost an exact replica of the week before. Baker tried first coaxing, then pressuring Micki to talk, ultimately demanding to know what was wrong. Retreating into a shell, she felt guilty for her silence—as if she were lying.
“Maybe—maybe you could talk to Dr. Lerner at the end of my session,” she offered.
“Sure,” he replied. But his tone was decidedly cool.
She withdrew even further.
And so for the entire drive to the high school, he was left to wonder if he were to blame. Apparently, he wasn’t going to find out anything until her session that afternoon.
The school day stretched ahead like a prison sentence.
♦ ♦ ♦
AFRAID HE’D MISUNDERSTOOD, MICKI said, “I need to see Dr. Lerner alone first.” They’d left the parking lot and were approaching the main entrance to the hospital.
“I’m well aware of what you meant,” Baker snapped. Walking quickly, he ignored that she was running to keep up with him.
Micki stopped in her tracks. “You’re angry with me, aren’t you.”
He halted, his back to her, the leather of his jacket expanding and contracting as he breathed. With a slap of his thigh, he spun around, about to fire back a response—until he saw the pain in her eyes. He closed his mouth, took out his cigarettes, and lit one, cupping his hand around the match. In the soft, mid-afternoon light, his tall, lean figure stood out sharply.
Micki felt very small.
He exhaled a large cloud of smoke that dissipated instantly in the cold, dry air. “I’m not angry at you.”
“’Cause I—”
“It’s all right,” he interrupted. “You go on ahead. I’ll get some coffee in the cafeteria, then head on up myself. I’ll wait in the hall. You come get me when you’re ready.”
So they entered the hospital together, but Micki went up in the elevator alone.
♦ ♦ ♦
DARK AND BROODING, MICKI walked into Dr. Lerner’s office and sat in the seat she always chose.
No one said anything.
A door slammed somewhere.
Lerner waited.
Micki said, “Um—yeah—I dunno.” She could already feel the tears stinging her eyes. “Things are starting to happen.”
Lerner’s voice was gentle. “What kind of things?”
Outside the window, the sky was a blank wall of grey: no birds, no sun … Micki tried to shut out all the images that were running through her head. Once she put everything into words—heard it out loud in her own voice—there’d be no going back. But she couldn’t keep it locked inside her any longer, either. “I think,” she said, “some of my memory’s coming back.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THERE WASN’T ENOUGH TIME. Micki wanted to talk to Dr. Lerner more herself, but Baker was surely waiting in the hall by now. Eyes and nose red from crying, she checked her watch for the third time.
“Do you have to leave early?” the doctor finally asked.
“No, but—well, I was hoping you could explain to Baker what’s been happening to me. He’s angry ’cause of the way I’ve been acting.”
“There’s no need to hurry your session, Micki. No one’s scheduled next hour. After you’re done, I’ll have plenty of time to talk with him. But I think you should tell him these things yourself.”
“No!”
“Then maybe you should wait until you can.”
“No! Please—I—I need him to know now.”
“Why is it so urgent?”
Micki started crying again.
Normally, Dr. Lerner wouldn’t have played intermediary. While she might have given a parent or guardian a generalized update on a juvenile patient, she wouldn’t have served as an informational conduit. The very fact that a patient was unable to broach an issue with someone, usually indicated they weren’t emotionally ready to accept the consequences. Plus, Micki’s conclusions painted a horrific scenario that devastated her self-esteem—even though she’d been utterly blamel
ess. And just a child.
Heart heavy from all she’d heard, the doctor looked at her patient, her gut telling her to do as she’d been asked. “Let’s finish the session first, and then we’ll discuss this again.”
♦ ♦ ♦
IT WAS TEN TO four. Just when did Micki plan to bring him in? Pacing the hallway, Baker was playing with a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.
The door opened. “You can come in now,” Micki announced.
But as he walked through, she edged past him. He grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”
Face pasty-white but blotchy, eyes wide and dry but red, she said, “I’m gonna wait out here.”
He opened his mouth to object, then shut it again, letting her go and slamming the door after her. With a thud, he fell into the chair beside the one she’d vacated just moments before, then whipped out his pack of Camels and lit one, deciding it didn’t matter anymore how many fucking cigarettes he smoked. As of Friday, he’d been trying to cut down, but since breakfast, he’d had so many that he was already into Wednesday’s rations. Wearing black jeans, a black turtleneck, his black leather jacket, and a black expression, he sulked.
“You’re upset,” Lerner observed.
“Well, why shouldn’t I be? I don’t know what the hell is going on with that kid. Did you know that I asked her to live with me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I was going to talk to you about it first, but things just sort of … happened.” Eyes piercing into hers, he asked, “Do you object?”
Her expression was kind. “No.”
“Yeah—well—I don’t get it, okay? Yesterday we had a nice time—a really nice time—and she stayed overnight. But then this morning she was totally different, all upset and depressed, pretty much giving me the silent treatment. Last week it was the same thing. Exactly the same. And what really gets me is that she won’t talk to me. I can take anything so long as she doesn’t shut me out. I thought I had an understanding with her, but I guess I was wrong.” He took a furious drag on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke through his nose. “And look—look at this! She won’t even stay in here to talk with me now. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to think?”