Only Alien on the Planet

by Kristen D. Randle

“Yes.”

  “Yes,” he echoed, sounding a shade mystified. He stood quiet for a moment. I could almost hear his brain processing.

  “But you would kiss Pete Zabriski, depending on the circumstances.”

  “Pete Zabriski,” I said, hugging myself, “isn't hooked up to a bunch of monitors.”

  A moment went by, and then he said softly, “Neither am I.”

  I looked up, but I still couldn't meet his eyes. He hadn't moved in all this time. And then he put one hand out. “Come,” he said. “And just look, if you like.” It was as if he drew me to my feet. I was still hugging myself.

  “I don't want to get tied up with you, Michael,” I said. “I can't—I'm not responsible enough.”

  “So,” he said, seeming very unsure of his verbal ground. “You think, if you do this—you might not like it. And for me, it will—” He put his hand to his heart, meaning pain. “You're afraid that I—won't breathe?” His eyes were sad. “Is that what you think?”

  “It wouldn't be the first time,” I pointed out.

  “Ginny,” he said patiently. “Understand. I know disappointment. It doesn't kill me. Look. Look at me.” After a moment, I did. He had on that funny little smile. “I promise. If you break my heart. You'll never, never know.”

  He surprised a laugh out of me.

  “You are no hostage,” he said, making it an assurance, lowering his hand and turning his face back to the outside. Releasing me.

  So I went and looked out of his window. The clouds were lowering, getting darker. I saw a girl in a red sweater walking across the almost empty campus.

  Michael didn't move. He just waited. And when I looked up at him, he still waited. Then he touched my lips hesitantly with one finger. It was the first time he had ever touched me.

  “See?” he said. He smiled at me, a beautiful, rich smile that started in his eyes. It was a funny little kiss after that; neither of us knew quite how to go about it. And it didn't kill him. In fact, after it was done, he put his hand very lightly on my waist and fitted me gently to his side. Then we made a different kind of kiss, not hungry and frightened like that night at Hally's. Very sweet. Comforting.

  “I can't believe it,” Caulder spat from the doorway. We drew away from each other and turned to him, both of us a little off-balance.

  He was scowling down at the cans he was carrying.

  “All they had was diet.”

  chapter 16

  Charlie got to see Michael one more time before it all hit the fan, and that was a good thing for Michael Tibbs. Charlie tends to act on your immune system a little bit the way a good shot of B vitamins will. Just the thing if you're headed for stress.

  Of course none of us knew what was going to happen. We spent those next few days in blissful innocence, doing my math and getting to know each other. I'd sit there by the hour, listening to Caulder bantering with Michael over some aspect of political science. They were both world aware and mean-witted, and when they saw things differently—which was more often than not— things could get very entertaining. Above all, Michael seemed to be a moral person. He was always interested in the right thing—which did not always mean politically correct—and in the truth. I guess, because he'd been lied to, truth was very important to him.

  He was always on us about what we took for granted: two parents, a family, a house, money, love, respect, education, art. I tried to tell him it wasn't like he'd been totally deprived, himself. And then he'd smile at me and tell me, well, that was right. He wouldn't fight with me. And there was not another moment in those days when Michael and I were alone together.

  Every day, we expected the doctor to tell us that Michael was going home. Every day, he seemed happier and stronger, and the shadows behind his eyes didn't seem quite so deep.

  Then came this one Friday, early in December. It was one of those days we were running a little late—Caulder had a big date scheduled with Hally, and he was fussing over it, one of those drive-into-the-city-have-dinner-in-a-real-restaurant things. I, having canceled a date myself, wasn't real happy about having to cut the visit short, but Caulder had the car, so what could I do? Anyway, once again, we forgot to check in with the doctor when we got there.

  I think I heard the monitor before we even got to Michael's door, but it never crossed my mind that I'd find it hooked up to Michael again.

  Caulder stopped in the doorway of the room; I almost piled into him. “What happened? “ he asked. I tried to see around him.

  Michael was flat on his back in the bed with the IV bottle hanging up over his shoulder. It was like somebody had just erased the last two months. He turned his head when we came in and gave us a little wave. He looked very groggy.

  Caulder dropped all his books on the table and went straight to the bedside. I took off my coat, watching. Michael made a stupid, druggy smile for Caulder.

  “My gosh,” Caulder said, glancing up at the IV.

  “Surprise,” Michael said. His voice was all muzzy and he blinked very slowly. “Said they'd call.” He sighed. “They didn't.”

  “Look,” Caulder said, putting a hand on the bed. “You can tell me not to ask, but I've got to know what happened—”

  Michael lifted his hand again. “Fine,” he said. “Me.” He closed his eyes. “Just tired. A little bit tired.” He made another smile for Caulder. “Go home,” he said.

  Caulder glanced back over his shoulder at me. He looked sick.

  “I can't leave you like this,” he said.

  “Listen,” Michael said, slurring. And then he patted Caulder's hand. Caulder looked down at that hand with something like shock. I don't believe Michael had ever touched him before. “Go home,” Michael said, talking through a dream. “Fine.”

  Caulder glanced up at the clock.

  “Don't lie to me,” he said. “Smitty, I can't stand it.”

  Michael let go of his hand. “I don't lie,” he whispered. And he closed his eyes.

  Caulder came back to where I was standing. “I can't leave,” he said. “I don't know what to do.”

  “I'm here,” I whispered. “You go on. I have a lot of reading to do for Monday. I'll just sit here and do it. My mom will come get me. No reason for both of us to stay.”

  He looked back at Michael. Michael hadn't moved. Caulder gritted his teeth.

  “Go on,” I said. “It's fine.”

  Caulder looked up at the clock again and then checked his watch. “Okay,” he said. “But if you find anything out, you call me.” He picked up his books and backed out the door. He finally waved and trudged off down the corridor. I watched Michael for a moment, then I carefully moved a chair close and sat down. The whole place was very quiet. The monitor blipped softly away in the corner. I could just hear the wind, sighing outside the window.

  I opened my book, but I couldn't read. I kept looking at Michael. Wondering what in heaven's name had happened.

  “Still here?” Michael asked. He hadn't even opened his eyes. But of course—Michael the mystical; he could sense my presence.

  “I just thought I'd stay for a while,” I said, biting back questions. “I won't bother you.” A tough promise to make.

  He did something between a laugh and a sigh. “You bother,” he said, “always, always.” Then, “Too far away,” he complained. I got up and pulled my chair closer. “Why?” he asked, trying to look at me. “Your date,” he said.

  “Don't have one,” I said.

  “That's nice,” he murmured. “Go home. Get ready.”

  “Michael,” I said, beginning to feel a little hurt.

  “ Zabrisssski,” he said. “Tonight. Big deal.”

  “I postponed again,” I told him, all of a sudden wondering if this could have been the thing that had put him back in bed.

  And then somebody said, clearly and accusingly, “You didn't check in with me.” I jumped. It was the doctor, standing in the doorway.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “We didn't have much time, so we just sort of dropped by.�
��

  “I wish you had. I would have sent you home. I should have called, I'm sorry. But this isn't a good night for you to be here.” There was something odd about her too.

  “Not ready,” Michael said, almost clearly. He was talking in her direction.

  She straightened her back and then leaned against the door frame, looking at him.

  “I think you are,” she said quietly.

  “You think,” he said.

  “Smitty—” she said.

  “I am Michael,” he said, still slurring, but managing to sound shockingly testy. “Read the admissions.”

  The doctor even looked a little surprised. Then she turned to me, and opened her mouth to say something.

  “No.” Michael said abruptly. The doctor shut her mouth. A moment went by. “No,” he said again. “I'll tell,” he said softly.

  She folded her arms.

  This was really beginning to scare me. The room went quiet again. I was watching the doctor's face, and she was frowning at the bed.

  “My brother,” he said at last, “comes.”

  Now the doctor met my eyes, but still didn't say anything.

  “Secret. Till this morning,” he went on, his voice very sloppy. “They were afraid—” he held up the arm with the needle in it. “No time. Not ready.” He took a breath and then groaned softly. “By what right?” he said, and took another breath.

  “As for my right,” she said levelly, “I have your parents' consent. But I didn't do this to you, Michael. This just happened. In the way of real life. I didn't tell you till this morning, because I didn't know. Your father jumped the gun on me, and I'm sorry. But better here and now than some other time in a worse place. You can't hide from this forever, Michael. You just have to deal with it. And I believe you can.”

  He turned his face away from her.

  “And I believe you will,” she said again. She pushed away from the door. “You want me to goose up that drip a little?”

  “No,” he said. “I'll deal.”

  “Fine,” she said. You want me to dial it down?”

  “No,” he said. Then, “Yes. Can't think.”

  She came in and adjusted the IV. “He needed it this morning,” she told me, and gave me a look that screamed understatement. “I'll be in to check on you later,” she said. She turned on her heel, and she left the room.

  He put the heels of his hands against his eyes and groaned again. Then he lifted them and glanced at me—evidently, just to make sure I was still there. He put his hands down and took a breath. “Don't ask,” he said.

  I huddled quietly on the chair.

  “I can't,” Michael said after a moment. “—about him. I can't.”

  “I didn't ask,” I said quickly.

  “I know,” he said. He tucked his hands up under his armpits and shivered. “Can't go forward,” he whispered, “can't go back.” He lay there for another little time, and I still sat beside him, not touching him, but feeling the ebb and pull of his work. He whispered, a little wonderingly, “I can't talk about him.”

  The hem of his pillow slip was coming out. The thread hung down from the bed, and I began to tug at it absently. Then I saw I was pulling the stitches out. I didn't know what to do with it after that.

  “I know,” he said, “I'm safe. Public place. Witnesses. I know.”

  I had tucked the little thread back behind the edge of the hem, all the time, trying to think clearly. I had my forehead pressed against the bars of the bed.

  “My brother,” he said. And then, “Nemesis.”

  There had to be something I could say that could defuse this. That could make him feel strong enough to handle it. But I couldn't think of anything. Nothing.

  “So cold,” he said. But here was something I understood. And something I could do about it.

  “Move over,” I told him, leaning over him.

  “What?” He blinked up at me.

  “Shove over,” I said. So he did, and I climbed up on top of his blankets, and lay down, my back against his side, the covers between us. For the next few minutes, his body felt about as hospitable as a brick bed, which was no big surprise. But after a while, he began to relax against me just a little, and then a little more, until we were just there together. It was not comfortable, but it was companionable.

  And then he said softly, “Talk, Ginny.” His voice was sounding clearer. “Talk about the family.” I felt him drop his cheek against my hair. “About Paul. And Charlie. Make me see. Make me angry. Make me safe. Talk.”

  That, also, I could do.

  chapter 17

  You seem to be holding your own,” the doctor said dryly. She was standing in the doorway. We'd been lying there, just sort of dozing, for quite a while. I had been feeling Michael's chills through his blankets. They had come and gone in waves. When I sat up, I was a little dizzy. I scooted to the edge of the bed, but I was still in contact with Michael, still feeling the tremors.

  “He should be here in another half hour or so,” the doctor said. Michael sighed. “Your parents are waiting for him in my office. We'll all come down here together. He's only a human being, Michael.”

  Michael was silent.

  “I know everything about him,” she reminded him. “You told me everything the first night. And you survived it.”

  “I had drugs,” Michael said.

  “How's that drip?” she asked.

  “Terrible,” he said, his voice now very clear. “Totally insufficient.”

  “You want me to turn it back up?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You honestly want me to do that?” she asked.

  There was a silence. “No,” he said.

  “Good,” she said, looking pleased. She turned to me. “It's about time for you to go home.”

  “You want me to go?” I asked Michael, the cowardly half of me hoping he'd make me go.

  “This is not going to be easy,” she warned. “And it's really none of your business.”

  “Stay,” Michael said.

  I found the other half of me willing. “Your mother won't like it,” I told him.

  He said, “My mother may design her own hell. This is mine.”

  “Good,” the doctor said, pleased again. “Now watch what you say to him,” she told me. “If you're going to stay here, keep him strong. An hour and a half, and this will be over.”

  Great. It only took seventeen seconds for an earthquake to flatten San Francisco.

  “This can be your emancipation,” she said to him. “Remember that, in reality, this has very little to do with Russell. This is about you. What you're going to believe. What you're going to accept. You can choose to be free. Or you can choose to remain enslaved. This is your night.”

  Michael shifted himself on the bed, but said nothing.

  “All right then,” she said. “We'll be in here soon.” And with that, she was gone.

  I slid off of the bed and walked around to the window. It was dark outside. It was getting dark earlier now.

  I was watching a tiny figure move back and forth across a lighted window in the building over the way, thinking I had just put myself in the middle of a very scary situation. Among the other things that bother me, I really dislike confrontations.

  “Thank you,” Michael said, speaking much more clearly now. “But you shouldn't stay.”

  “Why?” I asked without looking at him. “Are you embarrassed because I'm seeing you when you're afraid? Well—you're not the only one who's scared.” On second thought, it was kind of early to be so dark. Storm clouds, maybe. “I'm a coward, remember? I hate this kind of thing. I'd just as soon leave, actually.”

  “Commitment,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

  “That's the point,” I said. “I want to go home. There's nothing scary going on there—”

  “Then go.”

  “—but you need me,” I finished, “so I'm staying.” I leaned back against the wall, my hands tucked in behind
me. “There's something I want to know,” I said. Someone passed the doorway, walking down the hall, a lady with a little boy. It gave me a small start. “Why did you let your brother do this to you?”

  “Let him?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “These last four or five years. Why didn't you just—decide to stop it? You're strong. You could have done something, couldn't you?”

  He made no answer.

  “I've thought about this a lot, and it seems to me that after a point, you're as responsible for this as your parents are. I know I don't understand the situation. But you're a smart person, Michael. Smart and strong. You should have told him to kiss off a long time ago. Russell isn't God.”

  “You're right,” he said. “You don't understand.”

  “Excuse me.” A young, cheerful faced guy was leaning in at the doorway. I knew him. I knew the face. But I couldn't think what class I had with him. It was a nightmare time for somebody to suddenly think of dropping in.

  “Do you know where room one ten is?” he asked. He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. He was really good looking.

  “This is one ten,” I answered, still trying to figure it out. I didn't even feel the ground begin to shake.

  He looked at the bed. “Sure it is,” he said. “How ya doin', Schmitt, old man?” And he came on into the room. He was wearing jeans and a light blue tailored shirt and a Columbia jacket. Michael had gone dead white.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” the young man said. Russell said. Obviously, it was Russell. Obvious when you looked at Michael's Smitty face. “Gone off the deep end, finally, huh?” That's why I knew him. I'd seen him often enough in that portrait they had hanging in the dining room. He looked over at me. “You must be a friend of his?”

  I nodded. This had taken me totally by surprise.

  He smiled at me, an open, very easy smile. “Then that makes two of us,” he said, and he leaned across the bed and put his hand out for me. This could not be the monster, Russell. I shook his hand before I knew what I was doing. Now I realized—I'd thought he was good looking because he looked so much like Michael. “I'm Russell,” he said.