The Book of Michael

by Lesley Choyce

  There had been a couple of attempts by the media to interview me but I learned that the best thing to do was simply turn and either walk quietly away, or run. Yes, sometimes I actually ran. On one occasion, I had just left the house and was headed to the bus stop to go visit Phyllis. And it was like the TV people had been watching me. They knew where and when I’d leave home. But they stayed far enough away so that I’d be out of range of my parents or an easy retreat back inside.

  It was a young reporter from the all–news channel.A kind of media ambush. He had a mike and a cameraman stepped out from behind a tree. I did like those others you’ve seen on TV. I put my hands up in front of me, shielding my face from the camera. And then I ran.

  It felt good to run. It was the beginning of something that was useful to me. I ran half the way to Phyllis’s house, surprised that my lungs could work this well and listening to my own breath and heartbeat. I had to ease up and walk the last ten blocks, but by the time I entered my grandmother’s living room, I felt better than I’d felt in quite a while.

  I didn’t know until that evening why the media had wanted to bring me back into the spotlight. But then I heard on the news that there had been another murder in a nearby town.A girl had killed another girl and there had been drugs involved. And this would have prompted an all–news channel to resurrect Lisa’s story and rekindle all our pain. That’s the way the media worked. For the thousandth time I re–imagined the scene—Lisa there in the tent where we had made love, with a knife wound, and the blood spilling out of her as she died.

  ***

  My parents bought me running shoes. And sometimes I ran with Nicole who had been on the track team and competed in marathons. She and I were awkward at conversation at the best of times, but having this thing to do—this running—made us closer. Some of her expressions and mannerisms reminded me of Lisa and that was always a bit tough.We spoke haltingly when we ran. Sometimes not at all. And sometimes I noticed our ragged breathing, after we’d gone a fair distance, was perfectly in synch. Sometimes, if she was a bit ahead of me, I’d focus on her pony–tailed hair flipping from side to side. Or sometimes I’d look at her body and think she was sexy. But then I’d look up and away. I didn’t want to go there. So I ran faster.

  Running made me leaner. And smarter. I was holding my own at school. Keeping out of trouble, doing homework. No weed, no drinking. I almost never watched TV. I didn’t play video games. I read voraciously. Nicole and Pen had loaned me a dozen books. Some for new ideas, some for pure escape. I read novels but never murder mysteries.

  Nicole invited me over to her house one night and her parents didn’t seem too happy to see me but they were polite enough and left us alone in the living room after they went to bed. She wanted me to watch a movie called Waking Ned Devine. It was funny and Irish and quirky and I liked it. And then she kissed me. And I was shocked. I hadn’t seen that coming. At first I did nothing. But then I kissed her back.

  And as I did, I began to cry. “Must have been something in the movie,” I said. But I knew it wasn’t that. Nicole had broken down a barrier inside me. I was almost afraid of what might happen next. Nicole touched the tears on my face with her fingertips and then put them to her lips, but said nothing. After the movie, we sat there in silent shared awkwardness. “Let’s run tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s see how far we can go.”

  Hexagram 61, Chung Fu, suggests that sometimes you need to avoid becoming dependent on others. Maintain inner strength and avoid uncertainty. Phyllis said this was impossible in the world we lived in and that uncertainty was at every step in life. I had begun to think about Nicole when I wasn’t with her. But it was different from the way I felt about Lisa. Or Miranda. If Miranda had been lust, and Lisa had been love, then what was this? Friendship? But in each case, it was a kind of dependency and it seemed unavoidable. In my incautious moments, I traced the awful path of circumstances and events that led to Lisa’s death and, each time, I became more certain that I had been responsible for the chain of events. They had convicted the true killer in the courtroom. I found it harder and harder to take Louis’s advice and forgive myself.

  And now I was drawing Nicole, a smart, good girl who hoped to someday become a social worker, into my life. I could do her a big favor and drop out of her existence. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I was dependent on her.

  It was a rainy Thursday night when she phoned. “Lisa’s parents found her journals,” she said. “They said they had hardly touched her room, that everything was still there. But they finally had to deal with it.They read about you.”

  I swallowed hard but said nothing. I knew Lisa was a writer, I knew she kept a journal, but I didn’t know what she put in it. And I expect that she intended to keep them for herself. Not for her parents to read.

  “They want to meet with you,” Nicole said. “They called me to ask to help set it up.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I said. “They were there at the trial. I saw the looks in their faces. They hated me more than anyone in the room. I carried those looks with me into prison. I don’t think I could ever face them.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you think Lisa wrote about in her journals?” I asked.

  “Everything. She said that in writing anything, you must be perfectly honest. She never showed them to me. But I knew Lisa.”

  “What good would it do to meet her parents?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think she wrote about everything we did?”

  “Probably.”

  “I can’t meet with them.Tell them I’m sorry.”

  Nicole seemed disappointed in me suddenly.“You loved Lisa, didn’t you?” she asked.There was hurt in her voice.

  I said nothing.

  “And Miranda, what about her? I can’t see what you saw in her. What was that all about anyway?” There was anger now in her voice. This was unlike Nicole. She had always been so accepting of everything. What had triggered this?

  I knew I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that, once upon a time, I had loved Miranda too.“I don’t know,” I said.“I’m sorry.” But Nicole had already hung up.

  ***

  The next day Nicole acted as if the conversation had never happened and she never mentioned Lisa’s journals or her parents again. But Lisa’s parents called my house once and left a message on our machine to call them. I erased the message before my parents heard it and did not return their phone call.When they called a second time, their number was blocked and, curious as to who it was, I answered.

  “Michael, this is Lisa’s father,” I heard the man say. “We’d like to talk to you. It’s important. Can we come to your house?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Please. It’s important.We need to do this for Lisa.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Please meet with us and I’ll explain.”

  My hand was trembling. Right then I was thinking about what Louis had told me about forgiveness. And I was thinking that this might somehow clear the air with Nicole. But most of all I now knew that meeting her parents would help me reconnect with Lisa. And I desperately wanted Lisa—anything to do with Lisa—back into my life.

  “Okay,” I said.“I’ll come to your house. I’ll head over there now.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  I ran the twenty or so blocks to Lisa’s house. I could not have walked there. And I did not want my parents involved. I knew that if I could just get my legs moving and my lungs working hard, I could avoid thinking about it, avoid any second thoughts, and just do this thing.

  I arrived sweaty and panting. Lisa’s father, who looked like he’d aged twenty years since I’d seen him last, answered the door. He said nothing about the shape I was in. “Thanks for doing this. Come in.”

  I tried to slow my breathing down but my heart continued to beat wildly.

  “Sit down,” Lisa’s father said as hi
s wife came into the living room. She tried to give me eye contact but quickly looked away. On the coffee table was an open photo album with pictures of Lisa as a little girl.

  “We do this sometimes,” her father said with an air of defeat and sadness.“We look at the pictures of our little girl. It still doesn’t seem real that she’s gone.” He closed the album and set it under the table. From underneath he picked up a pair of bound writing booklets and set them on top.

  “The journals?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Lisa’s mother replied. “They were very personal. We would have never violated her privacy if…”

  “I understand,” I said.“Lisa loved to write. She told me about her journals. But she never showed me anything.”

  “They weren’t intended for anyone to read, of course. We didn’t even know they were in her room until recently.”

  “It must have been very difficult to do this.” “Torture,” her mother said. “But it was necessary.”

  “You’re in there, Michael,” her father said. “In the last year of her life, there is a lot about you.”

  “She loved you,” her mother said. “We know that now.”

  I guess I wasn’t expecting that. They should have known all along that Lisa loved me and I loved her.They should have known I could not have killed her. But I had showed them another version of me back then. They believed I was trouble. The neighbors had talked. I had liked it back then that people thought I was trouble.The clothes I wore, the look about me. I knew the messages I gave adults and I liked the way it made me feel.

  “Did you feel the same way?” her father asked.

  “I loved her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then, when she died, you felt the same way we did.”

  “I think so.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you. Everything must have been terrible for you.”

  “Can I?” I asked, touching the journal.

  Lisa’s mother nodded. I flipped open the journal and could not focus on the words, only the handwriting, that same elegant handwriting I had seen in the poem. My eyes focused and I realized I had opened to a page of Lisa writing about us. About making love in her room. I turned the page quickly and realized that both of them had read every word in these journals, knew every intimate detail about Lisa and me. At first, I guess, I felt embarrassed, but then a shock wave of emotion slammed into me.The wonder and beauty I had felt with her in my arms. And then the overwhelming sense of loss, the pain, and the grief.

  “We want you to take them and read them,” her mother said, shocking me. “But we’d like them back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we think they might help with what you are going through,” she said.

  “But you’ve read these, right? You’ve read everything. How come you don’t hate me?”

  “Because Lisa loved you,” her father said. “And we think you loved her. And it’s not just us who lost her. We know that now.”

  “We were so wrong,” Lisa’s mother said.

  I looked down at the journals and didn’t know what to say.

  Lisa father cleared his throat. “I wasn’t going to say this but I need to get it out.”

  “Don’t,” his wife said. “You promised you wouldn’t.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been burning inside me. I need to tell him.” Then he paused and tried to muster some inner strength. “Back then,” he continued, “back before the trial, I was thinking that I didn’t trust the legal system. And I thought the best thing would be to kill you myself. I thought about it a lot. Went so far as applying for a license to buy a gun. I never bought one. But I believe I was capable of doing it.”

  His words didn’t shock me, really. I knew what I represented to so many people in the town and I understood what he was saying. He was waiting for some response from me. He was thinking I’d be appalled. I wasn’t.

  “I think in some ways it would have been easier. On me, that is.”

  “But he didn’t do it,” his wife said in his defense. “He didn’t even come close. I kept saying to him,‘Then what about me? What happens to me after that?’”

  “I couldn’t do that to my wife,” he said.

  I sat silently, holding Lisa’s journals to my chest, wondering if I’d have the ability to read them and what it might do to me.“Can I see some of your photos of Lisa?”

  “Sure,you can,” her mother said, and pulled up the photo album and opened to pictures of Lisa’s last year on earth.

  Lisa was very much alive in each photo. Her spirit and grace came across in every image and it seemed inconceivable that her life had been taken away from us all. I turned the pages very slowly and felt my heart at last beginning to slow its fevered pace. I felt something come over me that was profoundly sad but beautiful. And when I came to the last page of photos—not the end of the album, but the last page of photos—I turned the empty pages that came after. The unfilled pages, the ones that would have held pictures of Lisa and her life, had she lived.

  And then I closed the album and touched its cover.

  I opened one of the journals now and stared at a page. I can tell that in Michael’s heart there is love. I can tell by the way he kisses me that he is kind and loving. I turned the page and there was more but I did not continue to read.

  I stood up and placed the journals back on the table. “Thank you for sharing this,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. And I left.

  Chapter 22

  Mr. Tyson gave the go–ahead for me to attend the graduation ceremony and receive a diploma, but I didn’t really graduate.There would be summer school classes to take. The ceremony had a kind of slo–mo, underwater feeling to it all. I was there but not there. I wondered if this was the way my life was going to play out.There but not there. Graduating but not really graduating. Living but not really alive.

  They let Nicole give a little speech about Lisa and I had prepared myself for that. I faded deep into myself. I know my parents fought hard to hold back tears. Lisa’s folks were not in the audience.And Miranda. Nobody was saying a word about her. There would be no graduation ceremony for Miranda.

  My name was called and my feet felt heavy as I clumped up to the stage and shook hands with Mr. Tyson.You watch the others go up before you and you know your turn is coming but when you actually hear your name, it all feels so strange. Who is this person walking up to receive his high school diploma? Wasn’t I just a little kid on a tricycle not so long ago? Wasn’t I still pissing in my pants and blubbering when I fell and scraped a knee?

  I almost thought Mr.Tyson was going to give me a hug. I didn’t want that so maybe he caught my signal. Or maybe he knew it was better not to draw too much attention to me. The document was handed over, the applause faded, and I was off the stage.Wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

  Phyllis was there with my parents, her oxygen tank in tow. It was a sad scene. She was fading. When I visited her, she kept prepping me for what was ahead. “I’m on borrowed time, as they say,” she kept reminding me.And she meant it.

  Louis was in the audience as well. I had invited him. He had been teaching me to cook. I knew a bit about herbs and spices. And I could make pasta from scratch. After the ceremony, he found me and shook my hand enthusiastically. He saw the deer–in–the–headlights look on my face and tried to coach me back into normality. “You’re going to do just fine, son. Keep a level head and keep your feet on the ground. Now I gotta get back to work.” And he left.

  Nicole found me in the parking lot and took my hand, then wrapped her arms around me and hugged me to her.

  Nicole.

  I need to tell you about Nicole.

  It was nothing like Miranda. And it was not like Lisa. We were friends. Sad friends who had shared a loss. Nicole had helped me adjust to school and ran interference—sometimes when I didn’t even realize it—steering me away from trouble that was looking for me. We studied together and sometimes we kissed. Sometimes we’d
go for long walks or we’d run together. I had to force myself to run but I always felt a little better while I was doing it. We’d run to the river and sometimes just sit there on the grass. We’d make out but I never let it get beyond the basics. Everything about sex and sexual attraction scared me. I explained that to Nicole and she understood.

  The night of graduation, Nicole and I didn’t go to any of the parties. I wasn’t really invited to any but she was. I suppose we could have shown up together but I didn’t want to go. Nicole’s parents surprised me by saying that I could stay the night—the two of us would stay in the living room. Maybe they thought this was the safest of all the options. They didn’t mean that I was to sleep with their daughter. But they were okay if I slept there that night.

  We split a bottle of wine and her parents didn’t even seem to mind that. We watched a couple of Jack Nicholson DVDs—As Good as it Gets and Something’s Gotta Give. And after everything got quiet in the house, I kissed her and held her to me. “I feel like I need you in my life,” I said, “but I don’t want to hold you back.”

  “I haven’t decided which university I’m going to yet. I may not be going away after all.”

  “I think you should.”

  “You want me to?”

  “It’s not like that. I want you here. But I can’t make you do that.”

  ***

  My summer was summer school. My teachers, I am sure, had been given instructions to make sure I made up the work I’d missed so my graduation would be legitimized. They all knew it would be best if I were not around the school for any part of another school year. Lisa’s death and the whole sorry story that surrounded it would not be forgotten, but it would be a thing of the past.

  I almost gave up on summer school when my grandmother died. I almost gave up on everything.

  Phyllis was having a harder and harder time breathing. She was back in the hospital and taking heavy medication to help her heart and to keep her blood thin. My dad went to stay with her for hours every single night. My mom would go see her at least once during the day. I preferred to visit her on my own and sometimes she was too tired to talk. She would look at me, though, and hold my hand. I’d randomly turn to a page in her I Ching book and read.