Unnatural

by Michael Griffo

  “You know Darlene’s daughter?”

  “Who?”

  “Darlene Garrison. Michael, sometimes …” Now she was fiddling with something on his desk. “Sometimes I don’t think you pay attention to anything except these books of yours. Darlene owns the beauty parlor A Cut Above; she does my hair. Her daughter, Jeralyn, is in your grade.”

  Michael had no idea who Jeralyn Garrison was, so he lied again. “Oh yeah, I think so.”

  “Where’d you get this?” His mother held up a Union Jack bumper sticker.

  “I found it at the Sears auto store when I was there with Grandpa. He told me I couldn’t put the British flag on his Ranger. I told him I had no intention of doing that; I bought it ’cause I liked it.”

  Michael saw the familiar glaze come over his mother’s eyes. He remained silent because he knew that if he kept on talking, if he asked her a direct question even, she wouldn’t hear him. She was in the room, but her mind wasn’t. Her heart might not be in the room either, but his mother rarely talked about what lay in her heart, so it was hard to tell about that. When she placed the bumper sticker gently back on his desk and turned to face him, he was compelled to speak despite knowing it might be futile.

  “Do you ever miss London?”

  Grace looked at her son. He doesn’t look a thing like me, does he? I don’t have blond hair, my skin isn’t so pale, my eyes aren’t green. If I hadn’t been there when the doctor pulled him out from inside of me, I would never believe this person was my flesh and blood. But he was, he is, she thought. In some ways, he’s all I’ll ever be able to truly call my own.

  “No,” she lied. “I told you before, it’s a crowded, loud city. Dirty, no space to breathe, no clean air. I can’t believe you remember it; you were only three when we left.”

  “I don’t really have memories, but impressions. I don’t know, I just get the feeling that I would like it.”

  He doesn’t even sound like me, Grace thought. He never does. He says things that just don’t make sense, that make me question why I ever became a parent, why I ever wasted my life raising him. “You mean you just get the feeling that you’d like it better than here.”

  And the change had begun. Michael saw his mother’s lips press against each other to form a smile that meant to convey anything but joy, her head tilt to the right, and her eyes fill with disbelief. Their roles had reversed. She was the emotionally reactive teenager and he was the insightful parent. Experience had taught him this conversation would not be any different from any other conversation he’d ever had with his mother about London or what their life was like before she brought him to this place, the place where she grew up, or what their life could be like if they moved back. Nothing important would be disclosed, nothing important would be shared between mother and son. And so he just went back to reading.

  His mother paced the width of the room, once, twice. She hated when Michael asked about London. For her it was another lifetime ago, a mistake. No, not a mistake entirely. What should I call it? she thought. She couldn’t come up with a word. As always, the mention of London and her past made her fidgety, confused. The only thing she was certain of was that it was part of her past and that’s where it should remain. Yes, it should remain buried and silent. Because when she thought of London, all she thought of was him, Michael’s father. The man she ran away with and the man she eventually ran from. The man she once loved and would always love. The man she never wanted to see again. “Do me one favor,” Grace said before leaving her son alone. “When you get married, be a better husband than your father was.”

  A cold sensation of fear trickled down Michael’s neck and found its resting place on his heart. It squeezed, it constricted, until Michael could hardly breathe and had to consciously put down his book and gasp, gasp for a breath that should have come easily. But his mother saw to it that it didn’t. She had to mention marriage and becoming a husband, didn’t she? If Michael didn’t know better, he’d think his mother was punishing him for bringing up London. And maybe she was. Lately she had been acting so erratically he had no idea what she was thinking. All he knew was that whenever his mother, or anyone for that matter, insinuated that he should get married and become a husband, he panicked. It just felt wrong. The only thing that made him feel worse was that, to everyone else, it felt perfectly right.

  Just as his breathing returned to normal, he heard the medicine cabinet open, which could mean only one thing: His mother needed some comfort. Maybe it was the white pill; perhaps tonight it would be the blue pill. It didn’t matter. Michael didn’t have to see into the bathroom to know that his mother was taking a pill to calm her nerves. A pill before bedtime was the only thing that seemed to help her these days. That and a nice glass of white wine.

  What happened to the mother who used to help me with my homework after dinner? Explain to me how to figure out percentages and the differences among the three branches of government. When did she stop wanting to help me and start wanting to create me in her image? Now Michael was pacing his room, back and forth, trying to figure out why his mother was no longer on his side, pacing, pacing, pacing, until he forced himself to stop moving. He gripped the windowsill and looked out into the night. The moonlight allowed him to see only a few yards of the dirt road; the rest was hidden in darkness, out of his reach once again. Why do I hate it here so much?! Maybe, just maybe, it had to do with what was taking place downstairs.

  “Again with the wine,” Michael’s grandfather snickered.

  “Should I drink whiskey?” Grace asked. “Would that make you happy? Oh, that’s right, there’s nothing that would make you happy.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that!”

  “And don’t you dare tell me what to do!”

  That was different. Michael’s mother didn’t usually talk back to her father. Guess the pills and the wine weren’t working as quickly to calm her as they usually did.

  “Maybe if you weren’t drinking all the time, you’d be able to straighten out that son of yours.”

  “You leave him out of this,” Grace said, much quieter. Ah, now the pills are kicking in. “He’s a good boy.”

  “He ain’t no boy!” his grandfather shouted. “He’s like that fairy husband of yours!”

  “He’s nothing like Vaughan!”

  “Is too! A sissy boy and he ain’t gonnna ’mount to nothin’! Mark my words!”

  “You shut your mouth, Daddy! Shut it! Michael is not … like that. He’s perfectly normal!”

  But Michael knew his mother was wrong. He wasn’t normal. His grandfather didn’t have to come right out and say it; Michael knew what he was. He stared at his reflection in the window and he could see it in his own eyes. What he saw made him disgusted, scared, but yes, just a little excited even though he knew what he was seeing wasn’t right. Tomorrow at church he would pray that it would all go away, that he would be able to change who he was, but tonight … tonight he would lock his bedroom door, block out the sounds coming from downstairs, and think about R.J. And he would convince himself that it was the most natural thing in the world.

  chapter 2

  Not a word was spoken during the half-hour drive to church. It would be optimistic to think that Michael, his mother, and his grandparents were all engaged in private meditation, but the truth is, they had nothing to say to one another. At least nothing that would be appropriate to say en route to God’s house.

  They took Grace’s gray Ford Taurus, complete with its new fog light, but Michael’s grandpa drove because Grace, who sat in the back with Michael, was too tired to drive. Hungover was more like it, but no one contradicted her. Why point out the obvious? So the only sounds that filled up the emptiness were the whir of the air conditioner, the crunch of the tires on the dirt road, and then the softer hum when they merged onto the highway. And of course the sounds that filled Michael’s head.

  He turned to look at his mother, silent now, eyes closed, trying to sleep, summoning the strength to make it
through another sermon perhaps, and heard the words she shouted to his grandpa last night: “He’s perfectly normal!” It wasn’t the first time he’d heard her say that or words just like it; they often argued about him when he wasn’t in the room and he imagined that their arguments were louder and their words more tactless when they knew he wasn’t in the house and there was no chance of his overhearing. Yes, the words bothered him, but worse was the sound of his mother’s voice, hopeful, a bit defiant, but mostly desperate because she knew even as she spoke the words that they weren’t the truth.

  Michael wasn’t perfectly normal. And the older he got, the more of a problem it was becoming. But if only his mother supported him, maybe it wouldn’t have to be such a problem. Maybe he could handle everyone else’s criticisms and unkind comments if he knew she didn’t view him as such an incredible disappointment. Wasn’t his mother supposed to love him unconditionally? Wasn’t she supposed to defend him without letting her own doubts and fears emerge? Time and time again his mother failed him and she only succeeded in making him realize that he was on this earth by himself. He hated the feeling, but lately he was forced to admit that it was liberating. At least he knew where he stood.

  “I’ll try to get that radio fixed this week,” Grandpa said. Now that they were in the openness of the church parking lot and not the confined space of the car, it was easier to speak.

  Walking up the wooden steps of the church, he felt each plank bend and creak with his weight as if the steps were acting as guardians deciding if they should allow him entry or break in half and swallow him whole. He smiled to himself. How ironic; that’s how I already feel, swallowed up by the earth, silenced. He watched his mother and grandma smile and nod at the other parishioners. Occasionally his grandma would clasp another old woman’s hand, not out of affection really, but just a desire to connect to someone, anyone, but they too were silent. Only Grandpa made noise.

  Whether welcoming men who looked as tired and weary as he did with a gruff hello or slapping someone on the back vigorously, his grandpa was heard. In the company of his kindred spirits he was simply unable to restrain his innate rowdy behavior even while clad in his iron-pressed Sunday clothes. Michael envied such freedom. To be able to act upon your instinct—now, that would truly be liberating. Unfortunately, his instinct was frowned upon by the church, so when he saw R.J. bound up the steps with some girl, some girl who wasn’t even pretty, he didn’t rush to him and slap him on his back or shake his soft, firm hand; he resolutely followed his family inside.

  A few minutes later when all the pews were filled with bodies, either eager or resigned to spend the next hour in reflection, Michael looked around at his family, the congregation, at the people who inhabited his world, and he was overcome with a feeling of loneliness. He just didn’t belong. It struck him like a nail through the palm; he knew it in his mind, he felt it in his body, his soul … no, he didn’t want to contemplate his soul, not here, not surrounded by these strangers; he didn’t want to open his soul up to inspection and risk contamination by others.

  Where was R.J.? He scoured the pews in front of him and couldn’t find his face. Bending down as if he needed to scratch his leg, he looked quickly behind him and there he was, next to her. Why was she giggling in church? And why did she look so ugly when she laughed? Michael looked at R.J. and he wasn’t laughing, but he was definitely smiling. And definitely not looking at him.

  He gripped the back of the pew in front of him with both hands until his knuckles were white. In the distance he could hear Father Charles reciting something, a prayer, some words, and he tried to remember that, despite what those around him thought, even he was welcome in this house. He felt his eyes begin to water. No, he wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. Why was he acting like this? It was hardly his first time in church; isolation among this group was not a new sensation. Maybe he couldn’t pretend anymore. Maybe he couldn’t pretend that being different didn’t matter. Everyone has their breaking point. And that’s when he saw his mother reach hers.

  The tears that Michael refused to shed poured quietly down his mother’s face, without fanfare, without a desire to be seen, just a part of her that could no longer remain locked away. Her face, however, was unburdened by sadness; on the contrary, it looked blank, which only confused Michael more. He had often seen his mother cry, after she had had too much to drink, when the paramedics carted her off once, twice, to a place where she could rest, a place where she didn’t want to go. But those times her tears were accompanied by shouts, screams, a face contorted with anger and fear; these tears were different, they were alone. His mother was crying, but it was as if she were discarding her tears because she had learned she had no use for them; tears no longer made a difference.

  The Lord’s Prayer was being recited around them, and Michael wished he could stare straight ahead and mutter the words, but he couldn’t do anything but stare at his mother. What was happening to her? And for that matter to him? And why was she leaving?

  Grace had grabbed her purse and was now awkwardly stepping in front of Michael and then the rest of the people in their pew until she reached the aisle. The voices continued speaking “as we forgive those who trespass against us,” but all heads turned to see Grace genuflect deeply and cross herself before turning and walking out of the church.

  Michael looked at his grandma and he wasn’t sure what he saw in her eyes. Was it compassion, was it indifference? He could never tell with her. His grandpa’s story was much easier to interpret. In his eyes he saw disgust.

  Following the same path his mother just took, Michael made his way toward the aisle. He didn’t stop to genuflect but simply turned and swiftly walked away from the altar and toward the huge wooden church doors. He was so focused on getting outside to find out what was going on with his mother, he didn’t even pause when he saw R.J. ignore the girl next to him and look in his direction. No time for him now. His grandma started to make the same journey, but her husband, not taking his eyes off Father Charles, placed his hand firmly on top of hers, and she did what she always did; she gave in to his command.

  Outside he saw his mother sitting on the church steps; her body looked tiny but, in an odd way, strong. Her back was straight, her head turned up to look at the dark, ominous clouds that had settled overhead, as if she were saying one final good-bye before the steps broke in two and the earth swallowed her up forever. No, take me, Michael thought. She belongs here, I don’t.

  By the time he sat down next to her, the raindrops started to fall. She was still looking up at the clouds, so he couldn’t tell if her face was streaked with tears or rain; he also couldn’t tell what she was feeling or thinking since her face was still a blank mask. In that moment Michael felt closer to his mother than he had in years; he too understood the need to conceal what was going on underneath the skin, keep all your emotions and desires secret. Could it be that they weren’t that different? Could it be that she understood? No.

  “Michael,” his mother said, her eyes unblinking in the rain. “I want you to get married right on these steps so you can have a good start in life.” She had no idea. “If only I had gotten married here, standing on this solid wood instead of foreign soil, maybe my marriage would have been built upon a stronger foundation, maybe I wouldn’t have broken my vows. And maybe I wouldn’t have disappointed so many people.”

  She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing the rain to cascade down her face and through her hair, and finally she displayed some emotion. She smiled. Her sins were being washed away. Swept off her skin by the rain to be absorbed by the church steps. And if that didn’t do the trick, there was always a pill.

  Without looking into her purse, she found the pill she needed, the one that would help. She opened her mouth and collected the rain. Michael watched, amazed by the primitive yet efficient gesture, as his mother waited until a little puddle was created in her throat and then she popped the pill into her mouth. She swallowed both the rain and the pill, like t
hey were the blood and body of Christ. Sitting next to his mother, witness to her own private mass, Michael felt the stab of truth in his gut: He could not rely on her to protect or defend him. She was too engaged in her own struggle for survival. And even though he felt a certain amount of empathy for his mother, he noted with more than a small degree of sadness that what he felt even more for her was disappointment.

  Lying in his bed later that night, A Separate Peace folded against his chest, he dreamed, not of disappointment, but of satisfaction. For some reason, Phineas looked just like R.J. and had an accent, British, Irish. Michael couldn’t place it, but he liked the way it sounded; the rhythm and the lilt were comforting. Phineas was telling him that he could jump from the tree, that the fall wouldn’t hurt him, and even though he was high, very high above the grassy knoll, Michael trusted him. Arms outstretched, chest inflated, Michael leapt into the air and for a few brief seconds he floated without concern, without fear, with only the certainty that love could bring. He knew that neither Phineas nor R.J. would lie to him, he knew that his landing would be soft. What he didn’t expect was that his landing would be wet.

  Instead of touching down on the ground, Michael plunged through the surface of water. He didn’t know if he fell through a lake, an ocean, a pool; he only knew he felt water, cold but exhilarating, engulf him tenderly. He could feel every inch of his body, every pore, submit to its power and it felt wonderful, it felt natural, and when Phineas reached his hand out to him, Michael instinctively reached his hand out to grab hold. When Phineas pulled Michael close to him and his face morphed into R.J.’s, Michael didn’t pull away but allowed the older boy’s strength to embrace him. Here in his dream, underwater, Michael could finally admit this was where he wanted to be, in another boy’s arms, looking directly into eyes that were like his, eyes that in real life, that on land, had not yet been found.