He reached the top of the stairs just in time to see two men grab his mother from both sides, each one holding a different arm. They made sure to grab her by the forearms, not far below her elbow, but far above her bloody wrists. Michael wondered why they hadn’t worn protective gloves if they were concerned with getting their hands bloodstained, since this wasn’t the first time they had been called to this house for such an emergency.
The woman who writhed and wriggled between the two men looked nothing like the woman who had sat on the church steps earlier that day. Michael reminded himself that his mother could go from tranquil to frenzied in much shorter time and had previously done so; this should be no surprise. But of course it was. This woman was still his mother.
“Go back to your room!” his grandpa shouted as Michael was halfway down the stairs. “We don’t need you down here!” Frozen, Michael couldn’t move. He wasn’t ignoring his grandpa’s directive; he just for the moment couldn’t follow it. There was too much going on.
A third man entered the house, holding a syringe, and when Grace saw this, her tearless eyes grew more wild and fearful, her movements quicker and more convulsive. She knew what was coming. She knew the needle of the syringe would be jabbed into her skin, its liquid would be unleashed into her bloodstream, and she would lose control. She would wake up somewhere unfamiliar knowing, when her mind cleared, that once again she was a disappointment to those around her.
Michael too was disappointed with those around him. In the corner of the room he saw his grandma fumbling through a rosary, looking helpless and, Michael couldn’t believe he felt this, pathetic. She couldn’t even find the strength to look at her daughter but instead gazed at the rosary beads as if they had some power. The only power they had was the ability to make her ignore her daughter’s true problems, stare at the white beads, not at the white jacket that the men were now putting on his mother. A white straitjacket that, unfortunately, was a perfect fit.
He was also disappointed with his grandpa, which he loathed to admit was not so unusual. The old man told the paramedics that he wouldn’t be riding with them in the ambulance and that he wouldn’t be following in his car, either. He wasn’t going to the hospital this time; somebody had to wash out the blood from the rug before it left a stain.
“I’ll go,” Michael heard himself say.
“I told you to git upstairs!” his grandpa shouted back.
One of the paramedics said that his mother was in good hands, that she would be asleep for hours, so he should do as his grandfather said. Funny how a stranger was kinder to him than his own flesh and blood. Funnier still was how mean his grandpa could really be. “You’re the main reason she’s like this anyway! ’Bout time you faced up to it!”
He didn’t have to look at the other people in the room; he knew they had involuntarily cast their eyes away from him, their faces a mixture of shock and compassion. Michael was young, but he wasn’t stupid. He also wasn’t strong when it came to defending himself against his grandpa, so he didn’t deny what he’d said, he didn’t yell back. He accepted his words and felt their anger and frustration saturate his skin.
“Someone from the hospital will call you,” one of the men said to no one in particular. Michael looked at his mother, her face serene, already asleep. He wondered if she was content. Had she gotten what she wanted? Was it her plan to be taken from this house, taken violently because she didn’t have the strength to leave peacefully? He might never know. She had tried this before but of course had never given a full explanation as to why, at least not to her family. Perhaps her doctor, the psychiatrist, had a better understanding of why she harmed herself, but if he did know, he never felt obliged or compelled to share it with those closest to her. Her family was forced to guess.
As they wheeled her out on the stretcher, Michael noticed that the bleeding had stopped. That was a good sign. The cuts wouldn’t be so deep this time. She would stay in the hospital for a few days, recover, and then come home to resume her place in the family. No one would mention this night, and this disturbance while not forgotten would go unspoken.
One last look. His mother was sleeping now, her eyes closed, her expression blank but soft. The pain, wherever it came from, was sleeping now too. A sheet covered the straitjacket, so as she was wheeled away, if Michael wanted to, he could forget it was there; he could imagine that she was simply being taken to the hospital for routine surgery. Remove a gallbladder or an appendix. Something that wouldn’t return to destroy the fragile foundation this family was built upon.
He left his grandparents to their beer and rosary and went back up to his room. From his window he saw the ambulance drive away, down the dirt road and into the night. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but think how lucky his mother was. At least she, for a time, was elsewhere.
chapter 3
First day back to school was never a happy time for Michael. First day back to school when your mother was in the hospital under psychiatric evaluation made the day even worse.
Last year when Michael entered Weeping Water High School he thought things might improve from his grammar school and junior high days; he might find someone, anyone, who shared his desire for knowledge. He thought his new classmates might be a little smarter, might be a bit more interested in actually learning about world history or English literature and not just in figuring out the easiest way to cut class without getting caught. No such luck.
The majority of kids at Two W mainly fell into two camps—the jocks and cheerleaders who thought life should be spent on the football field, and the slackers who preferred to watch life speed by them. The only thing the two camps had in common was a desire to learn the least amount of studying they would have to do to produce a report card full of average grades.
Of course Michael wasn’t an anomaly; there were other kids in school who wanted to learn, who wanted to learn as much as possible in order to get accepted into a good college so they could have the kind of life and career that the Weeping Water public school system on its own couldn’t provide. Problem was that none of those kids wanted to be Michael’s friend.
In a small town, word travels fast, and before he had even put in one full day as a freshman, the entire student body knew that Michael Howard was the kid whose mother was in and out of psychiatric care and who was kind of weird himself. It didn’t matter that Michael was an excellent student, salutatorian of his junior high class. Not a star athlete but definitely not the most uncoordinated kid in gym class. He just didn’t fit in.
The whispers had begun about Michael well before his teen years. As a young boy it was noted that his diction was too refined; he didn’t sound like somebody who was brought up in Nebraska. His vocabulary was much too vast. “Nobody from around here uses words like that,” people would say. “Do you think he dyes his hair? No boy’s hair is that blond all by itself.” And then there was his attitude.
Michael knew that part of the reason he didn’t have any friends and was ostracized by his peers was because everyone thought he considered himself better than everyone else. It didn’t matter that he never once voiced this opinion, it didn’t matter that this wasn’t how he felt; all that mattered was that one group of kids interpreted Michael’s timidity and intelligence as arrogance and they then shared their assumptions with another group of kids and soon Michael had earned a reputation of being an egotistical jerk. An unjust reputation, but one he didn’t have the strength to fight.
“Heard your mother’s back in her own padded cell.”
He didn’t need to turn around; he knew without looking who made that remark. Mauro Dorigo had been taunting Michael since third grade, from the first day Mauro moved here from New York. Michael tried ignoring him, he tried tattling on him, he tried running from him, but Mauro ran faster, and when he caught up with him, he surprised him with a roundhouse punch that gave Michael his first black eye.
Mauro was a tough kid who grew up on the streets of the Lower East Side. The only way he
knew how to take care of himself was with his fists, and the best way he knew to make sure no one messed with him was to mess with somebody else first. So on his first day at his new school in Nebraska, he searched the school yard for the weakest-looking kid and stopped when he cast his eyes on Michael. He had nothing against Michael at the time; it was just that he had that scared look about him, almost like he was waiting for someone to pounce. Mauro was more than willing.
Seven years later, not much had changed. Mauro was still more overweight than muscular, but he had the advantage because fear still clung to Michael. Fear that at any moment someone was going to attack, physically or verbally. That someone was usually Mauro.
“I hear they’re going to name the loony bin after her, she’s spent so much time in there.”
Now a group had gathered and some kids laughed, others whispered. He knew they knew what had happened to his mother; everyone always found out, so there was no sense in denying it.
“Yes, it’s going to be called the Grace Ann Howard Wing,” Michael said. “The ribbon-cutting ceremony is scheduled for next week; you should put it on your calendar.”
When he turned to walk away he caught a glimpse of some of the kids’ startled faces; they looked impressed. Yes, they definitely were impressed with Michael’s comeback. He knew he shouldn’t joke about his mother’s condition, but what else was he going to do? Mauro was right. By the end of the year, his mother would be making another trip to the mental ward; might as well own up to it. But Mauro always had to have the last word.
“So, Howard! I guess that makes you a gaytard!” The kids who seconds ago were impressed with Michael’s wit switched allegiance and were once again back on Mauro’s side. “If your mother’s crazy, you must be a retarded homo!”
Fire erupted in Michael’s cheeks and he felt his mouth go completely dry. Laughter boxed his ears and he briefly thought he was going to faint right there in the corridor. But somehow he kept walking, walking, walking; he just needed to get to the end of the hallway so he could turn the corner and escape. Once he could get away from the laughter, away from the words, he would be fine.
He rounded the corner and took a deep breath. He pushed his way through the crowd of students and ducked into the first room that looked empty, chemistry lab, and leaned against the teacher’s desk. They’re just words, he told himself, they don’t matter. But he knew that wasn’t completely true. The words themselves were only part of the problem; the worst part was what the words conveyed. They told everyone that Michael was someone who should be ridiculed, someone who should be singled out because he was … sick and repulsive. He had heard those words all his life, but each time was like the first, a jagged knife cutting through innocence. He simply didn’t know how much longer he could take it.
“Are you all right, Mr. Howard?”
Once again he didn’t have to turn around to know who was speaking. It was Mrs. Clyde, the head of the science department. “Yes, I …” Michael started, but when he tried to finish his sentence he didn’t know what to say. Should he tell her the truth? I just needed a place to hide for a few minutes. Or I was running away because the school bully was calling me names again. “Yes, I’m fine.” Those were the words that finally came out of his mouth and although he knew someone as perceptive and savvy as Mrs. Clyde would not believe them, they would have to do. The first day of school was definitely getting off to a bad start. And it was only going to get worse.
“I don’t think they teach soccer in gaytard school.”
Michael ignored the comment, but here on the soccer field, there was no hallway for him to turn into, no empty room for him to hide in. He was exposed. He had two choices—he could act as if he didn’t hear Mauro’s comment or he could confront him. Without hesitation he chose the former. Which only meant that Mauro would continue to goad him.
Gym class was only forty minutes, Michael reminded himself. Mauro would shortly grow tired of teasing him and move on to somebody else. He just had to deal with it for a little while longer. In the meantime maybe he could impress some of his classmates with his newfound agility as he did earlier with his impromptu wit. The esteem hadn’t lasted very long, but perhaps he was a better athlete than a comedian.
This past summer, Michael grew three inches and as a result lost ten pounds. He was five feet ten and a lean 170 pounds. He didn’t have a six-pack and he wasn’t incredibly muscular, but he had spent many summer mornings running before the sun grew too strong, so he had built up his stamina and, most exciting, he was learning how to use his body. He knew he could make an impression if he was just given the chance.
He had to wait a while, but sure enough, with only ten minutes left to go in class, Michael got his opportunity. With the score tied, Jay Rogers, one of the best athletes in the school, had driven the ball forty yards down the field on his own. He was ten yards from the goal, but there were too many players from the other team blocking him, so he couldn’t make a clean shot. His goto guy, Bobby Z, couldn’t shake the kid who was tailing him, and the only other teammate in the free and clear was Michael.
Kicking the ball from one foot to the other, Jay hesitated. He didn’t want to pass it on to Michael; he wasn’t reliable. And he wanted to score one more goal so he could win the first game of the new school year. But the field didn’t change; the only one who remained open was Michael and so he had no choice.
When Michael saw Jay bring his right foot back and whack the ball in his direction, he couldn’t believe it, but it was unmistakable. The best player in school had just passed the ball to him. That’s when he decided to do something just as unbelievable; he decided to attack. Running toward the spinning ball, he deflected it off his right foot to slow it down and then kicked it farther toward the goal with his left. He ran after it and caught up with the ball just in time to spin around so his back was in front of some Spanish kid he didn’t recognize. He paused for a moment, kicking the ball from one foot to the other to try and confuse the kid so he could move past him. Jay and the rest of the team were in shock. Michael Howard was actually playing soccer really well.
Michael could feel his heart beating so fast and loudly he thought it was going to crash through his chest. He concentrated entirely on the soccer ball, deliberately ignoring the screams from his classmates. Honestly, he didn’t know if they were cheering for him or insulting him and he didn’t care. He was doing this for himself. He had to prove that he could fit in, at least for a few minutes during one gym class; that’s all he was asking.
Shifting his weight to the left and then quickly to the right, he faked out the Spanish kid and suddenly found himself a few feet in front of the goalie. Mauro didn’t even bother to protect his net. He was laughing hysterically and saying something that Michael refused to hear. He reared his right leg and brought it back, determined to give the ball the hardest wallop he could muster. But he failed. His foot missed the ball completely and he came crashing down on the grass, his left hip first and then the rest of his body.
People were shouting, some were laughing, and Michael had the impulse to roll over and bury his face in the grass. But even if he did, he would still be able to hear them. “Keep that move for the Special Olympics, gaytard!” Mauro accented his comment by slamming the ball on the grass inches from Michael’s head. Then the bully proved his own agility by doubling over with laughter and high-fiving somebody at the same time.
Before Mauro could continue his victory dance, Mr. Alfano, the gym teacher, pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Mauro by the shirttail. “Enough, Dorigo!” Strutting off the field, surrounded by his cronies, Mauro shouted at Michael once more, “That’ll teach ya to try to pass for one of us, gay boy!”
Mr. Alfano, immune to such insults on the sports field, didn’t even chastise Mauro for using such hateful language. He merely extended his hand to Michael, completely expecting him to grab hold and pull himself up. But Mauro’s last comment, shouted so that every single person in class could hear, had
paralyzed him. Why won’t the earth just swallow me? Let me disappear so I don’t have to look at all these faces. They all agreed with Mauro, Michael could just tell; they all knew.
Leaning in close to Michael, Mr. Alfano whispered to him, “You’ve gotta stand up for yourself, Michael; otherwise it’s only going to get worse.” He looked into his teacher’s face and he saw something he had never seen before. Mr. Alfano looked at Michael with respect. There was no pity in his face, there really wasn’t even compassion, just respect from one person to another. Michael reached out and grabbed his hand; with the other he pressed on the grass and pushed himself up. “Good job,” Mr. Alfano said, then turned to the rest of the class. “Shower up.”
On the walk back to the locker room, Michael kept his head down. There may have been one or two faces in the group that smiled at him or shrugged their shoulders as if to say, It’s no big deal, but he didn’t see them. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
As usual, he waited until almost all the boys were done in the shower before he entered. Thankfully, Mauro had already showered and left so he didn’t have to deal with him. He had enough to deal with in here. Being naked in the large, open shower stall was a dangerous place for Michael to be, so he did his best to make sure he was there with as few people as possible. He stood beneath the showerhead, trying not to think about the stupid thing he did in gym. He tried not to think about the stupid thing his mother did last night; he tried not to think about the stupid things both of them would do in the days to come. He just bowed his head, eyes closed, and prayed that no one would notice him.
He wanted to shout, scream as loud as he could, but instead he scrubbed his head vigorously with the greenish liquid that passed as shampoo. He had set out to impress his classmates—once unconsciously and once purposefully—and had failed miserably on both tries. At least no one else seemed to gang up on him. For the moment, Mauro was still acting solo, so the day could not possibly get any worse.
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