Roswell Fanatics

Title: My Beloved Michael
Author: Karen
Disclaimer: The characters of "Roswell" belong to Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, WB, and UPN. They are not mine and no infringement is intended.
Pairings/Couples/Category: UC, Max & Maria/Michael & ?/Isabel &?
Rating: Mature
Summary: This is the 4th in the series, taking place a few months after the end of My Beloved Mae. Michael and Isabel have moved to San Francisco, Isabel so she can go to nursing school and Michael because he had nothing left in Roswell. This is Isabel’s story, as she starts to deal with the demons she’s collected throughout her life.


Prologue

The dream is always the same, haunted by the same faces, the same events, the same inescapable fear deep within me. I see the dead – Alex, Tess, Grant, Vanessa Whitaker, Agent Pierce, Liz Parker – but they don’t frighten me half as much as the living. The dead are apparitions, ghastly, deformed, but it’s the living, slowly transforming into the dead that terrify me the most.

In the dark, I sit on the edge of my bed, holding my head in my hands. My heart is thumping so hard in my chest that I have a hard time catching my breath – it feels as though someone has reached within me and is squeezing the very life from my body. I stare at the floor between my feet, trying to calm myself, a wedge of light from the window cutting across my toes.

After a few long moments, I sit up straight, draw in a cleansing breath. Wiping my face, I realize I’d shed tears without knowing it. God, I hate this so much. I hate that I’ve been plagued with this for so long now. And there doesn’t appear to be anything I can do to escape it.

I glance at the phone, then the clock. It’s after two in the morning, San Francisco time. That means it’s after three in New Mexico and after four in Chicago. The ones I love are out of reach.

All but one of them.

Shakily, I push myself to my feet and momentarily lose my balance, the dark room spinning and tilting to one side. I steady myself and draw in another deep breath. My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton and I’m unbearably thirsty. Without turning on any lights, I fumble for the bathroom.

Once the door has closed, I flip on the light and wince at the harsh intrusion. Our apartment is old, over one hundred years, and the fixtures haven’t been updated. The tub and sink are enamel-coated cast iron. I love the tub because it’s deep enough to totally submerge myself, deep enough to float if I wanted to. The pipes groan as I turn on the sink and grab a Dixie cup from the dispenser. I let the water run for a moment to rid it of the taste of the old pipes, then fill the cup and take a greedy drink. It’s not enough and I take another.

I feel a little calmer, though the images from the nightmare will haunt me for days. I don’t have the dream every night, but it comes often enough. In fact, I’m not sure I have any other dreams but that one. It seems like my strongest power has shut down and decided to only feed me the bad.

I toss the paper cup into the waste can, then fill my hands with cool water and splash it on my face. The chill is abrupt and I draw in a quick breath. I let the water drip into the sink, then grope for a hand towel. I dry my face, then stand straight to look at myself in the mirror.

In a moment of terror, I see something pass across the mirror, something behind me, nothing but a shadow. I whirl quickly, my heart regaining its thunderous pace, as my eyes search the small bathroom for the intruder. Of course, there’s nothing there. This isn’t the first time this has happened and I feel incredibly vulnerable inside – either I’m going insane or the dead have left my dreams and are now haunting my waking hours as well.

A chill curls up my spine and I toss the towel back into the rod. Taking quick, stuttered steps, I scoot from the bathroom into the darkness of the hallway. I shiver involuntarily, swallow hard, staring into the bathroom like it had just offended me in some way.

I don’t know how long I stand there, just waiting for something to spring from behind the shower curtain. Eventually, the weariness returns to my bones and I feel incredibly exhausted. I have tests to take tomorrow – I have studied so hard and I simply refuse to let my imagination ruin my grade point average. I look toward my bedroom and I’m immediately reminded of the dream. I don’t want to go back into that room. Not tonight.

I look the other way down the hall. His door is ajar, meaning he’s probably home. I know that he likes to stalk the night with the vampires, but tonight he’s here and I will forever love him for that. I hate to wake him. I hate for him to worry about me, because I know that sometimes he does. But I can’t be alone.

I take a few tentative steps and then stop in my tracks. What am I doing? I can’t depend on Michael all the time like this. If I voiced that opinion, he’d probably laugh at me and tell me that’s what friends are for; besides, he likes to be the macho protector, I think. The problem is that I can’t let him be my protector.

Because one day Michael will leave and then I will be alone. I have to be able to protect myself.

A light scuffling noise comes from the bathroom – something that sounds like the rustling of the shower curtain – and I forget all about being independent for the moment. In a flash, I’m taking quick, light steps toward Michael’s door. I jerk to a halt just outside of the room, peek through the opening.

In typical Michael fashion, he’s sleeping on his stomach, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. My guess is that he never feared being assaulted by the “under-the-bed monster” when he was a child. Biting my lip, I push the door open with a soft creak that doesn’t rouse him. Then I tiptoe over to the bed, hesitate before I pull back the blankets to slide in.

I have my legs under the covers and am still sitting up when the sudden draft causes him to stir. Turning his head in my direction, he lets out a long, sleepy sigh.

“What?” he mumbles.

“It’s just me,” I whisper.

“All right?” he croaks.

I nod eagerly. “I’m fine. I just…wanted…” God, this is going to sound so stupid…

But not to Michael. He rolls onto his side, facing me and lifts the covers so that I can slip under them. “C’mon,” he says, inviting me.

I give him a grateful, sheepish smile and slide down; he pulls the blankets around me, then pulls me against him so that my cheek is against his shoulder. He kisses my temple and falls back to sleep nearly immediately.

In the pale moonlight streaming from the window, I watch his face as he sleeps. Michael sleeps like a man with a clean conscience, a man without nightmares. I envy him so much because I know that I will never sleep as peacefully as he is right now.

And yet, lying here with his strong arm around me, I start to feel lulled by his slow, rhythmic breathing. I forget about monsters in the bathroom, ghosts in my dreams. My breath matches his and calm warmth fills my body. Sleep is coming soon because I feel weary, spent.

But most of all, I feel safe.


tbc

Thanks to eveyrone for your fb - I will try to answer it soon.


Part One

I think sometimes I was meant to have lived in a more innocent time. A time before mass media and technology advances and life at the speed of light. When women were feminine and pretty and men were gentlemen. Yeah, I know – not very feminist of me, but sometimes I’m not sure I was cut out for this world. I take things too much to heart. Michael always tells me I care too much. But maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world today – no one cares enough.

Since moving to the coast, I’ve tried to become involved in community organizations, but it’s much more difficult in the city. I know now that life in Roswell was very sheltered and the people we helped at the community center had problems that paled in comparison to some I’ve seen here. Not that I mean to belittle the issues of the Roswellians, because no one’s problems should be downplayed. But here I’ve seen so much more sickness, so much more poverty, and even a touch of the insane. I’m still adjusting, still trying to figure out how to deal with people I’ve never encountered before.

I still feel that it’s my responsibility, however. I know that I’ve been through some crap in my life, but in other ways I’ve also led a very privileged life. I never went hungry or cold or even without Maybelline, for that matter. I owe it to the less fortunate. If you take, you’ve got to give something back.

I’m getting ready to go to the soup kitchen when I spot Michael sitting on the couch, his brow furrowed in concentration. In his hand, my copy of Gray’s Anatomy, a requisite for all nursing students. I can’t hide the grin that comes to my face as he consults the book, then looks intently at his hand, wiggles his fingers. His eyebrows shoot up in discovery, then he looks at the book again. Last week, I found him poking at his neck and making little “huh” noises. By the time I’m done with school, he might know more about this than I do.

“Figure it out yet?” I ask, putting my coffee cup in the sink.

He looks up and gives me a sheepish grin. “There’s a thing in here about ligaments and tendons and stuff. Pretty interesting.”

Amused, I watch him return to the book. I have to wonder if it hadn’t been for his background, where he might be today. Michael’s not stupid by any measure. He’s just as smart as I am, or even Max. But when you’re struggling for survival, you don’t necessarily have time to apply yourself. I think Michael’s rough upbringing instilled in him a stubborn, rebellious streak that has hampered his advancing himself academically. Often I muse on what Michael would be like today if Mom and Dad had found him, too. It makes me sad.

Not that I find anything wrong with him. I love Michael just the way he is. It just hurts that he never had the opportunities that Max and I did.

“What time are you going to be home?” he asks, flipping the page of the book. He pretends he’s not watching out for me, but I know he is.

“The kitchen closes at nine,” I say, grabbing a raincoat – a necessity in the city by the bay. “I’ll stay and help clean up, so probably about ten, I’d guess. You going out?”

Michael yawns and puts the book on the coffee table. “I don’t know. I was thinking maybe –”

His words cut off in his throat as a door below us closes. In a flash, he’s on his feet and running for the window, though he flattens himself against the wall and parts the curtains with his fingers. We live in a duplex – we have the upstairs apartment and a pretty girl named Heidi lives below us.

For the first two months we lived here, I thought perhaps Michael had become blind or immune to the opposite sex. The first time I saw Heidi, I thought she was beautiful, but Michael never looked her way. Then I realized why – he was checking out the Chinese girl who lives in the house next to us.

I know that there’s a gaping hole in Michael’s heart, where Mae-Ling Xen used to live. I know that even though he’d never say so out loud, she broke his heart. I don’t fault her because she was honest with him about what she did and didn’t want out of their relationship, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch him suffer. San Francisco’s Asian population is huge – moving here was like sending an alcoholic into a liquor store to buy a lottery ticket.

But a few weeks ago, Michael noticed Heidi. Pretty, blond, petite Heidi, with the shapely calves and hour-glass figure. Now, every time she makes a move, he’s at the window.

“Where’s she going?” I ask, hiding my smirk.

“Down the hill,” he says, still watching from the curtains.

Everything is down the hill, but I don’t want to point that out to him. To give someone those directions in this city is to send them on a wild goose chase. After a few moments, he lets out a sigh and steps away from the window – I’m assuming she’s out of sight now. He flops on the couch and stares at the wall.

“Have you even spoken to her yet?” I ask, collecting my house keys and shoving some spare cash into my pocket.

“No,” he says dismally.

“I did,” I announce.

His head whips my way. “What did you say? Iz, you didn’t say anything about me, did you?”

I laugh lightly. “She was carrying groceries and trying to unlock her door. I said, ‘Hi – do you need some help’.”

“Did she?” He seems to be hanging on my every word.

“Nope,” I reply, to his disappointment. “She’s an independent woman, it seems.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Don’t wait up for me – I’ll be fine.”

He grunts something as I leave the apartment.

No one here owns a car and I’m glad I left the convertible in New Mexico. It’s so much easier to walk or take public transit than it is to find a parking spot. Besides, I could use the exercise and all of the hills are making my butt tighter, I think. I walk to the corner and wait for the bus that will take me near the shelter.

As the bus bumps along the steep San Francisco streets, my eyes fix on the setting sun. It astounds me that during daylight hours I feel confident and comfortable with myself. But once the sun starts to go down, the old doubts creep back into my head. Once upon a time, I was a creature of the night, drawn to the stars; now I run from the darkness, seeking shelter from those things that want to haunt me.

I don’t know really when it all started. If I think back a good ten years now, I might say that it began with Alex’s murder. After that came Liz’s death and Max’s suicide attempt. I’m not sure which of those events pushed my fears over the edge, so maybe both of them did.

The shelter is busy tonight – it’s a brisk night and many of these people have nowhere else to go to get away from the dampness. It hurts to think that once nine o’clock rolls around, we’ll evict all of them onto the city’s streets again, to seek shelter elsewhere. At least while they’re here, we can give them something warm for their bellies, let them know that someone is concerned about them.

My coworkers for the evening are Eva and Robert, fellow students. Eva’s a financial major and she carries about her the air of someone who will someday rule the boardroom. I think sometimes her demeanor turns people off, but I know under it all she has a caring heart – why else would she be here? Robert is a student at the law enforcement academy, all big biceps and bulging pectorals…not that I’ve noticed.

The soup of the night is chicken noodle, though it contains very little meat, more like noodles in chicken broth. My mom makes the best chicken noodle soup – big hunks of white meat and wide egg noodles. This stuff pales in comparison, but it’s nutritious and the best that the soup kitchen can afford. I try to smile at the patrons as I dish out the soup and give them a roll to go with it. Some of them don’t even look at me. Others stare at me long enough to give me the willies. And one woman appears to look straight through me.

“Do you like football?”

I jump slightly, realize that Robert has passed behind me, an empty stock pot in his hand.

“Excuse me?” I say, ladling another bowl of soup.

“I asked if you like football,” he repeats, smiling affably as he returns with a full pot.

I shrug slightly. “It’s okay I guess.”

“Ever been to a Raiders game? Or a 49ers?”

I don’t know who the Raiders or the 49ers are. I’ve heard Max and Michael mention them, but I’m clueless as to what city they belong to. I gamble that they’re from this area. “I haven’t lived here very long,” I reply.

“You look like you need an extra roll,” Robert says to a particularly thin, older man. “Here – take two.” The man starts to protest, but Robert smiles that killer grin again and he finally takes it. “You want to go with me some time?” Robert asks me.

“Oh, uh, I don’t…I don’t know.” I blush all of the way to my kneecaps. It’s been a very long time since anyone has asked me out. The last person I dated was Stephan, the man who worked at the only pharmacy in Roswell. And that didn’t turn out so well.

There’s a break in the line of guests to serve and Robert eyes me like he really wants to say something. I avert my gaze, under the microscope.

“Okay,” he finally says, stirring his pot of soup. There is no hostility or rejection in his tone. “The offer will stand, whenever you want to take me up on it. My brother has season tickets to both, so it would be your pick.” He gives me a wink, then returns to the kitchen to begin clean up.

I feel awful inside. Back in the day, guys asked me out every other hour. I had no problem blowing them off or making them feel unworthy. But that was a horribly long time ago and I just handled this invitation with all the grace of an ostrich with a numb foot.

“No. Way.” Now Eva is beside me, her dark eyes round behind her glasses. “You just rejected him?”

I glance over my shoulder, fearing Robert is within earshot, which he’s not. “I didn’t reject him,” I say.

“Sounded like it to me, sister.” She puts a hand on her hip and looks at me suspiciously. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

“What!” My mouth drops to my toes. I’ve been accused of many things in my life, but that’s a first.

“Come on. It’s San Francisco. He’s hot. You told him no. You’re batting for the other team, aren’t you?”

I smile at the homeless person who has wandered in, a distressed look on his face at having heard Eva’s remarks. I dish out the soup, then turn to my coworker.

“No, I am not gay. And just because a guy asks me out does not mean I have to accept.” For some reason, I’m furious inside.

Eva holds up her hands. “Okay, truce. I was just asking, because, well, I’d go out with him in a heartbeat.”

She moves back to the kitchen and I feel another stab inside. Maybe I was right – maybe I wasn’t cut out for this world at all.

Nine o’clock comes and goes. None of us has the heart to kick out the few stragglers, so we let them stay until nine thirty, then Robert does bouncer duty. I wonder where those people will go, shuffling off into the night.

The air in the kitchen is a little tense as the three of us clean up and I realize that it’s all my fault. I seam to have lost my grace, however, as I can’t come up with any clever remark to put everyone at ease. So we scrub pots in silence. Eva heads for home as I take out the garbage and Robert locks up.

As I stand at the dumpster, it dawns on me how quiet the city is tonight. It’s almost eerie. There’s a light cloud cover, which is masking the moon and stars and the air feels uncomfortably chilly. After tossing the bags into the dumpster, I tighten my jacket around me, then turn to leave.

Something at the street end of the alley crosses through the streetlights and I stop in my tracks. It was nothing but a shadow, but it has sent a shiver up my spine. My heart thumps hard against my ribs and I’m propelled back to so many nights I’ve experienced similar things. All of the other times, however, I’ve been at home – I’ve been able to scramble back to my bed, or in some cases Michael’s bed. But now my fears have followed me and I can’t escape them.

Robert appears at the end of the alley, an amused look on his face. “Hey,” he calls. “You okay?”

I make myself snap out of it and as I do, I realize that the city isn’t so quiet after all. Why I couldn’t hear the noises of cars and people and helicopters before, I’m not sure. It adds another layer to the uneasy feeling in my gut.

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice sounding anything but reassuring.

He studies me for a moment, then his brow furrows. “Are you going to spend the night in the alley?”

I want to come out. I really do. But… “Is there anyone out there?” I ask stupidly.

He looks both ways, then shrugs. “Yeah, a lot of people. Are you really okay?”

God, I’m a raving lunatic. I nod helplessly.

Apparently taking matters into his own hands, Robert approaches me, his boots crunching on debris in the alley. Stopping before me, he says, “You don’t look okay. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I laugh nervously. “Maybe I have.”

He appears confused, then puts a hand on my arm. “Come on – let me walk you home.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” The movie star smile returns and I agree, if to do nothing more than appease him.

Because after all, he is strong and in training to kick some serious ass.

But he’s still not Michael.

tbc

**before you mention it - no, I did not misspell Gray in Gray's Anatomy. The show is misspelling it

Forgive my tardiness


Part Two

Robert is a perfect gentleman and I feel a tad guilty for having rejected him earlier. He not only walks me to my bus, but he gets on it with me to ride to my neighborhood. Once there, he could very easily keep going, but instead, he gets off to walk me to my apartment.

“This isn’t really necessary,” I tell him with just a touch of embarrassment. If he only knew I could blast him or any attacker with one wave of my hand…

“Who said anything about necessity?” he grins. I see a flash of Max in his smile, a boyish exuberance. Of course, that’s a side we rarely see from Max but the similarity is there nonetheless. “I have nothing better to do, it’s a nice night. Why not see to it that you get home safely?”

My cheeks burn as I start to blush. Weird to have a stranger looking out for me this way.

“So,” I begin, trying to change the subject. “What made you volunteer at the soup kitchen?”

He shrugs and gives another, smaller grin. “Just serving my community. How about you?”

“Same thing, I guess.” I look at the toes of my shoes as I walk. “When I lived back home –”

“Which was where?”

“New Mexico.” I don’t like to tell people I came from Roswell – it leads to awkward jokes about aliens and my struggling to not let the discomfort show on my face. “When I lived there, I worked for many years at the senior center. It just feels nice to help people, you know?” He grunts in agreement. “Why am I telling you that?” I laugh. “I’m sure that’s why you want to be a police officer, right?”

“Something like that. My dad’s an officer. So was my grandfather. And so are my four brothers.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You have four brothers?”

Robert laughs lightly and nods. “Yeah. And one poor sister who had to deal with all of us. How about you?”

“Just a brother. He lives in Chicago.”

We’ve reached the top of the hill where my apartment building stands. Even though it’s been a steep climb, neither of us is out of breath. I smile at the fact that since moving here, I’ve become more fit – and apparently Robert is in pretty good shape, too.

“This is where I live,” I explain, waving toward the house. On the bottom floor, the lights are on and I can see Heidi’s silhouette moving past the curtains. Robert is looking too, so I point upward. “Upstairs.”

The lights are on up there also, though I can’t see any movement. Whether Michael is home or not, I’m not sure – he always leaves a light on for me if he goes out.

“Would you…” I clear my throat and push a strand of hair behind my ear. “Would you like to come up?”

Robert’s eyebrows rise in surprise. After all, I’m the one who just rejected his offer for a date.

“For coffee,” I clarify. “I’m not sure if my room mate is home or not, but I doubt he’ll mind.”

I can read the question in his blue eyes – He? I resign myself to smiling at him and motioning for the door. I don’t want to answer questions about the bizarre dynamic between myself and Michael. We were betrothed in another life, we’ve had naughty dreams about one another, Michael kissed me sexually not so long ago, but we’re more brother and sister than anything else. Oy. I so don’t ever want to explain that mess to anyone.

At the top of the stairs, as I put my key into the door, I can hear Michael’s voice. It sounds like he’s on the phone.

“I’ll tell her when she gets in,” he’s saying. “And, man, congratulations. I mean it.”

As the door swings open, I spy Michael returning the cordless to its cradle. I see immediate disappointment in his eyes, like he missed the last train out of town by seconds.

“Hey, Iz,” he begins. “That was Ma-” His words cut off as his eyes drift over my shoulder. Immediately, his lips purse and his dark eyes narrow.

“Michael, this is Robert,” I say, gesturing toward my guest with one hand.

Robert, being the gentleman he has been all evening, steps forward and extends a hand in Michael’s direction. “Mike,” he says in greeting.

“Bob,” Michael retorts, taking Robert’s hand.

Robert shrugs. “I usually go by Robert.”

“And I usually go by Michael.” Of course, he smirks.

Oh, God. What was I thinking? I see all kinds of territorial signals flashing between them. Threats, warnings, and finally an understanding. Astounding that men can say so much without ever uttering a word to one another. In the end, Robert sort of snorts and takes a step back from my friend.

“Robert works with me at the soup kitchen,” I explain, my voice feeling small, like I’m confessing a sin.

“Really?” Michael says, giving our guest the once-over – again.

“I was going to make some coffee,” I continue, nervously entering our little kitchenette. “Would you like some?”

“Sure,” he replies, his eyes never leaving Robert. “Let’s have a seat.”

From the kitchen, I watch the two of them take seats – Michael on the couch, spread out so that Robert can’t possibly sit by him without violating some unwritten personal space code, and Robert in the easy chair where there will be no room for me to sit next to him. I shake my head, disappointed in myself.

I know that Michael isn’t interested in me romantically. We talked all of that out months ago. But I also know that old protective habits die hard. He might not be acting so harsh if I had actually warned him I was bringing someone home. Then again, that’s not what I’d intended, either.

I grind the coffee beans, then fill the coffee machine. Wiping my hands on a towel, I join the men in the living room, where they’ve landed on the safe topic of sports. We have a shelf full of pictures and Robert has noticed one of Michael on a dirt bike.

“Did you race?” he inquires.

I step over Michael’s feet and have no choice left but to sit down beside him. He moves over for me – slightly. With his arm extended across the back of the couch, I’m practically tucked against him. Pissing on the tree, marking his territory once again.

“I raced a couple of times,” Michael replies. “I wasn’t much good at it.”

“Do you still ride?” Robert is trying so hard to find a way to communicate with Michael. It’s both endearing and painful to watch.

“No.” Michael’s reply is so flat that it causes Robert’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. Reaching down, Michael taps his leg, the one that isn’t quite straight anymore, the one that publicity prevented Max from healing in its entirety. “I became a dumbass,” he explains bluntly. “I almost died.”

I give an uneasy grimace and look at the floor.

“Fuck it,” Michael says casually. “I did die.”

“Woah,” Robert says, tentative.

“Water under the bridge,” Michael replies, barely suppressing another smirk. “Do you ride?”

“I used to,” Robert answers. “But now I’m reconsidering.”

I look up at him and smile, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. His eyes crease at the corners as he returns my smile and I can feel Michael’s gaze burning holes into the side of my head.

Later, after we drink our coffee and Robert heads home, I sit on my bed trying to finish up the last of my homework. I’m distracted, however, from my studies. I want to bury myself in this new guy, find out things about him, spend a little time with him to see if maybe he’s worth falling for. But then I think about the last person I fell for and remember how that turned out. Not so good. I’m doing a wonderful job of see-sawing between excitement and disappointment. I’m feeling a little schizophrenic.

It’s also not lost on me that it’s nighttime again. Soon, I’m not sure when, I might start seeing things again. It doesn’t happen every night, but it happens often enough to make me dread the darkness. I think back to what I either did or didn’t see in the alley by the soup kitchen. And where did all of the sound go? Why was it like I was in a vacuum? Maybe I am crazy…

“Iz?” The word is accompanied by a small knock on my door.

I look up and find Michael in the doorway, his knuckles resting against the wood.

“Can I come in?”

What a stupid question. I smile at him and nod, watch as he enters my room sort of tentatively. He sits on the end of the bed, looks at the books I have opened to various pages.

“Will you have to buy a doctor’s kit?” he asks.

I can’t help it – I laugh. “A what?”

His cheeks redden slightly. “A doctor’s kit. You know, for examining patients.”

I laugh a little harder. “Oh, Michael. They only have those in porno movies.”

He snorts a laugh with me, sheepish at his own misconception. With a twinge of unease, I wonder if he’s been thinking I’ll have to wear one of those cheesy, tight nurse’s outfits and fishnet stockings like they do in the movies, too.

“So, listen,” he says, changing the subject. “I didn’t get to tell you about the phone call.”

He’s right. And I’d totally forgotten that he’d been talking to someone when I’d come home.

“It was Max,” he says.

“Is everything okay?” I blurt immediately. I know it’s irrational, that Max is happy now, but every time he calls out of the blue, I worry that something horrible has happened.

“Sounds like it to me,” Michael says easily, ignoring my paranoia. “Maria’s pregnant.”

My mouth literally drops open. Pregnant. For the third time. I feel a rush of happiness for them, then an equally powerful stab of envy. I will begrudge Max of nothing – he has suffered more than most of us and deserves everything that comes his way. But everything he has accomplished in his life – a home of his own, a college degree, a wife, two kids and a new baby on the way – are all things that I haven’t been able to accomplish in my own.

“That’s great!” I say to Michael, tacking on my happy face so he doesn’t see my sadness beneath. “When is she due?”

“May.”

I do the math in my head – Brandon won’t be two until August, Allie won’t be three until July. Max and Maria are going to have three children under three years old.

“Shit,” I say in amazement.

Michael laughs. “No shit.”

“Wow,” I continue, closing my book and drawing my knees up, wrap my arms around my legs. “My God, Michael. Five years ago, would you have believed it?”

He shakes his head slowly. Five years ago, Max was a lump of flesh, doing nothing but vegetating and shutting out the world. At times, I was tempted to check him for a pulse. Now he’s not only alive, he’s spreading life as well.

“I’ll have to call him tomorrow,” I say more to myself than anything.

“Iz? Can we talk about Robert?”

I set my jaw and look hard at my roommate. No, I don’t want to talk about Robert. Not while I’m still trying to figure out for myself what I want to do about him.

Michael holds up a hand. “Don’t shoot. I’m not going to be a jackass.”

I relax my jaw and look away.

“I’m sorry if I was abrupt with him,” he continues. “I guess I’m not welcoming to other guys in your life.”

Oh, piss. Not this again. But he surprises me.

“What I want to say is that I don’t want you to be uncomfortable bringing guys here.”

I look at him sharply.

“I want you to be happy, Iz,” he replies simply. “If you meet someone you’re interested in, I want you to feel free to be with them.”

“Michael, I’m not sure I’m interested in him.”

He gives me a knowing half-smile. “You are. I’m not trying to be a jerk by ‘allowing’ you to see people, that’s not what I mean.” He looks at the comforter, draws in a deep breath. “I’m trying to tell you to allow yourself to be interested in people. You deserve to be happy, Isabel. I know I don’t know what happened with Stephen, but whatever it was can’t hold you back forever.”

In a truly un-Michael-like gesture, he reaches out to touch my face. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead leans over and kisses my cheek, then leaves.

tbc

Warning: This chapter is a little brutal. There are suicide references, as well as images of death and gore.


Part Three

I can’t find Max.

I can still feel him, somewhere around me, but I can’t find him. I turn corner after corner, the hallway never ending and still I can’t see him. Panic is starting to flare within my stomach as I realize that I’m slowly losing my fix on him. He’s slipping away from me and I can’t stop it.

“Where are you, Max?” I call, trying to pick up my pace. I’ve got on these stupid ballet slippers and I keep losing my footing on the wood planks of the hallway.

I’m becoming dizzy, the corners coming quicker and sharper until I nearly feel like I’m running in a circle. I let out a cry of anguish, wanting the spinning and the hunt to be over. But just ahead I see a muted light, its shine yellow and sickly. Unable to stand any longer, I fall to the floor with a slap, my wrists taking the brunt of my weight.

I can’t think about my pain, however, as I can still feel one little bit of Max inside of me. Struggling to catch my breath, I look desperately for the light. The room is dark save for one beam of light coming from somewhere.

He’s at the window, his back to me. For some reason, he’s wearing hospital scrubs, his feet bare.

“Oh, thank God!” I gasp. “Max, look at me!”

Slowly, he turns my way and I recoil quickly. I want to get out of here, out of this hell, but the never-ending hallway has closed behind me. I’m trapped here with him and my terror triples.

The golden glow of Max’s skin is gone, replaced by the gray pallor of someone who is either dead or well on their way to being. Beneath his deeply sunken eyes are dark circles. His head is mussed, like he’s been trying to pull it out. I stifle a scream.

“What happened to you?” I ask in a frightened voice.

Max frowns slightly and I notice that his head is drooping toward his chest, like he barely has the energy to hold it up. “Let me go, Isabel,” he pleads, his voice a raspy whisper.

“Let you go where?” I ask, no less frightened. I’ve managed to backpedal all of the way to the wall, knowing I can go no farther.

“I want to die,” he explains, his voice full of remorse and defeat.

His eyes turn downward and I follow his gaze. Somewhere along the way, the scrubs disappear and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up and charcoal dress slacks. Dread rips through me – I recognize his clothes. They were part of the suit he wore to Liz’s funeral.

“Don’t do it!” I beg him. “Max, you have so much to live for!”

“I have nothing.” His eyes are remorseful as he slowly shakes his head. I catch a flash of light and notice that there is now a straight razor in his right hand.

“Please wait,” I plead. I try to get to my feet, but I’m stuck here, against the wall, my hands glued to the floor. If I could only get to him, maybe I could stop him. “You might not believe it now, Max, but someday you’re going to have more than you could ever imagine. A wife – beautiful children!”

He regards me with sympathy. “It’s too late for me, Isabel.”

“It’s too late for both of us.” The voice is so achingly familiar and so lost to me that I immediately freeze.

Desperate, my eyes search the darkness, my breath coming to a halt inside of my chest. Eventually, I notice another figure by the window, though he is standing out of the light so that I can’t make him out clearly.

“Alex,” I gasp. “Is that you?”

“Let Max go,” the unseen visitor advises gently. “He doesn’t want to be in this world anymore.”

“Wait!” I say, unable to stop the tears that well up in my eyes. “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want you to go either! Stay with me, Alex.” I try to reach for him, but I still cannot move.

“We all have our times,” Alex explains from the darkness. “I didn’t get to pick mine, let Max have the luxury of choosing his.”

I look desperately to my brother, who hasn’t moved, his expression one of utter defeat.

“No, Max! This isn’t right,” I tell him. “You’re not supposed to choose when you die! It’s not up to you! You’re not God!”

“The left one is closest to your heart,” Alex says calmly to Max. “It will bleed faster – cut it first.”

“Max, no!” I scream as I watch him position the blade over his skin, though he doesn’t make a cut. “Please don’t!” I’m sobbing uncontrollably now. “Alex, why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s his choice,” he replies simply. “Free will. Everyone should have it. We should be allowed to choose our own destinies. No one should end up the way I did.”

With that, he steps into the light and my heart stops for one agonizing moment. For the first time, I see what Max saw when he opened that body bag. This isn’t my Alex, this is some bloody, mangled apparition come back to haunt me. As he walks up behind Max, there is a wet, slopping sound and I look to the floor to see him dragging one of his legs behind him, a trail of blood in his wake. One arm, nearly detached, dangles at his side. It’s his face, however, that horrifies me the most. I have absolutely no idea how this thing is managing to speak clearly, not with the damage to his mouth and nose.

The ghastly visage stops behind Max, his twisted face an inch from my brother’s ear. “Do it,” he whispers.

I let out a shriek, too late, as the blade flashes. A spurt of blood bubbles from Max’s wrist and begins pooling at his feet. I scream, trying to move, trying to get away, as the gore starts rising within the room. It covers my frozen hands, flows up to my waist, to my shoulders and soon I have to tip my head backward to keep from inhaling it. There’s only so far I can move, however, and soon it engulfs me…

There’s a crippling pain in my chest and I’m surrounded by darkness. Something echoes in my ears and I wonder if someone screamed – was it me? I frantically search the darkness, looking for any sign of my dead boyfriend and my suicidal brother. They’re not here, and I fear that they’re both gone, dead to me.

It takes a few moments before I recognize my room, the sheer curtains with lilies of the valley embroidered on them that I bought shortly after moving here. It’s dark out tonight, San Francisco immersed in fog, so not much light is coming through the window.

I draw in a deep breath, feel the pang in my chest again. I realize it’s my heart, protesting it’s thunderous pace, banging into everything around it. I put a hand to my chest, order myself to calm down, but the images from the nightmare are still with me.

The pain in my chest moves to my stomach and I retch involuntarily. I’m going to throw up…

I have no choice but to move as quickly as I can, racing for the bathroom, feeling a stab of guilt at disrespecting Michael’s slumber. But I can’t help it – I’ve lost control of myself entirely.
In the old bathroom, I throw up everything I had for dinner. All I can taste in my mouth, though, is blood. I see it everywhere, seeping from the baseboards, bubbling in the toilet, slowly drowning me.

There is nothing left in my stomach and I numbly reach up to push down the lever to flush the toilet. I watch the water – clear and bloodless – swirl down the drain. I’m shaking everywhere and I can do nothing but stare into the bowl, frightened into motionlessness.

“Isabel.” The word is spoken softly, full of concern, very close to me.

I turn, still shell-shocked, and find Michael kneeling beside me. His face is a mask of worry, his eyes puffy slit from sleeping. I can’t react to him, I feel nothing.

“Are you alright?” he asks, reaching for a washcloth and wetting it in the sink.

I watch him mutely as he gently wipes my face. It occurs to me somewhere in the back of my head that I’m probably a mess – nose running, eyes tearing, quivering mass of jelly. But he doesn’t seem repelled by that fact. He rinses the cloth a couple of times, wiping my face clean.

When he’s done, he tosses the washcloth in the direction of the hamper (most of Michael’s clothes end up in the same spot on the floor before the basket, rather than in it) and sits back on his heels. He studies me for a moment, purses his lips in thought, then brushes my hair back from my face.

“When are you going to tell me?” he asks.

It’s a simple question that I could easily feign ignorance to. Tell you what, Michael? I have nothing to tell you, Michael. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Michael. But that simple question, that easy out is enough to make me come unhinged. I start shaking all over again, my heart pounding against my ribs, my tears uncontrollable.

My world closes in around me and I lose coherence of most things. I feel Michael’s strong arms around me and I hear whispered words against my ear, but I can discern nothing. I have the sensation of being lifted upward, but I don’t know how or why or where I’m headed.

I just cry. I cry for the loss of my friend. I cry for the loss of my brother’s innocence. I cry for my own messed up life. I cry until I can cry no more.

The next time I open my eyes, it’s daylight. I can hear Michael’s voice, hushed and muffled, coming from another room. I’m in his bed, though I don’t remember coming here.

Sighing tiredly, I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it is. My stomach aches, along with half of my muscles and even though I’ve slept I still feel exhausted. It must have been a rough night…

With a sickening rush, I recall the dream, though details of it are starting to fade. I remember being sick, then Michael being there, but that’s about it. A hood of depression settles over me and I frown deeply. Not only am I haunted, I can no longer hide that fact.

“No, she’s not going to come in today,” I hear Michael say, his voice moving as though he’s walking about the apartment. “No, she’s fine. I think she ate something that didn’t agree with her.” His voice fades out as he moves away again.

He’s lying for me. I know that he doesn’t believe my “sickness” has anything to do with what I ate. But we’re all master liars, aren’t we?

I hear the phone beep off, then the sound of it being returned to its cradle. I guess I should get up, see what’s going on, see what kind of damage control I need to do. But before I can move, Michael’s in the doorway, looking surprised that I’m awake.

“What time is it?” I ask, diverting any question he wanted to open with.

“About ten thirty.”

Ten thirty?! I haven’t slept this late since I was in high school. I start to get up, but I feel a dull ache in my head, bring my hand to it as I settle back into the pillow. Michael crosses the room and sits down at my hip.

“Would you like me to make you some soup?” he asks.

I shake my head. My belly feels empty, but the thought of putting anything into it just gags me. There’s a strange moment of silence, like he’s waiting for an explanation from me. I don’t know what to say to him.

“Are you going to be okay?” he finally asks.

I frown. I don’t know.

“Okay,” he says, picking at one of his fingernails. He draws in a breath, then gives me a small smile of understanding. “You know what we’re going to do?”

I shake my head.

“You and I are going to lie in bed and watch movies all day today,” he announces.

I furrow my brow. “Michael, I can’t do that. I have homework and a class later this afternoon and then I’m supposed to be at the soup kitchen.”

He looks affronted, though I know he’s only playing. “You mean you don’t want to spend the day with me?”

I give him a smile, if only to play along. “I didn’t say that.”

“Excellent!” He jumps to his feet and turns on the TV and DVD player. “Nothing like a little Robo-Cop to chase away the blues.”

I groan aloud as he pops the disc into the player. Max and Michael have each seen that movie oh, maybe a thousand times apiece. Michael grabs the remote and flops onto the bed, crossing his legs at the ankles.

“This is a good one,” he narrates, as though I’ve never seen it. “Don’t worry, I won’t spoil the end for you.”

I look at him incredulously, then laugh at the absurdity of that statement. He grins, satisfied that he could make me laugh, then his expression falls slightly serious. Holding open his arm, he welcomes me to his side of the bed. I lay my head on his chest and watch the outdated movie, grateful for the escape.

tbc

Thank you for your patience


Part Four

“I think it’s another girl.” On the other end of the line, Max laughs lightly in punctuation.

“A girl,” I repeat, trying to sound upbeat. Trying to sound stable.

“Yeah, I think so.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice and I think about the bond he shares with Allie, his oldest child. I know that Max loves both of his children equally, but to him Allie is special. I think she was a spark of hope in a desperate time, something that he held onto, that kept him firmly in this world.

“That’s wonderful, Max,” I say into the receiver. “Really, it is.”

There’s a slight pause. “Iz? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m just a little tired. You know – work, school, work, school.”

In truth, my fingernails are bitten to the quick – something I have never done in my life and yet here I am. I’m sitting on the edge of the couch, my arms curled around my stomach, one of my legs pumping nervously. I’m far from fine.

“You need to take care of yourself,” Max says, a light reprimand. “There’s plenty of time for school, Iz. If you need to take a break, then do it.”

“I know,” I say absently. I don’t know how to tell him that if I didn’t have school as a diversion, I might really be a mess. “I’ll be okay. I just need a day off.”

“Then take it.” There’s another pause, then he sounds like a man with a plan. “Why don’t you come to Chicago?”

I laugh aloud. “Max, that’s hardly a rest.”

“But it is a break. I’d love to see you. I know the kids would, too. And Maria…if she ever stops throwing up.”

Oh, poor Maria. If I remember correctly, she was sick with Allie and fine with Brandon. Another girl on the way and she’s chucking again. No wonder many mothers and daughters don’t get along.

“I appreciate the offer, Max,” I tell him. “But I need to concentrate on what’s going on here. I’m sorry, I’ll hope you understand.”

“Of course I do.” His voice is soft and I have no doubt he does get where I’m coming from. “If you ever need anything, you’ll let me know, right?”

“Sure.” My voice is chipper, but my mind is conflicted as to what he means by that statement. I think maybe my brother has a sixth sense about things – he knows something is amiss without my ever saying a word.

“I’ve gotta go now,” he announces. “I think Allie’s up and she’ll want breakfast. Maria can’t feed them without getting sick.” Another light laugh.

“Okay,” I say. “Great news about the baby, Max.”

“Thanks, Iz. Take care.”

“Bye.”

I turn off the phone and stare into space. It’s still early in the morning, the sun just peeking through the curtains. Today I have to go back to the soup kitchen, I have to go back to school. Yesterday Michael and I laid around all day, just watching movies and sleeping. Odd that I can sleep soundly in his arms, but once I return to my own bed, the horrors return. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Noise in the kitchen draws my attention and I look up to see Michael filling the coffee maker. His hair is standing straight up and he’s still wearing the T-shirt and sweatpants he went to sleep in last night.

“Did I wake you?” I ask.

He turns around and gives a shake of his head. His eyes are red and puffy, but he doesn’t look particularly grumpy. I wait patiently while he moves about the kitchen, getting mugs out of the cupboard, creamer out of the refrigerator. Once the coffee machine stops dripping, he pours each of us a cup and brings them into the living room.

We sip in silence for a while. Michael’s not a conversationalist by nature and he is even less so in the morning hours.

“What time is school?” he finally asks, his voice a throaty croak.

“Night classes today,” I remind him – he never can keep my schedule straight. “I have to be at the kitchen for lunch.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I cock my head slightly to the side. “That’s not necessary, Michael.”

“I’ll be in the neighborhood anyway.”

Like I’m going to buy that. “Doing what?”

“Applying for a job.”

I wait for more information and get none. Michael already has a job – he’s been doing some interior work, drywall and such, for someone here who knew someone he worked for in Roswell. One of those friend of a friend of a friend kind of things.

“What kind of job?” I press.

“Just something I heard of.”

Can’t be more ambiguous than that.

But I know that he’s only trying to help, that he’s only worried about me. I’m willing to bet that his interview will run all day and he’ll just happen to be at the school when my classes end, too.

So Michael rides the bus with me to the soup kitchen. He doesn’t talk much to bide the time and for that I’m grateful. Max is very much a person who likes to talk out his issues…well, he is now that he isn’t suicidal. Maybe it’s more correct to say that Max is a person who likes other people to talk out their issues. At any rate, Michael understands that sometimes you don’t want to talk. Sometimes no one can help you.

The kitchen is busy when we get there, the workers preparing the tables for the lunch crowd. Robert sees me through the kitchen window and gives me a grin, but seems less than happy to see that I have a guest.

“I better go,” Michael says, surveying the place and oblivious to Robert’s gaze. “Don’t want to be late for that interview.”

I nod and rub his arm. “Good luck.”

“Oh, thanks.” He says it like someone who has forgotten they’re going to need it. With a guilty grin, he turns on his heels and leaves.

In the kitchen, Robert motions toward the door with his chin. “What was he doing here?”

I lift an eyebrow. It’s really none of his business, is it?

He lets out a laugh, signaling that he hadn’t intended to be rude. “Sorry. Good morning, Isabel,” he says, over-exaggerating his manners. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine,” I laugh, reaching around him to take an apron from the hook. “And yourself?”

“Making a jealous ass of myself, thank you very much.” His eyes twinkle and I can’t help but forgive him his trespass. “I’ll finish setting up out there. How about you give Eva a hand with the soup?”

I nod and brush past him. Our bodies make the slightest contact and I feel a shiver run through me. I both love and hate the sensation – I love it because it’s been a long time since I felt attracted to anyone, but I hate it because I’m too fucked up right now to do anything about it.

“There you are,” Eva says as she dumps a colander of vegetables into a stock pot. “I need you to chop some celery, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” I say, going to the sink to wash my hands before starting on the celery.

“You feel better today?” she asks over her shoulder as she stirs her brew.

“Yeah, thanks,” I answer, quickly dicing the green stalks.

“Some girl stopped by yesterday and filled in for you.”

I pause, look at her curiously. “Some girl? She just stopped in?”

Eva shrugs. “She said she knew you - I figured you sent her.”

There must be some mistake. “What was her name?”

Eva scrunches up her face, thinking. “Beth? Bethie? Something like that.”

Well, I don’t know a Beth or a Bethie and I really don’t have many girlfriends these days. Eva must have gotten her stories mixed up. But, I decide to make conversation anyway.

“What did she look like?” I ask.

Eva laughs. “Oh, man! Throw-back goth chick all the way!”

Okay, definitely not someone I know.

“She had this jet back hair with maroon highlights at the tips. And all of that black baggy clothing.” She giggles to herself. “And she had a nose ring and I think one in her eyebrow…” Her voice trails off and she looks a little confused. “Weird, but I really can’t remember what her face looked like.”

I scoop the chopped celery into a bowl and head over to the pot. “Well, I don’t know that person,” I tell Eva. “Maybe she was just someone who wanted to help.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. I was happy to have her – she worked her ass off. And it seemed like she’d waited on people before. Really efficient.”

I give her a wistful smile. “Must’ve been your guardian angel or something.”

“Or yours.”

Eva makes the comment off-the-cuff, but it resonates with me for some reason. A strange punk rocker showed up at the kitchen to cover for me yesterday, claiming she knew me and was more than capable of the job. Well, I guess stranger things have happened in my life.

The lunch crowd is especially heavy and it saddens my heart. So many people without a place to go or food to eat. What kind of world are we living in? Why is it that we can put men on the moon and make cell phones the size of credit cards and yet we can’t feed our people? Luckily, we have just enough soup and bread to feed them today. It’s a particularly chilly, damp day and I’m happy that we can send them back into the elements with a belly full of warm food.

As I help Eva clean up the pots, Robert slides by with a push broom, singing and dancing like a buffoon. Eva and I both burst out laughing.

“What are you doing later, Isabel?” he croons, using the end of the broom like a microphone.

“I’m going to school,” I tell him, trying to keep my embarrassment for him from showing.

“And then what?”

“Home – it will be late by then.”

Robert straightens out of his crooner’s stance and blinks. “You know what I heard?” he asks conspiratorially.

“What?” Eva asks excitedly, taking the bait.

“I’ve heard that the campus coffee shop is open until the wee hours of the morning,” he says to me, ignoring my counterpart.

Oh, he’s trying the date thing again. I can feel myself withdraw, even as I tell myself not to.

“I’m going to be there,” he says causally. “Probably drinking a cappuccino and maybe splurging on a scone.”

Eh…this is the part where he asks me to join him.

But, he doesn’t. He gives a shrug and continues his ballet with the broom. “Just in case you’re looking for me.”

As he scoots away, Eva lets out a sigh of disgust. “Man, that guy can be a dork.” Then her tone changes to something a little more interested. “But he does have a nice ass!”

Yes, he does. And if I go to meet him for coffee after class tonight, that means I can delay going to sleep. I can keep the demons at bay just a little longer.

tbc

Warning: This part contains a pretty harsh racial slur. The opinions belong to the character, not me. I apologize up front if it offends.


Part Five

“I mean, she’s this little person, you know? Five feet tall, one-ten soaking wet and she was just kicking the shit out of these guys!”

Robert is talking animatedly about a cadet in his class, gesticulating wildly. I have my suspicions that he had more than one cappuccino before I arrived. I smile, amused by his caffeine-induced exuberance.

“One after the other – boom! Down they went!” He laughs to himself, remembering the events of that day.

“Is she the only woman in your group?” I ask, taking a small sip of my coffee.

“Pretty much.”

“Pretty much?”

Robert gives a laugh. “There’s one other woman…but I’m not sure she’s a woman.”

I cock my head slightly in question.

“She’s, um, rather manly.”

“Oh!” I laugh in realization.

Robert reddens slightly. “I don’t even think most of us think of her as a woman. If she came into the men’s locker room and undressed, I don’t think any of us would even notice.”

“That’s horrible,” I chide playfully. I happen to know a lesbian (at least she is for the moment) and I would never for once consider Mae unfeminine.

“No, it’s true.” Robert gives me a wink and takes a sip of his drink. “Hey, listen. I’m glad you came.”

So am I. I stood outside of the coffee shop for a long time, just watching him through the plate glass window. He was flipping through a music magazine, chomping indelicately on a scone while he read. I almost turned around and went home, but then I remembered something Michael had said to me – “I’m trying to tell you to allow yourself to be interested in people. You deserve to be happy.” And I realized that Robert did interest me, enough to open the door to the café and join him.

“And since you came this far…” His voice trails off and he raises his eyebrows hopefully. “Maybe a game this Sunday? 49ers and the Chiefs?” He cringes, overreacted to an anticipated rejection. “Wait! Don’t say no just yet! Let me at least plead my case!”

I laugh lightly. “Who said I was going to say no?”

He straightens, his blue eyes round. “Really?”

I shrug, playing coy for the first time in years. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On what?”

I shrug again, look disinterested.

“Come on, Isabel! You’re torturing me!” he laughs.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go.”

“Yes!” He pumps the air, having scored a touchdown of his own, I guess. “That is so cool. I knew you couldn’t resist me forever.”

“So confident,” I sigh.

“Of course I am. I mean, who could refuse a guy like me?” He says it with his tongue firmly in his cheek, his eyes twinkling.

Wow. I have a date. I’m not sure I remember how this goes…

I return home by myself, Robert needing to get back to his apartment to get to bed so that he can get up for early morning drills. I’m betting with all the caffeine he’s had, he’ll never sleep tonight. As I climb my steps, I think about the fact that I don’t want to sleep, either. If I sleep, the dreams come. If I’m alone, the dreams come. And I can’t keep relying on Michael. Some day the poor guy is going to finally connect with someone – Heidi, maybe? – and there won’t be any room for me in his bed. It’s an unfair burden I’ve put upon him.

The apartment is dark when I enter save for the light above the stove. I feel my way back to the bathroom, where I wash off makeup, brush my teeth and pull my hair into a ponytail. I draw in a shaky breath. There’s no avoiding it – I’m going to have to sleep sometime.

My bed isn’t empty. As I flip on the light, I see that I have a visitor and I quickly deaden the overhead. Amongst fluffy pillows and floral prints, Michael looks as out of place as a cactus in a field of daisies. He’s sleeping and I know that he’s been waiting for me to come home. A little piece of my heart swells that he’s trying so hard, in his own way, to make me feel better, to make me feel safe.

In the dark, I reach for my dresser and quietly slide out one of the drawers. Feeling around blindly, I locate a nightshirt, then shed my clothes, pull the shirt over my head. I tug back the covers without disturbing him, then slid in beside him. He mumbles something, but goes back to sleep immediately. I give him an appreciative kiss on the cheek, then snuggle into his warmth, sleep coming quicker than I had anticipated…

I awake with an odd tension in my abdomen. For a moment, I’m confused as to what the sensation is, though I do understand that I don’t feel threatened in any way. I don’t feel sick or scared or worried, but there is definitely something different going on inside of my body. My heart is beating a little quicker than usual upon waking, and my fingers and toes are tingling.

As the fog clears, I realize there is warmth spreading across my belly, not an artificial heat but something a little more natural. I blink a couple of times, gathering my bearings.

In his sleep, Michael has spooned me. In my sleep, the nightshirt has ridden up considerably and his hand is flat against my bare belly. He has large hands and a shift of mere inches either north or south is going to put him into territory that he’s never investigated before. The warmth I was feeling earlier intensifies out of embarrassment…and something else.

Oh, this is wrong. It’s wrong for me to be aroused by him. I tell myself that it’s been too long between physical experiences, that it’s just being close to any male body that’s doing it to me. It has nothing to do with Michael, right?

But then I feel the expanse of his chest against my back as he breathes deeply in slumber. The rough fabric of his jeans is pressed tightly against the back of my thighs. The arm circled around my waist is muscular, strong, the arm of a man who works with his hands. Closing my eyes, I concentrate until I can feel each of his fingers splayed across my abdomen. I live a short fantasy about those fingers, then I force myself to open my eyes.

Oh, this is bad…

I will find a way to get out of this bed and not wake him so that he has no idea the compromising position we were in. I will act like nothing happened. I will learn to sleep alone.

Right. Until the demons return.

I draw in a slow breath, then slowly slide one leg from the covers. I feel the floor beneath my foot and give a small smile of victory. Cautious, I rotate my hips so that I roll over onto my back. Michael doesn’t withdraw, rather his palm ends up on the waistband of my panties. Oh, yeah – that’s better! Afraid he’ll awake in this much worse position, I hurriedly slip from the bed, his hand falling to the sheets, empty.

He doesn’t even stir. The man sleeps like the bricks he used to lay.

For the rest of the week, I try not to act like anything odd happened between us, which of course, it really didn’t. I try to sleep alone, but even if I go to bed alone, I don’t wake up that way. I can’t say as it upsets me – after months of hauntings, I needed the rest. No more compromising positions are experienced and for that I’m grateful.

Sunday rolls around and I’m actually feeling excited about my date with Robert. I rummage in Michael’s closet until I find a 49ers jersey. I grin in triumph – even though Michael is a hockey fan, he still likes sports apparel and I was sure that he’d bought some when he moved here. The jersey is too big, but that’s okay. I put a white turtleneck underneath it and slip into my favorite pair of jeans. I’m not a sports fan and I’ve never been to a football game, but I have a feeling this is going to be a great day.

While I wait for Robert to arrive, I check my email and am delighted to see a note from Mae-Ling. I will forever be thankful that I took that trip to Chicago to see Max and met Mae. She’s so full of life, so unlike anyone I’ve ever known.

Along with a note, she’s emailed me a picture of herself, standing in front of that wonderful old warehouse that holds her apartment. She’s grinning from ear to ear and holding a set of keys. There is no Kim in sight. I scan her note and see why she’s grinning – the apartment complex went condo and she was allowed to buy her studio apartment. Mae is a homeowner, an owner of an extremely cool place. I grin, happy for her.

The doorbell rings and I look at the clock in the corner of the PC. Robert is early – you gotta like that about a guy. I answer the door and he enters, also wearing a 49ers jersey.

“Hey!” he says. “Look at you! Did you go shopping just for this date?”

I look at the jersey. “Uh, no. I stole it from Michael.”

For just a moment, I think his eyes narrow – whether because I’m wearing Michael’s clothes or because I didn’t shop especially for our date, I’m not sure.

“Well, I’m sure it looks better on you!” he finally says, though his words somehow ring hollow.

“Thanks,” I reply, deciding to let it slide. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yep! As long as you are.”

“Let me grab some cash,” I say, already walking toward the bedroom.

I hadn’t intended on taking my purse, so I grab some bills from my wallet and stuff them in my pocket. When I return, Robert is looking at the email from Mae that I’d left up on the PC.

“Who’s the gook?” he asks, his voice holding a tone I don’t really like.

“Excuse me?” I ask, sure I didn’t hear right.

“The gook.” He points at the screen.

My blood runs a little cold and I look at him warily.

“My dad was in ‘Nam,” he explains. "He says that the only good gook is a dead gook.”

I clear my throat, look away for a moment, not sure how to handle his blatant racism. “Mae isn’t Vietnamese, she’s Chinese,” I point out levelly.

Robert shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. Hey – you ready to go?”

I nod even though I don’t want to go now. As we’re leaving the apartment, I’m having a really hard time leaving his comments behind. I love Mae – she’s one of the most honestly sincere people I have ever met. I don’t like her being disparaged. I don’t like myself for not defending her more vehemently.

But in truth I hardly know Robert. So, he made one insensitive remark. It doesn’t make him a bad person.

Does it?

tbc

Happy New Year everyone I'll try to answer fb later.


Part Six

It’s a beautiful day. The fog has lifted from the bay and the air has lost some of its usual dampness. Overhead, there’s not a cloud in the sky. I hear that the 49ers are making a playoff run. I’m not really sure what that means, but it’s put people in a good mood.

Except for me.

I try really hard to put on the face I wore all through high school, the hard shell that won’t let anything from the inside shine through. I want to appear happy and chipper and excited about my first ever professional football game – after all, I grew up hundreds of miles away from such an opportunity. But there’s a dark cloud over this perfect day, a bitter after-taste that I have yet to shake.

I think about Mae and about Robert’s comments about people of her race. I imagine him saying such remarks to her face and the pain she would feel inside. I’ve never seen Mae sad and it’s hard to imagine her that way. But I don’t think she’d take his slur so lightly. Even though she’s a strong woman, a person who pretty much takes life as it comes, I know that she must have some pride in her origins and to have them belittled would hurt her beyond measure.

I don’t really know Robert that well. Perhaps it was just an off-the-cuff remark, something said stupidly in a moment of nervousness. Yeah, I could buy that if he hadn’t added the remark about her kind only being good if they’re dead.

And then an unsettling thought comes to me – if he’s that hateful of people from other countries, what would he be like to someone from another planet?

As we walk toward the stadium, a throng of people around us, I steal a glance in his direction. On the outside, he doesn’t look mean and racist. We pass many people of different backgrounds and he doesn’t even bat an eye. It’s not like he’s skinned his head and has a swastika tattooed on his arm. I’ve seen him help out many people at the shelter, from all walks of life, and I can’t recall him treating anyone differently than the next person. The mere fact that he’s there volunteering his time would lend credence to the idea that he’s not all bad.

So, maybe it was just a stupid remark, made out of line. I guess it doesn’t really matter as it has definitely put a damper on my day, regardless.

“What do you know about football?” Robert asks, taking me by the elbow and guiding me toward a ramp that leads upward.

“Not much,” I admit, still trying to appear happy. “My brother was a fan. So was my friend Kyle.”

His head snaps in my direction, his blue eyes narrowing. Or maybe it’s just an effect of the sun…

“Who’s Kyle?” he asks.

I shrug it off. “Just a friend from high school. He was captain of the football team.”

“Really.” His voice is flat.

“Yes, really.”

Robert looks at me stonily and I smile, still acting like nothing is wrong.

“Well, we’re going to be sitting with some real fans,” he announces.

That’s news to me. “Really? Who?”

“Just some of my brothers.”

I may as well not have come. Robert gets tied up with his “brothers” (I find out that the term applies to blood relations and also to comrades from the police academy) and I may as well be invisible. In truth, they’re kind of embarrassing. They drink a lot. They hoot and howl. They try to pick fights with people wearing the opposing team’s apparel. I want to go home.

“Isn’t this great?” Robert grins in my direction.

I give him an uncertain half-smile. I think the only reason things are “great” right now is because the 49ers are leading. I’m willing to bet if there’s a shift in control, things won’t be so great…

And how right I am. By the middle of the fourth quarter, the 49ers have fallen behind and the bunch of hooligans I’m sitting with is turning surly. I hear lots of profanity, regardless of the fact that there are children in the stands. I want to crawl under the seats and die.

Luckily, the team pulls off a last-minute comeback and all is well again. Robert wants to hit the bars with his “brothers”, but I definitely do not. For one moment, it looks like he’s going to explode, but then he gives a tipsy laugh as if he’s just remembered he’s got an audience of thousands.

“I can find my own way home,” I assure him. It’s still daylight, not that I’m afraid to travel by myself as it is.

“Well, alright,” he says, leaning in to give me a clumsy, drunken hug. His coordination is off and he presses all of his weight against me, a feeling that is utterly repulsive. He smells like sweat and beer. “Say, listen,” he continues. “My community service is up, so I won’t be at the shelter anymore.”

I shake my head. “Your what?”

“My time, my punishment,” he says it like I should completely get what he’s trying to say, which I don’t. “Did my time, now I’m a free man.”

“What are you talking about?”

One of his brothers thumps him on the chest and makes an inane remark about getting off easy. They laugh like it’s some kind of joke.

“Ah, you know how it is,” Robert says. “Got into a bar fight, did a little damage. My brothers helped me out, got my sentence suspended to community service.”

My blood runs cold. I recall the night he walked me home and explained that he was at the kitchen as a way to “serve his community”. I hadn’t realized at the time it was out of a court sentence and not out of the goodness of his heart.

“Thank God I won’t have to go there anymore!” he tacks on with a hearty laugh. “So, I’ll have to call you, okay?”

I’m numb, so I simply nod and start to move away. I feel like my feet can hardly move. He may call, but I’m not answering.

As I turn to enter the crowd of exiting fans, I hear Robert’s brothers making remarks about my ass and my ears burn in indignation.

* * * * * *

“So, how did you leave it?”

Michael’s lounged on the couch, the television remote in his hand. As soon as I started telling him about my train-wreck of a day, he turned off the TV, but forgot to put down the remote. I think he’s stunned into inaction.

“He said he’d call me,” I reply.

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t. I just wanted out of there.” I feel a twinge of cowardice inside. I didn’t stick up for Mae and I didn’t stick up for myself either. “And as I was walking away his friends made some rather impolite comments about me.”

Michael’s dark eyes narrow. “Like what?”

“Oh, you know, the usual remarks about my ass.”

He works his jaw and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Finally, he says, “So, he’s an asshole then?”

I nod. “Looks like it.”

“Excellent.” He says it with sarcasm as he sits up straight, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “Better that you wrote him off, Iz. Let’s put that jackass behind us. I’m feeling a need for Chinese, how about you?”

Well, that comment could be taken two ways…

As we leave the apartment, we pass Heidi on the steps. Michael grins at her and she doesn’t even look at him in passing. I do notice, however, that once she thinks I’m not looking, she gives him the once-over over her shoulder. Interesting.

We go to a restaurant that Michael is particularly fond of. It’s not a fast food, mall-fare kind of Chinese restaurant, but one owned and operated by people who actually came from China. And the food is beyond compare.

“I saw Mae’s email,” Michael says around a spoonful of won-ton soup.

“Isn’t it great?” I reply, smiling. “She looks so happy.”

“Did you read the whole note?”

I realize that I hadn’t – Robert showed up and interrupted me. “Not all of it, no.”

Michael gives a devilish smirk. “It seems that Mae-Ling is batting for our team again.”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. That would explain why Kim wasn’t in the picture she sent. That didn’t last long.

“Yeah?” I say, fumbling with my chopsticks. “Where does that leave you?”

Michael pauses, looks momentarily confused. Then he blinks and looks like he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Mae is now available. “Right here,” he finally responds. “It leaves me right here.”

“Oh, come on, Michael. I know how you feel about Mae.” I look at him incredulously.

He wipes his hands on his napkin and regards me seriously. “I adore Mae, I won’t deny it. But I can’t be with her.”

“Because she’s-” I catch myself before I tack on the last word – human.

“No, that’s not it,” he denies without defense. “We don’t want the same things. We don’t see relationships in the same light. In three months, she might be back batting for the not-so-straight team again.”

All of that is true.

He pours himself a cup of green tea and refreshes my cup while he’s at it. “I didn’t mean anything by bringing it up – just making conversation.”

I stop poking at my rice and study him for a moment. He’s not looking at me as he speaks. He’s actually acting guilty. Does he think I’m jealous of Mae? Why would he even think I had a right to be jealous of her?

“Well, I think it’s great that she was able to buy her flat,” I say, switching the subject. I don’t want to talk about our “feelings” for one another again. Water under the bridge, over the dam, never to be spoken of again.

“Me, too.” He smiles and goes back to his soup.

Talking about Mae has reminded me of Robert’s asinine remarks about her and I still feel guilty inside for not blasting him for saying it. I push my food around on my plate, watch Michael reach the bottom of his soup bowl.

“Can I ask you something?” I question softly.

He looks up, intrigued by the change of tone in my voice. “Of course, Iz, anything.”

“You knew about Robert, didn’t you? You knew that he was an ass.” After all, Michael reads through everyone.

He straightens in his chair a bit, his expression sympathetic.

“How come you can see these things and I can’t?” I ask.

One corner of his mouth lifts into an ironic smile. “Because to me, everyone is a suspect. I give no one the benefit of the doubt, and you try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.”

That’s a telling statement and I wonder who’s worse off – the person who trusts no one and never gets close to anyone, or the person who trusts everyone and gets hurt all the time.

“Listen, Iz,” he continues, his voice serious. “I want you to be careful.”

My brow furrows slightly at his words.

“That guy…” He looks out the window for a moment, then back to me. “I don’t trust him, and not just because I think everyone is out to harm us. There’s something off about him that I haven’t put my finger on yet.”

I cock my head and give him a little grin. Robert’s an ass, yes, but he seems like the ADD type – one or two times of telling him to get lost and he’ll lose interest. “Michael, what are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid he’s going to try to hurt you.”

tbc

Part Seven

Robert doesn’t have ADD. Maybe OCD. I try to tell him nicely the first three times that he calls that I don’t want to go out with him anymore. The last time, he gets a little confrontational, so I decide I’m done talking to him. From then on, as soon as Michael sees his name on the caller ID, he grabs the phone and tells him to get lost. He never raises his voice, but his point is blatantly clear.

And now I have a body guard. I try to tell Michael that I don’t need to be babysat, but he insists on escorting me anyway. At first it’s annoying, considering that I’m a big, bad alien and could kick just about anyone’s ass. Then I realize that he’s just worried about me and it seems sort of endearing. We’ve fallen into a routine of dependency, me and Michael.

As he drops me at the alleyway entrance to the soup kitchen and gives me a kiss on the cheek, I muse what life in San Francisco would have been like without him. After all, it was only at the last minute that he decided to move west with me. I’m confident enough to believe that I could make it in this city on my own, but I’m also a realist – it wouldn’t have been easy. There would have been no one there when I had a nightmare, no one who understood me, no one who was just like me.

“I’ll be here at ten to get you,” Michael says as he’s already walking away.

I don’t bother to tell him that’s not necessary because we’ve already been down this road and I’ve lost the battle every time. “Okay, see you later,” I call after him.

When I enter the kitchen, I’m met with Eva’s dark, round eyes. “Who is that?” she pries.

“Who?” I ask as though I have no idea who she’s talking about. I keep walking, going to the store room to hang up my jacket and get an apron.

“That major hottie who has been dropping you off every day,” she answers incredulously, walking a half inch behind me.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, tying the apron around my waist. Normally, I wouldn’t mind telling people about Michael, but she annoys me with her busy-body-ness and I like to dick with her.

“The guy who kissed your cheek!” she sputters. “Surely that didn’t just happen without your knowing it!”

I look down at her, thinking what a tiny, irritating being she is. Kind of like a Chihuahua on too much caffeine. “Just someone I know.”

A slight grin of victory. “Really? What’s Robert going to say about that?”

I’m really not in the mood for this today. “Robert won’t care. I’m not going out with him anymore.”

“What?!”

I push past her to go to the kitchen. What’s she so shocked about? Robert and I had one date. Just one. It’s not like I just dumped my husband or fiancé or someone I’ve dated my whole life. I start hoisting the stock pots from the industrial-sized dish washer.

“What happened?” Eva asks, scandal dripping from her tone.

I could tell her that Robert is a racist ass, but it’s not my style. And it’s none of her business. “Things just didn’t work out.”

She looks aghast for a moment, then says, “You mean Robert’s available again?”

Again, I could tell her Robert is bad news, but I don’t bother. He’s all yours, sister. “Yep. But you’re going to have to chase him down if you want a shot at him. His ‘community service’ is over now.”

Eva looks dejected. “Yeah, I knew that was coming.” She says it wistfully.

I blink, then my brow furrows. “You knew he wasn’t here voluntarily?”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t you?”

I’m done with her today. I occupy my mind and hands by putting together the first batch of soup. I have no idea how we’re going to handle the crowd today being short staffed. Almost as if on cue, Miss Annoying voices the answer to that.

“Oh, your friend came back today.”

For the life of me, I don’t have any idea what she’s talking about. I look at her silently until she waves her vegetable peeler over one shoulder.

“She’s out there, cleaning the tables.”

Michael is my only friend in this city and no one would ever mistake him for a “she”. Curious, I glance out of the kitchen window and see a small woman dressed entirely in black, scrubbing down the long tables. Then I recall Eva talking about this woman last week. The goth chick.

“Is that the girl who said she knew me?” I ask Eva.

“Yeah. Beth. Bethie. Something like that.” She shrugs and continues stripping carrots. “She said she knew we needed help today and she had a few hours, so she stopped in.”

I’m intrigued. Wiping my hands on my apron, I leave the kitchen and enter the dining area. As I near the woman, I see that the tips of her hair are dyed a deep maroon, a surprisingly nice compliment to the darkness of the rest of it. She’s very petite, but apparently strong as she goes about tidying up the place.

“Hello?” I call when I’m a few yards away. Don’t want to frighten her.

She glances up and I’m immediately taken off-guard. She has the most unusually pale eyes I’ve ever seen. Her skin is flawless, pale without looking unhealthy. She’s a living China doll.

“Hi,” she grins.

“I’m Isabel,” I say, pulling to a stop on the opposite side of the table from her. “Do I know you?”

“You do now.” She’s still smiling as she extends a hand. “I’m Bethany.”

I take her hand and something feels strange to me. Almost like she’s not really there, kind of a tingly, my-foot-fell-asleep kind of feeling. “That’s a pretty name,” I say.

“Thanks!” She’s chipper as she drops my hand and continues pushing chairs up to the newly-cleaned table.

“Listen, Eva said that when you came here, you said you knew me. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve ever met you before.” I settle on looking helpless and apologetic instead of confrontational.

“Oh, well, she must have misunderstood me.”

I wait for more, but it never comes. I watch in fascination as she goes about her work. “How long will you be here?”

Another grin. “As long as I’m needed.”

Okay, enigmatic. “Are you a student?”

“Not at present.” She looks up, her brow furrowed, then gives a little laugh. “Your friend needs help.”

I turn around and see Eva struggling with one of the full stock pots. She knows better than to try to move one – especially a hot one – on her own. I leave the mysterious Bethany behind and go to help.

The night is lighter than I expected, but it’s been unseasonably warm and perhaps that has kept some people away. I help Eva and Bethany clean up and then I wait for Michael. He makes me wait inside, afraid I’ll be mugged if I step foot into the alley. He’s such a dufus. But I find myself smiling as I think that.

Eva waits with me for awhile, but then excuses herself. I don’t mind – I can only take her in small doses anyway. Bethany simply disappears. Like she was there one minute and gone the next. Which is ridiculous – I’m sure she slipped out without my noticing. People don’t just vanish into thin air.

At ten minutes after ten, I see Michael coming down the street. Usually, he passed in front of the soup kitchen, then meets me in the alleyway. I guess it’s safe to go outside now. I jump down off the counter and go to the side door. Outside, I turn my key, locking the door, then turn to head down the alley to meet Michael.

Strong fingers grasp my upper arm, hurting me in their vice-like grip. I draw in a startled breath and spin around to meet my attacker.

“Why won’t you answer my calls?” Robert’s eyes are blazing, more furious than I’ve ever seen.

“You’re hurting me,” I protest, trying to wiggle away. I’m not afraid of him injuring me – I’m afraid of having to injure him in order to get away.

“Just like you’ve hurt me,” he spits in response. “You know what you are? You’re a prick tease, that’s what you are.”

“Let me go,” I demand, trying to wrench my arm from his clutches.

“You prance around all painted up, wearing those tight sweaters, making all the guys look at you and then you get all hoity-toity snotty and won’t put out. Well, I’ve got different plans for you tonight.”

I feel the first flash of fear. God – he’s serious. Does he think he’s going to rape me in this alley? And then what? Leave me for dead?

“Get your hands off her!” I hear the rapid approach of Michael’s steps behind me, the harshness of his tone. “Get your goddamned hands off her!”

Robert looks in his direction, then gives a malicious grin. “Or you’ll what?”

“I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp,” Michael replies, pulling to a stop close behind me.

Robert lets out a laugh. “You and whose army?”

“I don’t need an army.”

Something shifts in Robert’s eyes and he lets go of my arm, but not long enough that I have a chance to flee. Instead, he spins me around and puts me into a headlock. I feel something cool and sharp against my cheek.

“You come any closer and I’ll cut her,” he threatens.

Oh, shit! He’s got a knife! For the first time, I can see Michael and even though I can feel his anxiety, it isn’t reaching his face. A lifetime of practicing the poker face is coming into good use right now.

“You cut her and I’ll kill you,” he says levelly.

Robert laughs, his breath hot and disgusting against my ear. I can feel the length of his body pressed against my back, the repulsive beat of his wretched heart against my shoulder blade. I’m going to be sick.

“You’re messing with my plans,” he tells Michael.

“Pity,” Michael replies. “Let her go now and we can forget that this ever happened.”

“I don’t want to forget it. I have plans for tonight. I’m going to tap this ass and you’re not going to stop me.” There’s a pause, then I feel Robert’s lips close to my ear. “Or is it that you want this bitch for yourself, Mike?” Then he licks my cheek and my whole body shudders in disgust.

Michael swallows hard and I feel an undeniable sensation in the air – the build up of static electricity that precedes one of us using our powers. My vision blurs as tears start to fill my eyes. Meeting Michael’s gaze, I give my head a quick shake. He can’t use his powers, not here. Robert’s not worthy of Michael blowing his cover.

“I’m going to count to ten,” Michael warns. “If you haven’t let go of her by then, I’m going to beat you to death. Do you understand me?”

Robert snorts, then whispers in my ear, “Don’t believe him, sweetie. He couldn’t hurt a fly.” He grinds his hips into me. “Feel what I’ve got for you?”

“One!” Michael calls.

“Oh, come on!” Robert protests. “Are you really that stupid? If you’re going to count to ten, then I know exactly how much time I’ve got!”

“Two.”

Robert snorts again and in a move I totally don’t see coming, the blade makes one swift path down my cheek. I yelp in pain, my flesh burning from the injury. Everything happens so quickly that I can barely follow it. I see Michael lunging forward. Robert lets out a cry of fury as he casts me aside. I see a Dumpster quickly looming into view and for one split second I hear the crack of bone on metal.

And then everything goes black…

tbc

Part Eight

I’m somewhere between two worlds, floating, stumbling, wincing from the occasional bright light. I get the impression I’m walking, but I have no idea where I’m going or how I got here. I tip sideways, then someone rights me and we stagger onward.

Finally, I get to sit. Something smells stale. A conversation drifts to my ears.

“Jesus! She’s going to bleed all over my cab!” A heavily-accented voice.

And now a familiar one. “No she won’t. Just move.”

“Seriously! I can’t pick up other riders if the back seat is full of blood!”

“I said move, dickwad!”

There’s a rustling of fabric beside me and a mumbling somewhere off to my right. In a short while, something is pressed against my cheek, stinging. I wince, but a hand steadies me. Whatever is against my face smells familiar, like home.

“Hang in there,” the familiar voice says to me.

“She should go to the hospital.” The accent again.

“We’re not going to the hospital. I gave you the address when we got in – that’s where we’re going.”

“She needs a doctor.”

“She’ll be fine. Just keep driving.”

A pause. “You do this to her?”

“No!” Anger, incredulity.

“Then she needs a police as well.”

“No police. No hospital, no police. Just drive. Didn’t we cover this a few seconds ago?”

The talking ceases. The world around me is moving, bumping, stopping, starting. My ears are ringing, my eyes blurred. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.

Cool air again, a bright light above me. I hear muffled voices, the familiar one and the foreign one. Someone is upset, someone else is adamant. I’m standing again, but God I just want to sit down. Finally, I feel an arm around me, strong, steadying.

“You’re going to have to try to take the stairs. Do you think you can do that?”

I nod groggily, obedient. What stairs?

Wow, is my equilibrium off. I bump into the wall, bounce off, bump into the other one. Picking up my feet takes an effort, one I don’t feel like putting forth at this moment. So I stop, wonder why my head is pounding and my chest feels tight.

“Come on, Iz,” the voice again, hushed, close to my ear. “Just a few more. You can take a few more, right?”

Sure, why not? I plow up the remaining steps and then I’m in a familiar place. I still can’t see very well, but I feel comfortable, at ease. Something smells familiar, a combination of coffee and something fruity.

“Here, sit on the couch.”

Okay, now we’re talking. I’ve needed to sit down for an eternity, or so it seems.

“Hold this.”

Hold what?

Someone picks up my hand, puts it against my face. That familiar-smelling fabric is against my cheek again.

“I’m going to try to clean you up, okay?”

Whatever.

I’m alone for a long time. I think. God, where is that buzzing coming from…

“I’m sorry if this hurts.” Apology, sincere. “I don’t want that to get infected.”

There’s a horrible pain in my cheek and I try to scurry away. An arm around my shoulder stops me, whispered apologies against my ear, lips against my temple.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you. Shhh…it’s okay. Don’t cry.”

I’m crying? Someone else is controlling my actions because I had no idea.

There’s a light dabbing at my face, not so harsh this time.

“You need stitches. Son of a bitch.” The words aren’t spoken harshly at all. “Here, hold this tight. We’ll see if we can get the bleeding stopped with pressure. Got it? Good girl.”

I’m so tired. I hear my voice, mumbling something about going to sleep. He says something about that being a bad idea, but I don’t care. I’m already falling sideways onto this soft couch…

My sleep is dreamless and on some subconscious level, I’m grateful for that. There are no ghosts, no deranged images of my brother filleting himself. I fall into nothingness, until I feel lips against my forehead and hear whispered words.

Rest. I’ll be back later. I have something I need to take care of…

The next time I open my eyes, the sun nearly blinds me. I quickly close my eyelids, wincing in pain. There’s a throbbing between my temples that presents itself every time my heart thumps. Lower, my cheek feels like it’s on fire. Good God, what happened last night?

It takes an eternity for me to finally open my eyes, and even at that, I only manage to open them halfway. It takes another decade for me to be able to sit up. The room spins and I immediately feel like I’m going to be sick. Doing what I’ve always been told, I put my head between my knees and wait for it to pass.

There’s blood on the leg of my jeans. I look at it curiously, then follow the path upward, to my shirt and jacket, which are in far worse shape than the pants. Panic flares through me and makes my heart beat faster, my head ache worse. With shaking fingers, I touch my face and recoil from the pain. I’m hurt!

In a flood, the memories come back – Robert grabbing me in the alley, Michael confronting him, Robert cutting me. That’s all I remember. Where’s Michael?

“Mi-chael?” I call, my voice cracking, sounding old and hoarse. There’s no answer. “Michael?”

I push myself upward and something hits the floor. I stare at it for a long moment, then realize it’s a bloody washcloth, dried into a tight ball. I’m going to be sick.

“Michael?” I call, circling the coffee table and feeling horribly sick inside.

I shuffle through the apartment, but there is no Michael. Oh, God! Where is he? Did
Robert hurt him? Maybe he just ran to the corner to get some orange juice for breakfast. He does that sometimes.

My eyes fall on the clock. It’s after two in the afternoon. Way past breakfast. Hope deflates quickly. There’s no way Michael would have left me bleeding unless it had been for something very important. There’s no way he’d stay away for long. I can only draw one conclusion – something horrible has happened to him.

With shaking hands, I dial his cell phone. No answer. I call one of the guys he works with. No, Michael didn’t show up for work today. My heart constricts – I know something is wrong, that there’s only tragedy waiting at the end of this day. I’ve run out of people to call.

In the bathroom, I finally look at my face and the vomit that has been waiting to come up all day finally does. I’m slit from my temple to within an inch of my mouth. The wound is split open, dried and angry-looking. Crusts of blood are in my hair, down my neck, caked onto my face. Fighting back tears and another round of nausea, I use a clean cloth to wipe away most of the dried blood. It doesn’t help much. This scar is going to be permanent.

I shuffle about the apartment, thinking every door slammed is going to signal Michael’s reappearance. Most of the time it’s only Heidi, coming and going. Where is he? Why hasn’t he called?

I have something I need to take care of…

The words come back in a rush and I realize now that they weren’t part of a dream – it was Michael telling me he was going to do something very, very stupid. Oh my God, Michael – what have you done?

The sun fades as I sit stonily on the couch, watching the shadows grow longer until they blend into one big cloud of darkness. I’m weaker than I’ve ever been in my life – from loss of blood, from worry, from sickness in my heart. My soul mourns, not knowing what has become of my best friend.

I curl up on the couch and am taken by darkness once again.

Something touches my injured cheek, something warm. It’s not the horrid sting of a blade, but a warmth not unlike stepping into the bath. The comforting sensation radiates through my face, over my aching head, leaving in its wake nothing but numb relief. I blink slowly a couple of times and open my eyes.

I know I didn’t fall asleep with any lights on, but there are now several ablaze in the apartment. I also know I didn’t fall asleep with my brother sitting by my side, but there he is. Smiling.

Am I dreaming?

I sit up quickly, a little too quickly for the blood loss. Max lives in Chicago. He couldn’t be here. I have a fear that this is going to turn into some horrid nightmare, that he’s going to produce a straight razor and take a whack at his wrists.

“It’s okay,” he says simply.

“Are you real?” I choke.

He looks pensive for a moment. “Yeah. I think so.”

It’s too much to believe, so I throw my arms around him. He feels like Max. He smells like Max. And his laugh sounds like Max. I feel the tears squeezing out from beneath my eyelashes. Then it dawns on me that my face doesn’t throb anymore. Pulling back, I tentatively put a hand to my cheek.

“It’s fixed,” he says gently. He’s smiling tenderly, but his eyes are full of questions. Full of pity.

“Thank you,” I say humbly, unable to meet his gaze.

“You okay, Iz?”

I nod mutely.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

I look at the clock. It’s past midnight. I think I’ve lost a whole day and I’m not sure I can recount what happened.

“I was at the soup kitchen,” I start, trying desperately to clear my head. “Michael came to get me…” Oh, crap. Now I remember. “Max, I don’t know where Michael is.”

“It’s okay,” he says, laying a reassuring hand on my arm.

“No, Max. He just disappeared! I don’t remember coming home and when I woke up, he was gone…” Something in his eyes makes me stop. “What?”

“Michael’s fine, Iz.”

“Fine?” That doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense that he’d leave me here, bleeding. “Then where the hell is he?”

Max looks a little ill. “Isabel…”

Dread flows through my veins once again. “What?”

“Michael’s in jail.”

tbc

Part Nine

My emotions are in conflict. On one hand, I’m elated that Michael is alive. On the other, I’m sick to death to think what he may have done to end up in jail. And why did he call Max instead of me? I would have gone to the police station to bail him out…

Oh, yeah. Gaping wound on my cheek. That wouldn’t have looked too good.

“Is he dead?” I ask Max, my voice raw and hoarse, my throat dry.

“Michael? No, he’s just in jail, Isabel. He’s okay.” Max has the tone of someone talking to a kid who has scraped their knee.

“Not Michael.” I fear this answer. “Robert. Is Robert dead? Did Michael kill him?”

Max shakes his head slowly. “No.”

Thank God!

“Not yet.”

I stop cold. “What do you mean, Max?”

He shifts uncomfortably, folds his hands between his knees. “Robert’s at the hospital. He’s still alive, but…um, he’s not in good shape.”

I feel sick in my belly, sick in my soul. “What did Michael do?”

“My conversation with him was short.” Max proceeds to shed his jacket, which he lays over the back of the couch. “I didn’t get a lot of information. But from what I can tell, he went looking for Robert and they had an altercation.”

“An altercation?” Is that Councilor Evans speaking now? “Be blunt with me, Max – I don’t have the capacity to break through any sugar-coating right now.”

My brother looks uneasy. “I’ll put it this way – Michael was very angry and Robert was on the receiving end of that anger.”

In my mind, I see Michael leaving our apartment, his fury only escalating as he hails a cab or takes the bus on a mission to find Robert. Then I see him wailing on Robert mercilessly. I close my eyes against the images that linger inside of my head.

“How did he wind up in jail?” I ask.

“Robert fingered him. Before he fell into the coma.”

I pop open my eyes and look imploringly at Max. Please let that be some sadistic joke. From the look on his face, I can see that it isn’t. Letting out a weary cry, I cover my eyes with my hand.

“Stupid fuck,” I mumble to myself. “Stupid, Michael, so stupid.” I have to fight back the tears as the gravity of the situation starts to sink in.

“Isabel?” Max’s voice sounds tentative.

“What?” I ask in a clipped tone, not dropping my hand to look at him.

“I saw what he did to you.” Why is there guilt in his voice?

I lower my hand and regard him with curiosity.

“I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

At that, I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, sure. Max the Saint, pummeling someone within and inch of his life!” In all of our lives, Max has only ever harmed himself. He doesn’t have it in him to hurt someone else.

Then why is he looking at me that way? I suddenly feel a little sicker.

“I need to tell you a story,” he explains, sitting back and avoiding my gaze. “It’s not something I’d want repeated.”

“Okay.” I’m numb, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“When I first went to Chicago to visit Maria, she had a boyfriend,” he begins. “A guy named Ramon. We double-dated one night and Maria sang a song to me in the club where she performed before we moved out to the suburbs and started having kids. That’s the night I met Mae-Ling.”

He gives a little smile of remembrance and I smile, too, thinking of our friend. The smile is short-lived as I recall Robert’s racist remarks.

Max lets out a tired sigh. “So, anyway, I went out with Mae after the bar to give Maria and Ramon some alone time. Apparently Ramon didn’t like Maria singing to me.” He swallows visibly, something resembling rage still evident in his eyes. “He beat her.”

I draw in a quick breath. He’s never spoken of this before and neither has Maria. I can’t imagine Maria beaten, bloody. It hurts horribly to even consider it.

Max finally meets my gaze. “He beat her badly. I couldn’t control my temper, Isabel. I lost it. I went looking for Ramon and I threatened him.” His face reddens slightly in embarrassment. “He didn’t take my threat seriously and when he threw it back in my face, I lost it. I just kept hitting him. Over and over.”

The only thing I’ve ever seen Max hit is the trash can behind our house. I almost don’t want to believe his story, like maybe he’s making it up to take the edge off what Michael has done. But then I remember Max’s state of mind when he first went to Chicago – he wasn’t the most stable person in the world. In fact, he’d been a zombie for five years. It’s possible that the first emotion he allowed himself to feel was anger and he just couldn’t control it.

“What happened?” I ask, my voice sounding small. I’m praying so much that he didn’t kill that man.

“He lived,” he says quietly. “Then he was deported.”

“Deported?”

One corner of his mouth quirks up in an ironic smile. “He was an illegal alien.”

I stare at him incredulously.

He waves off the subject. “My point is that I understand that kind of rage. Someone hurt Maria – I had to do something about it. Someone hurt you, Michael must have felt compelled to retaliate as well.”

Yeah, but at the time, Max was in love with Maria and denying it.

“You’re dehydrated,” Max says as he rises from the couch and goes to the refrigerator.

I watch him cross the room and muse on how confidently he carries himself these days. Not so long ago, he seemed stooped, hollow in the middle, like someone had yanked all of the stuffing out of him. Now his back is ram-rod straight, his shoulders back and his chin up. The transformation in Max is incredible.

“I can heal wounds, but I can’t create fluids out of thin air,” he explains lightly as he pulls out a bottle of Gatorade and returns with it, holding it out to me.

My stomach lurches. “Max, I can’t drink that.”

“You have to,” he says gently. “Your face is healed, but your body isn’t.” His eyes are sympathetic. “When was the last time you ate?”

I honestly don’t know the answer to that. Not today, I don’t think. Sometime yesterday, maybe.

Max gives a grunt of confirmation, then heads for the kitchen. Why is he so calm? His best friend is behind bars, his sister was disfigured and he’s going about doing what? Making soup? I can’t keep from scowling at him.

Then my eyes drift to the clock. It’s now one in the morning – three Chicago time.

“Max,” I say, pushing myself from the couch. The world gives a little spin and I work furiously to cover my lack of balance. “You must be exhausted. I can get myself something to eat.” Not that I feel like eating.

“Like I could sleep,” he mumbles to himself, then looks up as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar and gives a sheepish grin.

Aha – it is bothering him!

I sit down on one of the stools at the counter, my limbs shaky, my pulse thready. He’s right – I’m not quite up to snuff.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup?” Max asks.

I nod, my stomach both growling and clenching at the same time.

Like a reprimanding parent, he points a spatula at the Gatorade I left in the living room. “Drink that.”

I sit at the counter and watch him move about my kitchen, a place he’s never even seen before. His actions are methodical, like he’s on auto-pilot and I feel a surge of guilt that he’s here. If I hadn’t dated Robert, he wouldn’t have assaulted me. If he hadn’t assaulted me, Michael wouldn’t have hurt him. And if that hadn’t happened, then Max wouldn’t be a thousand miles away from his wife and kids.

How do we manage to get ourselves into these messes? How did I manage to get myself into this one?

“Max?”

“Hmm?”

“How did he sound?” I work my hands together on the countertop, my emotions threatening to take over.

Max turns from the stove. “Like I said, I didn’t talk to him for long. He used his one call to phone me.”

I frown slightly. He called Max, who was many states away, and not me, who was right around the corner, relatively speaking. I cover the pain of that so my brother can’t see that it bothers me. “What did he say? Is he hanging in there?”

Max gives a humored snort. “Iz, it’s not like being behind bars is anything new to Michael.”

He’s got a point there. And Michael has been out to Alcatraz at least a dozen times.

“He’s going to be fine.” More serious this time. “Tomorrow I’ll go down there, find out how much his bail is. I’ll get him out.”

What’s with all of this “I” stuff? “I’ll go with you,” I volunteer.

Max stops while stirring the soup, then lowers his gaze. “He doesn’t want you to.”

A feel a pain right beneath my breastbone and I can’t hide my reaction this time.

“He doesn’t want you to see him in there, Iz. Don’t take it personally.”

I let out a frustrated sigh and run my hand over my face. “Don’t take it personally? I’m the reason he’s there, Max. Because of me.” It’s too much and I let out a small sob. How unbecoming of a Princess of Antar.

Max reaches across the counter and rubs my arm.

“Just tell me one thing,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Why did he call you instead of me? Was it so that you could represent him?”

Max shakes his head. “No. I can’t represent anybody, let alone anybody in the state of California. I haven’t taken the bar yet.”

“Then why, Max?” I can’t wait to hear the explanation for this.

“Because he wanted me to take care of you.”

tbc