Only Alien on the Planet (21 page)

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

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

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

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

“Don't have one,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think you are,” she said quietly.

“
You
think,” he said.

“Smitty—” she said.

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

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

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

She folded her arms.

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

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

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

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

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

He turned his face away from her.

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

“No,” he said. “I'll
deal
.”

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

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

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

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

I huddled quietly on the chair.

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

“I didn't ask,” I said quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” He blinked up at me.

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

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

That, also, I could do.

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

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

Michael was silent.

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

“I had drugs,” Michael said.

“How's that drip?” she asked.

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

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

“Yes,” he said.

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

There was a silence. “No,” he said.

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

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

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

“Stay,” Michael said.

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

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

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

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

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

Michael shifted himself on the bed, but said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then go.”

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

“Let him?” Michael asked.

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

He made no answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded. This had taken me totally by surprise.

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

“Virginia,” I answered, realizing only later that I'd given him my distance name. The doctor had warned us in the beginning; all the Russell stories, all that information had been based on Smitty's perceptions of reality. Smitty's maybe-not-so-objective perceptions. This person was not the person I had expected.

“I didn't know Smitty had such pretty friends,” Russell said. He looked down at Michael and patted his knee, affectionately. “It's been a long time since I've seen my old buddy, here. Long time. Too bad about this.” He looked around the room. “It could be worse though, couldn't it.”

Michael's breathing had gone pinched. He definitely wasn't as good as he used to be at setting his face in stone.

“Well,” Russell said. “I'm glad you're here. I've always wanted the best for you. It's time you let somebody take care of you.”

“I should go tell them you're here,” I said.

He smiled at me. “Sure,” he said. But I didn't go. I didn't like to leave Michael.

Russell leaned over and he picked up Michael's hand. “I just thought I'd pop in here before the family stuff starts. I just wanted to tell you, I've got a job offer—they tell you that? A good one. My little Christine, she's excited about that. It's real important to me. It'll take me out of state, and I'll probably never see you again, old Schmitt, sad as that seems. Be outta your hair.”

It was only then that I saw what he was doing to Michael's hand. It was the odd angle that caught my eye, and when I looked closer, I could see the white marks around the places where Russell's fingers were pressed. When I saw it, I knew he'd taken me for a
ride, just like he'd done everybody else, all those years. I felt like I'd betrayed my friend in those few moments, and now a terrible rage washed through me.

“Don't,” I nearly shouted, and before I knew what I was doing, I'd moved forward, threatening.

Russell looked up at me, innocent surprise on his face. He released Michael's hand, looking oh-so reasonable and kind of hurt. But now I could see right through it. “I'm sorry,” he said as though he couldn't understand why I had taken offense. “I just thought he'd want to get caught up.” He patted Michael's hand briefly. “Don't forget,” he said. “I love you, Smitty-boy. I just hate to think what could happen to you in here.” And then he left the room.

I collapsed back against the wall. I was flushed hot with guilt. I hadn't even heard the monitors screaming at me. I pushed away from the wall and leaned over Michael who was lying there as if he were dead.

“That is
exactly
what I mean,” I hissed. “Why did you let him do that? Why didn't you just
rip
your hand away from him.
Look
at you. Why don't you just
hit
him?
I
would. Before I let anybody do this to me, I'd hit him with a
chair.
”

His jaw went rigid. The truth was, I was angry at him because I'd just stood there and let it happen. “You're worth more than this,” I told him. “You're a hundred times the human being he is. And you're not helping him out any, letting him think he's God.” I clamped my teeth shut and pushed air out through them.

Michael was breathing hard, but he didn't say a thing.