was very real and, based upon her last act of rebellion, insurmountable. Michael blinked and then looked into his own eyes and realized he could very well wind up the same way.
Gotta say it out loud, his grandpa said. Gotta stand up for yourself, Mr. Alfano said. The words formed in his brain but got caught in his throat. Try again. No use. He pursed his lips as his chest tightened and he clenched his fists. Swiping the air, his fist stopped inches from the glass. Just say the words, get it out, don’t be like your mother. “I’m gay.”
He relaxed. His mind, his heart, his entire body, grateful. For unlike his mother’s, his burden, while not completely erased, had definitely been lessened.
chapter 4
The voice belonged to a little boy. Michael couldn’t see him, but the voice was everywhere; it surrounded him. The boy was reciting a poem in a singsong voice. “One drop, two drops, three drops, four.” Drops of what? Water, probably, but maybe sweat? Blood? The voice continued. “Floodgates open, the waters pour.” Yes, water. Of course, that’s why they came here, to the ocean, to feel the waves, rough, tall, and imposing, crash on the beach to create giant arcs of spray and long horizontal lines of bubbly foam. Michael thought it looked strong, majestic, exactly the way he felt. There was not a boat or a cloud in view. He turned around and he could see that no one was on the beach except them. The voice was gone, it had done its job, it had led them here. Now the ocean was theirs and they were going to take it.
Michael walked into the water, the foam mingling with his feet, then a little farther, his ankles submerged. He turned to the dark-haired boy and beckoned him to join him. His companion looked nothing like R.J. or Phineas; he resembled Tomas—yes, that was the kid’s name—in that his body was muscular, but his skin was much, much paler. His name didn’t matter. He was beautiful and he wanted to swim next to Michael.
Together they ran into the ocean and at mere seconds apart dove into the crest of a wave just before it was about to collapse. They emerged next to each other as if even underwater with their eyes closed, they couldn’t be separated. Their bodies now embraced, the sun making their skin glisten, drops of water desperately hanging on to their smiling faces, unwilling to let go and return to the ocean. It was so much better to be a part of them than to be watching from the sidelines.
Michael looked into this nameless boy’s eyes and he allowed his fingers the freedom to caress his scalp, feel the curve. He had never done anything like that before and it felt wonderful. What felt even better was when he wrapped his right ankle around the boy’s left calf, entwining their legs so that their bodies were pushed even closer together. The boy mimicked Michael’s actions so his fingers cradled Michael’s head and his other leg intertwined with Michael’s. They were wrapped together, floating beyond the waves in the calmer part of the ocean, completely alone. The only thing left for them to do was to kiss.
Tilting his head gently to the right, Michael felt their noses touch. The boy’s hand moved from the back of his head until his fingers found Michael’s ear. That feels good, he thought, and so he did the same thing. Then tentatively, their lips met. Unsure, in unfamiliar territory, they remained there for a moment, motionless. And then their instinct directed them and their lips moved, they kissed softly, tenderly, and Michael almost cried because it felt like the most natural, the most normal thing in the world. Until he saw his mother.
Grace was on the beach staring at them, the straitjacket unbuckled and hanging loose from her shoulders. Underneath she wore a white hospital gown and she was dripping wet. Her hair, her clothes, soaked. But soaked in blood.
The boy stood in front of Michael, trying to cover his face from this apparition, but it was no use. Even if he closed his eyes, he could still see her blood-drenched body. Instead, Michael found the strength to stand in front of the boy to protect him, shield him from this grotesque vision. His mother raised her arms, and the blood from her wrists spilled out into the ocean, staining its beauty with her infection. A stream of her blood traveled toward Michael and when it reached him, when his mother’s blood touched his body, he could feel its warmth. But it was hardly comforting. “Leave me alone!” Michael shouted.
Astonished by her son’s cruelty, Grace fell to her knees, the blood discoloring the sand, and she let her wrists, outstretched, fall upon her thighs, and she stared at them. “But I’m so ashamed.” Her voice was just a whisper, but Michael heard her clearly. And then she looked at her son. “Just like you.”
Michael splashed cold water on his face. Shake it off, it was only a dream. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. If that was the truth, then why did Michael avoid looking at himself in the mirror?
On his way back to his bedroom he paused. He recognized that voice instantly even though he only heard it once or twice a year on the phone on Christmas and a few days after his birthday had passed. He assumed his father would make the trip from London or from whatever country he happened to be working in this week, but he never imagined he would make the trip so quickly. Michael thought he would have a few more days to prepare for this reunion, so he took a moment to collect himself before descending the stairs. He didn’t feel guilty about making his father wait. Why should he? This would be the first time Vaughan Howard had ever set foot on Nebraskan soil.
Several times during his childhood, Michael’s father promised to come visit him, but each time something more pressing arose. Usually something to do with work that prohibited him from flying out to see his son. At first Michael was upset, but like so many children of divorced parents, Michael had grown accustomed to his father’s empty promises and knew that each proclamation, no matter how passionate or sincere, would be dismissed. He learned quickly that he was not an important aspect in his father’s life. And so he made the same adjustment.
That’s not how Vaughan intended it to be, however. He had intended to be a very good father, but it was evident shortly after Michael’s birth that Grace would not allow it. She was obsessed with being the sole parent and convinced that she was the only one who could provide for Michael and comfort him. When Vaughan tried to play his part, when he tried to take over his share of the responsibilities, Grace grew even more unstable. She claimed he didn’t know how to handle a child. He didn’t know how to bathe him or feed him or rock him to sleep. He played too roughly, he sang lullabies too loudly, he did nothing right, and soon Vaughan, even though he knew she was wrong, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to prove her accusations false.
Unfortunately, Grace wasn’t entirely wrong. There were things in Vaughan’s past that she did not discover until after she became pregnant that made her question her husband’s ability to be a good father, things that he would have preferred be kept secret. And there were things that she knew he wanted to do with his future that made her certain he would not be an acceptable parent. So although she loved him, she took her son and fled London to return to her hometown, to a place that she believed would be their safe haven.
After Grace and Michael left, Vaughan selfishly thought he would remarry and have another baby, but that never came to pass and Michael remained his only child. For years he settled in the knowledge that he simply brought another human being into this world and did not steer or navigate him through life. Now all that had changed. Grace had taken his son away from him and now Grace was giving him back. For many reasons, he was overjoyed.
Blunt as always, Grandpa made the announcement before Michael could even introduce himself to his father. “Your father’s come to take you back home.”
The first thing Michael noticed was how youthful he looked in comparison to his mother. His eyes were bright and alert despite being as black as midnight, and his skin was smooth and flushed where his mother’s was lined and ashen. Looking at Vaughan, it was clear to Michael that none of the demons that ravaged his mother’s beauty ever visited his father.
When Michael spoke, the only word that came out of his mouth was “hello.”
“Hullo, son,” Vaughan said, his British accent sounding out of place amid the Midwestern decor. “It’s so good to see you.”
Before Michael could brace himself, Vaughan hugged him. It felt awkward. Michael could feel his father’s hesitation, his arms filled with insecurity, and to make matters worse, Michael didn’t have much experience in making physical connections, so he hugged him back with the same lack of confidence. But when his father stepped back, Michael peered into his face once again and some of the anxiety he felt was soothed; he really did resemble his father. And the similarity served as some kind of anchor.
“You want something to drink?” Grandpa asked. “A beer?”
