Demanding Ransom (14 page)

I step out of the car and slam the door back
into place louder than I mean to. “Mikey’s not fine. He has cancer, Dad.”

“Yes, he has cancer. But it could be a lot
worse.” Dad’s careful to close his door with delicate ease.

“Like there are many things worse than being an
eighteen-year-old guy with brain cancer.”

“There are
many
things worse.” Dad props the door open for me, but remains in the garage. “He
has a scan next week to see how things are progressing. His doctor is very
confident in this treatment plan.”

“That’s good,” I say, realizing even if my own
bubble has already been burst, it’s not fair to poke a hole in Dad’s. “See you
in the morning?”

“Yep. I’m off at 5:00. But you probably won’t
see me then.”

“No,” I smile, taking my overnight bag from his
hand. “Probably more like 10:00.”

Dad sweeps a light kiss on my cheek. “Night,
Maggie Girl. You know you can call any hour of the night if you’re stuck in a
situation with a guy you don’t like.” He gives me a fatherly look of worry
mixed with a hint of don’t-mess-with-my-daughter.

“Oh, it wasn’t like that, Dad.” Though
pretending Ran was trying to take advantage of me feels safer than admitting
what actually happened between us. “I just don’t like the guy.”

“Listen to your instincts. You’ve got a good
head on your shoulders.” He plants another kiss on the crown of my hair and
slips back into his car.

The house is dark and empty. Mikey’s over at
Sadie’s, the reason why I called upon Dad to rescue me. Mikey offered to get me
and said it was no big deal, but even though my own night with Ran didn’t go as
planned, who was I to interfere with other, less volatile relationships? Some
people deserve to be happy, and Mikey is definitely one of those people.

I trudge to my bedroom and toss my bag on the
hardwood. My bed is neatly made, Mikey’s returned ‘thank-you’ for doing his
laundry, I’m sure. I never make my bed, something Mom always nagged me about.
I’m sure her four newest children have perfectly washed, tucked, and smoothed
bedding covering their mattresses. I’m sure they live up to her ridiculous
expectations, because we’re coming up on year ten with them and as far as I can
tell, there’s no indication she’s planning to run any time soon.

Why do I
hate her so much?

I scold the unwelcome question from my brain,
mostly because I can’t form a coherent answer for it, and also because I hear
it spoken in Ran’s voice. His low, irritatingly controlled voice.

It’s not late, but the thought of living this
day for any more minutes than absolutely necessary feels unbearable. I slip on
my pajamas, head down the hall to brush my teeth, and scrub my face as hard as
I can without completely tearing at my skin. I wash away the mascara that raccoons
my eyes and splash cold water on my skin, over and over until the shock of the
temperature is more than I can handle.

When I slip into bed and roll to my side, the
side of the room without any windows that is bathed in darkness, Ran’s balloon
seizes my gaze. Without thinking, I bolt out of bed and rip it from the wall,
crumpling it between my fingers, focusing on the angry sound of crinkling foil
as I scrunch and tear at it. When I’m finally pleased with the new, lopsided,
twisted smirk that it now wears, rather than the unnaturally curled smile, I
toss it to the floor. Then I climb back in bed and pull covers over my head and
give up on the day.

“Damn it!” Mikey’s voice vibrates on the shared
wall that my headboard leans against. “Ahhhh!”

I pull the alarm clock I remembered to bring
home from the dorm off the nightstand and drop it down next to my face on the
pillow.
3:00 a.m.
The red glow of
numbers burns my eyes.

“Mikey?” I slide up and knock three times on my
wall with my index knuckle. “You alright in there?”

I hear the creak of Mikey abandoning his bed
and the resonance of his heavy feet across the hallway floor.

“Maggie?” He props the door open slightly. “Can
I come in?”

“No more bowls of vomit?”

He laughs and he looks different. Thinner, with
his smile stretched across his face more than usual. “No, I finished up that
round.”

He paces toward me and extends something small
and plastic my direction. “I need you to shoot me.”

“Geez, Mikey. I know things might be rough, but
suicide isn’t the answer.”

Mikey eases onto the corner of my bed. “You
know what I mean. And usually your sarcastic humor is endearing, but I don’t
really think suicide is something to joke about, Mags.”

Great. Now I’m getting reprimanded by my baby
brother. Can I do nothing right?

“I was supposed to do this earlier tonight, but
I’ve spent the past three hours trying and I just can’t to it. It seriously
freaks me out.”

I take the needle from his hand and pop the cap
off. “Where is it supposed to go?”

He lifts up his shirt. “In my
stomach—preferably in fat.”

“Mikey, you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.”
His abdominal muscles contract and he breathes in deep. Before the surgery and
chemo Mikey was incredibly built, and even though he still is, he has even less
extra weight wrapped over his muscular frame.

“Try to find some.”

I scan his stomach for a place to insert the
tip of the syringe, but I can’t find anything. Which actually makes me
relieved, because as I stare down at the needle, I notice it shaking like a
leaf between my fingers.

“Mikey, I don’t know what to do. There’s
nothing here.”

Mikey grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes
shut. “Come on, Maggie,” he pleads. “I have to be able to do this. Find
something.”

I look back at his ribs, at his waist, and have
no clue where to put this needle.

“What is this anyway?”

“Blood thinner.” Mikey’s words mumble because
he has his shirt scrunched up and is holding it under his chin. “Can we just
get this over with already?”

“I don’t think I can.” I hate admitting it,
because I can handle a lot of things. Stabbing my brother is not one of them.

“Do you know someone who can?”

***

“For future reference, you can inject in the
thigh or the back of the arm if there isn’t enough fatty tissue in the
stomach.” Ran rests his hand on Mikey’s leg and swiftly inserts the point of
the needle, pressing the liquid into it slowly. Mikey grimaces and his forehead
wrinkles.

“Breathe, Buddy.” Ran withdraws the syringe and
slaps Mikey on the shoulder, using it to push him up off the couch. “Not so
bad. You can handle this.” He directs the tip of the needle my way. “Just
pretend he’s a voodoo doll and this is just a needle. I’m sure you can think of
someone you’re angry enough with to summon the motivation necessary.”

“Whoa, what happened between you two?” Mikey
says, massaging the puncture spot on his thigh. His eyes flit back and forth.

“Nothing,” I sneer. Ran steps closer to me and
I catch a waft of his soapy smell. “Sorry to text so late.”

“Not a problem.” Ran places the syringe into a
clear canister on the breakfast bar. It looks so sterile and out of place next
to the decorative jars containing olive oils and dried pastas. “3:00 a.m.
texting seems to be our routine.”

“We don’t have a routine.” I walk toward the
front door, hoping he’ll take the hint and follow. Instead he drops his elbows
down on the surface behind him and crosses his ankles, making himself too comfortable
in my home.

“I’m going to bed.” Mikey lifts off of the
couch and heads down the hall. “Thanks for making the house call, man,” he says
as he shuffles away from us.

“Anytime,” Ran echoes back, but his eyes are
glued on mine. I try to intimidate him by making my own eyes nothing but angry
slivers on my face, but he just laughs. “You seriously hate me that much,
Maggie? Because I don’t think you do. I think if you hated me as much as you
pretend, you wouldn’t have texted me asking for help.”

“Mikey needed medical attention.”

“And there are hospitals that provide that.” He
takes a step toward me and I mirror him with one over-emphasized step back.

“He spent all day in a hospital yesterday. I
didn’t want him to have to go back there just for this.”

Ran nods. “So tomorrow, when he needs another
injection, are you going to text me again? Or are you going to suck it up and
do it.”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be indebted to you
for anything.” I break our mini stare-down and turn away to take up position on
the couch. It’s obvious Ran doesn’t plan on leaving any time soon. “I can learn
to do something that makes me uncomfortable if it helps Mikey heal.”

“That’s a very mature statement.” Ran plops
down right next to me, even though there’s an entire empty couch just to the
left.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” He thumbs his chin with the pad of
his finger. “I think you should extend that same selflessness your own
direction. Do something that makes you uncomfortable for the sake of your own
healing.”

“What is your obsession with me forgiving my
mother all about?” I throw my words out at him, but he doesn’t flinch like I
hope he would.

“It’s not an obsession. It’s a wish. I wish you
could experience how good it feels to forgive someone who has wronged you.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, Pastor Ran. Thank you
for that thought-provoking sermon.”

“Hey, I’m preaching to the choir here,
alright?” Ran slides closer to me and our 2,500 square foot house never felt so
confining. “You think I don’t know how hard it is to forgive?” His brow is so
tight over his eyes I almost can’t see them, like they’re tucked in the hollow
shadow created there. “Damn it, Maggie. My biological parents were teenage drug
addicts. For the four years they had me, they would drag me to run-down
crack-houses and lock me in a filthy room with a TV blaring late night
television while they got high in some other part of the house.” My hands feel
numb and I ball them up in fists to try to bring some sort of sensation back to
them. “So if you think needles don’t bother me, too, you’re wrong.” I trap in
all of my breath as he continues. “I used to play with their used up syringes,
Maggie. I’d inject my stuffed animals and would pretend that it was some kind
of magic potion I was shooting them up with, not the narcotics that turned my
parents into lost, nervous shells of people.” A single tear skates down Ran’s
cheekbone and I want nothing more than to wipe it away. To erase its marring
smear from existence on his tortured face. But I don’t have the right to touch
him. “I hated them for what they did to me. But then I realized it’s all they
knew. That for as much hurt as they caused me, they were hurting even more
under the surface. Even if their constant state of hallucinations would always
hinder them from ever seeing that reality.”

“Ran, I’m sorry—” I breathe.

“Don’t be. I have a great life, Maggie.”

My shoulders sag. “Ran, your mom is dead, your
dad has Alzheimer’s, and your biological parents were druggies.”

Ran continues to stare up at the ceiling and
his face doesn’t change. “Like I said, I have a great life.” He sweeps the back
of his hand across his cheek and there’s now no proof the tear was ever there.
“I have more people than I can count that love and support me. I had fifteen
years with my adoptive mom. I was able to share twelve lucid years with my
adoptive dad. I have great friends and amazing coworkers. I have love in my
life.”

“But how can you feel loved when the very
people who brought you into this world obviously didn’t love you?” I ask, heartbroken
over the thought of a little boy completely tossed aside by his parents. It
reminds me of another child I know that was abandoned by someone who, by
default, should have loved her, too.

“There are certain things in life that everyone
has a right to, Maggie. Being loved is one of those rights. If someone—or
some circumstance—has taken that from you, you can’t just wait for it to
come back,” Ran says, his voice calm, like the truth he’s speaking keeps him
steady and assured. “You can’t even ask for it. You have to demand it. You have
every right to.”

I swallow back the deluge of tears that
threaten. “Your parents were awful.”

“You’re absolutely right, they were. They were
horrible.” Ran drops his head onto the pillowed back of the couch and the hazy
stream of light from the streetlamp outside the window curves over his
features. He’s beautiful. I never realized that being broken could be
beautiful. It never made me feel beautiful. “They sucked as parents, Maggie.
Hell, they sucked as human beings. Forgiving them doesn’t mean I don’t still
think they’re awful. It doesn’t excuse them from that.”

“Then what’s the point?” I slip my head onto
the couch too. “What’s the point in forgiving them if it doesn’t change
anything?”

 
“Because it changed me.
I
don’t feel awful anymore. Yeah, maybe
they were horrible, screwed up junkies, but at least I’m not a screwed up man
that’s unable to love because I harbor so much hatred in my heart there’s not
any room for love to exist.”