Necessary Heartbreak (30 page)

Chuck could always do that to the kids. His big smile and gracious demeanor endeared him to the youngsters. “I'll be with you guys in a second,” he shouted.

He sat down next to Michael. “Hey, how's everything?”

“Just wonderful.”

“I'm guessing things aren't wonderful.”

“You guess right.”

Chuck squirmed unconsciously before changing course. “Hey, I thought you were going to the club in the Rockaways to meet my sister last night.”

Michael looked skyward. “Oh, God . . . I forgot.”

Chuck's sister, Jeanette, was the cutest thing in the neighborhood. She loved sports and was one of the few girls on the block who was close to Michael's age. He had liked Jeanette for a long time but could never muster up the nerve to ask her out. But when she finally sent him a cryptic message to meet her at a club, he had blown it.

“She's a little confused,” Chuck said. “My sister waited for you.”

Michael took a deep breath. He picked up a rock from the grassless garden behind him and flung it across the street. “I'm sorry. I couldn't do anything about it. I feel terrible.”

“What happened?”

“My mom.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. She went back to the hospital last night. My father brought her home this morning.”

“How is she?”

Michael shook his head.

Before Chuck could respond, the screen door behind them slammed. “Michael, go upstairs and spend some time with your mother for a while,” his father ordered.

“Got to go, Chuck.”

“I'll be around if you need to talk. Let me know if you need anything.”

Michael gave his friend a playful pat on the shoulder before scurrying up the peeling, wooden steps. He walked gingerly into the house and even more cautiously up the stairs to the second floor.

He cracked the door and peered in to see if his mom was awake. Rebecca was silent, lying on her back. Michael moved a few steps closer and settled his body near the windowsill, watching her, wondering what had happened in such a short time.

He knew she had a beautiful heart—he knew this with absolute certainty—but as she lay motionless in front of him, that seemed to be the only thing about her that had remained untouched. Trying not to disturb her, Michael walked quietly over to her bed. Who would have expected that it would be this quick? Drawing nearer, he rested his hand on her knee for a moment before recoiling in horror. Through the heavy blankets, he could only feel bone—no muscle, no fat, no softness—just bone.

He wondered where all her beauty had gone. The thick brown hair that was her trademark was gone, replaced now with bare skin and clusters of radiation burns by her brow. Her once muscular arms were withered and small. Worst of all were her eyes. Those luminous hazel eyes were dull, her eyesight nearly gone. His sister Sam had said that she might recover her sight, but staring down at her now, he knew that was just wishful thinking.

She was still sleeping, and for a moment Michael considered how easy it would be to leave undetected. This wasn't what he wanted.
Watching her waste away ripped his insides apart. But something pulled him closer to her and he sat gently at the foot of her bed. Michael cleared his throat quietly, so as not to startle her. Leaning down, he whispered into her ear, “Mom, I'm here. It's Mike.”

His mother opened her eyes, a faint smile registering across her face.

He began again. “Hey, what happened here? You were walking around just two weeks ago.”

“God is asking me to leave, Michael,” she said softly, before he could finish.

“No. No, I prayed, Mom. I asked God to stop the sickness. Every night I did. It's not time. You just have to keep going, keep fighting. This is only your fifth inning. We've got more baseball games to go to . . . this isn't the end.”

“Mike, I wish it were up to me now. You know—”

“Mom, who am I going to go to baseball games with?” His voice trailed off the instant he felt a wet tear spill onto his cheek.

“I don't have the strength anymore.”

He couldn't stand her talking like this: resolved, giving up. He stood up abruptly, walking over to the St. Jude statue she kept on her bureau. He wanted to break it in half.

I can't believe I didn't see this coming.
“Is this the way God wants you to leave, Mom? Look at what he has allowed to happen.”

“A lot happened in this house, didn't it? I'm sorry, Michael.”

Michael glanced back over his shoulder at her, his eyes catching the cross hanging over her bed. “We have to do something. We've got to get you back to the hospital. Now.” He walked over to her, reaching down to lift her up.

Rebecca started to groan. Her face tightened as Michael wedged his hands under her legs. “Michael, no . . . no . . . no . . . Please don't. I'm in so much pain. Please.”

He fell to his knees beside her, his head coming to rest on the edge of the bed. He could feel her fingers straining to touch his hair. He lowered his head slightly so she could reach him, but then heard her
soft sobs. He lifted his head to look into her eyes, seeing the tears that dripped to the sides of her cheeks. He reached for a tissue on the nightstand to wipe them away.

“Mom, I really need you to stay. You have to fight. I need you here.”

Michael touched her thin fingers. He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Mom, I've got to do something, I just can't sit here and watch you die like this.”

Rebecca's sobs grew more defined.

“Oh, Mom, I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry for doing this to you.”

He looked at his mother in amazement, before closing his eyes and bringing his head down close to hers so that their foreheads met. “Why are you sorry? Why? You have nothing to be sorry about.”

Rebecca moaned and jerked her head sideways.

“What's wrong, Mom?”

“The pain, Michael . . . the pain . . . it's so bad . . . please do something . . . please . . .”

“What? What can I do?”

“Take the pillow, Michael . . .”

“Do you want me to put another under your head? Under your feet?” he asked as he grabbed a pillow from the far end of the bed.

“No. No. Please end my pain.” Rebecca squirmed. Her ravaged face tightened as another wave of pain engulfed her fragile frame.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Put the pillow over my face and hold me.”

“What?”

She groaned again. “I can't take this anymore. Please do it.”

Michael stood up, horrified. “I can't. Let me take you to the hospital, get you some painkillers.”

“No. No, please, no more hospitals.”

Rebecca thrust her hand out toward him, struggling to find him. Losing strength, Michael crumpled down beside her, taking her hand gingerly into his own.

“Please, Michael, let me go to God without any more pain.”

“God, Mom. Why don't you ask Dad? I can't . . .”

“He would never do it. Oh, please, I can't bear this anymore.” She squeezed his hand in a halfhearted attempt to underscore her feelings.

“Oh, Mom, I don't want you to be in pain anymore but . . .”

“Hold me when you do it. I'll go straight from your hands to God's.”

He leaned again near her left ear. “I love you, Mom. You'll see, someday we'll be together in heaven. We'll both be there with Jesus.”

Michael stood up. He looked down and memories of his mother flooded his mind: her gleaming smile that outshone his beautiful red bike that Christmas morning, her favorite chocolate-crunch bars she filled their Easter baskets with, his surprise and complete delight at hearing her guttural cheer when Billy Martin returned to the Yankees on Old-Timers' Day, her peaceful countenance that greeted him when he stepped off the stage at his Molloy High School graduation, and the colorful birthday cakes she baked for him the first of each March.

His body trembled and shook. He held the pillow in both hands and tried to compose himself. He watched as his mom fended off another round of piercing pain. Michael buried his face in the pillow to silence his sobs.

He removed the pillow from his face to look at her. He edged forward. As he lowered his arms, the door flung open.

His father stopped abruptly, scowling at him. “What are you doing?”

Michael was unable to speak. His father ran at him, and he suddenly relaxed, allowing himself to be pushed against the wall.

“What were you doing!?” his father demanded.

Michael dropped the pillow and pushed his father away. “I was trying to help her. She's in a lot of pain.”

His father spoke in a hushed, direct tone. “You don't think I know that? Don't you think I'm trying my best here?”

Rebecca moaned. His father instinctively dropped his grip from Michael's arm and moved quickly to her side.

“Please, Jim, I'm in so much pain,” she whimpered.

“Okay, honey, we'll get you back to the hospital.”

With the receiver to his ear, Michael was already dialing 9 on the rotary phone.

The throbbing in his head mimicked the rhythmic beat of a phone dial, reminding him first of those late mornings after a night spent at one of the university bars. But the smell of death was what fully roused him. Rolling onto his back, Michael found himself in the shadow of a tree, his lungs heavy with dust. Unsure of himself, he looked around slowly trying to remember where he was.

The distant sound of crickets chirping their love song across the mountainside was his only response. The sound seemed to sear through his skull, resonating far too deeply in his ears. He winced as his fingers found the raised bump on the back of his head.

Then he broke from his reverie, finally remembering the circumstances of his meeting with Judas. Michael struggled to sit up. He tried to take a deep breath, but a spasm of dry coughs overwhelmed him. The full moon cast a perplexing shadow on the ground before him. Looking up, he immediately recognized the limp, motionless body of Judas, suspended from a tree branch, his head hanging at a grotesque angle.

“Oh, Lord, no,” he moaned.

Michael stumbled to his feet, tripping twice on the rocky ground. He felt drawn to Judas, but as he neared, his body seemed to slow in reverence. “Why did you do it?” he pleaded, now standing close enough to touch Judas' bare foot. “Why? We could have stopped this.”

Michael stepped back from the body, trying to determine how to get Judas down. He felt repulsed by the body, yet somehow obligated to help him. The torn cloth he was hanging from had been thrown over the branch, its ends tied to form the noose. Michael would only
be able to get the body down if he either cut the rope or untied the knot from around Judas' neck. The former seemed implausible, the latter, inexcusable. He looked on the ground around him for something sharp. About ten feet away, his eyes noticed the open bag of coins, gleaming like knives in the moonlight.

He heard a commotion from the top of the hill and saw the outline of a group of seven or eight men in the distance. Michael staggered toward the coins, as if to hide the evidence of his friend's betrayal. He grabbed at the bag, but the pouch had split along its seam, allowing coins to scatter on the ground below.

“Is that him?” he heard a man shout.

“I don't know,” cried another. “It's too dark to see.”

A stone whizzed by Michael's head, striking a branch behind him, cracking the night's silence. He wrapped the bag in his hands, holding it tightly as he ran up a short, steep hill. At the top, he hid behind the craggy trunk of a towering tree. He watched as the men gathered under the dangling corpse.

“Why did you do it?” howled one man, jabbing awkwardly at Judas' leg like a boxer before a punching bag. “You didn't have to do it! Why? Why? God have pity on you . . . on all of us!” Another from the group moved closer, pinning the man's arms behind him.

Michael watched, eyes brimming with tears. Unconsciously, he leaned his head against the tree for support. As he did this, he caught their attention.

“Look! Somebody's up there.” The man pointed toward Michael.

“Leave him be,” said another.

Michael started backing up, carefully keeping his frame behind the tree, tightening his grip on the pouch of money.

“I'm going to get him,” the man said in reply. He started to sprint up the hill.

Michael turned on one foot, running off blindly into the night. He moved like a wild beast, thrashing through whatever lay in his path. He looped back, down past the far wall of the garden, and once
again onto the serpentine streets within the city walls. He kept one eye out for danger, but the other for someone else: the bald man.

I'll just give the money back
, he thought again and again.