Mike passes the TV room again. He sees Deirdre. Is she blond? Hard to tell. She doesn’t have much hair, and the intermittent light from the TV gives him only strobelike glimpses. Someone is sitting next to her.
Mike stops.
He can’t move.
It’s a boy, Mike thinks. He sees short hair, sideburns… an Adam’s apple.
You’re seeing it wrong. It’s a girl who looks like a boy.
I can’t move, Mike thinks. I’ve turned to stone, like in Clash of the Titans, when Perseus’s men look at Medusa—
You are not stone. You are living and breathing.
It’s like I’m stuck between frames in a movie.
You can move. Just put one foot in front of the other. It’s only a trick of the light.
CHAPTER 22
OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL, EVERY STEP IS A STRUGGLE. Mike moves painfully slowly, sometimes stopping just to stare at a—what? A squashed leaf, an ancient cocker spaniel trudging along, a crack in the sidewalk.
There’s the Q33 bus. Get on the bus.
Mike has to be led by the hand like a child, so to speak. He stands the whole ride home even though there are plenty of seats. He stoops over and looks out the window at the darkening sky—it gets dark early now. He starts thinking about another one of Harryhausen’s movies, The 7th Voyage of Sinbad. For once I don’t think this is a bad idea. Maybe it’ll calm him down. He remembers the part where Sinbad fights a skeleton. But it reminds him of that girl, Deirdre. He thinks, She’s practically a skeleton; she could end up like the skeleton in that movie, a pile of broken bones.
Don’t let some silly movie upset you. When you get home, go straight to your room, turn on some music, work out.
To my relief, this is exactly what he does—150 crunches, 100 push-ups.
You are becoming infinitely strong.
Mike is sure, now, that he saw a girl at the hospital, a girl who only looked like a boy. That kind of mistake happens all the time.
With some effort, Mike is himself again.
His mom knocks on his door. Quickly Mike puts on a T-shirt and then lets her in.
Mom: “Could you turn the music down, please? The walls are shaking.”
Mike turns it down.
Mom: “Have you had dinner?”
Mike: “I ate in the hospital cafeteria.”
Mom (clearly not believing him but asking anyway): “What’d you have?”
Mike: “Grilled cheese and fries.” He’s memorized what to say by now. He has whole menus in his head.
Mom: “You’re having lunch with your father on Saturday.”
Mike: “What? Why?”
Mom: “He’s your father.”
Mike: “So?”
Mom: “It’s been a long time. He wants to see you.”
No one’s asking if you want to see him.
Mom: “He’ll meet you at a Chinese restaurant. I wrote down the address.”
Mike: “What’s the name of it?”
Mom: “I don’t think he told me—just that it’s on the corner of Belle Terrace and Seventy-Fourth Lane.”
Mike: “Mom, I need the name.”
Mom: “Why?”
So Mike can look up the menu online and see what he can eat, that’s why. He doesn’t tell her that, though.
Mom: “Well, I don’t think your father knows the name.”
Mike: “That’s so stupid.”
Mom: “You’ll find it. How hard can it be?”
Impossible, it turns out. Mike takes a bus to Belle Terrace and Seventy-Fourth Court, a block from Seventy-Fourth Lane. It’s across from the expressway, and there aren’t any restaurants, just fruit stands and depressing, down-on-their-luck stores. One place has mannequins with missing arms. Mike is feeling grumpy anyway because he fell asleep at dawn and woke up too late to go for a run.
A Chinese woman is staring at him. Mike knows what she’s thinking: That boy didn’t run today. He’s so lazy.
Mike thinks, It’s not my fault I have to meet my idiot father for lunch.
Mike (to the Chinese woman): “Stop staring at me!”
The Chinese woman looks at him blankly. Maybe she doesn’t understand English. Or maybe she’s only pretending not to.
Man’s voice (behind Mike): “Mike, is that you?”
Mike turns around. It’s his dad.
Dad: “I can’t believe it.”
Mike can’t believe it, either. His dad has a potbelly. He’s let himself get completely out of shape since the breakup.
Dad (barely above a whisper): “Your mother was right.”
Mike: “Right about what?”
Dad: [nothing]
Mike: “So anyway, where’s this restaurant?”
Dad (numbly, like he’s in shock): “On the other side.”
He means the other side of the expressway. What’s his problem? He wanted to have lunch with Mike. Mike didn’t want to have lunch with him.
The restaurant is large and noisy. Mike and his dad sit at a table in the corner, and a waitress hands them enormous menus.
Dad: “Let me order. I know what’s good here.”
Mike: “That’s okay.”
Dad: “You used to love sweet-and-sour chicken.”
Well, things change.
Dad: “Can I get you the chicken?”
Mike: “No. I’ll have steamed broccoli.”
Dad: “That’s hardly a meal.”
Mike: “It’s what I want.”
Dad: “We can go to Luncheonette after. I know you love the rice pudding there.”
Mike: “No, thanks.” Mike’s had enough rice pudding to last him the rest of his life.
They order. His dad gets the sweet-and-sour chicken.
Dad: “I hope you’ll have some.”
The food comes so fast, it’s surprising they had time to cook it. Mike takes the first of five bites of broccoli. That Chinese woman should see him now. His discipline, his self-control.
Dad: “I wanted to tell you. I’ve got a girlfriend.”
Mike: “You’re back with Laura?” Mike is fairly certain this is not what his dad meant, but he says it anyway.
Dad: “Terry is 18"ဆnot like Laura.”
Mike: “Is she younger?”
Dad: “Terry’s older than I am. Not supermodel gorgeous, but attractive.”
She’s fat, in other words.
His dad says something about where Terry works. It sounds like she controls the city.
Mike: “What?”
Dad (more clearly): “Terry works for the city comptroller. That’s the treasurer’s office. They keep track of the money.” Pause. “Your finger’s bleeding.”
Mike thinks, How many months has it been since I cut my finger?
Don’t worry about it.
The clean white napkin in Mike’s lap, the one holding most of the broccoli, now has several glistening drops on it, vivid and bright red. Mike thinks, Harryhausen was always careful to make his movie blood look real, but this blood looks fake.
Dad: “Try the chicken.”
Mike: “No.”
Dad: “Please. For me.”
Mike looks at the chicken, orange and shiny. It looks fake, too.
Dad: “Just one bite?” He puts a piece on Mike’s plate.
Mike lifts a fork to stab it. But he can’t do it.
Dad: “What’s wrong?”
Mike: “I can’t.”
Dad: “Can’t—or won’t?”
Mike is almost in tears. What’s the matter with me? he thinks. It’s like something else is controlling me. Is it my dad’s new girlfriend, the controller of the city?
Dad: “Never mind. It’s okay.”
Mike thinks, It’s not okay. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not in control.