Becoming Michael

Light streaming through the stained glass windows painted rich blues and reds on the backs of seven white-robed men, lying prostrate, face-down on the marble cathedral floor.  The archbishop’s voice resonated under the gothic arches as he bellowed out prayers from the ordination rite. He didn’t notice that one of the seven had begun to tremble like a sobbing child.

Michael Gordon’s muscles knotted in an attempt to gain control over his lanky body, trying not to move during this solemn moment in his life.  Over and over, he repeated to himself: don’t panic…don’t panic.  His mind whirled like a carousel out of control.  These attacks that sometimes led to a dead faint had plagued him since he was thirteen, the day he was raped.  Instead of telling someone, he tried to cope, ashamed, afraid…and alone. 

However, he discovered one way to muddle through his churning frenzy.  That was to immerse himself in a favorite memory. And that’s what he resorted to now.

                      *                      *                         *

His mind traveled back twelve years.  Though spring was putting a smile on the winter weary in New England, the mood was somber in the Gordon household.  Several months before, twelve-year old Megan, trying out her new Christmas ice-skates with her best friend, Dena, had broken through the ice and drowned.  Dena, swamped in grief, turned to Megan’s brother Michael, a year older, for solace.  She poured out her heart to him and he to her, talking, crying and sharing memories of Megan. This mutual support group of two continued for months, until one special night. 

The purple shadows of dusk had just dissolved to make way for the night sounds of crickets and an occasional frog.  Dena and Michael, seated in the wicker chairs on the Gordon’s front porch, were conversing in clenched tones about what Megan meant to them for the millionth time. Emotionally spent, they stopped talking and listened to the soothing night sounds. 

A drawn-out sigh came from Dena. “It’s late. I must be going, Michael. When am I ever going to stop crying?  How do you put up with me?”  Dena stood, rubbing away a tear with the back of her hand.

Michael rose from his chair.  “Hey, I don’t mind. I feel…this may sound dumb…that, well, you’re kinda like filling the empty space Megan left.”

“Not dumb.  Makes me feel good.”  She shivered slightly.  “Kinda eerie, though.”

“You’re cold.  Want my sweater?”  He watched her shake her head.  “How about if I walk you home?”

“I’m a big girl, Michael.  Seventh grade, remember?”  She tilted her head toward the moonlit sky.

But Michael didn’t look at the moon.  He was studying its reflection on Dena’s freckled face and how it filtered through her red hair.  Strange, he thought, I’ve never really looked at her before.  She’s always just been there, a human fixture like family.

Dena moved closer, waiting for him to say something.  With the palm of her hand, she pressed an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt.  Then her eyes met his.  Nervous, she emitted a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a giggle.

He searched the silence for words and then filled the void with a cough.  Her eyes were an emerald green, he noticed.

She watched, amazed, as Michael moved as quickly as his bad foot allowed, down the porch steps and onto the lawn.  He plucked a dandelion and was soon back, placing it in her hair.

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