“I’m not going to let you do that.”
Judas slapped at Michael’s hand, but caught him instead on the cheek and freed himself. Michael fell back, bewildered. “Leave me. Be my friend or become my last enemy.” Judas continued on, stopping under the tree, its gnarled branches arching over them. He started to reach up with the torn piece from his robe. Michael raced over and tackled him to the ground.
“Even your life is important.”
The two wrestled in the dirt, each struggling to gain an advantage. Finally, Michael pinned his knee on Judas’ chest.
Judas looked up at him, pleading, “Please, go. You know you will lose your life.”
A loud noise in the distance startled them. Michael rolled off as they both looked toward the commotion, listening intently.
Judas pulled himself up on his elbows. “See? You’re going to get killed if you don’t leave.”
“Well, I’m not—”
Whack. Dazed and with pain searing from the base of his skull, Michael was thrown forward on his hands and knees and collapsed in the dirt.
The screens that covered the porch were tearing, and their flapping had become a constant distraction to his daily meditation. Trying to find a reprieve, he moved out to the small, thin cement stoop in front of the shabby three-story house. Michael tried to focus but his mind was overwhelmed with new problems.
Usually he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to a boat bobbing on a calm ocean during a hot summer day. He tried several times to place himself on that familiar sailboat, but each time he opened his eyes, anxious, angry, and bitter.
Michael watched the kids swat at a Wiffle ball up and down 191st Avenue. He smiled, then closed his eyes once more. Almost instantly he heard the bang, followed by a screeching, cyclical whir. The alarm on the Stewarts’ blue Chevy pierced the Richmond Hill neighborhood in World War II fashion. Oh, jeez.
Glaring at the kids who were giggling, he stormed over to the 1975 model and cracked the side of the passenger door with his foot. The noise waffled to a halt. He sighed and sat down again.
The kids continued to play. Whack. The street’s biggest kid belted a drive off a tree that careened off the top of Michael’s head. A burst of laughter erupted from the other kids.
Michael opened his eyes. He looked at Ian, who had his hands over his mouth, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would joke and play sports with Ian and his friends. Today he was in no mood.
“Do you want to hit?” Ian asked, rubbing the top of his crew cut nervously back and forth with his hand.
“Not today, Ian,” Michael replied sternly.
“Hey, kids, I’ll play for Mr. Grouchy,” said a voice from down the block. It was Michael’s friend Chuck, who lived on the far end of the street. He tossed the ball to Ian, then pulled at the tips of his own hair, exaggerating its spiky appearance. Ian smiled.
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.