Are You Mine

Chapter 10


Fox


We bang out another five pages of illustration, plot, and dialogue for “Myka’s Metal Valentine.” I used the time she was in the shower to get ahead on the panels. Although I wanted to mention something about her hot, wet shower when she was out, I didn’t. I like riling her up, but I don’t want to push it too much. She’s kind of a reserved girl, so going crazy with the innuendo might damage my chances with her.

It’s getting late in the afternoon, and I don’t want to go to work tonight. I’d rather spend it with Saige. All of the tension created by Gage’s stupid rating system has passed, and I’m happy it has. There’s no way in hell I’m repeating my friend’s words about Saige to anyone, but most of all to her.

It’s not like it was all that bad, but it was bad enough.

In fact, next time I see him, I’m going to punch him in the gut for saying crap about Saige. I hadn’t remembered until she brought it up. Gage had no idea I’d end up liking her years later, but still, he deserves a good fist to the stomach for it anyway.

She sits with her computer, typing out the dialogue she’ll write in one of these bubbles, and I’ve lost interest in the panel I should be working on. Instead, my attention is on her hair. Specifically, how it feels as my fingers twirl through it. It’s thick and silky, and as soon as I twirl it enough, it slides through my fingers and falls back down against her shoulder.

When I’ve done this about twenty times, she puts her laptop on the coffee table, sits back and shifts her body toward me. I’ve gotten used to her silent manner of communication, and the look she wears now tells me she’s got something going on in that active head of hers.

“You want to say something, don’t you?”

This is one time she doesn’t turn away from me. “I want to ask something, but I don’t know how.”

“What’s it about?”

“Um, you. Me.”

I look at her for a moment, then take out a clean sheet of paper. With the nubby pencil, I start sketching, aware that she’s watching my hands move over the page. I’d like to give this picture more time, but Saige is sitting right next to me, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing since she just said she wanted to ask something.

When I’m finished with the rough sketch, I hand it to her and watch as more color floods her face. She sweeps her eyes over the picture, looking at the image of her in her long dress sitting next to me, our hands touching, palm to palm.

I’ve drawn a dialogue bubble in the picture above her head. She grabs the pen next to her laptop as she sets the sheet of paper down on the table. With a shaky hand, she writes, “Are you mine?” in the bubble.

The muscles in my face ache from the strain of the smile I’m holding as my mind makes sense of the letters. I know the grin is toothy and goofy, but I can’t push down the childish giddiness of her printed question. First, I draw another dialogue bubble above my head, then carefully pluck the pen from her hands. I make sure to caress her fingers as I withdraw mine, and watch as she shivers just a little at the same time a ripple of excitement meanders through me.

I normally hate writing anything because I can never tell if what I write is wrong or not, but I’m confident in this. Not only is it a small word, but I know Saige won’t make fun of me even if it does come out wrong. So I take the tip of the pen and press it against the paper to carefully write, “Yes.”

I can hear her hold her breath, and as much as I want to look at her, I set the pen down and pick up the pencil again. With the eraser, I remove our hands from the picture. I draw a little heart-shaped box between us. Her hand is wrapped around it and my hand is extended toward it, as if I’ve just given her something, and I hope the real Saige can understand the meaning behind the addition.

When I finally do glance at her again, her eyes are fixed on the page I hand to her. She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, and if I have to guess how she feels right now, I bet she’s feeling the same excitement I am, but with much more nerves than I have. She looks a little overwhelmed, and I should probably do something to help her out, but I can’t think of jokes right now. I can’t come up with a single nickname to shift the energy and lighten the weight on her shoulders.

And it’s probably because I don’t want to.

These moments in life are the best there are. They’re heavy with emotion, messy with the what-ifs, and frightening with the unknowns.

But they’re good. They make my body tingle, my mind sing, and my spirit soar. These are the only moments worth slowing down to savor.

She brings her gaze to mine now, and I can’t help it. I lean toward her, intent on doing only one thing.

Kissing her.

I let the drawing float out of my hands as I bring one of them up to her neck and use the thumb to stroke her jaw. She draws a shallow breath in just as my lips touch hers, like she’s taking a piece of my soul into her. My other hand rests on her knee, and I feel her body shaking.

This kiss is different from the one a few nights ago. This one is slow and planned. It can be drawn out and can’t rely on adrenaline. As I feel her hand move to my chest, I tilt my head a little more, and urge her with my lips to open hers. When she complies, I send my tongue to run over her bottom lip, then up to the top, and I’m thrilled when she opens a little more.

I slide my hand around to the back of her neck and bring it up so my fingers tangle in her hair. The silky strands heighten my excitement of kissing her while my hand helps keep her in the perfect position.

Our bodies inch closer, but I’m not sure if it’s me who’s making it happen or her. I don’t care. The only things that matters are that I’m kissing her, she’s kissing me back, and now we’re so close I can feel the heat of her body from my legs up to the crown of my head.

I’m able to keep it going by bringing her mouth back to mine each time she pulls away just enough to break the connection, but finally, she leans away from me, using the hand on my chest to keep me still. “You’re going to be late for work.”

“What if I don’t care?”

Saige’s face is a bit more pink than usual and her breathing is quicker, too. “That would be irresponsible of you.”

“People call out all the time.”

“Just think of your co-workers. They’ll have to do more work because you called in to kiss me some more.”

I groan, but go in for another kiss. She lets me start it, but I feel her lips stretch in a smile. “Quit being the voice of reason,” I say as I pull back.

“Can’t. Besides,” she says as she bends down to pick up the picture of me handing her the heart and telling her I’m hers. “I own you now, right? So, trust me, there’ll be more time for all that.”

“I don’t know about own.” I stand up and stretch.

She shakes the paper in front of me. “Says so right here.” She licks her lips, and I can’t help myself. I lean down over her, my arms to either side of her head as she presses back into the couch.

Another kiss. This one shorter, but no less thrilling. “You can own me, as long as you’re mine, too.”

Her voice is but a whisper. “I am.”

***

I have an entire Monday off, but instead of sharing it all with Saige, who I think I can safely call my girlfriend now, I drive south on I-287 with the large canvas in the backseat for company. I finished the Florida scene late last night after Pop asked me when I was going to go see Mom.

I can’t keep pushing it off, so I finished the painting. When I heard my dad’s footsteps upstairs in the kitchen, I rolled out of bed and told him I was going. Now, after gassing up my car, I’m halfway there. The Avett Brothers help keep my mind off all the crazy stuff it wants to focus on, like what state I’m going to find my mother in, if she’s going to recognize me as her son today, if I’ll have to watch as the hospital staff restrains her as she tries to scratch out my demon eyes.

As I listen to “Pretty Girl from Chile,” I think about Saige. When it switches to “And It Spreads,” I think about the joy I get from seeing her smile. It’s probably because she spends so much time frowning in seriousness that I love when her lips curve up. Even better is when that laugh escapes her. When “Tear Down the House,” comes on, I’m thankfully at the hospital. I shut off the music before the song can get going. Perhaps I’ll listen to it on the way home. It’s a little too blue for me to listen to before visiting with my mom. I’m sure they didn’t have this situation in mind when they wrote it, but there’s just something about it that reminds me of the loss of my mother. That nothing will ever be the same. I’ll never be the kid I was before her mind got sick.

I go through the rigmarole of signing in. The staff inspects my painting, and then I wait. The nurse, who always seems to be here when I visit, gives me a soft smile.

“How is she?” I ask.

“Getting a slow start to the day, but she seems all right. This way,” she says, and I follow her into the family visiting room. I know my way there, but visitors have to be escorted most of the time.

They always take me to this room, with televisions, puzzles, board games, arts and craft supplies, and bolted down tables and chairs. The walls are painted a light yellow, but time has made it a dingy, dirty beige. All the windows have crisscross grating over top of them, but they still allow the sunlight to bathe the room with natural happiness.

I’m here early enough that I’m the only family member in here which may be a good thing, depending on my mother’s mood.

When she comes shuffling in with the nurse at her side, I stand up. My mom’s long brown hair is twisted and matted down in places. The staff always tries to get us to convince her to cut it since she doesn’t care for it properly, but she never agrees and to be honest, it’s not a battle I want to fight with her. Every time the subject comes up, she starts thinking we’re trying to steal her hair to give her DNA to the government to use for some top secret warfare project.

“Hey, Mama.”

Her blue eyes are clearer than they have been in the past, but she takes her time looking at me. It’s like she’s checking out the room, making sure it’s safe, before she finally lets her eyes stop on me. “Fox.”

That’s all she says, but it’s enough to let me know she doesn’t think I’m Special Agent Whoever. The nurse deposits my mother onto the worn armchair and retreats to the other side of the room. I sit down next to my mom and push down the urge to hold her hand.

“How are you?”

“The rabies they injected me with has my muscles stiff.” She raises her voice as she glances at the nurse, “But at least they feel justified to keep me! At least now they know the rest of the population won’t die!”

The nurse just smiles at me, but it’s not enough. I don’t want to be here, and I already feel the pressing need to run away. “They didn’t inject you with rabies.”

“What do you know? You’re out hiding with all the other little creatures, deceiving them all with your ridiculous lies.”

I open my mouth to deny what she’s said, but stop when I feel the nurse’s hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s hard,” she whispers, “but if you want to spend time with her, don’t contradict her. That’s for the doctor to do.”

It’s bullshit, but her doctor has gone over this with Pop and me several times.

My mom picks at her pajamas with an intense expression. “I brought that painting I told you about last time.”

She stops. “The one in Florida?”

“Yeah.”

My mom turns her face to me again. I take the picture from where it’s leaning backward against the chair and flip it around so she can see it. “It’s beautiful,” she says after a while.

“Thank you. It’s for you. They said you can put it in your room. You can think about the bright sky and deep sea every time you look at it.”

“They say a lot of things.” Just when I think she’s going to sink back into her conspiratorial babble, she says, “I’ll think about you every time I look at it.”

I don’t fight the urge when it hits; I hold her hand. Her fingers are thin and boney. When I was a kid and she used to hold my hand, they never felt like this.

“Do you want me to brush your hair?”

My mother nods, so when the nurse brings me a stiff-bristled brush, I move to sit on the arm of my mom’s chair. I’m careful when I take a lock of hair and lay it out on my open palm. Sudden movements freak her out, so I go slowly.

It takes a lot of effort to get all the knots and tangles out of her hair, but I manage to do it without making her cringe once. When the strands are silky smooth, I pull the brush through her hair three or four more times to get it to lay right. “There. Perfect.”

I guess my voice pushes her back into an uncomfortable state. She shifts away from me, so I move back to my own chair and lay the brush in my lap.

“It’s not your fault,” she says.

“What’s not?”

“That your eyes are like that.”

“It’s not your fault either,” I say. If she asks me what isn’t her fault, I’d say that your mind is like that. But she doesn’t ask.

After ten minutes of sitting without words, she takes a red basket full of puffballs, paint, glue, and crayons and sits down at a small table. I slide into a chair next to her and spend the next forty minutes watching her make a picture while I halfheartedly color with crayons.

Abruptly, she stands up, tugs at her hair which ruins my hard work, then shoves her picture toward me. “You can think of me when you look at it.”

My mother shuffles away toward the door and waits for the nurse who picks up the canvas painting and says, “Hope to see you again soon, Fox.”

***

“Oh, thank God, you’re here,” Saige says as she opens the door.

“I missed you, too, thank you very much!” I give her a kiss on the cheek.

She blushes, but shakes her head. “Valentine and Myka are having a dispute.”

For a moment, I think it’s something serious until I hear “There’s no way an attack Pegasus could take out a battle unicorn!”

“Obviously, Myka’s losing the argument and she won’t let me explain how even if the horn gives the unicorn a slight advantage, the unicorn wouldn’t be able to get near enough to a flying horse to spear it.”

It’s ridiculous and wonderful and the perfect distraction from the heavy and dark morning I’ve had.

“You guys have some weird conversations.”

“This one’s pretty tame.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Nice topic jump.”

I put my hands on her waist and pull her to me. “Shiny object,” I say before kissing her properly.

When I’m finish, I take her hand and head for the living room. As soon as I enter, I say, “Hate to disappoint you, suckers, but both your ponies will be doomed once my armored griffin swoops in!”

For hours, the conversation lulls me away from any deep thought. It’s a welcome distraction, and soon all negative thoughts are gone. I’m simply present in the silly discussion of mythical animals, steampunk fashion, and a little new age philosophy.

When Myka and Val leave, and I’m alone with Saige, I pull her down on the couch with me and stretch out. I could stay like this all night if she let me. Having her so close is comforting, even though I already feel better about the visit with my mom.

Just as I’m about to kiss her, Saige’s stomach rumbles. “You’re hungry.”

“No. I’m fine.”

I gather her in my arms and move us up into a sitting position with her on my lap. She’s quick to get off me even though I try to keep her where she is. “Let me buy you dinner.”

I don’t take no for an answer, even when she tries to get out of letting me drive her in my car when we get outside. “What do you have against my baby here?”

She slides in after I open her door, and when I go around and get in myself, she says, “Your baby? Are you the kind of guy that names your car?”

“Maybe. Is that bad?”

“What’s its name?”

I clear my throat. “Robin. And she’s a nice girl, so don’t be hating on her.”

It’s not until her laugh fades that I look over at Saige. She’s got the paper from the hospital in her hands. The one with the crayon drawing on it. “Who drew this?” she asks as she studies the picture.

Turning my eyes back to the front, I start the car and pull away from the curb. “My mom.”

“Did you go see her?”

“Yep. She drew that while I was there.”

“You think this is the stuff that goes on in her head?”

As I come to the red light, I glance at the drawing. Red eyes dot the paper, surrounded by the black scribbles that cover almost the entire white sheet. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She waits for a moment after the light turns green, then says, “Because you just went to visit your hospitalized mother who gave you a picture of some crazy demon eyes to take home with you.”

“She can’t help how her mind is.”

“I’m sure she can’t, but that doesn’t mean her mind is easy for you to deal with. You look tired.”

I drive in silence for a while until we get to that new jazzy Thai place everyone talks about. I put the car in park, unbuckle my belt, and shift in my seat to face Saige. “I feel like a bad son. Like a selfish person.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t gone to visit her in months and when I do, I don’t tell her about anything going on in my life. And when she starts talking nonsense, I just want to shake her and tell her to wake up, but I know she can’t. I mean, in my head, I know it’s not her fault and that it’s a serious mental illness, but I still feel like . . . like, I don’t know, like I want her to choose to be better.”

She grips my hand. It’s a bold move for Saige, so it means something even more than if someone else would have been in the passenger seat. Not that I’d share the stuff about my mom with anyone else. The last thing I needed back in high school was for people to think I was stupid and had a wacko mom. I’d never call her that, but I remember the whisperings at church after she was committed.

“I think it’s probably okay for you to feel like that. I mean, I don’t think there’s a rulebook for this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, but a good son wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what? Wouldn’t want a mother who cared about what’s going on with you? You don’t tell her probably because you’re scared of what you might set off within her. That’s not selfishness, that’s caring about her well-being and yours.”

I take the hand she’s not holding and press it to her cheek. “I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what? Knew when?”

I allow the quiet chuckle to bubble out at her confusion. “When I realized I liked you at the beginning of this school year, I knew you’d be someone I could talk to. A good listener. Someone who keeps things in perspective.”

“I don’t know about all that. It’s easier to have perspective when it doesn’t involve me directly.” Saige moves which makes my hand slip from her cheek. When she turns back to me, she asks, “You started liking me at the beginning of this year? Why?” At my laugh, she clarifies, “I mean, what’d I do to make that happen?”

“You were just you. And it wasn’t just one thing you did. It was a lot of little things. The second or third day, when someone bumped into Taylor Wilkins and his crutches and books went flying, I was way down the hall, but I saw you pick them up for him. Everyone else just walked on by, but you stopped and helped him without making him feel bad about being different. That was a pretty solid thing to do.”

She shrugs. “I think it was just the human thing to do.”

“Exactly. And then at the homecoming pep rally when Keira Potter fell when she did that little jump thing, you were the only one around, besides me, that didn’t laugh a little. And I always took you for someone who hated cheerleaders.”

“Hate is a strong word. I just severely dislike their pep on principle. I don’t get jollies at their misfortune. When she fell, I kept thinking she was going to break her neck or something, and then I just felt bad for her because it happened in front of everyone. The whole school. I’d be mortified. I wouldn’t want everyone laughing at me, so I didn’t laugh.”

“You’re a solid person, and that’s why I knew we’d be good together.”

It’s easy to see she has no clue what to say back to me by how rigid her body has become. She’s wearing a frown and throws me a quick sidelong glance before focusing her eyes back on the restaurant. Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did, but I don’t feel bad about telling her why I like her. To make her feel more comfortable, I say, “What’s twitching at the bottom of the ocean?”

“What?”

“A nervous wreck.”

As she groans and rolls her eyes, I pop my door open. “Let’s go get something to eat.”