Chapter 11 – I’ll Be There

“When you studied art, did you want to be an artist, or…do you just like Art history?” he questioned me. I had used the bathroom and became fixated on a gorgeous oil painting just a short distance from the little foyer-area of his quarters.

I pulled my eyes away noticing that he was hovering close by. I knew that he obviously trusted me to have me in his actual home, but there was a part of him that was making sure that I wasn’t rifling around outside of his line of vision.

“Um, both. I can draw, paint, sculpt – all that type of stuff, but I enjoy the history and theory behind it as well. I think it can really sharpen your skills,” I replied thoughtfully as my eyes fell back over the painting.

“You like that?” he asked me, coming to stand beside me to survey it.

“Yeah, its beautiful, I love the brush work.” It was a simple painting, a seascape with a lighthouse, a little abstract with vibrant colours and a very unique technique to it all.

“Its yours… here…” he reached up to take it from the wall but I quickly touched his arm softly but firmly with a chuckle.

“No, no jeez, no, Michael, I don’t need it.” I laughed at his brazen kindness.

“I don’t need it either, just take it…” he had a smile, realising that I found his generosity amusing.

“I’m not going to take this painting, its probably worth a lot of money,” I remarked.

He shrugged, “I want you to have it, so let me give it to you,” he insisted, taking it from the wall, “to say thanks.”

It was sad that he felt he had to buy my friendship or my loyalty. I felt a pang of sadness in my heart and almost winced. “You don’t have to give me something to say thank you for my…” I paused, what was this? “my friendship…” I stammered, “please.”

“I know that, just accept it as a gift okay? Sell it, whatever, just take it cos I’m giving it to you.”

I sighed, “Okay. Well then I’ll have to find something for you in return.”

He laughed and shook his head, “Make me a Malania original some time and I’ll rehang it here.”

“Nahh,” I teased as we made our way back to the couch with me holding an 20” painting in my hands, “you couldn’t afford to own one of those,” I winked at him.

He laughed again at me. I sank down and stared at the painting. I couldn’t believe he had just given it to me. All those years Beth and I had been giving him little, silly gifts and yet years later I was alone with him in his house and he had given me not only the beautiful painting that I was holding in my hands, but the gift of friendship.

My heart swelled a little with emotion, but I didn’t really let it show.

I could feel my eyes getting heavy; I knew I had a long drive ahead of me back home. I felt strange about my experience with Michael. He was sweet, kind and very curious. It still seemed so surreal. I was sitting in the general living area of my lifetime hero’s home. What the hell…

“I should get going…” I urged the word’s out of my lips even though there was no part of me that wanted to leave.

“Okay,” he murmured, “are you going back home?” he asked again.

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a drive, but I’ll be alright,” I assured him, “I think my Mama will probably be waiting up.”

Michael looked at his wrist watch, he shook it down his arm a little and I was pretty sure I spied what he had spied on me. A cut. It could have been a scratch or something other, but in my heart I knew. I knew because of the way he had seen my scar when I was putting my hair. I knew by the way he glossed right over it.

It always hurt to know the people I loved were in pain.

“Did you cut yourself?” I asked him point blank, reaching to grab his wrist which he quickly flinched away from me.

“Oh?” he glanced at his wrist, yep, it was a fresh cut. It looked clean and neat the way my cuts were before they turned to scars. “No,” he shook his head with a smile that tried to play off his initial shock with my questioning, “its just from one of my animals earlier today.”

We both knew it was bullshit. He was fairly confident in his lie. I looked up at him, staring in to his beautiful eyes that had definitely lost a bit of the shine in them that I was used to seeing. “Okay,” I accepted his lie, “sure.” I wanted him to know I didn’t believe him.

Neither of us wanted to have the conversation. We had just glimpsed our common way of dealing with pain, but cutting was a very dark and secret game, someone finding out was almost an incomprehensible feeling.

“Anyway,” he looked away from my hard stare first, “what have you got planned for the rest of the week?”

I shrugged, “I’ll hang out with my Mama tomorrow.”

He fidgeted a little bit as I forced myself up. I grabbed my bag and pulled it over my shoulder, “thanks for letting me visit,” I gave him a bit of a smile.

He finally stood too, “Please, thank you for visiting. I know it’s a distance for you, so I appreciate it.” It felt a bit awkward as we walked together quietly from his room all the way down to the front and in to the carport where my black Integra was parked.

He shifted his weight almost nervously. “Will you come back and visit me again?” he asked, avoiding my eyes. My heart skipped a beat and I almost grinned, but I kept my cool. The only thing that was allowed me to keep calm was the fact that his confidence was actually shot to bits. His request seemed almost like begging and I realised he truly had no one.

“If you want to hang out again, I’ll make the trip.” I smiled. I tossed my hair out of the way and opened the car door, placing my bag inside.

“Great… I’m starting to feel a bit like a prisoner here. Its nice to have visitors.”

I felt for him. Despite how fine he kept saying he was, I knew that there was a world of pain that he probably wanted to talk about, but wasn’t quite there yet with me. Trust was obviously an issue for him. I understood.

“When do you want me to come back?” I asked him, not wanting to let it get too casual. I knew in Michael’s world how fast things could change.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?” he asked, “is that too soon?”

“No, that’s fine.” I told him with the confidence that he no longer had. I wanted him to know that nothing was too much trouble for me. That, regardless of what happened between this moment and then, I was going to be there as an unfaltering pillar of support.

“Okay, well – look, I really am concerned about the media looking too much in to who you are, you really don’t want to be the subject of their interest right now,” he explained with seriousness, “so, how about I send someone to pick you up tomorrow night? That way, you don’t have to worry about driving and spending money on gas, it’s the least I could do.”

I smiled again, “The media don’t scare me and I don’t want to be a bother.”

“I’ve told you,” he said, “you are not a bother to me. Call Alfred tomorrow with an address and how is around 5 or 6?”

“That’s fine.”

We said an awkward goodnight before I left in my car giving Alfred a chance to go over my car again before he let me out of the Hayvenhurst gates.

**

Why it had happened, when it was going to stop, I didn’t know. I looked out the window a short distance from the bed I was laying in. I longed to go outside, I longed for some privacy, even just five minutes to pee alone in the bathroom.

I was bored. I rolled over, pushing the crispy white pillow beneath my head, trying to punch the lumps out of it. The sheets were so starchy and itchy. I just missed home.

Sort of.

I was angry and upset. My passiveness had been broken and I couldn’t help but to point fingers and yell and cry and lash out at everyone who came in to contact with me.

When I’d pushed it all too far, I’d ended up here. Alone. Well, I knew my Mama wasn’t far away but it infuriated me to see her and the psychologist was making her wait until she had spoken to me first.

As if reading my mind, a tall, silver haired man walked in to my ward and shut the door behind him. I didn’t move, I had frozen in to position but followed him warily around the room. He was wearing a white coat so I assumed he was a doctor. He tried to smile at me but I looked away as quickly as we had made eye contact.

“Malania, I’m Ray Vickley, you can call me Ray if you like.”

Woopdi-fucking-doo. Lucky me.

I said nothing. I didn’t want anything to do with him. I stared at the closed door silently hoping for a nurse to come back in and break our one-on-one time. I felt like the white walls were closing in on me.

I openly and petulantly buried my face beneath the itchy sheet, pretending that he wasn’t there. Partially it was out of fear that I wanted to avoid this stranger in my ward and partially because I wanted to be alone.

“Its alright if you don’t want to talk, Malania, I’ll be here for an hour, and its your time, you can use it how you’d like.”

I made a face beneath the covers, this whole stay was my time. What a dunce, I thought.

“Why are you here?” I asked bitterly, “what do you want?”

“I’m the psychologist. I was referred to you through your case worker.” I heard him dragging a chair close to my bed.

“I don’t want you close to my bed. Back up.” I told him firmly, “Please…”

“I understand, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he kept his tone calm and soothing. When I dared to peek out from beneath the covers, I saw that he was a safe distance away from me. I felt a little satisfied.

“Malania, do you want to talk about what happened last week?” he asked me as if I were about to have a sudden change of heart.

“Sure,” I muttered. “I was upset so I cut and went too deep and now everyone thinks I’ve gone crazy so they shoved me in the crazy house and now I’m here with a shrink.” My tone was bored, unmoved and I’d had enough.

The psychologist didn’t flinch. “How are you feeling today, on a scale of one to ten? Ten being the worst.”

“100,” I mumbled.

Speaking of 100, that’s probably the amount of questions he asked before my time was up. He left without much information from me and before long, I saw my father’s face in the doorway.

My Mama and I were the closest, but my Dad gave something else to my life. He was the surprising emotional crutch we all needed when the occasion called for it. Sometimes my mother liked to avoid bad news or negative situations.

He let himself in. He had been in Japan when he’d heard the news and had flown straight home to be with my Mama and I. He closed the door behind him and gave me his best brave smile.

I knew he’d been horrified and I felt embarrassed and ashamed of what I’d done. I knew would never understand.

“Oh, Malania-chan,” he murmured quietly, putting down a small bunch of flowers and a large-ish gift, “I’m so sorry,” he apologised.

My eyes filled with tears and spilled over. He engulfed me in a deep embrace that I didn’t remember him doing for a long time. “Papa…” I murmured as he wrapped his arms around me so tightly that I thought he might wind me.

After a few moments and some kisses upon my head, I withdrew from him. I wasn’t as mad at him as I was with my Mom, but somehow the love that I felt for her outweighed the anger. I knew it was irrational, she didn’t even know the reasons for my upset and anger. Perhaps if she had, she could have protected me, it’s more that I didn’t give her the chance and expected her to know what was going on.

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” he took a step back, surveying me. I knew I looked okay, I didn’t look sick or pale, nor were my symptoms too external. Well, save for the bandages on my wrists.

I nodded. He dragged a seat toward me and sat down. “I got you some flowers, darling,” he pointed. I loved flowers, he knew that.

“Thanks Papa,” I managed a smile through the shame that I felt. I picked up the bouquet of yellow tulips and smelled them. It was better than the hospital bleach that overpowered the room.

He picked up the wrapped gift and handed it to me. “I wanted to bring you something from home to cheer you up…” I pretty much already knew what it was. I unwrapped it without a word.

Yep, I was correct.

I glanced at my father who was balding slightly. He was tall and broad and had a soft, kind face and was still every bit as good looking as he was in his early years. Despite the fact that he was away often, he was still a good, supportive parent and he loved my mother so much.

“Hakone Zaiku,” I smiled, looking at the beautiful, large-ish wooden mystery box that he had given me. Ever since I could remember these little mystery boxes had intrigued me. It was a very typical woodcraft. Typically the patterns on each box exceeded over 50 or so geometric ones which required moving around panels in order to open it.

I always kept special belongings in these boxes. I knew none of my brothers or sister had the patience to try to get in to it. I loved it, it was beautiful and although they looked similar every box was so intrinsically different. This was probably the most complicated and beautiful one I’d ever received from my father.

“Thank you so much, I love it…” my voice trailed off as I fingered the different natural colours of the wood. I shook my head in amazement, “this is so great, I love the flowers too.”

“I’m glad that you love it. This one is very special, it has more than 75 moves to open it,” he explained. They did not come cheap. I knew this was one to keep me occupied during my stay. It felt heavier than usual, but I didn’t think much of it.  

There was an uncomfortable silence as I put the box up. I knew he had questions, but I knew he didn’t know if it was okay to ask them.

I heard the scrape of the chair move closer. “Your mother wanted to come with me to visit you,” he told me, “but I wanted her to let me come on my own. We don’t have too much time on our own anymore, do we Malania-chan?” It was so typical of my dad to never shorten my name. In fact, he made it longer with his Japanese term of endearment. We always teased him about it, but when he didn’t add to my name, I knew he was mad.

“No.” I shook my head. “Are you mad at me?” I asked him bravely.

He just smiled and shook his head but I could see tears filling his eyes. He didn’t say anything for a moment and composed himself. “I’m mad at me.”

“Why?” I wanted to know, feeling consumed by guilt for what I was putting my generally emotionally-stable father through.

“Because my sweet, sweet, little girl is in pain, something is wrong with her and I didn’t see and now you are hurt and I don’t know how to help.”

I began to cry, “Papa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I stopped myself before I could no longer speak. I was speaking lies anyway. I did mean to, I just didn’t want to hurt anyone and didn’t really think I would. It was heartbreaking to see that I was upsetting my family so much.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he repeated, quieting me, “don’t you apologise. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

No one was actually game enough to approach the issue head-on. My Daddy was a very gentle and calm man and I knew what happened to me had angered him, but more than that, he looked broken.

“…then why do I feel so bad?” I wondered out loud, looking to my empty hands. I hated the white bandage around my wrist. I knew it was a forever scar, I knew for the rest of my life people would be wondering what it was that pushed me to cause myself such harm.

“Darling, what can I do?” he asked, looking desperately sad, “what can I do that will make you happy?”

Nothing made me happy. I felt stuck in an abyss of loneliness that nobody could understand. Everything seemed drab, stuck in a world that was just grey, there was no colour left in anything. My life had always been one of vibrance and colour and happiness, joy and everything that should have filled a teenager’s life.

Now, nothing.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to be sad, I don’t want to upset you or Mama, but… I can’t help the way I feel.”

“I know, I know…” he covered my hand with his.

“I want to come home,” I admitted, “I know I made a stupid mistake, Papa, I learned my lesson.”

“I know, but we want you to make sure you get the help you need. We can bring the things to you that you need to be more comfortable,” he broke it to me gently as he looked around the baron, stark, sterile hospital room.

His words cemented the fact that I would be there longer than I ever anticipated.

“How long are you making me stay here?” I asked trying not to feel betrayed or abandoned.

“Just until you are better, Malania-chan.”

I breathed in deeply and sighed. “Daddy,” I rarely called him that, but I was feeling particularly regressed, like a lost little girl, “I didn’t want to wake up,” I admitted heavily. The words had been burdening me ever since I had been moved to the psych ward, I wanted to tell someone, as much as I didn’t want to burden anyone else with it, I couldn’t let it weigh me down.

He tried so hard to hide his heartbreak. He blinked back his tears, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. I knew my father would have preferred my honesty over the saving of his feelings.

“You are my last born child, Malania-chan, I have such a special place for you in my heart. I cannot allow you to take this gift of life that we have given to you, that you have given to us and just throw it away. Nothing could ever be that bad.”

He just didn’t know the extent of it. My life was already lost. I wasn’t living, I was existing and I was so numb. I felt nothing, just a whole existence of nothingness. No happy, no sad, no up, and no down. I was done with it all.

“How do I make it feel normal again?” I asked him, begging for an answer. For so long I’d been hearing people telling me to cheer up or to smile. My sister found me crying so often and began to grow frustrated. In the end, she stopped reaching out to me.

“I don’t know, my darling. I think it will take some time and you have to try, you can’t get better if you don’t take the help that the doctors are trying to give you,” he murmured.

I could have pulled my hair out. I was so frustrated with everything. I hated that I’d not been careful enough and that I’d put myself in a predicament where just about everyone knew my secret.

“I heard that you wouldn’t speak to the psychologist earlier, he just wants to help.”

“I don’t want to talk to a man.”

Dad gave a chuckle, “what am I to you then?”

“You’re my Papa, its different.”

He just smiled, “I’ll get you a different psychologist; a female, how does that sound? I will make her a little bit younger, maybe you’ll feel more comfortable.”

“Okay,” I mumbled meekly.

“Tonight I will bring your Mama, Samuel, Kaito and Anica.”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t want to see my brothers, Daddy, please. Just Anica and Mama.”

He cocked his head and gave me a reproachful look. He frowned unhappily at me. “Darling,” he warned, “your brothers want to see you to make sure you are okay.”

“No, I won’t see them,” I told him, my defences rising, feeling suddenly angry, “don’t make me see them.”

“Okay, okay,” he relented, “just your Mama and Anica,” he agreed.

I knew he was wrapping up our visit. I knew he wanted to go away and grieve for the things that I’d told him, for the stress I’d created and some rest from his trip. I knew he must have come almost straight of the plane to see me.

“Did you want me to bring you some things from home?”

I shrugged. I didn’t care.

“I’ll bring you some art supplies and you can paint or draw something for me,” he smiled. I knew he was trying to encourage me and give me purpose, but really, I had nothing left inside of me to give.

“Okay,” I just decided to be agreeable. It worked well for my family.

We said our goodbyes. As he was leaving the room he stopped and turned back to me, “Malania-chan, there is a special gift for you inside of that box. I trust you will undo the puzzle.”

It made me smile.

After he left, I lay in the silence of my room. I stared at the wall as I listened to nurses and doctors having conversations in the hallway. My eyes were drawn to the box and soon enough curiosity got the better of me. I lifted myself up out of bed and picked up the box again.

I fingered the patterns, running my fingers all over the coloured grooves and crevices. I began to inspect the panelling for hints as to how it would open. I moved little parts back and forth and frowned with frustration. It was going to be difficult.

I worked on it for more than an hour. A nurse came to check on me and even sat with me offering suggestions. It helped slightly but after a short time I think she realised she was frustrating me.

I loved the challenge and the craftsmanship of the box so much that it never made me frustrated for too long. It was all part of the fun with the added incentive of a gift inside.

Dinner was just being served when finally I popped it open. My eyes nearly jumped out of my head when I found the beautiful, silver and red Sony Walkman inside along with a copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

My Dad was single-handedly responsible for my recovery.