Only Alien on the Planet (22 page)

I went back around the bed and dropped into my chair. My hands were shaking like crazy, but now I was mad. And a little surprised at myself. I felt very fierce, and I wasn't used to that. I kind of liked it, actually. I certainly wasn't nervous anymore. And I was almost eager to get them in here and get this whole stupid thing over with.

Those last few minutes took a very long time, and Michael didn't say another word until we heard the voices down the hall. Then he said to me, “Don't leave.” Like he really thought I would. I took hold of the bars of his bed, knowing the hardest thing coming up for me was going to be keeping my mouth shut.

“They'll believe him,” Michael said then, all in a desperate rush. “You saw. I'm dead.” He shut his eyes and put his hand over them.

“Didn't you listen to the doctor?” I whispered as they came in. “It's not about what they believe. The only power he has is what you give him.”

They came through the door in a line, the doctor first. She came over to the bed. “Let's get you up here where you can participate,” she said, and she ran the head of the bed up so that Michael was sitting up, forced to face the rest of them. He had two bright, flushed spots in the middle of his cheeks. He looked vulnerable, sitting there in his sweats and blankets.

Michael's parents were sort of milling around, trying to settle on what, exactly, they wanted to do. His mother caught sight of me and flicked a put-out sort of look at the doctor, then she came over to the bedside and patted Michael's hand. He didn't move. Mr. Tibbs had picked up a chair and was trying to figure out where
to put it. Russell was standing in the doorway, watching it all. “We need more chairs,” he said helpfully.

“The next room down is empty,” the doctor said.

It was all so casual and normal.

Russell went down the hall and got the chairs. The doctor took hers and set it down by the window, out of the way. From there, she could watch them all and keep an eye on Michael and his monitor.

Russell ended up sitting with his back to the far wall, facing the bed and the two chairs his father had set up in the middle of the room. Michael's parents were half turned away from the bed, facing Russell. They all sat down and arranged themselves and a silence settled in the room. Michael closed his eyes.

“Michael. Your family wants to start,” the doctor said.

“
Michael
, is it, now?” Russell said.

“Not really,” his mother said, looking around at the doctor. I was looking at the doctor now too. Michael's eyes had come open.

“Well, he's a big boy now,” Russell said. “He has a right to a real name.” He cocked his head and launched himself out of the chair and across the room toward the bed. “I haven't said 'hi' to you yet,
Michael
. Hey, Mom. He looks pretty good. How've you been, kid?” It was over the top. It was weird.

“Sit down, Russell,” the father rumbled.

“Honey,” Mrs. Tibbs said, sotto voce, “at least let him be nice to Smitty.” She looked up as Russell made his way back to his chair. “Call him Smitty, darling,” she said. “Let's not make this any stranger than it already is.”

“Fine, Mom,” Russell said, slipping into his chair. He leaned back in it, put his feet out and crossed them. “How's Uncle Burt?” he asked.

“Oh, he's doing better,” Mrs. Tibbs said. “He's much—”

“Maggy,” Mr. Tibbs said. She looked at him and her chin came up. Then she straightened her shoulders and dropped her eyes. “Thank you for asking, Russell,” she said.

“I just wondered,” he said. And then he looked up at the clock and pulled himself up straight. His parents stirred slightly in their chairs. There was not a flicker from Michael. “I guess we'd better begin,” Russell said. “But I have to tell you, I'm really not sure I understand what this is all about.”

“I told you on the phone—” his father started, but Russell cut him off.

“I know what you told me. I just don't understand the part I'm supposed to be playing here. We all know Smitty's problems. It's been obvious for over a decade that he's got brain damage. Why are we suddenly laying all of this at
my
door?”

“Russell—” his mother started.

He held up one hand. His mother stopped. “This really hurts me, Mom.” Poor boy, he was suffering. “This started long before I was old enough to know what was going on. Why do you think I had anything to do with it?”

“Russell, we didn't—” his mother started again.

“I mean, I'm glad to see that some progress is being made. But gotta be straight with you—the whole time I was growing up—you—” he indicated both parents with a flick of his hand
“—had your work, and your committees and your clubs, and I was the nursemaid—”

“Please don't make it sound like I was gone all the time, Russell,” Mrs. Tibbs said.

“But you were,” he said, looking surprised.

“There were things I had to do outside of our home, yes. But I was home—”

“You were gone a lot,” he stated, and he didn't wait for her to answer. “And I took care of the kid for you. It just—” he looked away for a moment, his eyes glittering, “—really about
kills
me that you'd come after me like this. It just seems so—politically correct. Sorry to be emotional. But this is
very
upsetting to me.”

“Russell,” his father said. “Smitty told us these things himself.” So polite, his parents were being with him, so respectful.
Are you stupid?
I wanted to shout.
You're supposed to be parents. Take control.

“And isn't that tremendous?” Russell went on. “That he's finally able to communicate. I think that's wonderful. I really do. But—” he gave them a hard, righteous look, “—please remember,
I
was the one who had to tell him 'no.'
I
was the one pulling him out of trouble. Of course he's going to remember me as the mean guy who didn't let him just have his own way. Even so, Smitty got away with a whole lot more than most kids—”

Smitty's mother looked over at her husband. This was making sense to her. I couldn't believe she could be so stupid.

“We
have
just heard one side of it,” she whispered.

“I don't think we need to hear any more of Russell's side,” Mr. Tibbs said.

“Just a minute,” she said, her cheeks gone flush. “What do you mean, you don't need to hear it?”

“Don't you think we've heard enough?” he asked, staring at her. “After all these years, I think I've heard enough.”

Her mouth dropped open. “
You've
heard enough? You've never heard
anything.
You've never listened. You
never
listen. Maybe if you had ever taken any interest in Russell from the beginning…”

Michael's eyes closed. There were little beads of sweat all over his face.

“Mother,” Russell said, sounding almost genuinely gentle. She turned from Mr. Tibbs to Russell. She subsided. She lifted her chin again and took an even breath. “So, you're saying,” she said to Russell, almost as though the last few moments had never happened, “that these things your father told you about never actually happened.”

“Oh, I'm sure, in Smitty's mind, that was the way it seemed.”

“The doctor doesn't think it's quite that simple,” Mr. Tibbs began.

“Well,” Russell said, an ironic twist at one corner of his mouth. He shifted in his chair and spoke with his head slightly to the side, as though he were speaking only for his parents. “Exactly how much is all this setting you back, Dad?”

Dr. Woodhouse and I made eye contact. Mr. Tibbs's face was growing darker by the minute.
Good,
I thought.
Finally. You don't have to convince Russell to see the truth—he
knows
the truth. He
is
the truth.

“Your mother and I,” Mr. Tibbs said, and now it seemed like he was holding himself in, “would like you to stay here for a while and work with your brother, and see if we can get this thing straightened around.”

Russell's face took on a very intent, thoughtful look. “Well,” he said, “I know you'd like me to do that. And I did a lot of running around yesterday, to see if I could arrange it. But—” he spread his hands—"you have to remember—I'm in the middle of a semester. If I leave school now, I'm going to lose the credit.”

“We'd really like you to,” his father said again. It was beginning to sound like a warning.

“Dad,” Russell said. “I understand. But please understand. I
can't
.”

“I'm not asking you,” his father said finally. “I'm telling you.”

“
John
,” Mrs. Tibbs said, looking at her husband with wide, offended eyes.

Russell looked away, seemed to be gathering in his patience. When he spoke again, his voice had a little more edge to it. “Christy and I are getting married at Christmas. I'm supposed to be graduating in the spring. I have a
very
good job offer—”

“You didn't
tell
us,” his mother said. “What kind of offer?”

But Russell went right on. “…so I cannot stay.”

The Tibbses were looking at each other. There was definitely a struggle going on between them. Russell shifted in his chair impatiently. “Two sons,” Mr. Tibbs said to her. I barely heard it. The look held between them for a minute longer. When Mrs. Tibbs finally spoke, it was without breaking that connection with her husband.

“Russell,” she said carefully. “We understand all that. But we feel this may be more important.”

“More important?” He looked at her, his face unbelieving. “More important than my
life? “
Russell dropped back in the chair, his face
gone a few shades paler—and then came outrage. “All my life, all you ever cared about was
him
.” Wounded innocence mixed with genuine anger. I recognized the tone. I'd used it myself a time or two. “This kid is not going to ruin the rest of my life.”

“Russell—” his mother said, pitifully putting her hand out. Russell was just turning his face tragically away, when someone behind me spoke.

“What about my life?”

Everyone stopped and turned and stared. The words hung in the room, quiet, but surprisingly clear.

Michael had spoken.

The hot spots still burned high in his cheeks. His eyes were steady. Only the doctor, who had her eye on the monitor, and I, who could feel the rhythms of Michael's fear through the bars of the bed, suspected what those words had cost him.

It stopped Russell only for a moment. He collected himself and gave Michael a long, cool, almost amused once over.

“Well, he
can
talk,” Russell said. “Congratulations.” The parents turned slowly back to him. Russell pursed his lips, his eyes on Michael. “Well, I'm real sorry about
your
life, Mikey,” he said. “But it's not my problem.”

“How can you say that?” I asked. It just kind of burst out of me.

So Russell was looking at me now. Even more surprised and amused. “There will come a time,” he said, making it clear that he was choosing, for the moment, to be patient with me, “when you become mature enough to realize that you're not responsible for the whole world.”

“He's your
brother
,” I pointed out. “It was your
fault
.”

“He would have been my brother,” Russell said. “If he'd been normal.”

“Well, we believe he may be normal. At least…” Mrs. Tibbs began.

“Oh,
please
,” Russell cut in. “Look at him. Look where we are.”

“I'm not,” Michael agreed, still quietly, his eyes on Russell's. “But I'm not a liar.” The monitors were all at peak, and the doctor was sitting slightly forward.

“Well, neither am I,” Russell said, spitting out every syllable.

“Really,” I said.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning a very nasty pair of eyes on me. “Who is this
girl
, Mother? Some part of our family?”

“Well, actually—” Mrs. Tibbs started, turning around to me, definitely annoyed.

“My friend,” Michael said. And he slipped one cold hand down through the bars to cover mine.

Russell leered. “
So
,” he said, “the retarded kid's got a little girl friend? That's kind of kinky.” He turned to his parents. “I'm not staying,” he said.

“And what about your little Christy?” Michael said softly. “Does she know why you're here? Or was she supposed to take my place?”

Russell started up out of his chair, fists clenched, teeth bared— then he caught himself, sinking immediately back down into the chair, erasing everything that had been on his face.

Too late. We'd all seen it—the intent, and the change. If Michael's facial control had been good, now we knew where he'd learned it.

“Oh, Russell,” his mother breathed.

“He'd drive anybody nuts,” Russell spat. “I don't have to take this from any of you.” He stood up, shoving his chair back.

“There won't be any more money until after this is fixed,” his father said quietly.

Russell went still. “You don't mean that,” he said.

Mr. Tibbs stood up. “I've had enough,” he said. “For your mother's sake, I've let this go. Years and years, I've let this go, God forgive me. But, this is the end. You have no choice, Russell. If we have to bring charges against you—we'll do it. This has gone on long enough. It's over.”

“What are you going to tell your friends?” Russell turned to his mother. “Because if you lock me up here, you're going to have to tell them something. And they're going to talk.”

“I know,” she said brokenly.

But his father had finally decided.

Russell turned his face on Michael. “I warned you,” he said. “Just remember that I warned you.”

The doctor stood up. “If you all would please join me in my office—”

Russell kept his eyes on Michael until his father turned him around and propelled him out into the hall. Mrs. Tibbs followed him out, but her husband lingered. He didn't come near the bed, but stood awkwardly facing it. “I just want you to know,” he said, not quite looking at his son. “We're sorry. I can't tell you how sorry.”

Michael just looked at him.

His father nodded. He didn't seem to have expected an answer. He too left the room.

The doctor blew out a long breath. She looked at Michael, lips pursed. Then she walked over and studied the monitors.