Chrysalis, p.4
Chrysalis, page 4
She’d planned to become a diplomat. That’s what she was doing in the International Relations program at Tufts. Once she’d figured out that infiltrating some of the more corrupt institutions was useless, she’d gone grassroots. Now, she advises a number of Chicago non-profits, but Hood to Stable is her creation. Like The Tara Foundation is to me, it’s her baby.
“I can’t thank you enough for what you did for Andre,” I say in earnest. “You saved his life.”
“It’s getting worse out there,” she says. “You wouldn’t believe the drugs. And it’s not the stuff that was on the streets even a year or two ago. It’s pharmaceutical shit.”
“Who’s supplying it?”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out. Whoever it is, they’re stirring shit up. They’re moving product, but they’re not playing nicely with the other boys.”
Gangs are like little countries. And when an outsider tries to do business in your territory without negotiating terms, it’s war.
“Amateurs?” I ask.
“Not with what they’ve brought to town. The gangs that have the connect are making bank. The ones that don’t are losing money. I think they’re gearing up to take the new guys down. That’s why recruitment is so high right now.” Her face changes, and for the first time, I see despair in her eyes. “We can’t keep up,” she says. “Too many kids to extract and not enough places to take them. And last month, our city and state funding got cut.”
“ You should’ve called.”
“You’ve got your own shit.”
“And I’ve also got time and money for the worthy causes of my friends.”
She smiles wryly.
“How much do you need?”
She actually laughs at that, but I don’t.
“I’m serious. How much?”
“More zeroes than your bank account can handle.”
“I’ve got friends.”
“More zeroes than theirs can.”
She’s a proud woman, and I appreciate that she doesn’t see dollar signs when she looks at me. But I believe in what she’s doing.
“I can’t help if you don’t let me.”
I see her defeated look once again.
“I’ve got thirty-three kids who need placement. But our program is designed for small-scale living. We know the success formula. The more kids in a setting, the lower the rehabilitation rate.”
“So you need more safe harbors.”
“The real estate would be a start. Then we need qualified staff to run them. And more security teams to handle the extractions and to keep the facilities safe.”
“So what’s your number?” I prod again. “Spit it out. I can take it.”
“Two point five,” she says finally.
She’s right. It is more zeroes than my bank account can handle. I don’t hoard money. I give to what matters to me and keep everything else pretty lean. But I do have friends. And I’m nothing if not resourceful.
“Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” she says, and I can see how this is weighing on her.
“I’m going to help you with the other stuff, too.”
“The other stuff?”
“Finding out who the big Kahuna is,” I say. “I have a guy.”
She laughs and shakes her head.
“Of course you do.”
“His name is Avi. I’ll have him give you a call.” I know she can’t do half the shit she’s talking about with company funds. If she’s trying to find the kingpin, she’s financing it herself.
“You are a force, Michael Blaine.”
“I learned it by watching you,” I say. “Let me know how it goes, alright? And, next time, don’t wait so long.”
I can’t believe you did this.
The text comes in as I’m sitting at my desk, waiting for Bex to call. Between school and an early bed time, there’s a very short window to work with when it comes to talking to Ella. I wonder which of the dozen items I hid in her brownstone Darby is talking about. Apart from my Tufts Crew t-shirt, some pixy sticks I left in her nightstand, an Anne Taintor flask and a blank Liechtenstein journal, there are eight more she still hasn’t found.
What did I do this time?
When the image comes through on my phone, I see the brightly-colored art. The author and title are barely visible on top of the splash of painted images—lush palm trees, a rising goddess and neon dots. It’s a first edition of 100 Years of Solitude, her favorite book. The simple paperback on her shelves is a worn Penguin Classic that I know she’s read a dozen times.
Thank you seems inadequate, she writes.
Every bibliophile should have a first edition of her favorite book.
I’m ashamed that I don’t know yours.
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Oscar Wilde…Interesting…
Uh-uh. No psychoanalysis, Dr. Freud.
Fair enough, she concedes. But, seriously…I will cherish this.
She’s back to thanking me now. I think of how she won’t touch the Before Sunset manuscript.
You can thank me by enjoying it. No collector’s item bullshit, okay? Great works are meant to be read.
“When are you coming home, Uncle Michael?”
It’s been a month since I’ve seen her and the sadness in Ella’s tiny voice nearly does me in.
“Your birthday, sweet pea. It’s only six weeks away.”
With Bex’s husband Alex gone for weeks at a time, I’ve been like a second father to my little niece and her question reminds me that Darby’s not the only one I’ve abandoned.
“And then will you stay?”
This kid is killing me. Her question ties my stomach into tighter knots than it’s been for the better part of a month, but I make myself sound reassuring.
“Just for the weekend…but I’ll be back again for Christmas.”
“Good! Then you can meet my new baby twin sister.”
I perk up at that, still too far gone to smile, but amused all the same. “Your what?”
“My twin sister. That’s what I’m asking Santa for.”
I don’t bother reminding her how the twin thing works. It’s a conversation we’ve had before. She thinks that since me and Bex are twins, all siblings are. “Did you tell your mom that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said Santa can only bring baby brothers and sisters if the elves don’t spend all year knock-blocking him when they’re supposed to be taking a nap.”
I smile for real then. “What’s knock-blocking?”
But before Ella can answer, I hear a “Time to tell Uncle Michael goodbye!” in the background and next thing I know, Bex has the phone.
“What’s knock-blocking, Bex?”
“Duh, Uncle Michael!” she mocks in an Ella voice. “Knock-blocking is when the elves make too much noise cobbling together the toys.”
“Joke all you want,” I snark back. “She thinks she’s getting a baby sister for Christmas. You might want to handle that.”
Now it’s Bex’s footsteps I hear along with the sounds of cartoons fading in the background and I know that she’s going to find some privacy. I know what she’s going to say before she says it.
“If I get pregnant, you’ll be the first to know.”
It’s a joke between us and I don’t miss the irony in her voice. Most people think that twin sense is bullshit. Believe me when I tell you it’s not. When Bex got pregnant with Ella, I knew it before she did. I was the one who called her out of the blue and told her to take that pregnancy test. It was a formality. She knew that if I knew it, it was true. We’ve always known things about one another. I’ve heard of twins who don’t feel bonded, but I don’t understand it. My bond with Bex is stronger than steel.
For us, conversation is superfluous—a show we put on for other people. When it’s just the two of us, what we say out loud is choppy at best. Even when we’re thousands of miles away from one another, it’s like this. I’m grateful for this strange little piece of supernatural that’s helped us stay close all these years.
“You settling in alright?”
The question is about three weeks late, but she’s only asking because she knows I’m not. I’m not fooling her, or even trying.
“So when are you going to do something about it?” she prods. “Before or after you break another pencil tip?”
“After.”
I feel my frustration bubbling up. I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at me. I deserve an Academy Award for how well I’m acting my part. But, inside, I’m lovesick and homesick and stressed out about work. And I’ve lost my best coping mechanism—Darby.
The time apart is making me edgy. I’m working the plan, but most days I’m impatient and insecure. Talking to Darby always buoys me, but I’m often riddled with doubt. It doesn’t help that I’ve discovered a jealous streak. A few days ago, Darby had after-work drinks with Rich. I know they’ve been friends for years, but I don’t fucking care. Every time he looked at her at that Christmas party, I thought I was going to have to scrape his eyes off of her boobs.
“Don’t make a liar out of me. I told her you were worth waiting for.”
I knew she said something to Darby that day at her house. My pencil tip does snap again. That’s the second time since I got on the phone.
It’s not that simple, I think.
“It is that simple.” Bex counters aloud. “Come back to Chicago. Tender your resignation. Figure out what you really want to do with your life ‘cause we both know this isn’t it.”
Bex thinks I focus on work for all the wrong reasons. She thinks I have a misplaced need to seek external validation because we never got it from our dad. She’s pretty much the opposite of Darby when it comes to diagnosing me. She is a clinically trained social worker who’s all too happy to be my shrink.
“I’m not going to trade one mediocre situation for another. I’m going to wait until I have something to offer her that she actually wants.”
“How do you know she doesn’t want the same thing you do?”
When I don’t answer, I know Bex is shaking her head. My mind’s eye can see the expression on her face.
“You should give her more credit. A woman knows her own heart.”
And I do know. Some part of Darby’s heart wants me too. “Hers is fragile.”
What I don’t say is that I know I’ve already broken it a little and I don’t want my actions to damage anything more.
“She’s not a bird with a broken wing, Mikey. She’s a grown-ass woman who deserves the truth. That bullshit man logic will fuck you over every time.”
I drop my pencil. I honestly don’t know whether I can deal with this right now. She doesn’t know how much of a trigger the man-logic thing is for me. Growing up, all I had were my mom and Bex to give me advice about love. What they never understood was how differently men think about these things. As one thought of my father leads to another, I wonder what I always have: how many mistakes could I have avoided if he had ever bothered to teach me anything?
“I know what I’m doing.” I’m only half lying. “And I’m not treating her like a bird with a broken wing. I’m showing her what I couldn’t show her before, and making sure she knows what she’d be getting into.”
This quiets Bex.
“Are you back on your meds?”
I rub my hands over my face. I haven’t been on anti-anxiety meds since my mother was sick, and that’s been damn near ten years. “I’m not sick, Bex.”
“You know how dangerous stress can be for you.”
“I’m working it out.” Debating Bex is like debating with myself. I’ve been having the same conversation in my head for the past two weeks. On the surface, I’m holding it together, but Bex sees the part of me that’s spinning out. “I’m not going back on my meds.” I say it more gently. She’s only pushing so hard because she’s worried.
“Then do the other thing.”
“You know I don’t do psychiatrists.”
“That’s not what Darby said.”
And in the middle of this sparring, I actually smile. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Don’t make me worry about you,” she scolds lightly. And, in that moment, I sense her fear before I hear it. It holds the memory of things that happened a long time ago. “I can’t take care of you like I did last time. Not when you’re so far away.”
I know she’s not guilting me. But more guilt is what I’ll feel if I fail her.
“Do you remember that thing Dr. Dan used to have you do?” she asks softly. “Don’t try to do it all at once. Solve one problem, or admit one feeling each day. Whatever you do, get it out of your head. That’s the part that’ll kill you.”
She doesn’t have to mention that, once upon a time, that simple act may have saved me. It’s a good idea. And, not just for Bex, I know I’ll do it.
“You’re gonna be okay, Boo-Boo. I’ve got you.”
Hearing her call me the pet name my mother once did feels special. She’s never called me it before. I wonder what my mom would tell me to do right now. “Love you, Bex. Tell Ella I love her, too.”
“Love you too, Mikey.”
“Bex…” I choke out a second before she would’ve hung up. It takes a thick swallow and another deep breath before I can utter the words. “I’m afraid that if she ever sees this side of me…she’ll run.”
Darby Christensen is now online, the alert on my phone reads. Taking a quick glance at the clock, I see that it’s evening in Chicago.
Hey, baby, I quickly tap out. Just get out of work? I’m trying to filter myself less, and that means not being shy about reaching out when I want to talk. The dancing dots on my Facebook message app tell me she’s writing a reply.
Yup. What are you up to?
Drawing.
Want to hop on the phone?
Always, I reply. I dial her number and put her on speaker, planning to keep drawing while we talk.
“I loved the last one you sent me,” she says, not bothering to greet me when she picks up. “I love all of them, Michael.”
Yesterday’s sketch featured an issue of the American Journal of Psychiatry on a newsstand. On the cover was a picture of Darby in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck. The headline read “Revolutionizing Opioid Addiction” and the sub-header said “Meet the woman behind the Christensen Method”.
She was so delighted by the first drawing I sent her that I’ve taken to drawing for her daily. It’s helping me channel my anxiety into something more productive. Art is the only language I’ve ever really spoken fluently.
“I like sending them to you,” I admit.
“I look forward to them every day,” she says, and something in her tone makes me optimistic. “It makes me feel closer to you,” she admits. That’s all I’ve wanted—to show her pieces of me, and to give her a little romance. I’m more optimistic than I was even a moment before.
“How are you really doing?” I ask.
It’s been three weeks since I left Chicago and we’ve had a few more tentative, but hopeful conversations. From our last one, I know that she’s nearing a critical point in her research and that hunting down her breakthrough has been taking its toll.
She’s on the brink of a milestone that has the markings of a major discovery. My girl did what nobody has ever done—identified a set of chemical reactions in the brains of opioid addicts that changes their ability to respond to therapy. Developing ways to neutralize this reaction will revolutionize treatment. Right now, she’s scrambling to have validated results before her grant review.
But she doesn’t answer my question right away, and in that moment I’m not above begging. There’s such a thing as being too driven, and I worry about her.
“You’ve got to help me out,” I say. “When I was in Chicago, I always knew. All I had to do was look at your face.”
She sighs. “I’m tired and restless all at the same time. I’m working too much already, but whenever I’m not there, I feel like I’m in the wrong place.”
“Are you still doing your weekly movie?”
“That pretty much dried up when I made Chief. Besides, I miss seeing movies with you.”
“I miss that, too. I’ve been thinking…we should go to another film festival together.”
“Most of them are in January, but I’ll be in Australia then, remember? That is, if you still want me to come.”
“Of course I want you to come. So you’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling insecurity creep in. It’s been a rough week. “It’s beautiful here. I think you’ll like it.”
Her pause unsettles me.
“I’m coming home in November,” I say then, infusing lightness into my voice.
“Thanksgiving?” she asks.
“Ella’s birthday. It’s November 4th. My charity gala is that Saturday night. Do you want to be my date?”
“Sure,” she replies easily, but something about it rubs me the wrong way. She says it in the same tone she used to use when I was asking her to a function I had to attend. I’m not asking her out on a serious date, but I’m not asking her out as a friend either. It’s been bothering me. I’ve put myself out there in a dozen different ways, but I can’t figure out whether her feelings for me are fading. For every moment she gives me hope, there’s another to make me worry. I’m paranoid that she’s easing me into the friend zone.
“You don’t have to come,” I say in a joking-not-joking kind of way. “If you’re not into it, I’ll just ask one of my other ex-non-girlfriends.”
“Oh, yeah? How many of those do you have?”
“Nine or ten. I like to rotate, but if you don’t want to take your turn, I guess I could let you skip.”
“And miss ogling you in a tux? That doesn’t sound like me. You know how I like you in black tie.”
“So you want to come, then?”
“Of course I want to come with you, you idiot. I’m crashing Ella’s birthday party, too. I need my Michael fix.”
Finally, I relax a little. I’m almost calm when she throws me for a loop. “So when are you going to tell me how you’re really doing?”
