Welcome caller, p.10
Welcome, Caller, page 10
Mona had offered to teach him a million times before, and he always declined. But after New York, he got a sudden vision of him skating coolly past Roisin Records, sunglasses over his eyes and his hair wind-swept, with Peter staring at him from the entryway with his mouth agape and his eyes filled with hearts, Looney Tunes style. He accepted Mona’s offer the very next time she brought it up.
She wasted no time dragging him to the skatepark, one hand around her board and one gripping his collar to make sure he didn't change his mind at the last minute and make a run for it. Goby was quick to follow. If Jazz weren’t busy with work, she would have loved to join for the chance to see him eat shit.
Mona is a surprisingly good teacher, so he hasn’t completely wiped out—yet. She didn’t put him on the board and immediately shove him down the bowl like he feared she would; she helped him first figure out what stance is most comfortable for him, then got him used to the feeling of the board beneath his feet. He panicked when she told him to bounce a couple of times to test out the feel of it, but she promised to keep her hands at his sides. He knew she’d catch him if he needed it (which he did, a few times).
The worst part is learning how to fall, which is what they’re doing now. He was hesitant when Mona said he had to fall, but he reluctantly agreed when she said it’ll get the anxiety of it out of the way. He’s going to fall no matter what; might as well learn how to do it properly so he doesn’t hurt himself.
“Alright,” Mona says. “Just keep your body loose and try to roll into it when you can.”
They’ve been doing it on the ground so far, dramatic reenactments of falling off of a skateboard. He does a sort of somersault on the concrete, wincing as his back twinges where it rolls over a pebble.
“I can’t even imagine how stupid I must look right now,” Malcolm says.
“Would you like to see?” Goby shouts from the bench, holding up their phone. Malcolm glares into the camera lens.
“Are you ready to try it on the board?” Mona asks.
He’s not, but he can’t avoid it the whole day. He gets on the board, steadying his feet. He’s not nearly as graceful as Mona always is. His arms are spread outward, pinwheeling every couple of seconds to keep him from toppling over.
“Now, I can’t be holding you for this part, but you’ll be fine. Just do what we’ve been practicing,” Mona says.
He stands on the board, taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself. He puts one foot down, ready to take the fall; but then he gets the feeling of a new pair of eyes on him. He looks up, and there’s Peter jogging past the park, watching them.
His foot pushes too hard. The board shoots out beneath him, and he goes tumbling into the concrete. He tries to roll into it like Mona taught him to, but his knee still ends up scraping hard against the ground. He lands on his shoulder with a loud curse.
He starts swearing up a storm; not because it’s the worst pain he’s ever experienced, but to cover up his embarrassment and his flaming hot face.
“Nice one, Mal!” Goby cheers. “Baby’s first fall!”
“You okay, love?” Mona says, kneeling down next to him. She doesn’t seem too concerned, but she winces when she sees the blood on his shin.
Unfortunately for Malcolm, Peter’s jogging route goes right past them, and he gets close enough for Malcolm to see the sweat dripping down his temples, his chest heaving. Malcolm’s suddenly glad he has his skating screw up to blame for the burn in his cheeks.
“Way to go, dumbass!” Peter calls out.
Malcolm glares at him and flips him the bird. Peter returns the gesture and turns away to continue his jog, but not before Malcolm catches the amused smirk on his face.
“Dude,” Goby says, who’s suddenly much closer to Malcolm than they were before. They’re standing next to Mona, staring down at him. “Was he just flirting with you?”
“What?” Malcolm says. “He insulted me! He called me a dumbass!”
“Practically a marriage proposal,” Goby says.
Peter’s almost out of sight now, but Malcolm can still catch a glimpse of his muscular legs as they carry him out of the park.
“You starin’ at his butt?” Goby says, who’s now an inch away from Malcolm’s cheek. Malcolm groans and pushes their face away with his hand.
“I was not!”
“I dunno, hun,” Mona says, smiling. “It definitely looked like you were.”
Malcolm huffs and stands up, turning to leave.
“Aw, no, come on, we were just teasing!” Goby says, and Malcolm flicks them on the temple.
“I’m not leaving because of you idiots, I’ve gotta get my knee patched up and check on Lady Governor anyway.” He’s also a little embarrassed, but he really can’t remember if he fed Lady Governor that morning or not, so...not a complete lie.
“Do you need any help?” Mona asks.
“Nah, really, I’ve got it. I’ll see you guys later, yeah?”
“Later, gator!” Goby calls out as he walks away.
“Text us if you need us!” Mona says, and he waves his hand to let her know he heard her.
He waits until he’s fully out of sight from the others to really let himself wince at the twinge in his shoulder and the burn of his shin. He wishes he had worn jeans instead of shorts—or actual protective padding. That would’ve been smart. Hindsight, and all that.
Luck finally seems to be on his side for once, because he makes it to the apartment without a hitch. (He’d been on the lookout for Peter the entire walk back. The last thing he needed was for Peter to see him pathetically limping home after his first fall on a skateboard.) Lady Governor greets him as usual as he enters, meowing excitedly and weaving in and out of his legs.
“Make way for the King, my good Lady,” he says as he awkwardly side steps her, trying not to trip over her.
He’s checking her food bowl for evidence of that morning’s breakfast when his phone rings.
16
He stops. Lady continues to circle him, oblivious to the beckoning call. He can feel his blood as it drains from his face, sickly slow. He slips the phone out of his pocket. He doesn’t need to check the screen. He knows who it is, of course. Normally Goby would be tossing his phone into the fridge by now, or Jazz would be stuffing it into her shirt to hide it from him. Mona would let him choose, but she’d remind him of all the reasons why it’s a bad idea to answer.
None of them are here to stop him from answering her. It’s not like he wants to answer. He really, really doesn’t. But she’s still his mom.
He answers the call.
“Sweetheart!” Her voice always sort of sounds like she’s trying to bribe someone; overly, unauthentically sweet. “I’ve been calling for ages! Is your phone not working?”
“Sorry, Mama,” he says. He sits down on the couch, tucking his free hand between his thighs, shoulders hunched. “I should probably buy a new one.”
“Do you need me to take care of it?”
He closes his eyes. “No, Mama. I can do it myself. Thank you, though.”
“Of course. You know I’m still here for you, even if you moved away to get away from me.” She says it like a joke, her words dripping with cheery venom.
Malcolm bites his tongue before the apology can slip from his mouth on instinct. Lady Governor seems to sense his distress and hops up next to him, nudging at his arm until he lets her onto his lap. His hand falls limply to her spine.
“How are you?” Malcolm says. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. He’s pitched it up on instinct—trying to recreate the voice of his past, the voice he had before his transition. The voice his mother will love more.
“I’m quite well, actually! Dorris has been stopping by to help me water the plants, isn’t that sweet? Sometimes she’ll bring her dog with her—Kroger, you remember Kroger?”
Malcolm smiles. Closes his eyes. “Of course. The corgi?”
“Yes, the corgi!” She chuckles, her voice light and fluttering through the phone like a moth. “What a precious dog. He’s grown rather fond of my marigolds, though.”
He makes an amused noise, just to let her know he’s still listening. It’s quiet for a beat before he hears her sharp inhale, gearing up to say something. He tenses and prepares for the worst.
“I’ve missed you, Malcolm.”
His breath leaves him in a painful exhale, stuttering and weak. He clenches his jaw, teeth bared like a wounded dog. It’s not the first time she’s called him by his true name, but it never fails to bring an ache to his chest. Like hot apple cider that’s too close to boiling, burning your insides even as you crave more of its sweet taste.
Maybe things are different this time.
“I’ve missed you too, Mama.”
She sighs. “You know all those things I said before, all those years ago...you know I was just grieving, right?”
He remembers her using this voice with him as a kid. He remembers her holding him in his bed as he cried into her chest, and she’d cradle his head and pet his hair until he wore himself out. He remembers her whispering to him until he fell asleep in her arms. You can always come to me. You’re safe. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. He doesn’t remember what he was crying about back then. He’s not sure if it matters.
He wraps his arms around himself and feels a tear drip down his cheek. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away. “I know, Mama.”
“I missed my husband. I missed my daughter.”
Malcolm hiccups. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ve made your choice. But I love you no matter what, dear. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
Lady Governor licks his knuckle. He doesn’t quite feel it like he should, the sandpaper roughness of her tongue, but he latches onto the feeling as best as he can anyway.
She takes a breath and lets it out slowly, crackling over the phone. It reminds him, for the briefest of moments, of the radio. Then she says, “It hurts me too, you know.”
Malcolm stays quiet. She continues talking as if he had answered.
“I know it’s not easy for you, with your condition.” That’s what she always calls it. A condition—a problem. A decision. “But it’s hard on everyone around you as well. You have to understand that.”
Malcolm stares down at his fingers, still resting on Lady Governor’s back. He can feel her fur, but it’s almost like someone else is petting her.
“I’ll always love you,” she says. “I just wish you were a little less selfish, that’s all.”
He’s waiting for the tears to start falling again, but his eyes are dry.
He’s not here.
“Oh, dammit, the rabbits have gotten into my garden again,” she says, like a switch being flipped. “Listen, sweetheart, I have to go, but call me more please! I miss you so much.”
“I miss you too.” There’s that voice again, the one that doesn’t feel like his own. It isn’t his own. Who’s talking? He thinks. It can’t be me. I’m not here.
“I love you!”
“I love you too, Mama.” I’m not here. I’m not here. Have I ever been here?
She ends the call. He realizes he still has his phone up to his ear after several moments of silence, and he lets it fall to his side. Lady Governor stands and pushes her paws up against his collarbone, sniffing at the salt on his cheeks. He lifts her up and carries her, dropping her at the kitchen counter before making his way into the bathroom connected to his room. He closes the door behind him so she can’t follow.
Looking into the mirror feels like looking at a painting. Whoever’s staring back at him, that isn’t him. But it is. He blinks, and the man in the mirror blinks. He moves his arm, and the other man does the same. But it doesn’t feel true. His eyes are too blank. His face is too unfeeling. There’s nothing underneath all that skin and bone. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel a thing.
He peels his shirt off his chest, slowly, methodically. He looks at the thin surgical scars framing his pecs, pink and faded. He remembers the day he told his mother he would be getting top surgery, and her voice rings in his mind.
“You can be so cruel, sometimes.”
The chill of the bathroom hits his skin, and it’s enough to snap him out of his numbness. He shivers once, and his face crumbles. A noise rips out of his throat, guttural and pained. He bares his weight down on the bathroom sink, his knuckles white and his wrists aching as he grips the counter.
His shin throbs dully, the wound left untreated. A trail of blood has made it into his sock. He rips off his shoes and socks mindlessly, opens the bathroom door and hurls them into his bedroom. They hit the bedframe with an unsatisfying thump. He bites at his cheek, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he stares into his room.
“Mrrp,” Lady Governor chirps from the doorframe. She’s a fair distance away, startled from the loud noises. He deflates.
“‘M sorry, Lady,” he whispers. “Don’t mean to scare you. I never want to scare you.”
He steps towards her, but she darts away.
“No, no,” he mutters, stumbling after her, but he stops himself. He doesn’t want to scare her any more than he already has. “‘M sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”
He leaves the apartment quickly, double checking the lock before rushing down the steps. It takes him longer than it should to realize that he left his shoes behind. The ground is uncomfortable, cracks and pebbles diggin into the sensitive underside of his feet, but he can’t go back. He can’t stop moving. He feels like a shark; if he stops moving forward, he’ll sink. He’ll die.
The world is brighter than it was before. Too fucking bright. The sun is blinding. He can hear the engines of the cars that pass by, and the idle conversations of people passing by, and it’s too much.
“No, not now,” Malcolm breathes. “Not another one, please.”
He keeps walking, hoping the cool air and momentum will help him calm down, but it only seems to make things worse. A car horn blares, and he shoves his hands against his ears to block out the noise. He walks faster.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he whines. “Stop it, please, just stop.”
His eyes are nearly closed shut in his effort to block out the overwhelming sunlight. He doesn’t see the body in front of him until it’s too late.
“Shit!” Peter shouts as Malcolm tumbles into him. “Dude, what are you—”
Malcolm sucks in a gasp at the sudden contact, and it’s too much, too much. He shoves Peter, stumbling over his own feet to get away.
“Hey, what—Malcolm!” Peter shouts as Malcolm turns away.
“I can’t—I can’t,” Malcolm repeats. He can’t get a proper sentence out, his ragged breaths getting in the way. This is a bad one.
He’s several feet away when Peter catches up to him and latches onto his arm. The contact is almost painful, and Malcolm rips his arm out of his grip.
“Stop!” Malcolm cries out. “Please, please, just stop—I can’t—I can’t breathe, I can’t—”
“Malcolm,” Peter says sharply, and his voice is lower now, like he’s speaking to an animal in a cage. His arms are raised, palms up. “Come with me. Please.”
Malcolm stares at him, his tears blurring his vision. He can see Peter well enough to see the sincerity on his face. It feels foreign. He’s never seen Peter look so kind. Not when he’s looking at Malcolm, at least.
“Okay,” Malcolm breathes. He hiccups. Nods his head. “Okay. Okay.”
17
Peter doesn’t try to touch him again, but he does lead him to the door of the record shop just a few feet away. Malcolm hadn’t even realized he’d gone in this direction. Peter must have been opening up the store when Malcolm ran into him. The keys are already in his hand, and he opens the door to let Malcolm in. Peter makes sure the sign is still flipped to the side that reads CLOSED before leading Malcolm further inside.
Peter takes him into the very back, where he opens a door to a small room. There’s a couch inside, more worn out than Malcolm’s old hand-me-down. Malcolm glances at it, shifting on his feet. Peter nods, and Malcolm sits down. His muscles stay tensed, his shoulders raised to his ears.
He looks up and finds Peter staring at him, his arms crossed and his eyebrows furrowed— analyzing him.
“What?” Malcolm snaps, his voice hoarse and biting. “I’m not a lab rat, quit fucking staring.”
Peter squints at him for a moment longer, then nods his head. He leaves the room without another word, and Malcolm feels his stomach drop. He did it again. He hurt someone, again, and now he’s leaving he’s leaving he’s leaving—
Then, suddenly, the room changes. The lights have dimmed, almost off but not completely, leaving the room in shadows that bounce away from the soft glow of the lava lamp in the corner desk. The buzzing noise that was accompanying the overhead lights is gone, and he sighs. He hadn’t even realized the noise was there, but he’s relieved as soon as it’s gone. The harsh drumming from the music playing throughout the store cuts out, and it’s quiet. He curls his toes, bare feet against the purple rug.
Peter comes back into the room, and Malcolm’s sure the relief is visible on his face. Peter holds out his hands, and Malcolm finally notices what he’s holding. Headphones. The big clunky kinds that cover your ears completely. He walks up to Malcolm and kneels down in front of him, lifting the headphones slowly, then pauses. His eyes are on Malcolm, asking a silent question as his hands hover between them. Malcolm blinks once, and stays still. Peter places the headphones over Malcolm’s ears, careful not to touch him anywhere else.
Malcolm lets out a trembling breath, his heart pounding. He’s not sure whether it’s due to his panic or Peter’s proximity now.
A moment later, sound begins to filter through the headphones. He looks down and sees Peter placing his phone next to Malcolm on the couch, the plug to the headphones connected to the phone’s headphone jack. The phone’s open, displaying the title of the song that’s playing. “Cosmic Dancer” by T. Rex. It’s a slower song, but not exactly the meditation music he was expecting from someone trying to calm him down from what he thinks was a panic attack. It helps, though. It’s something to focus on.
