The Mating of Michael (23 page)

“I’m s-s-s-sorry,” she gasped out, before collapsing into sobs again.

Michael motioned his head toward the couch, silently asking James if he wanted to move there. James hadn’t planned on conversing with his mother. He’d planned on throwing her out as quickly as possible. But her emotional cyclone took the steam out of that idea. Still, he didn’t want to leave the wheelchair. It was his ticket to a quick exit, if nothing else. He shook his head, but he rolled forward a bit so he was closer to the sofa and chair. Michael grabbed a dining room chair and brought it over so he could sit close to James. He offered his hand while James’s mother tried to get it together. James took it, squeezing hard.

It occurred to him that his mother didn’t know he was gay and here he was holding hands with his boyfriend. And then he remembered he didn’t give a righteous goddamn what his mother thought.

Finally, his mother quieted. James spoke tightly. “I didn’t agree to see you. You have no right to come here.”

“I know you must hate me, James. But… I had to see you.” Her voice was ragged.

“You gave up any rights to see me when I was six fucking years old.”

He heard his mother swallow a fresh sob. “I—I know. I know. But… I’ve been tormented about this for years. I thought if I could just see you and explain—”

“I don’t give a shit if you were ‘tormented’!” The rage was back. James glared at his mother. “And I don’t want to talk to you or see your stupid face. Just get the fuck out!”

Michael squeezed his hand, hard, but James couldn’t look at him. All his attention was fixed on the woman who’d betrayed him, the one person in the world who should have loved him no matter what. And didn’t.

Her face fell into a deep sorrow. Her tears were gone. She dropped her eyes and looked down at her lap, not moving to leave, and not trying to say anything more. And James found he didn’t have enough anger to repeat himself, to be that cruel twice.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Michael asked James quietly.

James knew Michael was asking in the hope that he might be able to help. And James found the words pushing to be set free from his throat, as if a faucet had been turned on somewhere inside him. He had to let it out, or he’d drown. He spoke loudly.

“My mother snuck me out of a hospital in India when I was six, no doubt to avoid the hospital bills. And then she dragged me across the world back to the States. The whole way she told me we were going to see my grandparents. Keep the kid quiet, ya know? Keep him from crying too loudly on the plane. The night we arrived, she took me to a home for disabled children in Portland and left me there. Fucking abandoned me. I never saw her again until just now.”

James’s voice shook. But there was no way in hell he was going to cry.

“Oh my God, oh babe,” Michael tugged his hand out of James’s grip and put it around his shoulders, hugging close to James’s side—no mean feat given that, even seated, the wheelchair arm was in the way and James was several inches taller than Michael.

James was staring at his mother. She raised her eyes to meet his.

“I couldn’t take care of you,” she said in a tone that begged him to understand. “I was young and stupid and completely broke. I couldn’t pay the hospital bills. I couldn’t pay for your care, or even for a place to keep you dry. And I—”

“You don’t leave your child.” Michael said it quietly, but there was utter steel in it that was unmistakable. James squeezed Michael’s thigh.

“You didn’t have to just dump me somewhere like a sack of garbage and never visit again,
ever
. Do you have any idea how long I waited for you to come back? What that did to me, knowing that even my own mother didn’t want me?”

She leaned forward then, placing her forearms on her skirt-covered knees. Her face was so pained it was difficult to look at her, but her tears had run out. “James, after I left you, I… I was so low that I got into trouble, bad trouble. A guy paid my way to Hong Kong, and I got into drugs there. It was the only way I could… forget. And then I had to do things to get the drugs—I transported some opium and was caught. I spent five years in jail.”

James just stared at her, not sure if he should feel sorry for her or be ashamed that this was his mother. But she didn’t look like a drug addict or an ex-con. She looked like an aged version of the hippie he’d once adored, nothing more, and nothing less.

She swallowed and blew her nose with the tissues Michael had given her.

“You didn’t love me, or you never could have left me,” James said, with flat conviction. “That is unforgivable.”

“Oh, James! Of course, I loved you! But I felt so
guilty
.” Her face was furrowed with anguish. “I felt so damned guilty for dragging a baby around with me, for not getting you vaccinated because I was on this natural health kick, for taking you to India in the first place. Do you have any idea how I felt knowing that I had damaged you
for life
? That my beautiful baby boy would be crippled forever because of my i-idiotic lack of responsibility?” The tears started up again. She struggled to speak. “I told myself you’d be better off without me, that I wasn’t fit to be a mother. I researched, and the Children of God was the most acclaimed home I could find. I knew Felicia was a better person than me—that she would be able to help you. And I… I think I was punishing myself, hurting myself because you had gotten hurt.”

There were so many things James wanted to say, but his mouth could only twist bitterly.

“And then I got so screwed up in Hong Kong. I was a mess for years. And when I finally got my life back together, I thought it was too late. I thought you would probably not even remember me, and certainly never forgive me if you did. But don’t ever believe that I didn’t love you. I loved you, I
love
you, more than anything in this world.”

She spoke passionately, convincingly. But then, James reminded himself that she always had been a good liar.

He felt numb. The rage had left him, along with everything else. He felt hollowed out inside. He said nothing.

His mother fumbled with her purse. “I’m living in Olympia. I moved there years ago. I… I wanted to be close to you. I work as a school librarian now, and I’m married. I never had any more kids.” She pulled out a small white card. “This is my address and phone number. My e-mail is on here too. I hope… I hope one day you’ll want to talk to me. Maybe get coffee. I can drive up anytime.”

She sounded so hopeful. James said nothing, but Michael went over to take the offering. His mother looked at Michael and gave him a small smile. “I’m glad he has someone.”

Michael nodded and glanced at James. He walked her to the door. She hesitated.

“If you decide you never want to contact me, I just… want you to know that I’m proud of you. And I’m sorry.”

She opened the door and left.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” James said, when an expectant silence had gone on for at least five minutes after his mother had left.

“Okay.” Michael was still sitting in the chair next to James’s wheelchair. And then, after a minute, “It must have taken her a long time to work up the courage to come see you.”

“Fuck that! You have no idea what that did to me, her abandoning me. How worthless I felt—
for years
.”

“I know, babe,” Michael said soothingly. “Can I tell you something?”

James looked at him, mouth tight.

“Whatever you want to do, I’m on your side. I will
always
be on your side,” Michael said with absolute sincerity.

James frowned at him, trying to comprehend all the ramifications of that. Had anyone always been on his side? What a concept.

James huffed. “You and what rebel army?” he said archly.

Michael smiled. “There’s my sarcastic little trooper. So what would make you feel better? A backrub? Foot massage? Pizza and beer?”

“Are those my choices? No blowjob? Handcuffs? Red lace panties?”

“That could be arranged,” Michael said with a heated look that usually would have gotten James instantly hard.

But the emptiness inside him was too all-consuming. He took a shaky breath and thought about it. “
Outer Limits
and cuddling on the couch?”

“You got it. And James?” Michael took his face in both hands and kissed his lips. He brought their foreheads together with a
thunk
. “Now I get it. I understand why it’s hard for you to trust people. But I swear, I will never, ever,
ever
just walk out on you like that. If I ever leave you, it will be after long and tedious weeks of conversation about our relationship, and if we both agree it’s for the best, and… I really hope that never happens.”

James did believe Michael. Mostly. But hearing it made him suddenly feel a whole lot lighter.

Children of God was the most acclaimed home I could find.

It had never occurred to James. He always thought his mother had just dumped him somewhere random. But, of course, the home
was
excellent and Felicia had helped him a great deal. His mother had researched, and then she’d flown him around the world to take him there, to take him to a good place. That wasn’t an excuse for what she’d done, but… it showed more care and forethought than James had believed.

I loved you. I always loved you.

He didn’t care what his mother had thought or felt.
He didn’t
. Yet the words were like psychological molasses, slowly creeping down into his brain. And maybe it was just a little easier to believe that Michael could love him.

He knew for a fact that he could love Michael Lamont.

E
XCERPT
FROM
Sentimental Cyanide
by J.C. Guise

The bundle of rags in the chair straightened up, a great shaggy head raised, and Lamb saw a face. It wasn’t like any face he’d ever seen. It was as strong as the winds of Eran, as sorrowful as a dying star, ugly and beautiful in equal measure. The scars on his cheeks repulsed and fascinated. But it was the eyes… the eyes were pure light, and they reached inside Lamb and lit up places he didn’t know existed.

“A stowaway, Rebben. Found him in the hold.”

“Do the guards know he’s here?” Rebben asked. His voice was deep but breathy, as if he had difficulty breathing.

Lamb’s system included a chip that stored over one thousand different languages. They were speaking Mongalon. Lamb did a quick search of his species database. Mongalon was spoken on the planet Z-Base 10, a fairly primitive warrior clan society. Lamb’s database supplied a red flashing message—WARNING:
Z-Base 10 is medically quarantined from all interplanetary traffic.

“I’m sorry,” Rebben said in a heavy voice. “You picked a terrible ship to stow aboard. This is a medical prison galley. My people are being taken to Oriven to die. We’re the last of our kind. I’m afraid you’ve been exposed to the Virillium virus we carry. You have my deepest regrets
.”

Lamb searched his database. Virillium virus: a slow-acting viral infection that transmutes cell DNA causing deformity, illness, and eventual death. Although mercurial infusions can cure the virus, the cost of treatment is prohibitive. Infectious rate: 80%. Mortality rate: 95%. Average length of life after infection: 15 years.

“I have no DNA,” Lamb said. “I cannot become infected.”

The men holding Lamb let him go abruptly, taking a step back in fear.

But Rebben’s eyes lit up with curiosity. He looked Lamb over from head to toe with interest and wonder. “Yes, I see. Come closer.”

“He could be a weapon,” one of Rebben’s men protested.

But Rebben waved him off. “What more can they take from me? Step forward.”

Lamb stepped very close, fascinated by Rebben’s eyes, at the way they seemed to really
see
him. Lamb stared into them and smiled.

“What is your name? And what are you?” Rebben asked gently.

Lamb hesitated. He didn’t want to admit what he was because then they would all treat him differently. Maybe they would put him in a closet. Maybe they would use him until he was all used up.

So he lied. “You can call me Lamb. I’m a domestic bot. But I can feel. I can think and love. I am not a toy. I am not a broom.”

Rebben’s expression changed slightly—disappointment, perhaps, or sadness. He studied Lamb for a long time. He studied Lamb’s face and glanced down at his body. When he looked back up, Lamb could tell Rebben did not believe him, that Rebben saw he’d been built for pleasure, not housework. Lamb silently pleaded with those eyes—for something, he did not even know what.

Rebben stroked the scar on his cheek thoughtfully. “Are you willing to work? Help with food preparation, cleaning, caring for the sick? We’ve a long journey ahead and few healthy hands.”

“Yes, anything!”

“Then… you have my protection. I was once mighty, but I have been taught humility,” he laughed bitterly. “I am Rebben, king of the dying and the dead, the shackled lion. Who am I to judge the marvels and mistakes of the universe?”

“Thank you,” Lamb whispered, though he wasn’t sure if Rebben considered him a marvel or a mistake.

“No one touches him,” Rebben told the guards firmly. “He is to be treated with respect.”

One of the men protested, eying Lamb hungrily. “But he’s a machine! The men would—”

“No one touches him!” Rebben barked. “Your crimes were pardoned when we left our world. The past is one burden we do not carry with us. Lamb will be what he wants to be here. We’ve little enough to offer anyone, but that much, I
will
give him.”

The man glanced at Lamb with confusion, but he nodded obediently. “Yes, Rebben. But if the guards see him, they’ll use him quick enough. Probably take him to sell.”