"Michael´s Tale: Chapter 4" by Garon E. Whited

I took Claire to school the next morning and kissed her goodbye for the day.  Then I got busy around the apartment complex.  Robert had let several things stack up during the divorce proceedings.  The guy had been pretty hammered, emotionally, and his work had suffered.

Four garbage disposals, one dishwasher, eight leaky faucets, a cracked windowpane, and a pair of malfunctioning light switches kept me busy for the day.  Despite that, I had time to wonder about Robert’s apparent suicide attempt; broken things miraculously work after I “fix” them.

It’s hard to take enough booze and pills to kill yourself; a body is designed to throw up before that happens.  I know this for a fact because I saw the original design specs.  You have to be more clever than the flesh to pull it off.  A few pills, a few drinks, a few more pills, building up the substances gradually.  A handful of downers and a fifth of bourbon just makes you sick if you chomp and gulp.  Trust me, I ought to know—but we won’t go into that.

So how did Robert manage to do it?  I couldn’t find so much as an empty bottle, and the strongest drugs in the place were for a queasy tummy.

I wish I’d paid more attention to what, precisely, I was repairing when I fixed this body.  Oh, well.  I can’t add “perfect” to my resume; only the Boss can do that.  But who could He work for?

As I drove back toward school to pick up Claire, several tons of dump truck came roaring out of a blind alley.  There was no way for him to see me coming, and no way I could have seen him either.  I had a faint hint of trouble because I heard his engine roaring at full throttle; it didn’t occur to me that it would be roaring out of an alley straight at me. 

The view was spectacular; it’s been a while since I was in the path of an oncoming vehicle.  Every dent in the front bumper, every ding in the radiator grille stood out in razor-edged detail.  Robert has good eyes.

The thing crossed the street—the man behind the wheel could have at least done me the courtesy of taking his foot off the gas—and veered slightly to his left to keep the grill centered on my driver-side door.  It slammed into the side of my truck and flipped it; I wound up watching pavement slide by along the roof of the cab as I went skidding along.  I left a trail of sparks like a fallen angel kicked out of Heaven.

I don’t know how long the slide was, but it was a lot shorter than the Fall.  It stopped at a power pole.  The pole cracked as the front bumper tried to wrap itself around the base; I suddenly had a face full of airbag.  The wooden pole splintered and toppled down along the underside of my truck.  The transformer hit the asphalt with a bang and a flash and a boom; sparks exploded outward with much smoke and many bits of metal.  I wondered if the gas tank was in danger, then decided that it would be miraculously untouched.  The light show only lasted a second or two, then the circuit cut off.

I took stock.  Pain—as pain—doesn’t bother me much.  I don’t like it, but it’s something I can ignore.  Damage to the body is pretty much the same.  It’s just a vehicle with me in the driver’s seat.  It’s like that for everyone; the difference is that I know it, and I’ve had more practice driving different models.

The total came to thirteen broken bones (counting the cracked skull), some internal bleeding, a punctured lung, and a ruptured spleen.  I was pinned between the seat and steering wheel.  I tried to move my left leg and found it was caught under the seat and dashboard.  That was a minor inconvenience; I wanted it loose before I put the shinbones back together.

Nasty accident, this.  Nobody was near enough to see me inside the cab of the truck, so I looked at the steering wheel and it withdrew a few inches, giving me room.  The dashboard lifted itself into a different shape, freeing the trapped leg.  I mended the bones, stopped the internal bleeding, repaired the lung and spleen.  I left the superficial cuts and scrapes; no one walks away unscathed from that kind of crash.  Besides, the driver-side window had practically exploded across the cab.  I’m glad I was wearing my seat belt.

Once that was done, I started pulling myself from the wreckage.

A few people saw the accident; a few more stopped and jumped out of their cars.  I saw a couple on cell phones, presumably calling nine-one-one.  A man was headed my way; he hurried when he saw me crawling out.

“Whoa!  Whoa!  Whoa!  Not so fast!  Take it easy!  Lie down and try not to move!”  He tried to get me to stay still; I finished crawling out and laid myself down on the street.  The truck that hit me was long gone, and probably not more than superficially damaged.  Well, that was fair; it outweighed my pickup by several tons.  Not exactly a fair fight.

“Anyone get the license number of that truck?” I asked.  He didn’t get the joke.

“Help is on the way.  You just stay still and take it easy.”

It was pointless to argue.  “Okay.  But my daughter is at school.  Can I borrow your phone?”

“Sure, man.  Sure.”  He handed me his cell and I called the school while flipping through Robert’s memories.  Ms. Kinnison was the school counselor.  She might help.  Robert didn’t know the number, but Information got me the school.  I explained briefly—sirens in the distance lent credibility to my story.  She agreed to bring Claire to the hospital to see me.  Then she sent for Claire so I could explain.

Claire was not happy about my clumsiness.

“You had an accident?” she demanded.  “But you’re supposed to pick me up!  You’re not allowed to get hurt, Daddy!”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry.  But a bad driver hit Daddy’s truck and wrecked it!  Now they’re making me go to the hospital even though I’m almost completely okay.  Just a couple of small boo-boos and they think I’m all hurt, the big sillies.  A band-aid is all I need.  But Ms. Kinnison is going to take you to see me in the hospital and you can put one of the band-aids on for me yourself, okay?”

There was a pause.  “I can help fix you?” she asked.

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay.”  She hung up.  I made a mental note to work on telephone etiquette with her.

*   *   *

Our Lady of Mercy is a nice hospital, as such things go.  The fluorescent lights all worked, anyway.  I can’t say I enjoyed having my feet stuck out in a cold draft until the X-ray room was ready for me.  It reminded me of the time I had to climb into a guy who had made it to the morgue.  Brr.

The nurses were nice, though, and let Claire stay in sight—once I pointed out there was no one to sit with her.  She was very quiet, all big solemn eyes and serious expression as she followed me around on the gurney.  Once I was in a bed, a doctor came to see me.  I don’t think he even noticed she was in the room.

“Well, Mister Masters, your X-ray shows no broken bones.  Some heavy bruising, especially around the left calf, and a number of cuts from the broken glass, but you’ve been very lucky.  From the description, the accident could have killed you.”

“I always wear my seat belt.  But the next vehicle I get, it’ll have a side airbag.”

“Good idea.  We’re going to keep you overnight, just to be sure.”

“Fine by me,” I answered.  “Anybody know who hit me?”

He shook his head.  “Not a clue.  But there’s a policeman outside who would like a moment of your time, if you feel up to it.”

“Sure.”  The doctor switched places with the cop.  The cop got out a notebook and took a statement.  I told him the truth, but left out minor details like healing my body’s injuries.  He wasn’t equipped to understand, and Claire doesn’t need to have her father in a mental ward.

When he left, Claire pushed a chair next to the bed and climbed up on it to look at me.  I looked back at her.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Can I fix you now?”

My left hand had a needle and tube sticking out of it, so I held out my right hand—and gave her a band-aid.  I got away with creating one easily; it’s a hospital, after all.  She peeled it open carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration, and applied it to my forearm with all the care of a surgeon.

“Are you better?” she asked.

“Yes, indeedy,” I assured her.  “They still want me to spend the night, because they don’t understand.”

She pondered this with little-girl seriousness.  “Okay,” she said, and climbed up onto the bed with me.  I kept her on my right side and let her cuddle up against me.  When the nurse came in to check on me, I gave her a significant look.  She almost said something, but, while I can’t force anyone to do anything, I can influence the way people think.  A nudge here, a hint there, that sort of thing.  In this case, the nurse remembered her daughter at Claire’s age, and thought about how they would both have felt in this situation.

The nurse quietly did nurse-things and left, without a word about my guest.

*   *   *

Clarissa came to visit that evening.  I had hoped she would.  Robert’s body looked as if he’d been the guest speaker at a flagellant convention, even if it was all superficial damage.  I figured it would be worth some sympathy points, as well as another good rattling of her preconceived notions of Robert.

Clarissa couldn’t hide her expression.  I guess the body looked worse than I thought.

I held a finger to my lips and then pointed at Claire, curled up asleep at my side.

“What happened?” Clarissa asked, softly.  She sat down in the chair Claire had pushed close.

“Big truck,” I replied, tersely.  Time to be a little grouchy.

“You were in an accident?”

“Yes.”

She frowned.  “What’s wrong?”

I pretended not to understand.

“You seem upset,” she clarified.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, moving from grouchy into contemplative.

“Well, that’s a pleasant sur—” she began, then checked herself.  I was very pleased she was trying to overcome her habit of snapping at Robert.  It was an excellent sign.  “Oh.  What about?”

“Dying.  If I go, Claire is going to have to stay with you full-time, and she hates the babysitter or nanny or whatever you call her.  I don’t want that.  Could you please send her back to the Land of Unsmiling Governesses?”

Clarissa looked startled.  “But Ms. Phillips has impeccable references.  She’s one of the finest English nannies for hire.”

“And she’s completely wrong for Claire.  Claire doesn’t understand why there’s a strange woman who never smiles who can suddenly tell her what to do and make her eat things she doesn’t even recognize.”

“Oh, Claire will get used to it,” she assured me.

I shot her a look.  It wasn’t a look Robert would ever have used.  Then I used a cold, unforgiving tone that I don’t think Robert could have duplicated.  I’ve had occasion to practice it on other jobs.

“Claire is my daughter, too.  She shouldn’t have to ‘get used to’ a nasty old biddy for a babysitter.”

Clarissa blinked at me, lips parting slightly in shock.  Her breathing quickened and she licked her lips.

I held my glare.  “I mean it.  If I’m going to die in this drafty hospital, you may regard it as my dying wish.”

“I… I see,” Clarissa answered, meekly.

I sighed and relaxed again.  “So.  Assuming I’m going to pull through—they think I will—I have an idea.”

Clarissa blinked a few times and took a deep breath.  “Oh?”

“I’m not sure you’ll like it, but here it is.  After our lunch with Ms. Palmer tomorrow, I’ll quit my job at the complex.  You can hire me as a live-in handyman and babysitter.  This lets you see Claire anytime you want—not just on weekends, but whenever it’s convenient to your schedule—and lets me take care of her instead of some professional nanny with a pedigree and no empathy for children.”

Clarissa frowned, looking much more businesslike.  “I’m not sure that would—”

“Wait,” I interrupted.  “Let me finish.”

She hesitated.  Usually, she walked all over Robert in a conversation.  There had been some changes made.  It was almost as though Robert was a whole new man.

“Okay.”

“Go for this deal and I’ll drop all contest to the divorce.  No argument, no questions, you get it all your way—provided you keep me on as I just described.  No other sitters, no nannies, none of that crap.  You do as you please and I take care of Claire.  This takes care of visitation and custody—you can see her anytime you want, and I see her all the time.  It also makes certain that she has a caretaker who takes care.”

Clarissa isn’t stupid.  She thought about it for a while.

“No jealousy when I start dating?  No vindictive little digs out of spite?  You would do that?”

I nodded.

“Why?” she demanded.  “I mean, you always hated the idea of giving up your job and being a house-husband.  Hell, you hated the idea of me working all the time.  Why would you do this now?”

“A couple of reasons.  A traffic accident, for one, to shake loose my thinking.”

She nodded.  “All right.  And the others?”

“I saw you tear into the brunette who was flirting with me in the pool.”  Clarissa blushed a nice shade of crimson.  I pretended to not notice.  “I realized something from that, and it took nearly dying to make me willing to admit it to myself.”

“What?”

“I’ve been an idiot.  I love you, and I love Claire.  Do what you want; I’ll go along with it.  You want things your way?  Okay.  Your happiness and Claire’s happiness are more important to me.  I’d like to try and be the husband and Daddy I should have been—but if it’s too late for being the perfect husband, it’s too late.  I’ll see if I can manage the Daddy part.”  I sat up a little, careful not to disturb Claire too much.  I looked Clarissa squarely in the eyes and lowered my voice a trifle, backing it with a touch of power to give it a deeper, more definite sound.  It’s a trick prophets use to make sure people listen. 

“But if you give me any grief at all about this, I will fight you tooth and nail.  I will mortgage my life to the sole purpose of taking Claire away from you and making you regret ever considering the idea of leaving me.  I’ll have no scruples, no qualms, and no mercy.  Glaciers will shiver at the cold that pours out of my heart, because without the two of you, there is nothing left to warm it.”

Clarissa stared at me, eyes wide.  Then she stood up, turned away, and fumbled in her purse for several seconds.  When she finally answered, her voice was shaking. 

“All right.  I accept your terms.  I’ll have my lawyers draw up the necessary papers and send them over.”  She snapped the purse closed like a gunshot and Claire stirred next to me.  “I’ll… I’ll see you at lunch.”  Clarissa marched out of the room, not looking back.

I stroked Claire’s hair and smiled to myself.  That, at least, went very well indeed.

But that truck worried me.  Someone was trying to kill me—well, kill Robert—and had already succeeded once.

Having Claire lose her daddy did not sit well with my mission.  Or with me.

*   *   *

They let me go the next morning.  We went home and got ready for the day.  Claire was late for school, but I didn’t need a note; I went in to thank Ms. Kinnison personally.  She was an older lady, but still trim and lively.  I thanked her for her help and she expressed the hope that I’d recover quickly.  Then I headed off to a power lunch.

Figaro’s was a nice place, done in an Italian style that featured a lot of high-quality fake ivy.  The chairs were my favorite part, though—well-padded and on rollers.  Very comfortable.  The maitre’d showed me to a table and I waited for the rest of the party.

Ms. Palmer and her daughter arrived together.  I stood up and held the chair for Ms. Palmer.

“Robert,” she began, introducing us, “this is my daughter, Victoria.  Victoria, this is Robert, the dear boy who was nearly drowned.”

Victoria smiled at me and answered, “Yes, you told me about it.  I’m very pleased to meet you, Robert.”  She extended a hand.

“Charmed,” I replied, and shook it.  She gripped my hand firmly, like a man.  It was a take-charge, no-nonsense sort of handshake.  Then she seated herself, without giving me a chance to try and hold her chair.  I sat down quickly.

“So, where’s the marketing genius?” Victoria asked.  “Drowning someone else?”

“No, we’re just a little early,” I said.  “She’ll be here; I know her.”

“I’m sure.”

Ms. Palmer smiled at the both of us.  “Robert, have you ordered?”

“Not yet.  Would you like to?”

“I am a trifle hungry.”

Victoria promptly signaled for a waiter; we ordered lunch, and I sent in an order for a Chef’s salad; light enough for Clarissa to eat, substantial enough to count as lunch.  By the time it arrived, she would probably be with us.

She didn’t let me down.  She arrived exactly on time.  I rose, held her chair, and introduced her around the table.

Victoria got right to business.  Clarissa jumped right in with her.  I kept out of it and chatted quietly with Ms. Palmer; we did our best not to disturb them.  Not that it was likely we would; they ate and spoke with an intense, driving manner that reminded me of a Roman legion.

“Is she always like this?” I asked, softly, keeping one ear on the conversation.

Ms. Palmer nodded, then nodded at Clarissa and gave me an inquiring look.  I nodded back.  Ms. Palmer smiled and continued to pick at her food.

I found that odd.  Not long ago, she claimed to be hungry.  I looked into her and saw that she was ill, terminally ill with a cancer.  I doubted anyone could have noticed, yet, so I fixed it.  If the Departures section wanted her, they would come get her.  No need for her to be in pain, though.

Just as a note, sometimes it is necessary for someone to linger in pain for a while; it’s part of the Plan.  This is sometimes to punish them in the flesh, rather than afterward, but is most often a good deed on their part—the suffering they endure usually has far-reaching effects on everyone around them.  If Ms. Palmer’s cancer was part of the Plan, then it would come back on its own.  If it was someone being infernally unpleasant, it would have to have someone close at hand to bring it back.

Ms. Palmer ate with better appetite after that.

Lunch went on longer than I thought it would; Clarissa must have cleared a lot of her busy schedule to have this meeting.  Victoria liked her ideas and the way she wanted to handle the campaign.  I didn’t have anything to do with it—Clarissa really is very good at what she does.  But the time was beginning to drag on, so I stood up.  This got their attention.

“Ladies, I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I have to be going.  Our daughter is in a head start program and she’ll be out shortly; I need to go fetch her, and I refuse to be late.  So, with your kind indulgence?”

Victoria nodded absently, dismissing me from her short list of significant figures.  Clarissa nodded more definitely and gave me another odd look, one that said, Robert can be punctual?  She then turned her attention back to Victoria.  I quietly thanked Ms. Palmer for coming and she patted my hand.  She’s a very nice lady.

I circled the table to stand beside Clarissa.  She glanced up at me, and I leaned down as though to whisper something.  Instead, I gave her a quick peck on the cheek.  She was so startled she didn’t say anything.

“I’ll handle the check and collect the little one,” I told her.  “Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help.”

I heard her get back into the conversation with Victoria, but I felt her eyes on me as I headed for the door.

*   *   *

Who in the world would want to kill Robert?  The man was a bit messy, true.  He was also easy to push around and not at all ambitious… but what part of that marked him as a target?  I would think the lack of ambition and the easygoing manner would have made him immune to the hatred that makes people want to murder someone.  He was never rich enough to be killed for his money, and I racked his brain for things like life insurance and trust funds.  Unless Claire was behind it all, nobody stood to gain anything by Robert’s death.

I doubted Claire was behind it.  Call me foolishly trusting, but I wasn’t going to point the finger at his five-year-old daughter.

I ran through a list of people Robert knew.  Clarissa might, possibly, maybe, hire a hit-man to be assured of keeping her daughter—Clarissa can be possessive in the extreme—but she had the money for a better lawyer, the Mommy factor, and a much better career.  A judge wouldn’t think twice about awarding custody to her.  An assassin would just be a potential liability.

Clarissa’s ex-husband, Leonard, might be tempted to off Robert just to have a clear field of work for going after Clarissa again, but Leonard wasn’t the type to take Clarissa back after their falling-out, much less go chasing her after the mutual yelling and screaming and fighting.  Plus, there was a divorce in progress; an assassin, again, would just be a potential liability.

Who else could have a motive?  I was stuck for one.  Robert was just… well… not the sort you went gunning for.  He might not always be likable, but he never really offended anyone, either.

I spent the rest of the week rummaging through Robert’s brain, hunting for someone—anyone!—who could be that upset with him.  Or even someone who might have a motive.  Eventually, I had to give it up.  Robert literally didn’t have anyone who hated him enough.

Fortunately, I had a lot of time to think about it.  Claire spent her mornings at the head start school Clarissa had picked, and I had all the service requests in the complex handled by Wednesday.  This gave me most of the night and both Thursday and Friday morning to think.  The rest of the time, I was spending time with Claire.

Claire can read quite well, but she likes it when I read to her.  Truth be told, so do I.  She also reads to me, but she’s not so good at doing the voices.  I’ve had a lot more practice at a lot more voices.  Several lifetimes’ worth. 

We also played games; I taught her how to play chess, but she’d rather play with the horsey than make it go through an “L” move.  We also played kickball in the living room, once I moved the lamps.  The ball was made of foam rubber, so I didn’t feel too worried about the windows.

The complex also has a pool, some playground equipment, and a vollyball court—also known as “The Sandbox.”  Keeping the local stray cats out of it is usually a chore, but I had a Word with them and they found a new litterbox.  Claire and I played outside every afternoon.

I met Bruce, Kim, and Chuck.  They were four, six, and seven, respectively.  Robert already knew them, but they were new to me.

“Are you playing with us?” Chuck wanted to know.

“Yup,” I replied, and went down the slide.  That seemed enough of an answer.

Children like me.  I think it’s a side effect of what I am.  They didn’t much care for me when I was in Gaul, but that was a long time ago and a couple of worlds away.

I was took a break from the playground to intercept the delivery guy as he walked away from my door.  I accepted the package and checked the contents before I opened it; it held nothing more dangerous than paper.  While paper can be pretty dangerous, it wasn’t immediately life-threatening.  I opened it up and skimmed the documents; Clarissa was as good as her word.

“Daddy?  Can we go swimming?”

I glanced down at Claire.  “Of course, sweetie.  Are the others going to swim, too?”

“Chuck says it’s okay as long as a grownup is with us.”

“Fair enough.  Let’s go inside and change.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“All right,” I agreed.  She dashed off, ponytail waving like a yellow flag behind her.  I read a little more of the papers.  Yep, Clarissa meant it.  The job included room and board, a salary, health and dental benefits, even a retirement plan.  I’ll give her this, she’s thorough.

My micro-angel reappeared at my side.  “Okay.”

We went in and changed.  I covered Claire in sunscreen before we went back out.

“Now, we have to wait a few minutes before you go in the water; the sunscreen has to soak in.  Besides, we should wait for the others.”

She looked mournfully at the water.  It really isn’t fair to dress a child in a swimsuit and take her near a pool without letting her swim.  So I sat down on the edge of the pool with her, feet in the water, and distracted her.

“By the way, how would you like to go live with Mommy?”

She turned shocked and saddened eyes up at me.

“Forever?” she asked.  It sounded like I’d just told her we were moving to Siberia.  I immediately realized my mistake.

“Yes, but I’ll go with you,” I assured her.  “I won’t leave you.”

She looked at the water in silence for a minute.

“Will I have to eat creepy Susans?”

“I’ll do the cooking.  No creepy Susans.”

“I guess it’d be okay.”

There’s a long way to go in healing that mother-daughter rift.  That’s my next project.