CHAPTER 32
Isabel and Alex were still sitting, lost in thought, when a car pulled up and dropped Amy DeLuca off several hours later. She came in through the kitchen, dropping her purse on the counter. "Maria?" she called.
Rising, Alex greeted her as she stuck her head in the living room. "Hi, Mrs. DeLuca."
"Hi, Alex, Isabel," she responded warmly. "How was dinner?"
"Fine, thanks, Mrs. DeLuca," responded Isabel politely.
Looking around, her face wrinkled in puzzlement, Amy asked, "So where's the hostess?"
"Actually, Maria wasn't feeling too well--" Isabel began.
Alex added, "She had a headache or something."
"--so she went to bed. We just stayed to make sure she was all right, until you got home," finished Isabel.
"Just the two of you?" Amy said, a hint of suspicion in her tone.
"Yeah. The others left a while ago."
Amy nodded. "Thanks for looking out for her."
"No problem, Mrs. DeLuca. I guess we'll head out now," said Alex.
"Come on Alex, I'll give you a ride home." Isabel grabbed her purse and headed for the door. "Mrs. DeLuca?"
"Yes, Isabel?"
"Will you please tell Maria we'll see her tomorrow?"
"I sure will. Thanks again."
The two teenagers were soon gone, and Amy headed to Maria's room. The door was shut, and she opened it slowly, not wanting to wake her daughter if she was asleep. Maria was curled up in bed, huddled under a blanket even though the house wasn't cold. In the light from the hallway, Amy could see the old, faded pajamas that she had climbed into. The flannel, which had once sported little sheep all over it, was the nightwear version of a security blanket; Maria only wore them when she needed a little extra comfort.
Not wanting to disturb her daughter's rest, Amy began to pull the door closed. A wan voice stopped her. "Hi, Mom."
"Hi, honey," Amy returned, crossing to the bed. "Alex said you weren't feeling well."
"I'm all right."
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Amy stroked the tousled head on the pillow. "Are you sure? You don't sound too good."
"I told you, I'm fi--" Maria's voice broke at that word. "Fine. I'm fine," she managed, then sat up into the comfort of her mother's arms. Amy held her as she sobbed silently.
"Oh, honey," she said, rubbing Maria's back gently. "Shhhh. Shhhhh." When the girl's sobs began to lessen, Amy wiped her damp cheeks off with the corner of the blanket. "What happened tonight? Did you and your friends have a fight?"
"I don't want to talk about it, Mom," Maria sniffed.
Amy stiffened as an unwelcome thought popped into her head. That Guerin boy had been here, the one that had already broken her daughter's heart at least once. "Did...did someone hurt you, Maria?"
"No. I'm fine." Maria pulled back as she realized what her mother was asking. "You mean Michael, don't you?" she stated, looking into Amy's concerned face. "You think that Michael hurt me."
"I only thought that--"
"Michael would never hurt me. Not on purpose," Maria said fervently. "Don't ever think that."
"I'm sorry, honey. I just saw that you're upset, and I'm worried for you. I'm your mother, so it's allowed. I don't like to see you hurting."
"I am hurting. But not from Michael, for Michael," Maria whispered. "Tonight, we talked, and he...he let me into his life more than he ever has before, and...Oh, Mom." She swallowed, trying to clear the lump from her throat. "Did you know that Michael is an emancipated minor now?"
"I heard something about that, yes," her mother said.
"Did you also hear anything about his last foster home?"
Amy shrugged. "Only that his foster father left town. Jim Valenti mentioned something about it when it happened, I think."
"Hank--that was his foster father--used to drink. A lot," Maria faltered. "And when he did, he would..." She gripped her mother's hand tightly. "He would hurt Michael," she finished in a whisper. Amy was silent.
"I knew it had happened," her daughter went on, forcing the words out. "But I didn't know how...bad it really was. Tonight, he let me see what his life was really like."
"Oh, honey. I am so sorry." Amy tightened her grip around the woebegone girl.
"I know you don't like him, Mom," Maria whispered. "But just think--if it weren't for you, that could have been me. But I always had you. Michael had nobody. It hurts. It hurts more that anything has ever hurt. And I can't fix it." She burrowed into her mother's arms, and Amy sat holding her, murmuring soft words of comfort. When the girl finally fell asleep, Amy pulled the blanket back up under her chin, tucking her in as she had when Maria was little. She sat, carefully and lovingly watching over her daughter, as Maria slept.
Maria looked listlessly at the lunch in front of her. Her mother had gotten up early to pack it for her, but even though Amy had included some of Maria's favorite foods, she couldn't seem to drum up any appetite for it. Maybe it was the uneasy sleep she'd had the night before, maybe it was the pop quiz they'd had in math third period, maybe it was how angry she'd been with Max the night before.
Oh, who was she kidding? It was because Michael had been a no-show in English that morning, and she was worried about him. She'd been late to second period because she'd called his apartment, but he hadn't answered and the answering machine didn't pick up. She had no idea where he was, and in the state of mind he'd been in last night, she couldn't even begin to guess what he might be doing.
A shadow falling over her pulled her out of her reverie. "Maria?" a hesitant voice said. "Can I talk to you?" She gave a short nod but didn't say anything further as Max sat down opposite her. "I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have gotten so angry," he began.
She shrugged it off. "We shouldn't have kept it a secret, anyway. Besides, we were all angry last night, Max. It wasn't just you."
"I know. But I'm still sorry."
"You don't need to tell me that. You need to tell Michael."
Max flushed. "I would, but it looks like he's cutting school today."
"I know. I tried calling him, but he's not answering," she said.
He gave a noncommittal grunt. After a few moments of silence, she tried to change the subject. "So where is everybody?"
"I uh...I asked them to give us some space so I could talk to you," he admitted.
"So, you're talking. Now what?" she asked.
"Maria, I need to ask you something. About Michael."
She gave a shrug. "I'll answer whatever I can without betraying Michael's trust."
Max looked at her intently. "Why did you ask Isabel to heal Michael's arm? She can do it, but I'm more experienced, and...I've been thinking about it, and it really bothers me that you wouldn't let me help."
"It wasn't anything you did, Max. I know you're really great at it--I've got the ankle to prove it. But I had to look at it from Michael's point of view, and right now, he doesn't need any more reminders that you are a healer." She met his eyes squarely. "He hasn't been able to deal with killing Pierce, yet. And remember what he said that day? You heal people and he kills them. He can't help but compare himself to you, and in his eyes, he always comes out behind."
"That's ridiculous," Max burst out.
"You know that and I know that," Maria told him. "But Michael is so wrapped up in blaming himself that he can't think about it objectively. He can only feel. And what he feels--Max, I don't think you have any idea of all the weight he's carrying around. It's not just Pierce, you know. It goes back much further than that."
She sighed. "I'm not even sure that I can appreciate how bad things have been for him, and I saw a whole lot of it--in a Technicolor direct feed with surround sound, no less. And you know what? I am so terribly proud of him. He's been through so much, Max. A weaker person would have cracked a long time ago, but not Michael. He has swallowed almost everything that's ever been done to him, so it wouldn't draw attention to the three of you, so he wouldn't get in anyone else's way.
"He looks up to you, so much. Use it, Max. Help him see how special he is, how he deserves so much more than he's been given. Because as much as I love him, I don't know if that's enough to get through to him." Maria looked down at the table in front of her and spoke in a low tone. "He is so focused on his alien side--maybe it has to come from you and Isabel. I don't know," she said with a sigh. Looking directly into Max's eyes, she pleaded, "Please don't let him down, Max."
Max was silent for a moment, then said slowly, "I'll try not to. But it's so hard for me to read him lately. He was never exactly open, but I still used to be able to tell what he was thinking. I knew what to expect." He sighed. "Now it's not that simple."
Maria looked at him gently. "You get older, and things become more complicated. It happens to everyone, Max. Even Czechoslovakians." She smiled sadly. "I have the feeling that, impressions aside, Michael was always pretty complex. He just didn't let anyone see it before."
Max considered this, thinking rapidly. "Do you think it would help him to talk about it? What's happened to him, I mean. Izzy and I knew he had things rough, but maybe we only touched the surface of it. Maybe talking about it would help."
"I'm not sure he'll ever be able to open up that much about things, Max." She shook her head. "It's hard enough getting him to tell you what he had for lunch yesterday--so talking about things that he's kept inside his whole life? I don't know. I'm not a psychiatrist. All I know to do is to support him as much as I can, and let him do things in his own time."
Night had long since fallen on Roswell that evening when Michael Guerin began the long walk from the Lift Off gas station to...well, he wouldn't really call it 'home', but it was the closest thing he had. He should actually be grateful to still have a job to come 'home' from, he supposed. His mind certainly hadn't been on pumping gas or the paying customers over the last few days.
He could hardly believe he'd almost set his powers off on Max the night before. He'd been so angry, and the frustration and pain and rage that he was now living with on a daily basis had been too much. Actually, he was still angry with Max, but he was angrier at himself. How had he expected Max to react upon finding out that Michael had been keeping this secret from him? Pat him on the back and award him the Nobel Prize? Michael grunted sarcastically.
Some second-in-command he was; he could have single-handedly wiped out his 'fearless leader'. Max had every right to be furious; he didn't. And yet he still felt the burning anger which he'd locked down within him. Enough so he hadn't taken a chance on seeing any of them that day. He'd skipped school, staying holed up in his apartment until he'd had to leave for work. The phone had rung twice--once when first period would have been over and once at the end of the school day. Both times, the caller had hung on until the twentieth ring, but Michael had purposely turned off his answering machine. He didn't need to hear a message to know who was calling anyway.
Maria. Michael's lips twisted in a scowl as the image of the pixie girl popped into his head. She had surprised him with her determination to stand up for him, to try and make things easier for him, when he knew she was dying to press him about what she'd seen in the visions.
He groaned. Why had he tried to show her things anyway, when he knew he couldn't control what she saw? Even Max didn't seem to be able to consistently control what visions he gave, so why did Michael expect to be able to do any better? He didn't know what Maria had gotten from the flashes, besides the voice she'd heard, but he suspected it was pretty grim. There wasn't much he could show her that wasn't.
The night was quiet, and he could hear his footsteps echoing down the deserted street. The moment he became aware of their ring, another sound began to resonate in his head, drowning out the sound of his feet. The voice was back. Not that it wasn't always there anyway, but at times he seemed able to push it back out of his mind into a dull roar in the back of his brain. Not now, though. It shouted in his ears, pulling him inward until he was hopelessly awash in the sound. In the word.
Killer.
Killer.
killer killer killer killer killer...
Michael's feet unwillingly slowed to a hesitant shuffle and then stopped. Staring at nothing, his brain resounded with the mind-numbing sound. Floundering around, looking for anything to latch onto to take away the word that hammered at him, Michael searched for one tiny little bit of light in the otherwise murky nightmare world he was lost in. And he found it.
A tiny sliver of memory, cutting through the sound and pain. Maria, telling him he wasn't a killer, that he shouldn't listen to anyone who told him he was.
With a start, he pulled away from the place in which his mind had been stuck. Blinking rapidly, he ran his fingers through his spiky hair and looked apprehensively around him.
Why had he been able to remember that? Not that he wasn't grateful that he had--usually it took someone else to bring him out of it, and if there was no one around, he could be sunk in a trance-like state for hours. In fact, he'd gotten stuck in one the night he'd first come back, when the voice had practically brought him to his knees in the middle of the street. Somehow he had made it back to his apartment, sinking in a daze to the floor, and he hadn't known who or where he was until a day and a half later. The far-off ringing of his phone had slowly brought him back to his senses, out of the dark, overwhelming nightmare where it had just been him and the voice. He'd pulled himself together only to realize that he'd lost a good thirty-six hours and that, barring any efforts from Alex, Maria had been unguarded all that time.
Grimacing, Michael hoped that the vision hadn't shown Maria just how weak and ineffectual he had been during that period. Of course, with his luck, that's probably just what she had seen...
Michael's roving eyes finally latched onto the thing that had enabled his escape from the voice this time. He must have seen it without knowing it, and his brain had processed the image into a weapon to free him. There, in the distance, pulled crookedly onto the side of the road, was a red Jetta. The DeLuca Jetta. Maria's Jetta.
With his heart pounding, Michael sprinted for the car. Was she in some sort of trouble? She must be, or why would her car be here this late at night? Nearing the automobile, he called her name, only to stop short as he caught sight of the person inside. Instead of the golden-crowned head he was expecting to see, he saw a fall of rich brown hair. Not Maria after all, but Maria's mother.
Her arms were on the steering wheel and her head was bowed down over them. She wasn't moving. Tapping on the window, Michael said, "Mrs. DeLuca?"
With a jerk, Amy's head shot up and she looked wildly around. "Who's there?" she cried out.
"Just me. Michael Guerin," he answered, and her face tightened for a moment before she relaxed with a sigh.
Unrolling the window, she tried to look calm. "Michael?"
"Yeah. Are you okay, Mrs. DeLuca?"
"Oh, I'm great. Unfortunately, my car is not," she said in a wry tone. "As you can see, it has decided to take a vacation."
Michael hesitated, taking in the tiredness in her eyes. "Can I...can I do anything to help?"
Her eyes raised doubtfully to his. "I don't suppose you're a whiz in auto shop, by any chance?"
Michael's lips pressed together in a thin line before he answered, "No, I'm not." That was an understatement. The last time he'd tried to fix the Jetta, he'd fried the engine. Max had to stop on the way back from Atherton's and fix it...Wait--Max. Max could probably fix this, the way he seemed to be able to fix everything else. Only trouble was, at this point Michael didn't feel he could ask him. Maria could, though. "But I have a friend who's pretty good with cars. Max Evans. You could have Maria ask him to take a look at it," he suggested. "Unless you want to call a tow truck."
Amy looked away for a moment before saying airily, "Unfortunately, that's not in the budget this month." Michael watched her, struck by her strength. She was carrying on as if totally unbowed by any problems whatsoever. This must be where Maria got her spirit.
He suddenly realized that she was watching him just as closely. Uncomfortably he shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say. "Well, you could have Max look at it tomorrow, then," he finally managed. "If it's not running, it should be safe to leave it here. No one will be able to steal it."
Her eyebrows rose. "Nobody in their right mind would want to steal this car. But it doesn't matter. I'll stay with it."
"All night?" he asked. "There's really no point to that, is there?"
She frowned. "The point is that I have a huge box full of merchandise that I can't afford to lose. And while they might not be able to drive off in the car, they can break in and steal the box." Looking in the back seat, Michael did indeed see a large cardboard carton. "So I'll just stay. Someone will come along in the morning, I'm sure." She looked out the windshield as her hand unerringly reached for the handle and began to roll the window up.
Shit. He couldn't leave her here. Not Maria's mother. Putting a hand on the window, he stopped it from closing completely. "Mrs. DeLuca? I could...I could carry the box for you. Make sure you got home okay." He didn't meet her eyes, half afraid she'd sneer at the offer. "It's a long way, I know, but at least you'd get home. Or," he continued as a new idea struck him, "I could walk you to a phone and you could call a friend, if you'd feel safer."
Amy scrutinized him closely until he finally looked her in the eye. Seeming satisfied with what she read there, she stated, "I'd appreciate your help home. Thank you, Michael." He backed away so she could get gracefully out of the car and open the back door. He pulled the box cautiously out.
"Be careful with that--that's my daughter's and my livelihood you've got in your hands." Michael immediately took an even firmer grip on the carton, as if it were all that stood between the DeLuca women and starvation. Which wasn't quite the case.
Locking the Jetta up, Amy glanced over her shoulder at the tall boy who was holding the box as if it contained something very precious. She gave him a considering look, but didn't say anything as together they started down the sidewalk. After a few blocks, she commented, "I'm sorry the box is so heavy."
"It's okay."
Determined to make some conversation, Amy said, "How did you happen to be out here tonight, anyway?"
"I work at the Lift Off. I was on my way home," he said simply. She nodded.
Another block or two of silence, and she said in amusement, "You don't talk very much, do you?"
"No. Ma'am."
Ma'am? Her eyebrows rose. What kind of delinquent would use the word Ma'am, unprompted? There was more to him than met the eye. "Well, I can understand that. What kind of conversation can you have with someone's mother, anyway?" Oops. She'd made a bad move there. The boy didn't have a mother--it was probably a sore spot for him.
"I don't talk that much to anyone," Michael said quietly.
"No wonder my daughter likes you," Amy joked, trying to gloss over her faux pas. "You don't compete with her for air time." She looked over at him, but he didn't so much as blink to acknowledge her jest. "Well, that fell flat," she said. "But you have to admit, she can be a chatterbox."
He shrugged.
"Which you, as you said, are not," Amy continued, then shook her head. Why did she feel so determined to make conversation with this brooding boy? Perhaps because of Maria's tearful confession last night. She didn't feel pity for him, exactly. She still disliked him on principle, for his influence on her daughter. But Maria wasn't stupid, and teenage trauma aside, she obviously saw something in this boy that other people--including Amy--didn't. And Amy wanted to know what that something was. Whether to understand her daughter better or to protect her from it, she wasn't sure; all she knew was that she needed to know more. So she tried again.
"So you work at the Lift Off, Michael?"
He nodded.
"What else do you do? What interests you?" Besides her daughter. He shrugged. Well, this wasn't getting her anywhere. "You must be interested in something," she insisted. "Sports? Movies? Music?" Anything legal? "Come on, Michael. A conversation doesn't work if it's completely one-sided. Give me a hand here."
He was obviously uncomfortable. So much for conversation...
"Hockey. Action movies. Metallica."
"What?" she said, startled that he'd responded.
"The sports, movies and music that interest me," he explained patiently. "You asked."
"So I did." She smiled. "So your idea of a good time would be a movie about a hockey-playing heavy metal musician in a car chase, huh?"
"Wouldn't be too bad."
She let out a peal of laughter. "You're an odd duck, Michael Guerin." He didn't show it on his face, but for some reason she got the feeling that this amused him. "So what do you do when you're not watching kung fu hockey flicks?"
Michael racked his brain to come up with something to say. He could hardly say he spent his days preparing for an attack by enemy aliens, or protecting her daughter from an unknown stalker, could he? "I...uh...well, right now I'm building some puppets for the school musical."
Well, well. He was working on Maria's play. Funny, her daughter hadn't mentioned this. "So, you're artistic?"
"I guess," he answered in a low voice.
"I'll look forward to seeing your handiwork on stage." They walked for a few minutes in silence. Finally, Amy broached the subject that was on both their minds. "Look, Michael, it probably won't come as a surprise to you that you are not exactly my favorite person. I don't think you are the best influence on Maria. She has a lot going for her; she could really succeed at something, and I don't want that to be ruined by her association with...with..."
"A worthless piece of good-for-nothing jail fodder?" he put in dryly.
"Well that's not exactly what I was thinking, but that was the basic idea, yes." He nodded, accepting the description. She continued thoughtfully, "But I don't think that's an entirely clear view of the picture. So you know what? I have decided to keep an open mind about you."
He looked over at her, obviously surprised.
"Somehow I suspect there is more to you than you show the world, although I think you've shown some of it to my daughter." She pretended not to notice how tightly his fingers were gripping the carton. "So until you give me reason not to, I think I'm going to cut you some slack. I will warn you though," she said, her voice rising, "you hurt her again, even the tiniest little bit, and I will kick your ass from here to California. Got that?"
Michael nodded wordlessly.
"And here we are," she said cheerfully as she turned the corner to the DeLuca home. "You can just set that down by the door." She turned and looked at him. "Thank you for your help tonight, Michael. It was very nice of you." He flushed, and she smiled inwardly. So being nice didn't go with his tough-guy image, did it? "Do you want to come in for a minute? Have a soda or something before you head home? Maria may still be up."
In a flash, his face closed off. "No thanks, Mrs. DeLuca."
"Sure?" she asked, eyebrows raised. "Well then, thank you again. Good night, Michael."
He stood, poised for flight, but said, "Mrs. DeLuca?"
"Yes?"
"I don't...I don't want her hurt either," he said in a rush, then stood, discomposed, unable to meet her eyes.
Amy smiled. "Well, then, we have something in common." His eyes raised to hers for one fleeting second; then, with a mumbled "Good night", he disappeared into the darkness. Amy watched him go, a thoughtful expression on her face, before heading inside. She and Maria had some things to discuss.
TBC...