The effect was terrifying.  Like being thrust head-first through a high-speed blender of fantasy and reality.  It was impossible to distinguish between what was the truth and what was illusion.  Maria tried to scream, but there was no sound.  She tried to get up and run, but there was no movement. 

And then, unexpectedly, she emerged on the other side.  Into a region of blistering clarity -- trapped inside a vision of one of the most defining moments of her youth.

She saw herself at seven years old, outside the old ramshackle house on Alameda.

A brisk autumn wind blew down the street.  The dust that covered the front yard swirled around her feet and settled over the few pathetic marigolds her mother had planted around the front stoop. 

At that age, she was a tiny wisp of a thing, clad in purple leggings and a plain white tee-shirt.  She clutched a stuffed likeness of Tigger to her chest.  It was so well-loved that the fur was ragged and he was missing a tail.  Maria could remember just by looking at the younger version of herself that she cared not a bit about aesthetics where that particular toy was concerned.

It was late September.  And Daddy was leaving them today.

The little girl watched with a wistful expression as her father put the finishing touches on the load in the back of the old pickup.  She knew that Mommy was inside, crying -- and also that Mommy wasn't going to come out and make everything better this time.

Maria could still remember the feelings churning in her heart at that exact moment, as though it had happened only yesterday.  Sorrow, frustration.  Uncertainty and despair over her own role in this domestic drama.  Anger at her mother and her father.  Pride.  And a fierce, unshakable resolve not to say a single word when he left.

Even as a child, she could not bring herself to beg.

After a while, when he was finished, her father glanced toward her younger self.  His dark eyes were shadowed by the brim of his Stetson.  A sad, sad smile emerged on his face.  He walked over and stood before her, as though waiting for something. 

Maria closed her eyes at the sight of the two of them.  She remembered the combined scents of leather and cigarettes and horses and brandy.  Back then, they'd seemed to follow him just about everywhere....

The deep timbre of his voice startled her as he said:

"Daddy's got to say good-bye now, chilibean.  Remember to mind your mother, you hear?"

The girl blinked, silent, watching him turn away. 

He never said when he would be coming back.

Instead, her father climbed into the truck and drove off, leaving her to choke on a bitter mix of dry dirt and exhaust fumes.

Watching, Maria fought back tears.  She wanted desperately to go to the little girl and comfort her, telling her that she was going to make it.  That everything really would turn out okay.

She couldn't, though.  That was the burden of the past.  It never changed.  And regardless of what people said, you couldn't learn much from it.  No matter how badly she wished otherwise, the scene before her was essentially useless -- much like the illusion of her father's love.

And then the world suddenly shifted again, tilting off its axis and plunging her back through the whirl of sight and sound and sensation.

Images overlapped against the fabric her consciousness -- a series of stuttering freeze-frames, flipping from positive to negative and then back again.

Finally, the scene restructured itself into a completely new set of surroundings, even though she sensed the timing was the same.  Only now, Maria was no longer an outside observer.  By the oversized look of things, she must be viewing the action through the eyes of her younger self.

It took a moment to overcome the disorientation caused by the change in perspective.  Because everything always seemed so much bigger when one was small.

She looked around, seeing that she was standing in some kind of corridor.  A series of closed doors at wide intervals were to her left.  A large bulletin board covered with notices was to her right.  The hall was lit with the harsh institutional glare of fluorescent lighting.  She could smell stale coffee.

There was a wooden bench next to the door nearest her.  Maria turned, looking at it, suddenly noticing that she wasn't alone.  A small boy was sitting there, regarding her intently.

She dropped Tigger to the floor in surprise.

He was about the same age, she guessed.  His clothes looked shabby and worn, but clean. 

However, the boy's short brown hair was a mess -- spiking out in all different directions.  His hazel eyes were dark with reluctant curiosity.  A small backpack sat next to him.  Somehow, she knew that it contained absolutely everything dear to him in the world.

Unsure of what to say or how to act, Maria stared back.  She felt stupid and not a little bit afraid.  She didn't know this place.  It seemed completely strange that she would find herself here.  Yet there was something achingly familiar about the boy.  He continued to watch her, legs swinging slightly where they hung over the edge of his seat.

When she dropped the toy, he hadn't moved.  Now, he stood, unsettling her even more.

He walked the few steps that spanned the distance between them and bent down to retrieve Tigger. 

She backed away as he rose, wanting to snatch the thing away from him and hold it close -- her only source of comfort in this unfamiliar place.  He held it out, regarding her solemnly.

Maria took the Tigger, tucking it beneath her arm.  She offered him a tentative smile in return.

And then Michael reached out to take her hand--

--as reality rushed up against her like the ground beneath a falling skydiver.

She was rigid with anxiety.  Tension ached in every limb as she fought to control the frantic beating of her own heart.  Gasping, Maria took several deep breaths.  She focused on the scents of earth and sage and dry grass, reminding herself of their true surroundings.

Michael was still holding her.  They remained sitting on the ground in the same place.  But he was trembling almost as violently as she was, caught up in the aftermath of whatever they had just experienced.  She was clutching his hand; fingers interlaced so tightly with his they ached.

"Michael?" she asked, uncertain.  "What...what happened?  What was that?"

"A vision," he said softly.  "I think."

"You think?"

He blew out a long breath.  "Yeah.  Max says we get them sometimes when things get...extreme."

"Oh."  Maria let go of his hand.  She winced at the pin pricking sensation in her fingers as circulation returned.  "Does it happen a lot?"

"I don't know.  That's the first time I've ever had one."

"Oh," she repeated, caught unawares by his answer.  "Okay."

He rested his forehead in the curve where her neck met her shoulder.  They sat like that for a while, thinking about what they had seen and what it all meant for them right now, in the present.

She felt sure that was Michael as a child.  In the early stages of an endless cycle of shuffling to and from various foster homes.  No wonder he'd looked so miserable. 

As traumatic as the scene with her father had been, Maria knew she'd still had the comfort of her own mother to care for her.

The real question was, why had she and Michael shared a vision of each other, together, at such a significant time in their lives?  And why had the younger version of Michael reached out to her that way?

Before Maria could ask, his fingers closed over hers again.

"You know, I really did bring you out here for a reason.  Maybe...the vision...I don't know..."

He paused and she waited, silent.

"I need to ask you something," Michael said, choosing his words, "but I'm afraid of what it'll mean if I do."

He took an unsteady breath and Maria wondered just what it was about her that made him so willing to do this.  To show his vulnerability this way.  She doubted he'd ever said these kinds of things to anyone in his life.

"What is it?" she asked.

He pressed his lips to the side of her neck one last time.  She shivered at the sensation.

"I want you to be my friend."

Many years later, after she had matured into adulthood and found a remarkable mixture of success and satisfaction in her life, Maria would look back on this moment.  She would realize that nothing -- not landing her first contract, not playing her first concert, not coaching Liz through her first delivery -- nothing would ever be quite as special as the very first moment when Michael Guerin had asked her to be his friend. 

In typical Michael-fashion, his request left so many things unsaid. 

"What do you need me for?" Maria asked, before she could stop herself.  "You have Max."  She wavered for a second.  "And Isabel."

He didn't respond.

"I mean, it is all about the three of you, isn't it?"

"You said that once before," he reminded her.

"I know I did.  You never told me I was wrong."

"How could I?" said Michael.  His voice was muffled against her shoulder.  "Max and Iz and I are who we are.  That's something I can't change.  I wouldn't want to even if I could."

Maria knew that already, but he wasn't finished.

"They're the only family I have.  Max and Isabel are like a brother and sister to me..."

"And?"

"And it's just that it's always been a little more complicated than that," Michael said, sounding grim.

"Wait," she asked, wanting very much to keep the conversation going.  "How is it more complicated?"

He was silent for a while.  Finally, he said:

"I've spent a lot of time trying to catch up with them, you know?  Their life.  What they have.  What I don't.  After a while, it becomes more than a little lame sleeping on Max's floor.  But they're all I've got."

Michael paused.

"What I'm asking you," he went on, "what I want from you...it's something else.  Something that's mine.  That I don't have to share with Max or anyone.  Just you."

"Why me?" she persisted.  "Why not anybody else?"

"I don't know.  Maybe there doesn't have to be a reason.  Maybe it's just the way things turn out.  I mean, does any of this make sense to you?"

"Nope," Maria said flatly.  "It never did."

He laughed; a rueful sound.

"But it doesn't have to make sense, Michael.  You told me once that I make you feel confused.  So what?  Teenagers aren't exactly known for their emotional stability.  Even the terrestrial ones."

"It's more than that."

"More, how?"

"'Confusion' isn't exactly what I'd say now.  I guess...it's like...when you're not around...I'm completely wrecked."

"And when I am around?" she asked.

"It's a completely different kind of wrecked."

This time, she was the one who laughed. 

Because there wasn't much left to say.  Knowing Michael as she did, his request actually made a certain sort of crazed sense.  And even though Maria would never admit it out loud, the idea held more than a little appeal for her.  Being his friend was something that she could have for herself too.  Something special.  Different from what she already had with Liz and Alex, and her mother and everybody else.

He had taken this chance with her tonight.  She could do no less herself.

"Yes, Michael," she said, making up her mind.  "I'll be your friend.  I'll always be your friend."

She heard him take a deep breath and release it slowly.  His relief was almost palpable, though he didn't voice his thanks aloud.

This time, he didn't need to.

Maria felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing behind her.  She looked up at the twinkling stars.

"So...that's Orion," she remarked.  "The guy with the three stars on his belt and that little thingamajig hanging down."

"Sword," he corrected.

"Right."

"Actually," said Michael, giving her a quick hug, "you can see the whole winter circle overhead this time of year."

"The winter circle?"

"Uh-huh.  Capella, Aldebaran, Rigel, Sirius."  He called up the names of the brightest stars, pointing to them -- scattered like diamonds on the plush surface of a jeweler's velvet.

"Do you ever wonder which one of those might be yours?" she asked, when he was finished.

"I don't know," he said.  "Probably one of the smaller ones without a name.  Something unknown, waiting to be discovered."

He looked down at her.

"And full of possibilities."

"You might be right about that," she said, smiling to herself.

Then, Maria leaned her head back against his shoulder and savored their newfound affinity as time slipped away beneath the celestial dance of constellations in the night sky.

-fin