Razor Ch. 10

After a miserable week, in a long line of miserable weeks, I pulled my tired body and aching head towards my foster-mom's house for our monthly family dinner. I hadn't gone there for our last family gathering, because I hadn't felt up to it, and I'd contemplated "calling in sick" again, but I'd had calls from several of my brothers over the past week, some just calmly reminding me of the date and time, some blatantly telling me I had to come. I felt pretty crappy about it when I realized that they'd been worrying about me, when I hadn't thought about them one bit, all because I'd been stuck inside my own head. Stuck inside my own head and my own heart, if I was to be real honest.

It had been weeks and she was still firmly lodged under my skin, and I just couldn't understand it. We had only met three times and we'd only spent one night together, that was all. It should have been easy to just shake it off and move on, and god knows I had tried, but she was like the worst kind of drug; it only took one try and then you were either hooked for life or spent weeks with the worst kind of withdrawal symptoms.

Yes, we'd only met three times, but every one of those meetings had been pretty memorable, hadn't they? And the night even more so, in several unexpected ways. I suppose it was those damned movies that had made me expect more aggression and domination from her side, but except for that first time in the hallway, most of it had been soft, gentle, almost loving in its nature. I wondered if she had been as surprised as I was. I didn't do gentle, I didn't do loving and I never stayed the night. And perhaps that was the key to my problems. Holding, kissing, touching and fucking someone was one thing, but sleeping together was something completely different. She had fallen asleep in my arms and I had fallen asleep in hers and it had been good. It had been fucking great.

The day after that one night I'd been walking around with a silly smile on my face, probably pretty similar to the one I'd seen on Sean's, when I'd been called to a one-vehicle accident in the middle of the city. And when I saw her in that car my heart damned near stopped, I couldn't breathe, I wanted to puke, because she was sitting there, pale, blood smeared across her cheek. It was almost as if her pain was my pain and at the same time as I wanted to pull her out of the car and just hold her I kept wishing that it was me sitting there instead of her. And that's when I realized that she was important, so fucking important, to me.

But that was all before I knew that she loved someone else and I realized that what had been an eye-opening, heart-expanding experience for me probably hadn't meant shit to her. That also meant that the feelings I was fighting were as absurd as they were unwanted. The scene at the hospital kept repeating in my mind, day in and day out. The way that bubbly feeling of love in the pit of my stomach had been so instantly replaced by a churning feeling of dark despair, suspicion and anger. How could you love someone and hate her at the same time?

"Fuck it! Fuck her!" I muttered as I walked up the stairs to mom's house.

"Who are we fucking?" the cheerful voice of Eric asked from right behind me, another sign of my preoccupation, I hadn't even noticed him.

I turned around prepared to say something to him about minding his own business, when I realized he had company. It was that singer-songwriter guy, whatever his name was. The singer who was Mary's friend. Oh great, fucking awesome, a real-life, living reminder of the woman that I really, really didn't need or want any reminders about.

"Hey there," I said with a fake smile on my face that I hoped looked sincere "good to see you both!"

"I'm glad you're here," Eric said with a much happier smile on his face "then Mike will have someone he's met at least once to lean on, if the going gets rough."

"Don't worry," I said to Mike, smile still in place "just keep away from the dark corners, make sure you keep an eye on the ones with the sharp teeth and you'll do just fine!"

"Simoooon," Eric whined "be nice!"

"Sugar and spice!" I muttered before I opened the door and walked into the house.

My "honey I'm home" shout was interrupted by two dark-clad shapes with capes who tackled me and almost sent me to the floor. I'd forgotten about the twins, and they made sure I knew about it as they told me they'd missed me and tried to trip and tickle me at the same time. I hadn't been to see them in weeks and I cursed my mindless heart and heartless mind once more. I grabbed the two boys around the waists and carried them with me into the kitchen, where I found mom occupied with cooking the massive amounts of food needed to satisfy twenty or more hungry mouths of all ages.

"Haven't you found a way to extract, bottle and sell some of this excess energy yet?" I asked her as I leaned in and kissed her cheek.

"Well, then I should have started with you, shouldn't I?" she asked with a laugh before she turned to take a proper look at me.

Her laughing, golden brown and far too knowing eyes started scanning me, the way they always did, extracting information better than any lie detector in the world. At first it had made me afraid of her and more angry and determined to leave her house, but now I knew she only did it because she wanted to know and because she cared about me, so I let her see it all, the pain and chaos inside of me.

"But you're running pretty low on energy now dear Simon, aren't you?" she said with a low but concerned voice.

Thankfully the boys stepped up their attempts to try to get out of my hold so I turned around and carried the two seven-year-olds out of the kitchen. I didn't want to talk about it, because I realized how stupid it all was; a love that had lasted for mere days, not counting the last miserable weeks, shouldn't hurt this much.

Just before I left the kitchen I heard Eric introduce Mike as his "special friend" and with a laugh I remembered mom's silly use of the term "special lady friend", which of course made me think about Mary again, because even though it would have been hard to call her a lady, she really had been special. With a silent groan I let go of the twins and decided to never think about her again.

I actually managed to stay away from any thoughts of women, love and heartache for a good half hour whilst wrestling, tickling and chasing the boys in the big garden. But then it was time for dinner and I was placed next to Mike, who already seemed to blend in well with the rest of the family, and I just couldn't stop myself from thinking about her, the way she had looked when she sat on that stage, when she closed her eyes and just became the music. I really was totally and royally screwed.

I tried to keep up with the happy bantering that was as much a part of our monthly dinners as mom's wonderful homemade food, but I saw that a few of my brothers threw worried looks my way and I knew there would be questions, questions I didn't want to answer. What was I supposed to say? I met a girl, fell in love with her and then I found out she loved someone else, that's all. And the answers would be your standard "you lose one, there's hundreds more out there waiting for you" message, or other similar versions used to cheer me up.

I was pulled out of my bitter thoughts by Eric's happy voice telling us all how he'd met Mike. I looked up and tried to signal to him to shut up by shaking my head as discreetly as possible, but he was too caught up in his story and he kept his big, blue eyes focused on Mike, so I guessed even a red flag and trumpets wouldn't have been enough to get his attention.

"... and when the show ended I couldn't stop myself," Eric said, his words almost too fast "I just had to meet him, and I stood in line to tell him I'd been deeply moved by his story, but when it was my turn, one of the crew members walked up to him and whispered something and he walked away and I just followed, and that's when I saw Simon..."

"... talking to my friend Mary," Mike interrupted "and Mary and Simon introduced us, and that's really all that happened. We ended up exchanging phone numbers, and here we are."

I gave Mike a grateful smile and a nod. I really didn't want to explain the make-out session to anyone, in addition to explaining why I was not my own at least moderately happy self. I threw a look across the table and met mom's hawk eyes again. Shit, she'd probably seen all of that, hadn't she. I hoped she would just let it be, but when I saw her worried look change into a very well-known stubborn one I knew she wouldn't. I exhaled slowly and decided to try to sneak off early, before she could pull me to the side and have one or her talks.

I helped clear the table and fill the dishwasher and then quietly walked out of the kitchen. I almost made all the way to the door when mom's "Simon" stopped my steps. I turned around and looked at her and she smiled at my probably very grumpy-looking face before she walked up to me and put a cool and smooth hand on my face.

"Simon," she said "let's just talk about it, ok? I'll feel better at least, and perhaps it will help you too, you never know."

I nodded, perhaps it would help to talk about it, but I really didn't think so. I'd tried to think it all away a couple of thousand times already and talking about it would just more of the same, but out in the open, with someone else listening in too. I walked with heavy steps and followed her to her small office at the back of the house. She sat down, I sat down and there we were, sitting, staring at each other, none of us saying even one word.

"So, Mary, tell me about her?" mom said after a short moment of silence, putting her finger straight in the open wound, like she usually did.

"I really don't want to." I answered in a whisper.

"I really wish you would." she whispered back "Because I haven't seen you this way since just before that last time when I found you shitfaced in the gutters. We've had ten good years since then, and I'd been kind of hoping that I wouldn't have to worry about you in that way anymore. So talk!"

I'd been sent to mom's house when I was eleven as a last resort after getting thrown out of a long line of foster care homes and it hadn't taken me long to figure out that she was different. She never forced me to sit still, she never complained when I talked to much, she never told me to stop thinking and dreaming. Instead of getting annoyed with all of it she asked me questions, gave me problems or puzzles to solve, paper to write on, building material of every possible kind and a great big garden to roam, sit, lie, dream or build things in. By the time I was sixteen, everything was pretty great, until I found out the truth about me, the truth about my mother. Learning that you're the unfortunate and unwanted child of a prostitute would probably be enough to send anyone spinning.

"It's not really that bad." I answered with a heavy sigh.

"But bad enough," she said with lifted eyebrows "so do you want to tell me or should I start guessing?"

"None of the above?" I answered with a small smile, even though I knew she wouldn't let it rest.

"You met a girl called Mary, and..." she said, gently coaxing me to continue.

"I met a woman called Mary," I corrected her "and I only met her a couple of times, and I still can't stop thinking about her."

"Smells like love to me," she answered with a wide smile "so what's the problem? What's got you down? Is she married? Into girls? Dead?"

"She loves someone else." I answered, almost choking on my own words.

"Did she tell you she loves someone else?" she asked with lifted eyebrows.

"No," I admitted "I read it on a piece of paper, okay? It doesn't get more real than that, does it?"

"Who the hell uses pieces of paper to communicate nowadays?" she asked, her eyebrows going even further north.

"She didn't really communicate with me," I said in a whisper "the note was for someone else."

"So, she didn't really tell you that she didn't love you then?" mom said softly and looked at me, now with just one lifted eyebrow "You just assumed that she didn't."

"Yeah..." I gave her my grumbling answer.

"I seem to remember telling you about assumptions and drawing conclusions based on too little or bad evidence at some point?" she said and stared at me "And I really thought that they'd teach you all about that in the police academy, at least that would have made up for the surprise you gave me a few years ago when you decided to become a police officer."

"But she..." I tried to tell her but was interrupted.

"No buts, big or small, shaken or wiggled. You really don't know for sure until you've heard her say it herself." she said with a shake of her head "Brightest boy I've ever met, decides to become a police officer and gets his brains turned to porridge, that's all I'm saying..."

I laughed softly and shook my head, perhaps my head had become a little soft and mushy. We both stood up and she gave me one of those big, long, warm hugs that always seemed to solve all sorts of problems in the past. It didn't solve grownup problems quite as well, but at least she'd been able to shake me out of the cage of thoughts I'd been walking around in for too long.

"I love you mom." I told her and it actually felt like breathing was a bit easier than before our talk.

"I love you too Simon." she answered softly "Don't let the frustrations of life get to you. If you're ever stuck in a thinking-loop, look for a different way to find the answers or solve the puzzles. And if you want to talk about it, about anything, you know where I live, ok?"

"Ok." I answered in a soft whisper.

I walked back out into the kitchen after deciding that I had to learn if Mary had been released from the hospital. It had been weeks, so she was probably recuperating at home, but still, I thought I'd ask Mike about it. Unfortunately, he and Eric had already left, apparently deliriously happy and holding hands, according to the biggest cynic of our big family, Juan. Despite living for years in the loving and accepting environment that mom provided us all with, Juan didn't really believe in love, and especially not that it could come in all shapes and forms. I guessed I wasn't much better, but in a slightly more self-centered way; love was something for other people, normal people, it would never happen to me, I was too damaged, inside and out. And still, there I was, struck to the heart with no one but myself to blame.

After staying for another hour, talking to the rest of my many brothers of all ages, sizes and shapes, I walked home, my steps a bit lighter. I had a plan. I would go to her apartment, knock on her door and ask if she was alright. And if I felt really courageous, I'd ask her about that list of songs.

* * * * *

I woke up in that hateful bed, with the very fitting number 666 glued to the sidebar, a few weeks after the start of the chemotherapy, sick as a dog. The chemo had not been to play with, and the team of doctors had gone all in to "destroy what needed to be destroyed", and me with it, as I had grumpily told them.

The doctors hadn't laughed at that statement or any of my other attempts at dark humor and that was a sobering notion; fighting cancer obviously wasn't a laughing matter. I just wished there was at least one not so very stone faced person around whom I could vent my thoughts to, because I really, really needed it.

I was worried, no absolutely frightened, about the bone marrow transplantation. Not about the procedure in itself, but about having someone else's stuff put in my body. I realized it was completely illogical, but I was as frightened of the transplantation procedure as I'd been when I was tied up in that room all those years ago. I guessed it was the feeling of not being in control, but knowing what it was that sent my pulse running too fast and my body tense up until my muscles hurt really didn't help calm me down.

I still hadn't been told who was the secret donor, and that frightened me too. There really weren't that many options, and all of them were completely inappropriate, for several different reasons.

"Alright," the cheerful voice of the old nurse told me as she walked in the room "today's the day. Are you ready to start feeling a whole lot better?"

I wanted to yell at her to tone her chirpiness down a whole damn lot, but I didn't. There was no need to get her down just because I felt like I'd been chewed up and shat out. I could handle jokes about death and despair, but happy cheerfulness really got me down.

I got transported through a couple of "safe corridors" that was supposed to be clean enough for a zero immune system patient to travel through, and I spent a minute calculating the odds for them actually being clean enough, the result wasn't all that great. I was then placed in a room that didn't quite look like the surgery I'd expected and I tried to figure out what they were up to, it was supposed to be a quick procedure, but as far as I knew it still had to be performed by a surgeon of some sort?

My thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and another bed getting pushed into the room. What the hell were they doing and what was this, the grand central station? I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, because the nurse was smiling a bit too widely. Time for another cheer-me-up session perhaps?

"Your friend wanted to talk to you before we started the procedure," the nurse said, still with that too cheerful voice, and pushed the second bed closer to mine "and you have about 30 minutes before we're good to go. So talk, get it all off your chests and ring me if you need anything!"

"Oh for the love of something," a very well-known voice said from the other bed after the nurse had left the room "she couldn't have possibly placed us so we could actually see each other, could she?"

"Susan," I whispered "is that you? Why? And how?"

"Of course it's me," she said "how many sisters do you have?"

"I really and honestly can't answer that question," I answered, exhaling slowly to let go of some of my worries "one sister and one brother as far as I know."

"I've got a brother too?" Susan said, obviously surprised by what she was hearing.

"Yeah, if you'd have talked to your mother," I answered "you'd have known as much as I do."

"Well," Susan answered "I did talk to her and she told me everything, from her stupid mistress-gone-pregnant-pushing-for-more mistake to the painful experience of giving birth and the even more horrible experience of having to care for a baby. Everything except who our dad is. She told me she wasn't allowed to tell anyone. And what's up with the whole secrecy thing anyways?"

"Sometimes when certain people tell you to be quiet, you're better off shutting up," I whispered "and I understand why your mother is afraid to tell you."

"That means you know who it is, doesn't it?" Susan said "That settles it, I've got to see your face."

She sat up, turned around and I could see that she was shocked by my appearance when she got the first good look of me she'd had in weeks. I had avoided looking at my own reflection in mirrors, windows and any number of polished surfaces, but I saw it all clearly reflected in her eyes and facial expressions before she gave me a wobbly smile.

"That bad, huh?" I asked with a crooked smile.

"Worse," she answered "didn't you like use to have hair or something?"

"Yeah," I said "but I asked them to cut it off before we started the chemo. By now some poor girl or boy is running around with a Mary-wig, because I donated it to one of the children with cancer organizations. It seemed appropriate."

"Did you cry?" Susan asked "I think I would have cried. So silly really, but the hair, you know?"

"Yeah," I answered "I cried. And yes, it's silly, but I never realized how much of your personality and your sense of self is connected to your hair. I never cared that much about it before, and now I almost can't stop thinking about it. But as they keep telling me, 'it'll grow back'."