The Unbreakable W.E.B. pt. 1

I

It has been eleven years since Michael passed away. Eleven long years. And in that time, that has seemed to drag and sometimes stop before my eyes, there has not been one single day, not one single minute that has gone by where I have not thought about him and the time we had together. Funny thing is, the time span in which we occupied each other's company was also eleven years long, but those years seemed to drift on by before our eyes with no regard to destination, the way a puff of smoke trails off aimlessly. And in the time during his absence, I have not been able to speed up the clock or the healing process for my sake and those around me. I have changed. Since his death, I have not been that person that used to run carefree with him. My dreams have also changed. There is one particular reoccurring one; the one I have had every night since his passing.
In the dream, I can see a tall, dark building in the distance ahead of me, surrounded by a dark, orange sunlight all around and mist brewing up from the bottom; caressing it. Its shape is far beyond any conventional design and somewhat reminds me of something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story; very dark and ominous; very mystical and chaotic. It almost seems that at any moment, the building will collapse under the weak foundation that barely supports it. Parts of its structure bulge out from the sides, almost as if these pieces were desperately trying to break free. And at times during the dream, I can hear those pieces twisting and stretching in a most vexing and skin crawling sound of metal against metal; like scraping thin sheet metal against a rusty pipe. And although I am very far away from the building, that sound slithers easily into my ear and finds a resting place somewhere in my brain's file cabinet, where it is later pulled out - during and after my dream - to haunt me and tease me.
At the top of the building, there is a man. He has long, black greasy hair and from a distance, he appears to have no face; just an empty hole where you and I would have eyes, nose and a mouth. He is not of this earth and not someone you'd ever wish to happen upon or entertain by any means. From where I am standing, I notice that in relation to the size of the building and the size of the man, he is much bigger and taller than if any normal person were standing at the top. It reminds me of when you were a kid and you placed one of your action figures from one play set on top of another play set's building. You could clearly see how silly it looked and how unrealistic. But like most kids, you shrugged it off and kept on playing. Just like the action figure you placed knowingly on top of a smaller building, the man in my dream seems to be out of context, but eerily at home up there. To the left and right of me there is nothing but an orange and red distance; space in front of space, and it occurs to me that I am somewhere between nowhere and goodbye. I couldn't say what is behind me because in my dream, I am much to scared to turn around (and I'm pretty sure that in real life, I would be, too). There are sounds coming from behind and it's those sounds that frighten me more than the sounds of twisting metal coming from the building ahead. They are screams of agony; wails of desperation; sounds of begging to be set free from whatever imprisons them. I dare not turn around...ever. Besides, the man at the top of the building is doing something that holds my attention far stronger than the urge to look behind me.
As I start to move forward and approach the building, a light breeze begins to blow in front of me. The more I move forward, the stronger it becomes. It pushes me back and doesn't allow me to advance. But, I find a way around it. Move a little to the left, then go straight. Then, move a little to the right. Stop. Wait. Move forward a little more. Stop once more, wait and move to the left again. Repeat. The cries from behind become louder, as does the sound of the twisting metal ahead. And as I approach closer, those sounds coming from the building change to agonizing screams. The kind of screams that can only be heard in dreams. They mirror the one coming from behind me. I want to keep going, but at the same time, I want the wind to blow me back; giving me a good enough excuse why I can't advance. I keep on with what seems to be more of a dance than walking.
At this point, it is becoming clearer what the man is doing, but what is happening is still eluding me. From his waist up, he is leaning over the building's top. I can't see his face, being that he is hunched so far over the edge. He has no shirt on. His arms are dangling out before him like some kind of grotesque meat hanging in a butcher's window. He is lightly shaking them. He seems to be bothered by something on them and he proceeds to turn his head in the direction of his right arm (he always starts with his right arm). He takes his left hand, cups it over his right shoulder and brushes it down to his right hand's fingers and then turns his head towards his left arm and does the same, using his right hand (like someone trying to brush sand off his arms after walking off the beach). Only, it's not sand that begins to flake off his skin. He continues this motion, moving from one arm to the other; frantically trying to remove every last ounce of whatever is there. And he begins to brush faster, moving his hands quicker, all the while his head moves from side to side just as fast, never missing a beat. It starts to look more like someone has pressed the fast forward button, and though the motion begins to look somewhat fake, it starts to scare me because of how undeniably authentic it seems.
I continue to move forward again and now, I can see black, charred flakes of something falling off his arms as he continues to brush them. I stop for a moment and watch as they gently fall down the side of the building. Some pieces don't stand a chance and break off into nothing, as they come in contact with the protruding structure; almost like they disintegrate. The ones that do survive their downward journey are carried up off the ground by the mist that engulfs the bottom of the building. The pieces are carried only about an inch off the ground and start to swirl and dance in position inside the mist, like some ancient ceremonial fête. The voices behind me cease to exist. The breeze that I was navigating around, has stopped and the man at the top of the building has concluded his frantic brushing. His arms are dangling again. He quickly snaps his head up so his long hair whips up and makes a slapping sound as it hits his bare back. This time, I can see his eyes and they are looking straight at me. His left eye socket is sunken and hollow. His right socket has its eyeball, but it is hanging out and swinging back and forth like a pendulum inside an old grandfather's clock. I try to scream, but the only thing that comes out is a whimper that is barely audible even to me. I try to move back from the building, and that's when I feel something pushing me forward. It feels like thousands of tiny hands on my back. The breeze that once pushed me away from the building, has shifted behind me and has now joined those miniature hands in their high spirited task of thrusting me. I struggle to stand my ground, but soon realize there is no prevailing. I succumb to the thousands of tiny (almost childlike) hands and the breeze and it's at this moment that the mist carrying the pieces of the man's arms, begins to move closer to me. Inside it, I can still see those pieces dancing. The man begins a laugh that is extremely low in pitch; like a laugh played on a tape recorder that has been slowed down a hundred times its normal pitch. I look away from the mist when I hear him, and that's when I see a mouth form just below his eyes. It's as empty as his left eye except for his teeth. His two front teeth come to a pointed, sharp end and are curved slightly inward. And every time he stops to catch his breath and start another laugh, his mouth closes and I can see that his front teeth hang outside his lips and pierce the skin above his chin, drawing streams of blood. The ground below me has become a shallow, crimson lake. It smells like copper. His laughter stops and he speaks for the first time.
"You are in my pool now, Ricky. My pool never rises. It never dissipates." His voice is a mix of low and high pitches. "You will never drown, but you will never swim. Here is where you will remain. In my pool. Enjoy the gentle, but unforgiving, current and where it shall take you. But where it takes you, it leaves you. And where it leaves you is where you stay...forever." The mist in front of me has now turned from white to red. The pieces inside it are getting closer to me and I no longer feel like I am being pushed but rather that I am riding a gentle current. All at once, the man is on the ground between the building and the mist in front of me. He is following it; walking on top of his blood like Jesus walking on water. The building behind him finally begins to collapse, but there is absolutely no sound as it crumbles, splashing into the blood, creating small waves here and there. I can see him clearly now, as he stops directly in front of me, standing inside the mist, now. The pieces from his arms are dancing around his legs, but never do they touch him; almost as if they know better than to attach themselves to him again.
"Let me join you for a moment," he says as he drops his weight and his feet and calves go under the blood. His right eyeball falls from its socket, bounces off his knee and splashes in the blood right in front of me. I can feel it on my left foot and I try to kick it away, but my legs feel like they have been dipped in cement. "Now, let's see here...," he says, and he crouches down to pick up one of the pieces swirling around his leg in the mist. For a second, I wonder how he can see with no eyes. The piece crumbles as soon as he pinches it between his fingers. "Whoops. Gotta be more careful, huh?" He chuckles as he picks up another piece. This time, he simply puts his hand out, palm up, and a piece floats over his hand. He slowly stands up, the whole time the piece is hovering over his hand; still dancing.
"There we go." He smiles at his achievement and I see those teeth again; piercing his skin and drawing more blood. It pours into the pool below us, but he was right...it never rises. He tells me to take the piece in my hand but not to crush it because it is "oh so delicate and frail." I put my hand out and he places it in my palm. As it rests in my hand, I feel a sudden wave of fear rush over me. I don't want to look at it. The man looks up at me from the piece in my hand, looks back down at it, then back at me and this time, his hollow eyes are filled with fire as he screams in frustration, "LOOK AT IT!" I jump back, almost dropping the piece, wipe away a tear I didn't know was on my cheek, and look. There is a smell of burnt paper coming from it. The edges of it are charred and flaked. In the center I can see one word.

SANITY

I frown and look up at the man. He is smiling at me; teeth gleaming red. He crouches down again and picks up another piece. It dances its ceremonial love dance in his hand again, and he places it in mine. The other piece has already disappeared. This time, there are two words.

MY LIFE

Again he places another piece in my hand. Three words.

THOSE AROUND ME

The piece disappears like the rest. I look at him again and he asks, "Understand, Ricky?" I say no, and he sighs. He takes my hand in his and I can feel his skin crawling under mine; shifting. I look, and all three pieces are in my hand, now. He leans in and blows in my palm; his breath whistles through his two front teeth. His breath is so gentle and the pieces break apart with ease and slowly disappear before my eyes. For a split second, I understand what it means, but then I lose it and frown even harder this time at the man in front of me. He grips my hand tighter, throws it down violently at my side and says, "For fuck's sake. Here, let me make it clearer." He is angry now and it is an anger I have never felt towards me before in my life. It's an anger that can cause a man to do things he would never even attempt with a sane mind and it's then that I realize, even before he plunges his hand into my chest, that something terrible is about to happen. I am pushed back a little as he reaches inside and feels around. Blood is pouring out of me in a steady stream. Again, I try to scream and nothing comes out. I can hear the cries behind me again and I can hear that sound of sheet metal being scraped on a rusty pipe inside my head. I feel his hand grip my heart and start to pull. Pull and tug. His motion is jerking me forward; closer to him.
"Com' on, you fucking cocksucker. LET GO!" he screams. "IT'S TIME YOU LET GO!!" He grips and pulls harder and my heart comes free in his hand and makes a thick, wet ripping sound, as it leaves my chest. I collapse to the ground and look down at my chest. It's clean. No hole. No blood. Nothing. I look up and see my heart clutched in his hand, beating away.
"Finally," he says. Now, his voice sounds familiar. It's clear. No longer a mix of tones. I look at his face and see that it's Michael. I begin to smile. He smiles back. The pool of blood is gone, the mist has faded, the screams have ended and that sound in my head has been put back in its file cabinet for a later time. Michael looks down at my heart.
"Finally, you let go." Right then is when I wake up and I can still hear him saying those words as I am coming back into reality. Every night for eleven years I have had this dream and every time I wake from it, I am shaking, sweating and crying.
I have been to counseling, with no success. They all say the same thing to me; about how I need to let go and move on; about how long it's been since his death and how slowly, my sanity, my life and those around me will start to slip away if I don't come to grips with this. And I always tell them how ironic it is that they should say that, because in my dream-
My days are filled with no sense of being. I wake up from my expected dream every morning, I get ready without thinking about anything that I am doing, I drive to work on auto pilot and I perform my duties in my cubicle without any regard to my performance. I am, essentially, a walking zombie; one who lurches around furtively and alone and has yet to find more of my kind. My nights consist of spending hours at the local bar down the street from my office. That is where I find myself making others feel as miserable as I do and where I gladly let the time go by because I dread going home and crawling under the covers where I know the man on the top of the building is waiting for me. And although I know I don't want anybody's pity, I gladly - but woefully - swallow any amount that is spoon fed me.
I have become accustomed to my pathetic life, but pray for an end that never seems to come. It has occurred to me that we are all on a similar journey here. Whether that journey is personal or shared, is neither here, there nor anywhere. What matters (and what is frighteningly ironic) is regardless of the outcome of that voyage - good or bad - and regardless of the time exhausted achieving its final outcome, we all meet the same end. We all succumb to that vast wasteland where nothing exists. We can't help it. It's in our nature to expire. And ever since I have come to accept the existence of nothing in that dark wasteland, I am oddly comforted by the thought of its eternal sleep. Somewhere, I've heard that old ghosts exist to remind you of who you once were, and how you've lost your way. My ghosts happily fulfill that old aphorism. They enthusiastically show me who I used to be, and how I have fallen so far by the wayside.
There is a stretch of highway not far from my house where I like to take my 1975 Mustang and let it show me what it can really do. And it's on this highway where I find the only true comfort the day brings me. It's also on this highway where Michael rode with me in the passenger seat only two weeks ago.





II

I met Michael Bruno in the fifth grade at St. Peter's School. We were both ten years young; an age where innocence, arrogance and carelessness went hand in hand. A period in time where our leader was more fascinated with the simplicity of jellybeans, rather than the complexities of running a country. We listened to nobody but our parents, and not even them at times. As long as we could have fun, nothing else mattered. And if fun wasn't in the agenda, we made it the agenda of the day. No matter where we were or what was happening, good times never escaped us. It was a time in our lives where nothing scared us. Being twenty or (God forbid) thirty years old, was not something that was going to happen to us. No siree! We would stay this age forever. The ugly man named Time wasn't creeping up on us and flaunting his clock in our face. And in no way was he going to age our minds or our hearts. It was Michael and Rick against the world and anybody who stood in our way better be ready to join in the fun, or move the fuck on; go talk to that ugly man on the corner waving his clock in the air.
Mike had already been in the school since kindergarten, but I had just transferred from a public school in the same town. It was different from what I was used to (especially academically) but oddly the same. I can still remember how scared I was and how uncomfortable I felt in my new uniform. And then, of course, there came the usual introductions all teachers made you do in front of the class. Being that I wasn't the only new kid there, everyone had to introduce themselves to each other and when it came time for those that already knew one another to make their introductions, they came with plenty of inside jokes. And, of course, those jokes prompted the teacher to lecture the returning students about setting a good example for us newbies. When my turn came, I stood up and my voice cracking as soon as I said, "My name-". My palms started sweating and I looked around the room and my eyes caught Michael. Whatever height we were at that age (I can't say for sure) is what we both were. But that's where our physical similarities came to an end. Where I had bright, green eyes, he had dark brown. Where I had straight, dark brown hair, his head donned curly, light brown hair. My face was slim. His was pudgy. My skin was fair and afraid of the sun. His glimmered with a natural tan and slightly resembled the color of olive oil, with its faint green tint. I had a slim body, and he was built like a football player in the making. He winked, nodded his head and gave me this look as if to say, So what! Your voice cracked. It happens to all of us. Go on, and that look calmed me and gave me a feeling of confidence. I continued my introduction and my voice never cracked again. At least, not that day.
Michael's introduction came shortly after mine and in it, he described himself physically (rather than personally) with sarcastic detail, as if we couldn't see him right in front of us. Halfway through it, the teacher sighed and said, "Just sit down, please." Michael smiled, looked over at me and winked, again. I remember chuckling under my breath and praying that the teacher didn't hear me. I was nervous enough as it was and the last thing I needed was her knowing I had just gotten a kick out of Mike's introduction. The rest of the day was a blur of rudimentary lectures about what to expect academically and how the rules were laid out. The only other part of the day that remains clear to me was recess. That's when I first spoke to Michael.
We were on the playground, having just broken from our single-file-line saunter out of the school's back entrance. We scattered like a pack of wild monkeys being chased by hunters in the wild; flailing our arms in the air above our heads and screaming in the way kids do when they have been set free from their daily chores to go and be the kids they were meant to be. Myself and the other newbies (four in all, I think) were the only ones who remained at the top of the steps after everyone else had broken the line and ran off. We looked at each other as if to say, Should we throw our hands up in the air and do that? Should we be as excited as them to be out here? And the answer, of course, was yes! But, we were ten and we were new. What the hell did we know?
After we slowly dispersed from our sorry group, I found myself immediately looking for Mike; for the one kid who seemed to be companionable and flippant and easy going; who seemed to be priceless. I was looking for the one kid who had gotten me through my agonizing introduction and who had calmed me and helped me move forward. I saw him, playing catch with another student from our class whose name, at the time, I couldn't remember. I mean, let's be honest here and stop shoveling the bullshit for a second. Who really pays attention during those introductions? You're mostly thinking about and dreading the moment when your turn comes around to make you sweat and stumble over your words and your thoughts. You're too busy fighting the anxiousness that is sweeping, bending and arching in your stomach. As a matter of fact, the only ones that a kid pays attention to, the ones that grab your attention, are the ones that are either funny or come from someone you think is really pretty (or cute, for all the girls). And that's why the only other one that I remember that day (out of a class of thirty), the only other one I cared to remember (other than Mike's), was Abigail Wallach's (Abbie, for short. She never did like the name Abigail; said it sounded too much like an old biddy's name). She was a returning student, just like Mike. Unlike Mike, she was very shy; very unspoken. A quality that would change in the coming year when she slowly joined Mike and myself in our quests for fun, and more so when she became our blood sister.
I walked over to him and he turned to look at me.
"There he is. The newcomer." I smiled, as he asked me what school I came from. I told him the name of the public school and he informed me of a student that was in the grade behind us who had also come from that school last year. How another student in the third grade had a sister who had been in that school; and there was another student in the seventh grade who had beat up a kid from that public school just last week. I started to wonder if he knew all the students in the damn school. Of course, as I later found out, he did. And everybody knew Michael. Whether through his antics, his hospitality or his generosity, everybody knew him...and, everybody loved him.
A few stories were exchanged, mostly from Mike, and I then found myself playing catch with him and the other kid, whose name was George, by the way. George would later graduate from St. Peter's and go on to one of the finest high schools in the town. Somewhere during junior year, misfortune found its way to George. Word quickly spread like a brush fire through our small town that he had "accidentally" killed a boy during a school yard brawl over a girl. Mike and I knew it was no accident, considering George's calm personality was known to mask a violent temper; a temper that was notorious in his family. After all, his brother was the seventh grader who had beat up (to a bloody mess) a kid from my former public school. If it wasn't for his reputation for outbursts that led to repeated beatings and his family's criminal record, he may not have been tried as an adult; he may not have been found guilty and he may not, 'til this day, be spending his final hours in a small prison cell where the only fresh air he breathes comes from a small hole in his cell wall. Stories circulated from time to time about how he had killed another inmate, or seriously injured a prison officer. And from the stories I still hear, he is not allowed to mingle with the rest of the inmates and he is not allowed outside for his thirty minutes a day. Those minutes are spent in his cell, crying, with his nose pressed against the small hole in the wall.
After we exhausted our histories, I had a weird sense that we had met somewhere before; that we already knew each other. And it was then that it occurred to me that I was looking at myself. Right in front of me, there I was. I had found my other half. I had found the long lost brother I never knew I had, or wanted. And what a feeling it was to be reunited after never having known him. It was a feeling that I continued to have every time we were together and every time we spoke day after day, month after month and year after year. And it was also a feeling that was gone the very second Michael was ripped away from me, as he left this world.
That day on the playground, I also asked him about Abbie, that cute girl who had long, dark blond wavy hair, blue eyes, fair skin and a petite frame. Little did I know that he fancied her as well. But, in keeping with his personality and never thinking of himself, he promised to arrange a meeting for me without so much as a hint of jealousy in his tone or demeanor. I asked him to please be there during the meeting to smooth things over; so I wouldn't be so nervous. He obliged and probably, if I really thought about it, he agreed to be there more to make sure that Abbie didn't fall for me so soon. I mean, he was human. There had to be a small spec of jealousy somewhere in him. But, I could be wrong, and I have been before. The three of us met the next day on the playground, and though I didn't notice it then, I do now. Abbie was just as nervous as I was and Michael sensed it, and I unconsciously watched him let go of her that day. Part of me felt sorry, after I realized that he liked her, too. The other part of me was the part that told my sorry soul to shut the fuck up and take her. I did. And in "taking" her that day, Abigail (Abbie, for short) Wallach became my first kiss and my first girlfriend, shortly after. So sweet was her kiss, it made your heart flutter and skip more than just a beat. And the part I loved the most was how every time we kissed, I could smell Prell shampoo in her rippled hair. I loved that smell so much and whenever I smell it now, my mind instantly pulls out a picture of her for me to behold.
Mike was very happy for us and not at all jealous, or, at least, he never showed it. The three of us would hang out incessantly in a time where the summers were as endless as we thought our lives were. We were inseparable, unbeatable and unwilling to be unhappy for a second. Even during the summer before seventh grade, when Abbie and I grew apart as young lovers, we never disjointed. Mike was there to keep us together and it was he who made sure that, even though we were going our separate ways as boyfriend and girlfriend, we were coming together as best friends. He had a way of doing that. He had a way of making you see what should be important to you and what you should hold on to. Nobody did it better and nobody could touch him in that respect.
It was during seventh grade where Abbie Wallach, Rick Evans and Michael Bruno became blood brothers and sister. And from that day on (borrowing the initials from each of our last names), we were known as The Unbreakable W.E.B. We were sitting in our school's church one afternoon during mass; another long mass where Christ was the star of the show and his disciples were the supporting actors. Another mass that held no interest for us. We were young and didn't believe in anything as surreal as God and heaven and hell and all its laws and consequences. Something that we never really grasped and took in.
As I said before, the three of us were inseparable, and in adhering to that, we found a way to sit together during mass, even though the teacher always wanted to keep us apart. We knew the minute we got there, Mrs. Edwards would seat us according to her chart and not ours. But, as soon as mass started, she always had to get up and spend the rest of Christ's teachings up at the alter. That's when the W.E.B. formed in one creaky pew away from the rest of the students and much further back from the alter. And we could see Mrs. Edwards scowl at us from up there and we knew it meant another detention after school, but we were not to be broken or taken lightly. Remember, it was us against the world. Join us or get out of the way.
After covering our smirks and chuckles with our hands and trying to quiet the groaning pew, Mike pulled his house keys out from his pocket, being careful not to let them jingle. A sound like that in a building with the roof higher than God himself, would ring out like a foghorn in Pooh Bear's cave. I watched as Mike began to rub the key's serrated edge back and forth just under his second knuckle on his left hand. I could hear the sound of the key against the small part of the knuckle bone that indents; the part that looks like a small wishbone. It was that sound that made me cringe for a second and made Abbie say, "I'm not so sure about this, guys. That's gotta hurt. I mean, it sure as hell sounds like it does."
We froze for a second, looking at one another, almost sure that a bolt of lightning would come ripping through the church ceiling from the heavens above and slice across Abbie's face, burning off her mouth. We chuckled in unison, and Mr's Edwards flashed her famous scowl at us again. Mike continued to drag the key across his hand and finally produced a small enough cut to draw tiny beads of blood. He passed the key to me and whispered, "Hurry!" I took the key from him, looked at Abbie and offered it to her. She clenched her lips tightly together and frowned sadly; a look of concern. I took her right hand in mine and told her to look away. She grabbed my hand tightly and turned her head. I felt for the sharpest edge on the key I could find and gently put it on the top of her hand. Feeling the key on her hand, Abbie clenched mine tighter and in that moment when she held me tight and put her trust in me, I missed her as my girlfriend. But I also knew I would never trade what we had now and what we were about to become. In one quick motion, I cut the key straight across her hand, making a clean cut. She flinched for a second, but didn't make a noise. When she turned her head back towards me, she asked if that was it? A look was on her face like a little kid has having just asked the doctor if that was all there was to the needle he had just given them. I told her that I was done even before I began. She smiled, looked down at her hand and was actually happy to see the little beads of blood coming from the cut. I smiled at her, placed the key over the top of my left hand and made the same swift motion I had just done to Abbie's. The blood came almost instantaneously. Mike took the key from me. There was a whispered scratching sound, as he wiped it on his pants and put it back in his pocket. We sat there and patiently waited for the moment when Father McGowen would politely ask us to stand and join hands in prayer.
When we stood, making sure our cuts were still open and bleeding enough, we gave each other a smile.
"Ok, this is it. You guys ready?" Mike asked. Abbie and I nodded. I put my left hand out, below the top of the pew, out of sight from Mrs. Edwards. I was sure she was going to watch us like a hawk perched over our heads. Abbie put her right hand out and placed it gently on mine, our cuts making contact. We held them there 'til the count of ten. Then, Mike put his hand out in front of me and I motioned for Abbie to put hers out. They held theirs together 'til the count of ten. It was my turn again and Mike and I, unintentionally, held on 'til the count of fifteen, and during those fifteen seconds (give or take a second or two), I swear to you that I could feel myself leaving my body and entering Mike's. It was something that neither one of us spoke of until years later, when it came up during a half drunken state after an all night lush party. And it wasn't until we let go, that I remembered where I was. I lost myself in those fifteen seconds and I was only aware of seeing through Mike's eyes; of belonging to someone and somewhere else.
After joining our cuts and mixing our blood, we grabbed each others hands and our fingers locked together like a vise. We bowed our heads and sealed the bond with our own personal prayer that started with Mike saying, "I will never judge you."
He looked over at me and nodded his head for me to continue.
"I will never hurt you," I said. It was Abbie's turn. For a few seconds, there was silence, as we waited for her. And just when I was about to look up at her in anticipation, I heard her voice.
"I will always need you." Mike lightly squeezed my hand for me to go again.
"I will always comfort you." We waited for Mike to close the circle. I could hear him breathing; thinking. And then it came, the perfect closing.
"I will never abandon you." He looked up at me and then at Abbie and said, "I will always be here." I looked at both of them and repeated what Mike said.
"I will never abandon either of you and I will always be right here." Then, Abbie spoke, tears streaming down her face.
"I will never, ever, abandon either one of you and I'm always going to be here for you." She put her head back down and closed her eyes, still holding my hand. Her tears were no longer rolling down her face, but falling from her eyes down to the floor. One tear landed on the top of her loafer and splashed in the shape of a star. Mike and I both reached out at the same time and wiped her tears away. She smiled at us and hugged us both. All the while, Mrs. Edwards was looking at us curiously. However, she never mentioned anything about it and we were never sent to detention that day, either. I think for the first time, she saw something special in us. She saw something in that hug. Maybe she saw what we were feeling at that moment or maybe she just gave up on us being contemptuous children. Whatever it was, her view of us changed forever.