Eventually, things got back to normal after the big flood. Businesses cleaned up and reopened. Homes were repaired, mud was pushed out of the way, and the new semester started at school. Marty and his friends were halfway through their senior year, and had already experienced so much of the “real world” that thoughts of college could be dismissed as anticlimactic. Only a few of the kids he knew cared about continuing their education, anyway. The rest would get local jobs serving the more privileged families whose children would be attending Ivy League universities. Marty’s career goal was to use his unique talents to make a living as a cartoonist, or else he’d probably wind up owning a pet store and serving the pampered pets of his wealthy classmates.
The first day back in journalism class, Michelle approached him breathlessly and asked if his family and home were okay. Her concern was very touching to Marty, as she fussed over his new cast and signed it “Get well soon! Love, Michelle.” It was the first time she’d ever wrote that word for him, and he decided ruining his leg was good for something, at least! With barely restrained hyperbole, he described to her the rampaging deluge, his family’s harrowing evacuation, and the catastrophic damage they witnessed. Her eyes grew wide in amazement, because the worst thing that had happened in her neighborhood was a tree fell on somebody’s gazebo. Marty mentioned how he felt blessed by God to be safe, when so many others had suffered, and she smiled warmly in communion. The subject eventually changed to the Star Trek movie, about which she was writing a review for the Jolly Roger. He thought of asking her out to watch it again, so they could collaborate on the project, but he couldn’t drive and was pretty much a social invalid, so he offered to do a drawing for her article instead. Marty felt it was nice to have a normal conversation with a pretty girl; without all the romantic tension and hormones. Neither of them mentioned his sappy poem, or the awkward phone call after Christmas.
Marty consulted with his gal pal Melody about that phone call, because she possessed a high degree of common sense, and could definitely be trusted. She rolled her eyes and levelly informed him that “can’t have a boyfriend” is girl code for “I don’t like you that much.” Undaunted, he described how Michelle asked about his family, and that they would be doing an article together, and showed her his cast where she signed “Love.” She shrugged and said, “You know she’s a very nice person, Marty, don’t get me wrong. But I think she just likes you as a friend.” That was the worst possible interpretation she could have given – on the same level as going to see a fortune teller who predicted you would die in a plane crash. He lamented out loud that he was always the “friend” and never the “boyfriend.” Melody patted his arm sympathetically and said, “Don’t worry lover boy, you’ll find someone. You’re very attractive, you know.”
“I am?” Marty asked with genuine surprise, mentally reassessing his chances.
“Yeah, we girls like a guy who can’t run around.” She winked and poked at his cast, and he threw a crumpled paper at her. That was a good one! He wrote it down in his gag file to make a cartoon of it, wishing for the hundredth time that Melody didn’t have a boyfriend.
Being on the staff of the school newspaper meant that current events were always being discussed. Students were exchanging opinions about the ongoing Iran hostage crisis, and what the world might be like when they got older. Dudes worried about the Selective Service, because if a war started in Iran they might be drafted just like what happened for the Vietnam War. Marty was working on a satirical article about the Army coming to Drake, and capturing all the students by planting a bus in the parking lot with “Canada or Bust” painted on it. Meanwhile, the Soviet Union decided they would invade Afghanistan for a weekend holiday, and President Carter obstinately responded with a grain embargo, which effectively cut off most of their imported food supplies. The Russians couldn’t be too happy about that! He wondered if a loss of face for them would be worse than the loss of grain, and they might push back on the U.S. It seemed as though their airhead President couldn’t make up his mind about which country he wanted to start a war with first! It was quite a risky move – either it would make them back down, or they could get pissed and push a button anytime, which would definitely alter Marty’s graduation plans.
He honestly reflected on what Melody said, and measured Michelle’s reactions in a few more conversations to assess her sincerity. There was definitely some sort of barrier between them, but he remained convinced it wasn’t because of him. There was something else going on – he could see it in her eyes. To keep things light, he asked her to help him with a witty White Pages poem, called “Are You Ready for the Eighties?” and he drew a fun cartoon to accompany it. Mrs. Hess liked Michelle’s review of Star Trek so much she made it a more elaborate piece, where hers was the “pro” and Bruce wrote the “con” point of view. It became the centerfold of the paper, and Marty’s composition of the U.S.S. Enterprise hovered above both of them. It was a singular moment in Marty’s young career to be part of such a comprehensive feature. He thought Michelle did a terrific job on her review, and told her so. She complimented him on his drawing, and put her arm around his shoulders when the paper came out, asserting, “We make a good team!”
In the wasteland of Marty’s love life, when it came to affection, he was like a starving dog. It didn’t take much to gain his undying devotion. The words “we make a good team” repeated in his brain over and over like a broken record, interrupted only by flashes of the “love” written on his cast. He began planning a campaign to capitalize on his newfound popularity with the target of his infatuation. “Mr. Sulu, set phasers on stun!” With his leg still in a cast, the best he could do was produce art, and so began a very productive period for him. He dedicated the original Enterprise pen and ink drawing to Michelle and had it framed, and crafted a matching card to accompany it for presentation on Valentine’s Day. The card featured another one of his corny love sonnets, which were not only cathartic for him, but he deluded himself into thinking they were actually effective. In art class he began making a painting for his sweetheart, featuring a Chinese dragon fashioned after one she admired in a book they had perused together in class. Like his hero Vincent, Marty had manic periods of creative explosion when the walls of his chest were not wide enough to contain his heart, and it had to escape into color. At the same time, he was also working on an elaborate, hand-lettered “Student Almanac” for the next issue of The Jolly Roger.
Back at home, the electricity was restored 8 days after the big flood. Marge hocked her diamond wedding ring so they could get a wood burning stove installed, which brought the cabin back to life. It had been so damp and clammy, as if the ol’ Rusty Bucket was sinking into the cold mud, until an efficient heat-producing appliance made all the difference. Her kids protested that she should not part with such a treasure, but she just shrugged and said it was ‘flawed’ anyway. Marty presumed she meant the diamond, but she could have been referring to her marriage, as well. It was the dead of winter, and the redwood forest was enveloped in a chilly membrane of moisture. Susie strung a clothesline above the new stove, on which she hung various articles that were in danger of decomposing with mildew.
Jimbo was still on his job in Hemet, and Marge was really pacing the cage. She went on a drinking binge after her birthday, shuffling around the house in the poufy pink slippers she got for Christmas, muttering how she was “too old” to do this, or “too tired” to do that, and she mostly did nothing at all. By now, Marty, Mike, and Susie were used to taking care of the house. If they wanted a hot meal, they shopped for ingredients and cooked it. If they wanted clean clothes, they loaded up Marty’s truck, and stopped by the laundromat on the way home when it was already dark. During the day, they stashed the bags in Boobers’ garage because it would have been a terrible social faux paus to be seen at high school with dirty laundry in his truck! Cleaning the house and caring for the dogs fell to the kids as well, since Marge locked herself in her room more often, drinking the Miller Lite beers stashed under her bed, which she thought her kids didn’t know about. The TV disappeared again, and the telltale black cable led to her room. She gave them her laundry to wash, too, and they were happy to do it for her, because she had done so much for them after the divorce, and worked so hard. Of all people, she deserved a break… but when she stopped sobering up to go to work, and called in sick for a week-long bender, it was time to take action.
“Hey Marge, c’mon, Dr. Z wants to see you, pronto,” Marty wheedled, as Mike and Susie helped her out of bed, “He’s gonna see you for free, so you don’t have to pay anything, okay?”
“What? I’m sick,” she complained, slurring, “Oh, wait,” and groped for her purse, which was under her blankets. She moved Skippy out of the way, and spilled the purse’s contents on the floor.
“Mom, I’m going to help you take a bath, okay?” This was not a question from Susie. It was a surprisingly strident command; coming as it did from the mouth of the youngest and meekest member of the family. Marge wheezed that she was “too old” and had a stomach ache, but waddled straight to the bathroom where Susie led her. This gave Mike and Marty a chance to clean up her room. The bedspread was covered in dog hair. They changed her old bedding, and found three open packs of cigarettes, half a newspaper, and four empty beer cans underneath. Her entire room was a wreck, and they straightened it up as best they could. The debris of severe depression was piled on every horizontal surface. She had an empty oatmeal box on the floor, into which she’d been dumping her ashtray. When Mike lifted it up, the bottom fell out because it was all burnt! The carpet underneath was singed, too, and probably the only reason she hadn’t burned the house down was that it was too damp. Marty felt sorrier and sorrier with every cigarette butt he swept up. “Why didn’t we notice she was getting this bad?” he asked Mike in amazement.
“I dunno,” he replied, “She always locks herself in here and says she’s okay.” He washed the floor with a large sponge. “She could be doing heroin in here for all we know.”
“I guess we didn’t worry, as long as she was going to work,” Marty mused. She had been acting normal at the pet store up until she stopped going. But lately, as soon as she got home from work she would scuttle into her bedroom with a grocery bag and lock the door for hours, coming out only to pee or pick at the food they left out for her. They collected a number of dishes and glasses from her room, and closed the door as she shuffled unsteadily out of the bathroom, completely transformed in appearance. Susie had done a great job sprucing her up, dressing her in clean clothes, and even putting on some lipstick. Their little sister would stay and watch the dog, and clean up the couch. Marge sat cooperatively between her boys, as Marty drove over the hill to Fairfax.
The philanthropic doctor was happy to see them as always. He had a talent for relating to a person, regardless of their condition. He was always respectful and non-judgmental; interested only in the optimal health of his patients. He chatted how he was saving up enough to retire and sail around the world in his catamaran, all the time examining Marge carefully with a practiced hand. He poked here and prodded there, lingering on the abdomen and willing himself to feel what was in there. “Let’s get some blood tests and a CAT scan,” he concluded, removing his gloves, “I know the technician at the hospital.” He scribbled something on a paper and gave it to Marty. “You and Mike come here,” he said cheerfully, “I want to show you a picture of my boat.” He wasn’t fooling anyone, and he knew it. His office was predictably filled with sailing memorabilia, and actually did contain several pictures of his boat. “Looks like you two are the adults of the house right now,” he stated kindly but directly, “How are you holding up?” He gauged their reactions with a professional eye.
“Fine, I guess,” Marty stated truthfully, “We’re all clean and fed, and getting good grades in school.”
“Yeah, but that’s not all, is it?” He fiddled with the model sailboat on his desk. “You’re good kids, you know? I think you can succeed at anything you want to do.” His easy sincerity was like a soothing balm on frazzled nerves. “Don’t forget, there are people you can talk to for free, anytime.” He wrote something on his card. “This is my home number. I want you to promise you’ll call if things get to be too much, y’hear?”
The boys agreed dumbly, in the humble manner of well-trained Labradors. Neither Mike nor Marty had experienced much focused parenting before, and didn’t quite know how to react. Marty wanted to hug the good doctor, but felt that would be a little melodramatic.
“Your mom might have something serious,” he hinted gently, “I just want you to know. I don’t think it’s cancer, but she has some swelling in her liver. It could be the gall bladder and I want her to get checked immediately. Can I trust you guys to take her to the hospital?” Marty had an immediate vision of a miniature version of himself in the model sailboat, sinking slowly into a small sea. While still stuck back at the word “serious,” he considered for the first time in his life the mortality of his mother, and suddenly he wanted to cry. Mike was already wiping away tears, but with a brave countenance. Marty sniffled and nodded with counterfeit resolve, and Dr. Z. blew a satisfied sigh. “You guys had me worried there for a second,” he joked, and slapped their shoulders, “C’mon, let’s take care of your mom. It’s not that bad, really.”
It turned out it was the gall bladder, and had to be removed as soon as possible. They admitted Marge to the hospital right away, and scheduled the surgery in two days. Dr. Z. said they wanted her to “dry out a little” before they did the operation. He knew the surgeon, and said he was the best around at this sort of thing, and not to worry, she’ll be on her feet again soon and feeling much better. Mike, Marty, and Susie sat, stunned, in the tacky hospital waiting room, reading old magazines until Julie could get off work and join them. There was a poster of a kitten clinging to a stick with a caption, “Hang in There.” Marty considered that to be an apt choice of motivational messages under the circumstances.
Julie came early and the four kids spent some time with Marge, joking about not using her whomping stick on the doctors, and trying to cheer her up. She was heavily medicated, and just lay there with a guilty look on her face, as if she wanted to cry. Mercifully, the nurses chased them out, clucking that she needed her rest. They all took turns hugging and kissing her, trying hard not to feel as if they were saying goodbye.
The dark cabin was oddly silent, as Marty, Mike, and Susie, sat around the wood stove glumly. “Is mom gonna die?” Susie whimpered pitifully. She could really play the victim, Marty reflected, due to the constant ridicule she received from Good Ol’ Dad when she was little. He always felt compassion for her, because it must have been awful to feel like even G.O.D. wished that you didn’t exist.
“She’ll be okay,” he reassured her, “She’s real tough.”
The three kids stayed alone in the house, and played no music, because it didn’t seem right to be happy. Nobody even wanted to hear sad songs on the radio, so they watched crap on TV until they fell asleep on the couch. Their bedrooms were as cold as igloos and had no heat, so they all stayed near the wood stove, and Mike kept the fire going all night. The next day at school was a blur, and Marty hardly spoke to anyone. After his last class, he disconsolately reflected how nobody reached out all day, or asked why he looked so glum. Am I so unapproachable, he wondered? He could never understand why people assumed he had everything under control because he was smart. Managing one’s schoolwork and one’s emotions required two very different skill sets.
The next day, they all skipped school and headed straight for the hospital as soon as it opened. Marge’s operation was over a lot faster than expected, and in the recovery room they met Dr. Z., who told them it went very well, indeed. He assured them she’d be home “sooner than you think.” Marty deduced that the administrators would be trying to get rid of her as soon as possible, because she didn’t have any insurance. The nurses trained them how to take care of her when she got home, and the three of them came up with a plan, where at least one would be there every day, which meant they might miss even more school, but who cared? Their sense of priority was unassailable.
When it was Marty’s turn to take care of her, they had a long talk in her room. He and his mom had always been oddly close, like two emotionally handicapped lunatics confined in the same asylum; wanting desperately to communicate, but not knowing how. They rarely had long conversations, but shared their space in mute anxiety – as if each needed to express something important to the other, but had not the courage. Despite her small talk and bravado, Marty could see in her eyes she was afraid of death. He felt badly for her, and wanted to tell her he thought dying was as natural as breathing in and breathing out, and that he believed the end result would bring the peace everyone sought in their lives but rarely found. However profound, that would not have been a wise choice of topic at the time.
“C’mon, mom, you’re not gonna die from this, it’s just a gall bladder,” he reassured her, “Dr. Z. said you don’t even need it if you quit drinking and eat right.” Her lower lip thrust out stubbornly at the word ‘drinking.’
“Oh, so you’re calling me ‘mom’ again, are you?” she teased with indignant sarcasm. She had a way of tickling with razor wire. When Marty didn’t react, she fell back on guilt. “I was never much of a mother to you, anyway.” She looked away so she wouldn’t have to see him roll his eyes.
“What do you mean? If it wasn’t for you I would have died as a baby!” Marty’s voice was so plain and direct, she stared in surprise that he remembered.
“You were such a fragile child,” she reminisced, “I couldn’t save my brother, but I saved you.” She looked at him uncomfortably, “You know I love you.”
“Yes, of course, and I love you too.” He realized that was the first time in many years she had said that to him with any kind of depth or sincerity, and was choking back tears. She had no idea how important it was for Marty at the time to be reminded there was at least one person in the world who cared about him.
