The Silver Compass - 10 Sean Roberts
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Una Cancion
When he was in class he nursed coffee. Outside, he smoked. He sat at dinner with his family, eating constantly, barely saying a word. He would go to his room immediately after, lock the door and drink. The first night it had been half a bottle of vodka. It made him sick, so the next night it was only a quarter. Three nights later, he was getting used to it and it went back to half.
They never smelt it on him. He showered and brushed his teeth and drank water before bed. In the mornings he told them he was sick. It lasted three days.
Through the walls Matthew heard a thump. An empty bottle of vodka was lying still on the floor, beside Michael's body. "Shit Mike," he whispered, running up to his brother. He tried to shake him awake, but to no avail. He stared at Michael's face, trying to figure out what to do. He placed his hand on his brother's stomach. He pressed harder, somehow knowing that this would revive him. He carefully shook Michael's shoulders with his left hand. Michael did not move. Matthew went quickly to get his parents.
Michael awoke in the hospital. His head was pounding and his hip was aching. He touched it. It hurt more. He tried to sit up to figure out where he was. "Thank God," he heard a voice say. There was no light in the room but the voice was familiar, comforting. The voice of a mother. She threw her arms around him and told him how much she loved him. Her voice sounded like it was booming through a loudspeaker.
"Not so loud mom," Michael whined.
"Sorry sweetie," she said. She held his hand. He felt the wrinkles in her hand; she was getting older. He had always seen her as old -- she was his mother -- but never this old. He suddenly needed to sleep. He held on to her hand as he closed his eyes. Almost immediately he was half asleep. As sleep took over even more he felt his hand slipping away from hers. He wanted so desperately to hold on, but he was asleep, and his hand dropped. His mother ran to get the doctor.
He sat up suddenly and pulled off his shirt. It had become wet from the dream he couldn't remember. He was back in his room. His head still hurt, but not as much. For a moment he watched the shadows on his ceiling created by the tree whose branches extended to his window. He got out of bed to use the washroom. He was hungry, but he needed a shower more than food.
He explored the refrigerator dressed only in the bottom half of his pyjamas. He found leftovers from dinner the night before. "How are you feeling?" He spun around. Matthew had come downstairs.
"I'm hungry," Michael said.
"So you ate your shirt?"
"Shut up."
"What's been going on with you Michael?" He turned to face his brother.
"If you're going to call me that, please just don't talk to me okay? I have a headache right now, and I'm hungry, and I feel like shit. The last thing I need..."
"Okay, fine, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I hate you as much as you hate me."
"I don't hate you. God you can be a dick can't you? I just want to know what's going on with you..."
"I told you. Cameron, and Sarah, and you ... all of you, you hate me for some reason, and..."
"I don't hate you. And Sarah probably doesn't. And Cameron does. But that's my fault." Matthew was staring at the floor. Michael was watching him, confused. "I pretended to be you the night before we left. I told Cameron I wanted to end it...and he of course thought it was you."
"You didn't by any chance happen to get his phone number while you were at it did you?" Michael asked angrily. Matthew did not respond. "Fuck off Matthew. Please, just get the fuck out of here and let me eat." Michael sat down at the table with his food. He took a bite and began trying to figure out what bothered him more -- what Matthew had done, or that Cameron wasn't able to tell the difference.
It was eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. His parents and his brother would probably be home. He went downstairs hoping his parents were shopping for groceries and Matthew was at hockey practice. All three of them were eating a late breakfast.
He sat down. His mother smiled at him. His father passed him a plate and his brother ignored him. The tension of the inevitable questions Michael would be asked by his parents at the end of the meal hung over the table. Michael ate slowly, hoping to avoid the conversation for as long as possible.
"Look, I've just been a bit down lately," he said before they could ask him anything. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have done it, I swear I've learned my lesson." They believed the look in his eyes. His mother sighed and his father looked worried.
On the desk in his bedroom he found a small piece of white paper, ripped off the corner of a larger sheet. "Cameron Black" was scribbled across the top, seven digits below it. It was Matthew's handwriting. Michael ran to get the phone.
They met that evening in a restaurant. Michael did not know if Cameron would show up. He had not gotten hold of him, but had left him a message, giving him the name of the restaurant and the time. No more information than was absolutely necessary. He did not feel like he needed to beg; he was the one who had been wronged.
Michael did not expect him to come. But he was being escorted to a table by Michael's waiter. They were both wearing suits, meaning Cameron knew the restaurant. Michael's was brown and Cameron's black. Michael stood up and they shook hands, for appearances only. The white tablecloths and soft lighting brought out everybody's best manners. They would not have been allowed in otherwise. They ordered soft drinks and the waiter disappeared.
"The night before we left, it was my brother who came to see you." Michael's voice broke the silence and the tension. Cameron was staring at him, listening intently to every word he said, though his lingering anger at Michael was apparent on his face. "It was him who broke up with you. I didn't know anything about it. He told me yesterday, or the day before, I can't even remember. Cameron's face relaxed. His dark blue eyes added colour to his dark suit. Michael stared into them. He saw Cameron's love returning. "I'm going to kill him. Although it's not his fault. What the fuck were you thinking?" The anger transferred from Cameron's face to Michael's. "You can't tell the difference between me and my brother?"
"Mike...you both look exactly the same."
"I can see who you are by looking into your eyes."
"It was dark. We were walking, we weren't even looking at each other. I'm sorry Mike, I feel terrible. Look, the only reason I came tonight is because I missed you. As angry as I was, I wanted to see you so badly. I- well, I didn't know what happened, and I was ready to accept an apology. But we're here now, together...no harm done right?"
"There was harm done Cam, a lot. Not your fault though. I haven't told you yet what's been going on." "You know, Mike, I'm not really all that hungry. Why don't you tell me back at my place? My parents are out for the evening, Jules is too, she's with a friend."
He entered a second world and he forgot everything he needed to tell Cameron. Shelves with DVDs covered almost every bit of spare wall. Movie posters covered the white paint in Cameron's bed room. The shelf above his desk contained school books. All of his furniture was white but the room had so much colour.
"You never told me you liked movies this much." Michael felt like he could escape into the glamour of Hollywood just by perusing the shelves. It was like being at a video store, deciding what to rent, trying to visualize each movie by the picture on the cover.
The linen on the bed was blue. Cameron turned on his stereo. "Remember that song we fell in love with in the Dominican?" Michael kissed him. The song was beautiful despite the impossibility of Michael understanding anything. They both closed their eyes when they threw themselves into the ocean of Cameron's bed. Michael let Cameron feel his way around his body, pausing in certain places and kissing them. When Michael felt himself in Cameron's mouth, his hand felt Cameron's hair. He could feel the sand and hear the music of the beach while he made love to Cameron.