LOYALTY AND SEDITION by tm
Part 73

Rating: PG

Summary: Melvin's brain, redux.

Spoilers: Nah, we don't have 'em here...Melvin's his own show.
 

FROM THE SLIGHTLY WARPED MIND OF MELVIN FROHIKE:

They just took my son from me.

This shouldn't be a problem. He has a problem that, corrected surgically and done early enough, which is what is occurring, will not have any permanent consequences.

He'll be back in his room soon, and he'll be fine. Tired, sore, and not terribly happy, but fine, nonetheless.

I still feel my heart clench in my chest.

Hospital vending machines really don't need to sell coffee. What they need are airline bottles of assorted alcoholic delights.

A little J&B would make this wash down much more gently right now.

Instead, I sip some hot brewed concoction that's being passed off as coffee, and the one thing I can say for it is that it's hot-I scorched my mouth while taking the first sip.

It doesn't matter how minor the problem. He's my son, my only son, and I'm constantly worried about him.

He turns 25 tomorrow at 8:18 a.m. I remember the moment well. I was there for it.

I remember not caring while Jan was expecting what sex the baby was-until we were told we'd had a boy.

I can clearly recall seeing his little face for the first time. I remember thinking that in spite of the fact that everyone in delivery said he looked just like me, he was a very cute baby. Big expressive eyes. Lots of dark hair.

And when I picked him up, still all slippery, he looked right at me. Like he knew I was his dad.

I hang to that moment still.

And to think I balked at being present for the delivery. This was still not routinely done in 1976, but it was beginning to become more commonplace, and Jan wanted me to be there. I reluctantly consented.

I'm so glad I did. My only regret was that I hadn't been there for Leslie's birth three years prior.

Leslie has finally, grudgingly, begun to respond to my requests to see her. She has written me two short letters via e-mail-terse, businesslike responses. But she says she will come down in the future for a visit.

I'm hoping the future comes sooner than later. I miss my daughter. This is utterly irrational, of course-I barely know my daughter. But she is my daughter, and we are, for better or worse, inextricably connected.

I have done more worrying since Michael arrived, had more anxiety, more distress, and more anger than I ever imagined possible with a grown child.

And more joy and more love. Michael is so passionate. His mother is half-Italian and half-Irish. Couple that with my Germanic stubbornness, and you get a difficult, recalcitrant, irritable, and totally loving, affectionate son.

And he is a loving son.

He is also a man now. At 25, I think I can no longer hide from the fact that he's an adult. Particularly since more and more, he's begun to act like one.

I live in constant fear of the day when he will have to venture out on his own. I've grown so attached to him it frightens me. I did not think it was possible to regrow a bond that had been severed so early on, but fortunately, sometimes emotional ties regenerate and thrive, even under less than ideal circumstances.

And venture out on his own he will. Not only is he less than 24 hours away from his quarter-century milestone, but he is preparing for work in the adult world. And he's in love.

And as much as it pains me to admit it, perhaps he has chosen well. I've begun to see Kelly become a little less self-centered and more in tune with my son's emotional rhythms. And to her credit, she is calm about his emotional highs and lows. It doesn't seem to faze her that one moment he's ecstatic, the next, in the depths of misery. I've seen her take his hand, quietly look at him, and the expression in her eyes says, it's all right. And I notice that when she does this, he visibly levels out.

I'm just not ready for him to leave me.

I was worried for a long time that he was the one not ready to leave, and not without justification.

He's still not. But I see him inching closer to this almost daily.

I am terrified of being without him.

And I need to do the most fearsome task of all right now.

I need to call his mother.

I head for one of the pay phones-there are banks of them here, and fortunately, I don't have to wait. This means no opportunities to wimp out.

Jan is not at home. She's probably at work. I leave a message on her answering machine, and try her unit at work. She's on, but she's on the floor, would I like to leave a message.

I tell her yes, this is Melvin Frohike-

She interrupts me and says, is this about her son? I say yes. The young woman says to wait, she'll get her.

No getting out of this now.

It takes another five minutes of waiting, and approximately every 30 seconds or so, I contemplate hanging up.

No. Michael is her son as well. I have to inform her.

"Mel? What's going on?" The crisp, businesslike voice of Jan, but strangely without some of the old animosity I've grown so accustomed to.

"It's...our son. He's ill again."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What now?"

"He's in surgery. Appendectomy."

I hear her breathe a small sigh of relief-being a medical professional, she knows this is not likely to be life and death. "He hasn't ruptured, has he?"

"No, he was taken in time."

"Thank God. Mel, let me see what I can do about leaving. We're a bit short of hands, but I think my charge nurse will understand when I explain the situation-"

"You don't need to do this, Jan."

"I know. But I want to. I want my son back, Mel." Do I hear a catch in her voice?

"I'd like you to have him back, too."

She's silent for a moment. "Thank you."

"He's your son. I understand what you mean."

"I could request a few days off, take care of him."

I think about this. I'm not comfortable with the idea of Jan being around...but I am very, very busy, what with all the work Miss Russell has offered me...it might be a good idea. I'm not sure I can take care of Michael post-op properly, and I have no question regarding her ability to do so.

"Do what you think needs to be done, Jan. I'll be happy to put you up."

Well, perhaps happy is the wrong word, but I owe her this.

Whatever she's done wrong in her life, I've done equal or better. And she is his mother. He needs to be with her.

"I'll be down as soon as I'm able. Thank you, Mel."

"You're welcome."

I softly hang up the phone.
 

This is a Catholic hospital, and while I have long abandoned the faith of my childhood, I want to be somewhere quiet.

Why do they have to make the chapel so difficult to find?

It has its advantages, though. I'm the only one there. And it is very, very silent in there.

I don't even hear the footsteps of another enter in.

It's Jo.

But this is fine.

Jo knows the value of silence. In doing things with her, she is never put off by periods of companionable silence. Jo is not great at small talk, and neither am I. And one of the reasons, among the many, that I value her friendship is that she feels no compulsion to fill up the quiet moments. She doesn't see silence as a void.

Unlike me, Jo has not abandoned her faith. She seems to derive sustenance from it. She makes no great gestures about it, nor does she suggest to me that I should return to this path. She is a woman who's lived long, seen much, and respects the needs of others.

She sits down by me without a word. If I wish to speak, she'll not be offended, but if I choose not to address her, she'll take no offense to that.

Allison must have called her, or she has an even better grapevine than I do.

She gently unwraps her rosary beads, and I can see her counting, but nothing else. Jo subscribes to the belief in the New Testament that when you pray, do so in secret.

Did Michael ever make his First Communion? He must have. Jan would have insisted. Leslie made hers about a year before I left, but I never knew about Michael, and he doesn't say.

Perhaps he doesn't remember, or chooses not to.

She is still counting her beads when I leave. I don't need to say anything to her, nor she to me. She knows where I will be, and she'll be along when it's time for her.

This is perhaps one of the reasons why we will never allow this relationship to move beyond friendship. It's too important to both of us the way it is. This is where our need lies, not in the passions of the flesh.
 

Michael is in recovery; he is apparently doing as well as expected, although he was hard to arouse from the general anesthesia. Still, the surgeon and anesthesiologist are not concerned. He'll be fine.

I find myself letting out the breath I've been holding on to since I first saw him this afternoon.

I ask if I might see him, and of course I can't see him in recovery, but I'm told as soon as he's released to his room, they'll let me know so that I can be there for him.

Jan is probably on her way by now.

And I'm grateful I took advantage of the opportunity for peace and quiet while I could, because it looks like the party has arrived. In another setting, you'd think this was a family gathering for a birthday or anniversary or christening.

What a motley looking family it is.

I'm very surprised to find Miranda among the gathered. Miranda and Michael don't particularly get along well. They have their moments of grudging respect-Miranda does do his hair, after all-but for the most part, Michael considers her to be a spoiled brat, and she considers him to be obnoxious.

Truth in both of those statements, to a point.

Allison is a wonderful mother, but perhaps too indulgent.

And now she and Langly are grabbing at their last possibility for all the joy, hope, worry and frustration that goes with the job.

I'm wondering if Langly has a clue what he's getting into here. This is, of course, assuming they have results, and there's no guarantee of that.

There's no way he could know. You don't know till you've been there. Parenting is a little like war in that regard.

Yes, he's a good stepparent to Miranda-but he's never done it from ground zero.

I shouldn't talk. I missed an awful lot of what happened in between.

Still, that my son is with me speaks of the strength of blood ties. You don't forget how much you care about your kids. It gets into your system, it's never gone.

And all the years without being able to deal with it, it's a loss, but I feel that loss far less keenly now. Reality won't take away longing, but it does tend to put a blunt edge on it.

I notice Kelly has arrived, and she immediately comes over to me, bypassing the others.

She always calls me "Mr. Frohike." I'm slightly amused by this. But it's nice to know that she's capable of showing some respect. God knows she's gotten little enough of it in her young life, yet she is never disrespectful of me in any way.

And she loves my son.

I was worried about this-and I can't let go of that worry. I worried in the beginning that she would not return his heart, but she has-and now I worry that he won't be able to meet her needs.

As Gilda Radner used to say on 'Saturday Night Live,' it's always something.

She asks if I've seen Michael yet, I tell her no, soon. She asks if she could get me something.

Yes, you could, sweetheart, but you're underage. So I thank her but say no.

I still feel she is far too young for Michael. Six years at this time in their lives-a third of her lifetime, a quarter of his. Yet I think this is mostly prejudice on my part-and residual fear from my experiences with Dee.

I think about Dee often. I wonder how she would have adjusted to my son being in my life again.

I notice while we're waiting that she is like me in one regard. When she is worried or upset, she prefers to be quiet, wait it out, not accept input from the crowd. She isn't joining in the conversation of the others, which is, to my relief, punctuated with laughter and taunts.

"Mr. Frohike, I think you're a really nice dad." This comes from her, straight out of nowhere.

Not that she has a huge basis for comparison, but it's nice to hear it, anyway.
 

I can finally see my son. This is not due to any medical complications, but to the fact that they have a full house, and they needed a bed to open up.

I ask the others to please be patient, let me see him alone first.

Well, not quite alone. I motion to Kelly to accompany me. This seems to surprise her a bit, but she follows along, uncertain.

I've seen my child ill, but I'm still a bit stunned at how ashen he appears. It's as if all of his coloring was drained away.

I call to him, very quietly. I know he's exhausted and heavily drugged, but I need to have him respond, however slightly, for my own selfish reasons.

He blinks languidly at me, trying to locate the sound. It's as if he hasn't formed the connection between my voice and me.

"Hi, Michael." Kelly says very softly to him. "It's me."

"Hi, me," he whispers at her, and promptly closes his eyes. A few moments later, he blinks again. "Dad?"

"I'm here."

"Okay." The eyes fall shut again. He seems to be at ease, knowing that the people who care most for him are around him. Michael differs from me in this way. Solitude and solace are not one and the same in his world. He is terribly needy in this regard.

Perhaps I am equally so, but I don't acknowledge it. And I do find comfort in silence.

Michael is shivering terribly-why can't they give a person enough blankets when they need them? I check the closet, but to no avail. Kelly volunteers to go to the nursing staff and request some extras, which I am grateful for. In the meantime, I pull myself close to him, careful so that I don't hurt him, and wrap my arms around him so he'll be warm.

As out of it as he is, he seems to know I'm there. Not just the warmth, but some measure of security seems to fall upon him, and he relaxes in my arms as he did when he was a little boy and in need of a nap.

A little boy with a heavy dose of three o'clock shadow. One of the genetic legacies of being a Frohike.

He's not shaking so much now, but I'm relieved when Kelly appears with an armload of blankets.

"I gave up asking. I took them off a supply carriage." She spreads one very gently over him, tucking it up over his shoulders. I notice she's brought two extras. Perhaps she is settling in for the night as well.

"Mr. Frohike? Would you mind...if I went and got my backpack from my car?" She still does need to study.

Not at all. I'm relieved that this girl does not expect me to make conversation all evening.

I like that about her.
 

My legs are falling asleep with Michael settled on them, and he seems comfortable. Time to move to my own chair.

Why are there no comfortable chairs in hospitals? You would think, what with people wanting to be near their loved ones, they could accommodate them in this small way.

But I guess Blue Cross doesn't cover that.

Kelly has returned and pulls a large textbook from her backpack and begins making notes. It's a biology textbook, Cellular Biology.

She is a serious student, I'll give her that. She does want to be a physician.

I hope she can do it. Michael is of course convinced she will.

He has no idea how tortuous this path will be.

You never do until you've done it. That's the problem with everything in life. We're all amateurs.

Even a veteran of many things, like myself, is still in many ways a participant in amateur hour every single day.

I'm strictly a novice at the idea of my son being involved with someone, that's for sure.

I wonder if I'll ever grow to acquire some ease with it.

I know that at this point, they're not involved sexually, not in the deepest sense of the word, although the relationship is moving heavily in that direction. In not too long a time, they'll pass that point. Cross the Rubicon, as Allison is likely to say. But then, she's read too much Julius Caesar.

I won't read about war and warriors anymore. I already have more personal knowledge of those than anyone should have. I know that my view is skewed, slanted, and narrow, but it's the only view I have. And it's part of who I am.

At my age, I want one thing in this world.

Peace.

Both in the personal realm and in the public sector.

We are not likely to have it in the public sector any time soon. In fact, part of my current nervousness stems from what is about to happen in this country. I can see it coming. The writing on the wall is cryptic, but large and loud.

How can we let these things happen?

More importantly, how do we make certain they don't?

I'm trying to find the answers...and I come up woefully short every single time.

All I know is, regardless of what happens, I will not let it rip me from the people I love ever again. Once I felt that I had to choose between what I do in my private life and what I do in my more public one-if you wish to call it that. It's not very public, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

We're being betrayed by a system so corrupt so deep down, there seems to be one inevitability.

Revolution.

It will come, and it will be very unattractive.

And it will never succeed if people lose sight of the fact that they must never lose their intimate connections. They're not the only things we need in the world. We need laws and justice and fairness and mercy and equity and order. Those are basic human needs at the social level.

And at the personal level, we need each other. We need those connections that keep us alive moment to moment, that share the seemingly insignificant minutes and hours and days that make up our existence.

My thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a cry from the bed. It's Michael, and he's waking up. Kelly is already on her feet, she's taken his un-IV'd hand and is stroking it, cooing to him gently.

He must either be in a lot of pain, or he had a bad dream, because I can see tears on his cheeks. While Kelly holds his hand, I stroke his hair.

He's calm and a little more alert after a few minutes. I think he needs som e more pain meds, so I buzz the nursing station.

"We love you, Michael," I tell him.

He's still fading in and out, but he seems to have registered this.

"Love you guys," he mutters before falling back into sleep.

I feel my eyes becoming damp.

This is the first time I've ever heard him say it. At least to me.

I feel so unworthy. And so fortunate.

Even if I am going to be spending the night in the chair from hell.

END OF PART 73