Michael's Mom

MICHAEL'S MOM

by Darlene Bridge Lofgren

Published by Destiny Designs Press at Smashwords

copyright 2000 Darlene Bridge Lofgren

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CHAPTER ONE

The woman runs down the path, passes Strawberry Fields and heads to the W. 77th Street exit. Her breathing is easy, her rhythm steady. Soon she will approach that grove of trees where she saw him last.

What is he doing there? Why does he stare at her?

Now a man-made body of water sparkles to her right. On her left she passes a well-worn park bench where an old man tosses what appear to be crumbs to a bevy of bold sparrows. She is, as usual, on schedule.

With millions of people living in Manhattan, she doesn’t often see the same individuals on her morning run. But the old man is usually there, and a couple who walk their dog, and some executive types having breakfast from brown bags. And, the last few days, in the grove ahead, the boy.

The boy with the solemn expression.

The boy who never, as she runs by, takes his eyes from her.

She runs, her compact body, which has passed the age of forty, moves with less grace than determination. At the top of her reasonably shaped form, sits an ordinary head, ordinary brown hair, stylishly short, surrounding an ordinary face, but for the blue eyes. They are not extraordinary, but they have captured, without intent, many an unprepared being.

Those eyes search up the path for him.

What would a boy of seven? eight? be doing in Central Park at 9 o’clock in the morning? Alone, it seemed. Doesn’t he go to school? It’s still April. Where are his – his caretakers?

It’s been three mornings. She passed him by, each time. Of course. What was she supposed to do? It’s not illegal for a kid to stand in the park. He didn’t look lost or upset.

But if she sees him today, she’ll stop. She pushes up the sleeves of her gray, unremarkable sweat suit, the cotton cloth converting the cool morning to the warmth of toast. She looks to the copse. There’s his small figure! All three and a half feet of him. He wears faded blue jeans, a common, dark blue t-shirt, and a scruffy pair of tennis shoes.

He is staring at her. She breaks from the path and starts toward him.

Should she slow down? She doesn’t want to frighten him. Not that he looks frightened. She stops about ten feet from him, bends down, hands on her knees, pretending to catch her breath. She looks up, prepared to smile.

He is gone.

The kid is gone.

What the – ?

She stands motionless, utterly baffled.

How did he do that?

She begins to jog in place.

How very odd...

She stands still again.

Well, this run is over.

She finally breaks into a trot heading out of the park, then walks up 77th to her apartment.

She’s not especially fond of kids; well, she’s not down on them, either. She just holds them in the same regard she holds adults. Some are a real draw. Some are not.

This kid, this one - yeah, he qualifies as a draw.

The ornate brass and glass entrance to her building rises up to welcome her.

Under the awning, up the carpeted steps, she moves into the lobby, nods to Mac the Doorman (that’s what they call him, capital letters and all), finds a streamlined, soundless elevator open, and floats to the ninth floor.

But then again, what makes her drawn to this kid? Well, what makes anyone drawn to anyone else? Some say it’s sort of programmed in us. By environment. Or the genes, or the culture. She’s even heard it’s just a chemical thing.

Hmmm. Well, her favorite theory is the one about magnetism, that it’s an electrical thing. Yeah, the kid’s on the same current as she, or something like that. Same wave-length? (Maybe that’s where that expression comes from!) Ha, probably it’s just about their astrological signs; he’s got Venus or Mercury or something in her house of Pluto or Jupiter or something and they’re crossed by –

Give it a rest, okay? You’re drawn to him. All right? We’ve established that. Enough, already.

Down the silent, cushioned hallway she travels.

Home.

Home. A gigantic, perfect hotel.

Not really her definition of home. But it’s the nicest home she’s ever had.

Clicking on the light in her foyer – it is a foyer, not a hall – passing the Picasso print, into the vast, slate-blue carpeted living room, she turns to the right and enters the kitchen.

The shining, uncluttered surfaces never fail to please her. According to acquaintances, it’s a culinary masterpiece. Not being a cook, she cannot judge. But the room is spacious in layout, complete in appliances and composed of excellent materials.

She sincerely enjoys the luxuries of this apartment; this world she has created of beautiful things and exquisite order, this environment designed by her, for her.

It’s only been a few years since the lean days, but the past is discarded, irretrievably, thank God. Well, in most respects, thank God.

She crosses the solid oak, hardwood floor and opens the fridge. No, it was a fridge when she was younger. This is a refrigerator. A perfect batch of oranges rests in a crystal bowl. She selects two of the beauties, then removes the cover from the juicer that stands ready on the immaculate countertop.

Minutes later, she enjoys a perfect glass of juice. All right, so it’s not perfect. But it’s damn close.

Then, unbidden, her mind’s eye is hit by the memory of a coffee shop patio in Los Angeles, perhaps ten years ago, where she sat with Richard. They were drinking orange juice...

She looks at the glass. Funny, she had so little then, and the juice was not this fresh. But it had tasted better. Then.

Well, sorry, Charlie, that was then. And as if shaking off an unlocked leg iron, she discards the memory.

Shed the nondescript running apparel. Hit the shower. Lather in expensive body gel. Rub dry with an obscenely plush bath towel. Select pricey t-shirt and jeans from her high-dollar wardrobe. The only exceptions to quality in her closet are the four gray sweat suits, clothing that makes her feel relatively safe on her daily run.

To the computer. Open the file: The Girl in the Red Jumper by Alexis Andrews.

Alexis Andrews. Her name from birth. Never married. Called Lexy all her life, until she left the nickname behind eight years ago, until she left Los Angeles behind. In New York she is called Alex.

Okay, The Girl in the Red Jumper. Now where was she? Oh, right, where the girl meets the new neighbors.

Over the next hours, breaking only for a light lunch,