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Svetlana was not always so generous in spirit, but as she shuffled Yevgeny onto her hip and pushed her way past the crowded booths in Patsy’s Pies, she decided today she would do the kind thing -- offer Carrot Boy a chance to say goodbye to the man he once loved.
Ian stood hunched over a table, scrubbing at the sticky residue of orange juice and pancake syrup left behind by sloppy diners. Americans are so careless, Svetlana thought. Both with their habits and their hearts. Ian looked thin and wan and he moved slowly like one of the sick turtles she’d seen in the Moscow Zoo when she was a little girl.
Yevgeny fussed, as he often did, drawing Ian’s attention up to Svetlana’s stern, all business countenance. She didn’t greet him with a smile and Ian winced slightly. Russians didn’t put on fake grins to deliver unhappy news. It wasn’t their way. But she did feel a slight pang in her chest thinking of the disintegration of her unusual American family. She wondered if she looked as sorrowful as Mickey had when he said Yevgeny was better off without him.
Ian dropped a wet cloth into a plastic tub and straightened his spine. His red hair was unkempt. He really needed a proper trim. Svetlana would offer to cut his hair but she could see in his eyes he was still fearful of her. After all, he did steal her baby. But Svetlana had forgiven him, not that she would confess that. She liked how uneasy he seemed around her -- made her feel powerful. Also, it served as a warning that he was not to fuck with her family again. Which was what brought her to the diner.
“Mickey is leaving town,” she said in her heavily accented English. “I thought you’d want to know.”
At first, she wasn’t sure if this news would matter to him. Ian barely seemed to register her remark, but then she saw it, that slight flicker in his eyes. The old Carrot Boy. The one who loved Mickey and maybe even her before his brain turned on him.
“His bus leave at eleven if you care.”
“I don’t,” Ian said, his voice flat.
Ugh, these American men, she thought. They just expect everyone to understand them when they don’t properly talk. It was incredibly frustrating.
“Fine,” she said, her voice forceful. She moved her son to her other hip, his increasing weight making her limbs tired. She was prepared to storm out of the diner until she was reminded of a memory. “You know back in Russia, before my father sold me to that pimp, I had a friend named Katya. I loved her very much, maybe like you loved Mickey. The last time I saw her, we got into a fight because she spilled wine on my best dress. I called her a thoughtless bitch and the next day, my father sold me away.”
Ian stared at her, his eyes blinking as if trying to make sense of her story.
“I didn’t know it would be the last time I see her.” She waited for Carrot Boy to catch on, for his eyes to light up in understanding, for him to nod his head, anything. She sighed, already worn out by this one-sided conversation. “The point is, you do know. Because I am telling you. Eleven o’clock. Yes?” Svetlana didn’t way for a response. She nuzzled Yevgeny close to her and hustled out of the diner, back the way she had come.
#
Ian didn’t take a breath until Svetlana left the restaurant, jostling her son on her way out. Not only her son, but Mickey’s too. Ian felt ashamed about how often he’d fantasized about Yevgeny calling him Dad one day. But that scenario burned to ashes when Ian was diagnosed. He had a bipolar parent -- he wouldn’t willingly father a kid now.
Ian’s chest swelled with sadness. He’d lost so much. The army. Mickey. Himself. He’d given Mickey up so he wouldn’t have to deal with Mickey’s pitying glances. It was selfish really, but then he wondered how often Mickey fantasized about the old Ian. The one he fucked in baseball dugouts and convenience stores. The one who fought for Mickey even when Mickey wouldn’t fight for himself. By breaking Mickey’s heart, Ian had done him a favor. He forced the choice Mickey wouldn’t make on his own. With the onset of bipolar, Ian had fallen into a black hole and he’d taken Mickey down with him. It wasn’t fair to either of them. Ian knew he’d done the right thing, even if felt like the worst thing.
No, Ian would not say goodbye to Mickey. It was best they did not see each other. Clean break. New start. It’s what they both needed. Ian now had to focus on dealing with his disease, getting used to the person he’d become, overcoming the past.
But to do that, he’d have to say goodbye.
Ian glanced at the clock above the restroom doors. It was a little before ten. If he ran, he might just make it.
#
Mickey swung his duffel bag onto his shoulder. He hadn’t packed much. A few shirts, some which may have belonged to Ian at some point -- Mickey lost count at how often they’d pass shirts and hoodies between them -- his best jeans, his favorite CDs, a cheap watch Ian had bought him for his birthday that Mickey claimed looked gay, but he’d never part with. Mickey contemplated leaving mementos of Ian behind. As if a forgotten watch would magically erase Ian from Mickey’s memories. But he’d rather carry the crap with him as a reminder that once upon a time, Ian Gallagher had loved Mickey Milkovich. That love may not have lasted, but it had been real, and it had been beautiful.
Mickey scurried down the stoop and glanced up at his childhood home, but he was overcome by an unnerving sense of anxiety. He’d never left the South Side before. He was a tough son-of-a-bitch, but he was a also a chickenshit. With shaking fingers, he slipped a cigarette in between his lips and lit the end. He waved the match, the flame disappearing, and inhaled, hoping he’d inhale bravado along with the nicotine. It didn’t work.
He’d have to hustle if he was going to make his bus.
He flipped his middle finger up at his house before turning down the street.
Mickey heard the pounding of heavy soled shoes behind him, not thinking the hurried steps were for him until a hand yanked him around. Mickey was about to pummel the asshole when he was confronted by Ian, sweaty and uncharacteristically out of breath.
“The fuck, Gallagher?”
Ian ran his hands through his stringy hair. He took a few beats to steady his breathing and then said, “I came to say goodbye.”
Svetlana. Mickey wasn’t sure whether to curse her or kiss her.
“Where are you going?” Ian asked, his voice high, shaky. Mickey hadn’t seen Ian since they broke up, a task not easily achieved in their small, ghetto neighborhood. Mickey could recount several times where he had to duck behind dumpsters or take the long way home from the Alibi to avoid Ian. It was emotionally exhausting. Worse than hiding from his father because at least Mickey knew where his father was most of the time. This was why Mickey needed to leave. Because he couldn’t ask Ian to.
“My mom’s family lives in Ohio. My uncle owns a construction business. Said he’d put me on a drywalling crew. Pay’s shit, but work’s work. Besides it gets me out of here.” He took another drag off the cigarette. He almost passed it to Ian, muscle memory betraying him, but stopped himself in time. He dropped the cigarette to the sidewalk and crushed the burning embers beneath his boot.
“Mick,” Ian began. “You don’t have to leave because of me.”
Mickey wanted to laugh because of course he had to. Instead he said, “If I don’t get out of here, I’m either going to wind up in prison or my dad’s going to kill me.” That shit with Sammi had stirred a new sense of fear in him. She almost killed him. If he didn’t chang his life, his luck would run out soon. It was only a matter of when.
Ian stood across from Mickey looking thin, worn out, desperate. His mouth twitched and Mickey wished Ian would speak, utter the words Mickey wasn’t able to say when Ian enlisted. “Don’t fucking go.” But Mickey knew he wasn’t just leaving the neighborhood for himself, he was doing it for Ian too. If Ian needed to relearn how to live his life, then he needed Mickey gone as well. They were constant reminders to each other of their lives before. A past that haunted them. Mickey loved Ian too much to torture him, even involuntarily.
Mickey placed his hand on Ian’s shoulder and squeezed. “Take care of yourself, Gallagher.” His voice caught, he wasn’t prepared for that. He slid his hand down Ian’s arm, ghosted Ian’s fingers, before letting go and walking toward the bus depot. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.