One

I’ve always considered myself a fairly level-headed person.

I never flew off the handle. I never had a nervous breakdown. I never had to be committed to a mental asylum. When I came to North America, I adapted. Calm. Had it together. Crisis? Call Marian. Strong, reliable, dependable Marian. Won’t bite. Won’t budge.

But occasionally, something happens that throws even the strongest guy a little bit off.

After the Olympics I went straight home, exhausted from the turn of events. I had made sure to grab Miro’s phone number and made a point of writing it in a couple different places. I called him that evening.

“Hello?” he asked quietly. He sounded almost sullen.

“Yeah, Miro. Hi. It’s Marian,” I said, trying to keep a tone of cheerfulness in my voice. Two silent people on the phone doesn’t do much but run up a big long-distance bill.

“Oh, it’s you.” His voice dropped several more tones.

“Yeah. It’s me. I just wanted to call and see how your plane ride was.” I kicked myself, knowing that the tone in my voice sounded over-cheerful and fake.

“Don’t see why you should care.” He sounded a little slurred. Damn.

“Miro, have you been drinking?”

“Don’t see why you should care,” he repeated. Oh, fuck it.

“Listen. Don’t do anything drastic.” I kept my voice at a low level. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Maybe not the best advice, but hey. Under the circumstances, you have to give me credit.

“I’m tired,” he sighs. “So tired.” And the phone clicks dead.

Fuck.

In seconds, I’ve dialed the airlines and gotten a ticket for the next flight into Buffalo.

The next morning I dashed out of the house, not even bothering to pack another suitcase. I used my Olympic one. So my clothes were dirty? Fuck ‘em.

The plane ride inspired thought. They always do.

Why was I dragging myself back here? From the moment Miroslav Satan had presented himself in my dorm room, I knew I was in for trouble. The way he looked. The way he sounded. The way he acted. He’d gone off and screamed at me, thrown me into a tailspin that I didn’t show, couldn’t show, because then I wouldn’t be calm Marian.

I’d go against my nature. I couldn’t do that.

I’d done all I could to try and smack some sense into him and I couldn’t. He wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t even listen. I was afraid he would kill himself.

I was still afraid.

So why was I doing this, sucking myself into the same situation under my own power, trying to help a man beyond help, trying to bail him from a sinking ship? Why was I going back to save this man stuck in unending night? What could I do? I’m just one person.

But I knew something. I knew that if I left him, he would die. I didn’t know why or how. I didn’t even know if his physical self would die. It was his mind, his emotional body, lying on the floor gasping for air. And I couldn’t leave him there. I had to do something.

So it was with heavy heart I hailed a cab to his house, remembering his address from somewhere way back in my mind. I shuffled to his front door, searching for a hidden key, and promptly found it under a loose brick. Wary, I crept into his house, which was absolutely silent.

I came upon him, sprawled in his living room in front of the ashes of a fire, giving up a puff of smoke every now and then.

Suddenly I was tired too, so tired that I could have lay down there next to him and slept, slept for a hundred thousand years and still not be fully rested.

I could have. I could have set myself down there on the floor and slept, but somehow I could not. Because I am Responsible Marian. Because I am locked into being Responsible Marian. Because now and then I had no choice.

He didn’t wake up until hours later, by which time I’d amused myself getting coffee and musing still about why I was there.

“Why are you here?” he said groggily.

Good question.

Why was I there?