The Muse's Undoing

“In general.”

“It’s okay. I hate to say I’m getting used to it, but…”

“It’ll get better,” she assures me. “Matty says he’s helping with your exercises?”

I grimace. I appreciate Donna’s motherly love—really. Who knows where I’d be without her? Still, I’m a thirty-three year old man, and I’ve been living on my own for over a decade now. These checkins make me feel like a difficult child who has trouble following the rules. When I shared that with Matthew some weeks back, he said she was probably confusing me with him.

I don’t know much about what Matty was like as a kid, but what I do know is that he’s meticulous as an adult. Compulsively clean, keeps a solid schedule, and always does what he says he’s going to do. He’s giving up a lot to help me out—nights out with friends, dating—sex, but he never complains. Not to me anyway.

“He’s been great, yes,” I tell her.

“I was wondering if you’d mind if I get him a comfier place to sleep. Maybe a fold out? It can’t be easy for him all crunched up on that couch with his long legs.”

“I’m not making him sleep on the couch,” I say with a look on my face I wish she could see. I’m not a fucking sadist.

“Where does he sleep, then? He made it sound like he’s staying with you.”

“He is. He sleeps in the bed.”

“With you?”

I flinch at the tone of her voice. “Yeah.”

“Did you get a bigger bed?”

“No…”

“Then…Fischer. Is that…is it not odd?”

“I don’t know, Donna,” I frown. “Is it odd?”

“Two grown men…I just think about what it looks like…”

“To who?” I ask.

“I—you’re right.” She lets out a dismissive laugh. “You’re brothers.”

“Uh-huh.” I don’t know about her, but I’d like to end this call as soon as possible. “Anyway, I have this article I’m in the middle of writing. I hope you don’t mind if I cut this short.”

“Oh, of course not. I was just checking in.”

“Thanks. Have a good night,” I tell her.

“You, too. I love you.”

“Same to you. Bye.”

We hang up, and I toss the phone to Matthew’s side of the bed, which now all of a sudden, I’m questioning. Was that judgment in her tone, or just surprise? It’s hard to tell with her. We haven’t been close in a long time, especially not since I told her I’d managed to find my birth mother.

I met Joyce Alexander when I was twenty-two. I was studying journalism and was getting damn good at research. My curiosity was borderline reckless back then—before I learned that there are some things I’m better off not knowing. If my mom knew about Joyce, I could see why she didn’t want me to meet her.

She was in prison serving one of many sentences for assault—a heroin addict turned prostitute. Fun fact: I was born on Riker’s Island, which at least meant that Joyce was sober during most of the pregnancy. She assured me of that at least thirty times during our one-hour visit.

She had no clue who my father was. He could be any white guy in the world, and I know that because she was also really clear on how she only ever turned tricks for white guys. I left feeling both disgusted with her and sorry for her—saved by the grace of Richard and Donna Cannon from the suburbs, who may or may not regret adopting me. It’s not like I ever made their lives any easier.

Matthew comes out of the bathroom in his usual starter sleepwear. A t-shirt and boxer briefs. I’ve never seen him wake up with the shirt on, but he’s like a human space heater. I wake up sweating, too, but I think it’s more a result of the narcotics I’m on—the early morning withdrawal.

“Donna wants to get you a fold-out sofa,” I tell him.