Peter set down the phone and looked over at the others and Isabel.
"Well," he announced gravely, "That's three."
Micky looked at the floor. "Three gigs canceled out from under us. Just because nobody wants to see a front man in a wheelchair," he said softly, his words laced with bitterness.
"Aw, Micky, that's not true," Peter said, trying to sound reassuring. "Somewhere, there's gottabe a—" Peter broke off abruptly, a very strange look on his face. Suddenly a hand went to the bridge of his nose as his eyes closed and he shook his head.
"Peter?" Isabel jumped up and hurried over to him. "Peter, what is it?"
Peter opened his eyes. They were glazed, unfocused. Isabel involuntarily took a step backward, letting out a startled gasp. They looked like Mike's eyes had when he had lost his sight.
"Can't see," Peter said in a strangled voice. "All blurry... pain b'hind my eyes...."
"Oh, man, it's his aura!" Mike exclaimed, leaping over the chaise lounge and gripping one of Peter's arms. "Isabel, get his other arm. We've gotta get him into the bedroom—fast!"
"His aura?" Isabel repeated as she caught Peter's other arm, following Mike's lead. "What in the world is an aura?"
For answer, Peter shook his head again. "Mi—Michael?" he gasped. "It's hitting fast this time..."
"I can tell," Mike replied gently, modulating his voice to a near-whisper, knowing how noise only aggravated the pain. "Let's get you to bed, and I'll get you some aspirin, all right?"
"Kay..." Peter leaned against Mike heavily as they guided him into the downstairs bedroom. They tucked him into what was now Mike's bed, and he rolled over to face the wall, burying himself under the covers like a wounded animal hiding in its lair.
Mike pulled Isabel out of the room. "We forgot about this, Isabel—or we would have told you," he said apologetically.
"Told me what? Mike, what's going on?" she demanded.
"Remember I told you Peter gets migraines? Well, just before the pain hits, like up to an hour or two before, Peter gets stabbing pain behind his eyes and he loses most of his vision. He calls that his Aura—sort of a warning sign that the migraine is on its way."
"But he's in pain now..."
"Yeah, sometimes it hits quick. When he's under a lot of stress or something." Mike let out a exasperated sigh. "This situation with Micky and us losin gigs certainly qualifies."
"Mike..." Mike heard the very soft moan from the bedroom and tilted his head to get the rest of it.
"What do you hear?" Isabel asked.
"Peter's begging for painkillers," Mike said. "Davy, have you got the aspirin yet?"
"Got it!" Davy came racing across the living room. He slipped two pills and a glass of water into Mike's hand.
Mike went back into the bedroom and got the pills down Peter, then he practically tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door as quietly as he could behind himself.
"What day is it?" Isabel asked suddenly.
"December 1," Mike answered promptly. "He's right on schedule. If it holds up, February 28 is the next one."
At that instant the phone rang. Mike winced at Peter's screech of pain as he quickly grabbed the phone. "Hello? Yeah, hang on...."
He grabbed a pen and some paper and Isabel frowned as she watched him write down something—left-handed. He was feeling the pressure again; she'd have to try to get his mind off it for awhile, otherwise Big Brother would worry himself to death without saying a word about it to anyone else.
"All right, we'll be there. Thank you very much—and oh hey! There's something you should know—" He met Micky's eyes and Micky nodded. Mike addressed the party on the other end. "Micky's had an accident, and he's in a wheelchair. ... I see. ... Okay! Thank you again."
Micky lowered his head, tears of embarrassment and tears of shame licking his eyelids.
Mike hung up the phone and turned to the others. "We're playing Saturday night at the Club Cassandra."
Micky's head snapped up, a ray of hope beginning to shine in his eyes. "They—know and they're still—"
Mike nodded, smiling ever so slightly. "Said they don't care, long as you can still sing."
"You see, Mick?" Davy said from the bandstand where he sat idly tapping out a soft riff on the cymbals. "Peter was right. Not everybody's prejudiced."
"Mike..." Mike heard suddenly. "Please..."
"Davy," Mike said. "You're making Peter's head worse. Stop playing for awhile."
Davy started, lowering the sticks and coming out from behind the drums. "That's new," he said. "I know you can hear me in there when I play, but your ears are different."
"Remember a couple weeks ago, when Micky was still in the hospital?" Mike reminded him. "When Peter gets migraine-strength headaches, his ears become just as sensitive as mine till the pain fades."
Micky let out a low whistle. "When did thatstart?"
"Around the same time he started going blind from them," Mike said. He then moved into the kitchen, effectively ending the conversation.
Isabel frowned after him, confused. What was he talking about? Did he mean that Peter used to have a different aura?
And how could Peter have managed to hide it from her for all this time?
Saturday dawned grey and rainy. Micky sighed as he looked out the bedroom window, watching the rain patter against the glass panes. Rainy days had always depressed him, and now it was even worse.
Mike rolled over and shot him a look. "You're up early," he mumbled.
"Sorry," Micky said with an apologetic smile, turning the chair around to face his roommate. "Didn't mean to wake you. Didn't think I sighed that loud."
"You didn't," Mike replied, yawning as he sat up and knuckled sleep from his eyes. "I been awake since you got outta bed. The triangle's chain clatters a little bit."
"Shoot you for the shower?" Micky suggested, wheeling over to Mike's bedside.
"Sure." Mike swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, slumping a little as he waited, still yawning and sleepy-eyed, for Micky to reach him.
They shot fingers, and Micky won, but any flash of triumph he might have felt fizzled when Mike muttered, "Good," and keeled over again.
Smiling and shaking his head, Micky went to the closet and got an outfit for the day, amazed that they had remembered to lower the bar so he could reach it.
"Mike, you and Peter did a lot of work for me. Thanks," he said quietly, his expression unusually somber.
Mike propped himself up on his pillow, one arm behind his head as he smiled reassuringly. "You would've done the same for us."
Micky gave him a dubious look in return. "Peter would have, at any rate. Me I'm not too sure about..."
"Don't sell yourself so short, man," Mike chided. "You would've done the same. I know you."
"Mike... when you couldn't see....," he began hesitantly, feeling a familiar pang of guilt rising within him. He almost felt he didn't have the right to ask for or expect any help from either Mike or Davy after the way he'd behaved during their problems. "Me'n Davy just stepped aside and let Peter do all the work..."
Mike held up one hand, his expression stern and uncompromising. "Forget it, Mick," he replied, an unmistakable note of command in his voice. "You did what you could. Mostly I just needed your support, and I got that, so quit beatin yourself up about it."
Micky grinned broadly, the knot of tension that had been growing in his chest loosening somewhat as he wheeled toward the door. "Yes, Daddy," he said in a mock-grave tone as he exited the bedroom, hearing Mike's high-pitched laugh erupt behind him, exactly the reaction he had been looking for.
"I love making him laugh," Micky murmured to himself as he wheeled across the living room. "It's such a rare sound."
"And a welcome one when it happens."
Micky gave a start. He seized the turning bars and held his arms still, bringing the chair to an abrupt halt. Spinning one of the bars, he turned so he could face the kitchen, wide-eyed. "You heard me?"
Peter turned from the sink, and smiled slightly at Micky. "Yeah."
Micky rolled over and down the ramp into the kitchen. Peter watched him come, and as he got closer Micky could see the pain dancing around Peter's eyes.
"You're still suffering," he said—a statement, not a question— his voice laced with sympathy.
"Some. This one's really hanging on. Third day now..." Peter grimaced and went back to peeling the potatoes.
"You're up," Micky reminded him gently. "And you can see. That amounts to something."
Peter nodded. "Yeah, it's getting better. But my ears are still like Mike's." Peter lay down the knife and sighed. "Now I get it...What he's going through..."
"Is it—?"
Peter shook his head. "No, it's not bad...It's just real different." He smiled slightly. "Like right now, I know that Davy's in the upstairs shower because I can hear the water running." Peter rubbed his eyes.
"Look, big Peter," Micky said, laying his hand on Peter's forearm, "you're hurting. You don't need to cook breakfast right now. You need to be in bed."
"I'll be all right," Peter retorted—and then suddenly cried out in pain, dropping the knife into the sink as a loud BANG! reverberated in his sensitive ears, almost forcing him to his knees as he wavered in place, pressing his fists against his ears.
Micky snapped his head around to see Mike standing behind him, one hand still on the knob of the door he'd just slammed shut and the other plugging one ear. Wincing from the pain he had caused himself, he demanded, "Will you? Now that I have your attention—"
"Aspirin and bed?" Peter moaned.
"Aspirin and bed," Mike replied firmly. "Look, you've gotta get well so we can play tonight. I'll finish breakfast, you head to bed."
"OK..." Peter stumbled up the stairs.
Mike ran some water into a bowl and put the sliced potatoes into it, then he put the bowl into the refrigerator and turned to Micky. "Mick, let me shower first," he ordered.
"OK...why?" Micky's expression contained one big question mark.
"Cause I've gotta go get us something to eat. No way am I cookin!"
Peter came out of the bedroom and down the stairs about four hours later.
"Hey," Mike said very softly, pitched for sensitive ears. "How you doin?"
Peter walked right past without saying a word.
Mike smiled, settling back into the couch. Peter's ears were back to normal. Pitching his voice at normal level, Mike repeated, "Hey. How you doin?"
Peter turned and smiled. "Better. Headache's all but gone. And I don't have the noises anymore."
"The noises..." Mike shook his head. "Peter, you sure can come up with some interesting names for things."
"Well, they are noises to me," Peter said, grabbing some juice from the refrigerator and sighing as he pulled out the bowl of half-peeled potatoes. "I'm not used to it like you are, and I don't want to get used to it! I'm glad it's gone!" He dumped the water into the sink and refilled the bowl, pulling a knife from the drawer and resuming his peeling.
They had Peter's patented egg sandwiches and hash browns for lunch that day.
After lunch, Davy and Mike washed the dishes while Peter and Micky did the therapy for Micky's legs. Micky lay quietly as Peter manipulated his legs; as far as he was concerned, it could have been happening to someone else entirely, and he let his mind drift aimlessly as he waited for the daily ritual to be over. Then a memory popped unbidden into his head, and he suddenly giggled.
"What's so funny?" Peter asked, turning a quizzical look on him.
"Remember the last time we played the Cassandra?" Micky called out loudly, so Davy could hear as well.
Davy laughed, wandering over to where they were. "Boy, do I ever! I thought Peter and Mike were going to go at it right there!"
"Now wait a second," Peter offered a protest in his own defense. "I wasn't the one who lost my temper!"
Mike—who was finishing up the dirty dishes—merely snorted in response as the four all remembered what had happened one week after Mike's vision had completely returned...
"Okay, guys!" Mike had shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth so the sound would carry to all corners of the Pad. "Time to go!"
They had a one-night gig moonlighting at Club Cassandra, and they were due on-stage in exactly one hour. That would give them plenty of time to get there and warm up a bit backstage before they had to perform.
If the other three would get themselves in gear, Mike grumbled silently. Kids...he thought, rolling his eyes heavenward. Gotta lead 'em around by the hand sometimes...
"Coming!" Micky yelled from the top of the stairs, then hopped onto the banister and slid down, landing with a flourish in front of Mike, who was waiting impatiently near the door, guitar case in hand.
"Yeah, all right—" Davy called as he flung open his bedroom door and trotted over to the bandstand to fetch his maracas. "Keep your hat on, will you?"
"Where's Peter?" Mike demanded, frowning slightly. Trust Peter to wander off at the most inopportune moment.
"Here I am," Peter replied, smiling as he exited the bedroom. "Ready to go?"
"I've been ready for five minutes," Mike retorted.
He started for the door, then remembered he hadn't picked up the car keys. A glance around showed they had been tossed on the coffee table, and he strode across the room, bent over—and grabbed them at the exact moment that Peter snagged them as well.
They both straightened slowly, neither one released his side of the key ring as they stared at each other, Mike glowering and Peter surprised and slightly bewildered.
"You can let go now, Pete," he said in a deceptively mild voice.
Near the door, Micky and Davy exchanged worried glances; they'd been wondering when this was going to happen...
"But I'm driving—"
"No." His mouth hardened into an obdurate line as he stared Peter down, determined to have his way. "I'm drivin. You had to drive while I couldn't see, but I'm fine now. My sight's perfect 20/20 again, and the increased hearin don't affect my ability to steer."
"But, Mike—I like driving," Peter offered a mild protest.
Micky and Davy gaped at him, astounded. There was no way they would've argued with Mike when he got that look on his face!
"Then take the car out for a joy-ride after we get home," Mike retorted. "Now gimme the keys."
"No."
The single word was quietly spoken, but it seemed to reverberate throughout the entire house.
"What did you say—?" Mike asked dangerously, his dark eyes blazing with the first flames of true anger.
"I said no," Peter answered, his face placid, his tone serene, as if he were certain he was going to get his way on this one. "I like to drive, and I want to drive to the gig tonight. You'll just have to drive some other time."
"Peter, I had to sit in the back seat for weeks, and I'm sick of it!" Mike exclaimed, yanking on the key ring, but Peter held it firm, and it didn't budge from his grasp. "I hate bein driven around like some helpless lump—!"
"Why?" Peter countered, his voice remaining calm as ever even in the face of Mike's reddening face and rising fury. "Because it means you're not in control?"
"Yes!" he exploded, and over by the door, Micky and Davy covered their eyes with their hands, peeking through the fingers at the scene before them.
If it weren't so deadly serious, it would have been funny: Peter standing there with one finger hooked around the key ring looking as tranquil as still waters, while Mike practically had steam coming from his ears as he squared off with Peter, his finger hooked in the key ring as well, neither of them prepared to budge.
"Don't you trust us?" Peter asked guilessly, and Mike froze, his eyes growing wide as he registered the question.
"What d'you mean, don't I trust you? Of course I trust you."
"But not enough to give up control of the wheel. Not enough to let us make our own mistakes."
Mike's jaw dropped. He'd just been outflanked—by Peter. But then he realized he had the perfect counter-move—and it was the absolute truth.
"Peter," he began, much more quietly this time. "When I went blind, I didn't just lose my sight. I lost my dignity, my pride and my self-esteem along with it. I lost every bit of independence I had while I was tryin' to adjust. I was forced to give up control then—and I gave it up to you. I think I learned my lesson well enough. D' you really want to rub it in now?"
Guilt, he thought with a trace of smug satisfaction, was a wonderful tool.
Peter gave a start, his expression surprised as if he hadn't thought about it that way, and with a reluctant grimace, he released the keys. Suppressing the triumphant smile that threatened to curve his lips, Mike took them with grave thanks.
"Well, since you put it that way," Peter said slowly. "But I want to drive more. Okay?"
"Sure, ol' buddy," Mike said breezily.
He pivoted on his heel and sauntered to the door, twirling the keys on his forefinger as he led the way out to the car, pausing only to wink at Davy and Micky as he passed by.
"But I kept my word," Mike pointed out as he placed the last dish in the drainer and sauntered out of the kitchen. "I have let you drive a lot more."
"I know," Peter said with a grin as he pushed Micky's leg up. He glanced up at Mike and finished, "And I'm not about to stop."
"I know that," Mike grumbled, folding his arms.
"Hey," Davy suddenly said, "That reminds me! How come you two don't fight about it anymore?"
"We shoot for it," Mike and Peter said at the same time, causing Micky to blink at them and Davy to shake his head. Peter laughed and asked, "You want to tell them?"
"Be my guest."
Peter straightened Micky's leg out and took the other one in his hands, repeating the moves. "When we get in a dispute about it now, we shoot fingers to see who drives. He's won the last seventeen ti—"
"OW!" Micky suddenly cried. "Peter, watch it willya! That hurt!"
And four pairs of eyes met. "That—what?" Peter finally gasped.
"Hurt..." Micky whispered, a burst of pure joy detonating inside him as he realised the implications. "My leg—hurts!"
The pain only intensified as the day wore on, and Micky had to down an extra painkiller just to make it through the entire gig at Club Cassandra; afterward, he all but collapsed, and Mike spent most of the night awake, listening to Micky's low moans, drawn out by a pain that even sleep couldn't alleviate.
For Micky, the next 48 hours were a blur of agony and sporadic, involuntary movements, and—unbeknownst to his room-mates—he began taking more than his prescribed dose of painkillers on a regular basis.
Monday dawned with Mike waking up to find that, for the first time since the car accident, Micky had changed position in his sleep.
Maria, the physical therapist, smiled as she pushed Micky's leg up and heard his grunt of pain. "Excellent, Micky," she said. "You've come a long way in the last two weeks." She lay his leg straight. "Are you in pain?"
"Yeah—constant pain," he admitted, but he managed a convincing smile. "But I'm coping. The medicine helps."
She nodded. "I’m going to touch down your legs. Tell me what you can feel."
Micky could feel her touch from his hips to mid-calf. His ankles and feet were still numb.
Maria bent his knee and struck it with the flat of her hand.
Micky's leg kicked.
"Reflexes are improving," she said, placing his leg flat again. "Move your legs, Micky."
Micky raised up on his elbows, then worked his way up to leaning on his hands. He met Maria's eyes, doubt lingering in the depths of his, then he looked down at his legs, his features unusually somber. He hadn't consciously tried to move his legs yet, and now the task seemed daunting. What if he couldn't? What if—?
They began to tremble—then they moved apart.
Only a fraction of an inch, but a burst of pure joy exploded in Micky's chest, spreading throughout his entire body, a radiant smile of sheer delight lighting his face for the first time in days.
"I did it!" Micky cheered, laughing. "Mike, I moved my legs!"
Maria frowned, visibly puzzled. "'Mike'?"
Suddenly the door flew open, and Mike, Peter and Davy burst in, wide-eyed and beaming.
"Did I just hear you right?" Mike demanded. "You moved your legs?"
Tears of joy streamed down Micky's cheeks as he nodded vehemently. "A little—but they moved!"
Peter and Davy swarmed over Micky, adding their cheers to his. Maria looked at Mike, who stood to one side, watching and smiling. "He called you... without raising his voice..."
"My ears are different," Mike replied with a little shrug and leaving it at that. Maria threw him an uncertain look, then addressed Micky. "Micky, in a week or so, we should be able to try you out on the bars."
"The bars?" Micky asked, curious.
She jerked a thumb at two parallel bars bolted to the floor. "To get you used to standing again. Then to walking again."
And Micky's grin widened, suddenly eager to get started. The sooner he could walk again, the sooner he would feel like he had his life back.
Ericka asked to see Micky after his therapy session. "I hear you're maybe going to be walking soon."
"I hope," Micky agreed, his face and voice exhibiting more excitement than any of them had seen from him since the accident. But abruptly he sobered. "I need to get my prescription refilled. I've only got two more painkillers."
Ericka sat down at her desk, facing him, her expression grave. "Micky, you were supposed to be off those by now."
"I'm in pain, Ericka. I need them," he insisted.
Ericka looked steadily at Micky, noting the wilder-than-normal look around his eyes. She gave a little sigh and reached for her prescription pad.
"Micky," she said firmly as she wrote, "I want to talk to Mike for a minute, okay? It's about his ears." She pulled off the prescription and handed it to Micky.
Micky took it and smiled, wheeling out of the door. "Thanks, Ericka. I'll tell him."
After a moment, Mike came in, a forbidding glare already in place. "Ericka, we are not gonna start this again."
She pitched her voice for those sensitive ears, hoping they were intact. "I think Micky has become dependent upon the painkillers."
Mike's dark eyes went round with surprise, and she knew she had been heard.
He quickly shut the door and moved to sit across from her. "Dependent?" he repeated. "You mean addicted?"
Ericka nodded. "He came in here asking for another prescription."
"He had a prescription in his hand when he came out!"
"For placebos. Sugar pills." Ericka smiled tightly. "They look exactly the same, but they'll give him none of the drug his body's relying on."
She tapped her pen on the desktop idly, and Mike noted just as idly that she had a good sense of rhythm. "I wrote a note in doctor shorthand for the druggist to put the pills in Micky's old bottle. shouldn't notice the difference till withdrawal sets in."
"What kind of withdrawal?"
"He'll shake. He'll be in a horrible amount of pain. He may hallucinate and say things he won't mean and won't even remember."
"How long?"
Mike's expression was turning grimmer and grimmer, and Ericka released a quiet sigh. She had been the bearer of bad tidings for these young men far too often lately, and she wished their run of bad luck would end soon.
"It's unpredictable," she continued. "A few days—a week— two weeks...Once it's over, however, you can't even let him have any aspirin for a very long time. Once your body is dependant—"
"It stays that way," Mike finished, digesting the horrible news.
That night, Mike pulled Peter and Davy aside privately and instructed them to stay up until after Micky went to bed, telling them he was calling a meeting—without Micky. They tried to question him, but he refused to answer, saying only that there was something they needed to discuss where Micky couldn't hear. After Micky finally went to bed, Mike led Peter and Davy next door to Isabel's, and she greeted them with a look that was unusually somber even for her.
"What's this all about?" Davy asked, as he took one end of Isabel's couch. Peter sank onto the other end, wearily knuckling his eyes; it was past his bed-time, and he was getting sleepy.
Mike dropped into a chair adjacent to the sofa, and Isabel stood behind his chair, resting her hands on his shoulders; normally she wouldn't have made such an obvious gesture, but she felt he might need the support—and she knew she did.
Without any preamble, Mike announced, "Micky's hooked on the pain pills."
"You're joking!" Davy gasped, sitting bolt upright.
"No, he's not," Isabel replied quietly. "Micky's taking two—or more—a day. He's only supposed to be taking one."
"And have you noticed the look in his eyes lately? How glassy they are most of the time? He's really out of it," Mike pointed out.
Peter groaned and leaned forward, head in his hands. "My friend in Langford," he moaned, "before I moved here...She had a habit...I nursed her through withdrawal..." He shook his head. "It was horrible..."
"And now Micky's gonna—" Davy began, horror blooming in his wide eyes. Three heads bobbed in mute agreement.
Despite the fact that they were only placebos, Mike perpetuated the illusion that the pills Ericka had prescribed were real painkillers by giving Micky a stern lecture on not taking more than he ought to and then placing the bottle in one of the kitchen cabinets on the highest shelf; any doubts they might have harbored about Micky's growing addiction were dispelled when Peter caught him using the cane to try to knock the pill bottle off the shelf, exhibiting a desperation that bordered on frenzy when his efforts repeatedly failed.
By the end of the first day, Micky was increasingly snappish and withdrawn, and when the others tried to cheer him up, he rejected their efforts with little attempt at politeness, and he disappeared into the downstairs bedroom much earlier than usual.
But when Mike went to bed a few hours later, he could easily tell Micky was still awake—he wasn't snoring for one thing—despite the fact that Micky's eyes were closed tight and he didn't acknowledge Mike's presence in the room. Mike sat down on the edge of his own bed, his clasped hands dangling between his knees as he considered how he should phrase exactly what he wanted to say.
"Micky," he said at last, his voice quiet but carrying a firm note of authority. "You ain't asleep, so quit pretendin."
Reluctantly, Micky cracked his eyes open and fixed his room-mate with a baleful glare. "What do you want?" he demanded brusquely.
"Look, I know you think you need those painkillers," he began, plunging into the delicate subject with his usual bluntness. "But you don't. You're stronger than that. You gotta let em get out of your system. It's gonna be rough—you're already feelin the effects—but we're gonna be here for you."
Micky's belligerent mask cracked a little—then abruptly crumbled altogether. Naked fear showed on his face as he whispered, "It's bad, man—you just don't know."
"No, I don't," Mike replied matter-of-factly. "And it's gonna get worse. But you'll make it."
"How can you be so sure?" he asked in a voice jagged with anxiety. "I'm not as strong as you—and Davy—I already chickened out once—I feel like such a weak coward—"
Mike cut off his words with a dismissive wave. "You're scared, and that's normal. But you ain't weak, and you ain't a coward. You got this far, didn't you?"
He nodded slowly, and Mike gave him a "well, then" look in return.
"I don't envy you, Mick," he added softly. "You got a fight on your hands worse'n anything me or Davy had to face. But you ain't gonna face it alone."
Micky gazed at him steadily for a long moment, the light of mirth completely gone from his usually dancing brown eyes; instead, they were troubled and somber. A war of emotion waged on his face—fear, doubt, confusion, hope—but at long last, he nodded once but whether in agreement or simply acknowledgement, Mike couldn't tell, and then he turned his face to the wall. Mike took that as a sign the conversation was over, and since he'd said everything he wanted to, he let it end.
The next day was even worse; all of them—including Isabel in the evening after work—stood watch over Micky in shifts. Apparently something Mike said had affected him because he refused to take the "painkillers," and he holed himself up in the downstairs bedroom, shaking and sweating through the first stages of withdrawal.
If he could walk, he would have been pacing, would have been practically throwing himself against the walls—anything to calm himself down. But he was immobile, and the only outlet he had for his increasing agitation was tossing and turning on his bed. The sheets had to be changed every few hours because he was soaking them with his own sweat, drenching the mattress as well, but there wasn't much they could do about that.
By the following day, he was in his own world, too wrapped up in his own pain and misery to be aware of much that was going on around him; Peter fretted over him, trying to do something—anything—to ease his suffering, but there was nothing to be done. Micky was immersed in his own private hell, and no one could bring him out of it; the best they could do was watch and wait and hope that the worst would soon pass.
They bathed his forehead with cool washcloths, helped him drink a little water—food was out of the question—and Peter held his hand, letting Micky squeeze his fingers as tightly as he needed—which seemed to Peter hard enough to crush his bones at times. Davy sang a little, taking both parts to "I'm Gonna Buy Me A Dog." Mike simply sat next to his bed and talked to him, quietly reassuring him again and again that he would survive even this.
When Isabel arrived to take her turn watching him from 11:00 PM to 3:00 AM, Micky had entered another stage, exploding in outbursts of irrational rage at unexpected moments, and Mike suggested that she let one of them watch instead. "He might be too much for you to handle right now," he warned, but she shook her head, her mouth thinning into the stubborn line he knew meant she wouldn't be swayed.
"If anything happens, I'll call for one of you," she replied firmly. "You'll be right outside the door on the couch anyway, so you'll hear what's going on. Don't worry."
And with that, she pushed him out the bedroom door, shutting it in his face. Pulling a chair right next to the bed, she curled up in it and regarded Micky with a concerned frown. He was asleep at the moment, but fitfully, his upper body jerking and twitching spasmodically, his legs considerably less so, but there was some slight movement. But this wasn't restful sleep; his whole face was drawn into taut, agonized lines, and he rolled his head back and forth on his pillow, releasing an occasional low moan that wrung Isabel's heart.
She wished—as did they all—that there was something she could do to help; if she could have taken on his suffering for him, or at least shared the burden in the smallest way, she would have done it gladly. As it was, she could only witness his anguish helplessly.
The hours passed... like hours. Isabel remained by his side, leaving only to run the washcloth under cold water in the bathroom again; apparently the ordeal had drained them all for despite his sensitive ears, Mike didn't stir once as she tip-toed back and forth through the living room.
Micky woke only once during her watch—but that was enough.
Isabel had just returned from rewetting the bath cloth and was smoothing it across his feverishly hot brow when he opened his eyes and squinted up at her.
"What are you doing here?" he snarled in a low, raspy voice.
"Taking care of you," she replied, gently caressing his flushed cheek.
"I don't need a nurse," he retorted, slapping away her hand and snatching restlessly at the covers, first pulling them up to his chin, then shoving them back down again as far as he could.
"No, but you do need someone to keep an eye on you," she said, trying to remain calm in the face of his truculent irrationality.
"Not you," he shot back with more venom than she thought him capable of. Malice glittered in his feverish eyes as he stared up at her, and she stared back, shocked at the sight.
Ericka warned us about this, she thought, that he would say and do things he didn't mean. She reminded herself that it was not really Micky talking at the moment—but it didn't make his next words any easier.
"Out!" he demanded, going from a vicious near-whisper to a shout. "I don't want you here! Get out! I don't want you anywhere near me! Outoutout!"
He was screaming at the top of his lungs, flailing his still-sluggish body on the bed, and Isabel stood paralyzed, unable to move or speak; she was still frozen in place, her eyes wide, her expression stricken when Mike burst in, quickly followed by Peter and Davy. All three of them rushed to Micky, grasping his arms, trying to calm his agitated movements.
"It's okay, man—" Peter soothed him with words while Mike and Davy wrestled with him physically, forcing him to stop thrashing around before he hurt himself or someone else.
Isabel backed slowly out of the room, making a mad dash for the balcony once she was out of sight, one hand clamped over her mouth in an effort to hold back the sobs that threatened to escape.
He couldn't have known, she reminded herself sharply, fighting the tears she felt stinging her eyes. He was too out of it to know what he was saying; he was just lashing out, and he probably would have said it to whomever was there at the time...But he said it to her.
And oh, how deeply it hurt.
She gulped down huge lungfuls of chilly air as she leaned on the rail, forcing herself to calm down and forget what had just happened. He didn't know—they didn't know. Not even Mike, although he had more of an idea since he knew about the dream.
They didn't know how unwanted she had felt from the time she was ten years old...
"You okay?"
A familiar drawl jolted her back to reality, and she squared her shoulders, managing a smile as she wrapped her arms around herself and turned to face Mike, who was standing in the doorway, watching her with concern in his eyes.
"Fine," she replied breezily. "It just—bothered me, seeing him like that. I had no idea it was going to be like this."
"Yeah..." Mike raked his fingers through his hair and grimaced. "But I think this is about as bad as it gets. From what Ericka said, he may start to improve a little."
"I hope so," she replied quietly, lowering her gaze to the floor.
"We all do." He gave her a searching look then and moved to stand in front of her, cupping her face in his hands so she had no choice but to look up at him.
"You sure you're all right? There's not something else—?"
"No." She met his eyes—and lied. "Nothing. Is he calmer now?"
"Yeah, but—" He touched one finger to the tip of her nose and gave her a stern frown. "Davy's taking over. You are going to go home and get some sleep. I think you've had enough excitement for one night."
She briefly considered arguing with him since there was still almost a full hour left on her assigned watch-time, but then she realized that she really didn't want to face Micky again. Not so soon.
"Yes, Daddy," she replied, and he stared at her for a moment as if surprised she were capitulating so quickly, which he probably was, she thought with a silent chuckle.
"Well...good," he said at last, then bent just enough to kiss her lightly before releasing her and steering her towards the beach-side stairs. "Run on now. I'll give you an update in the morning."
Without another word, she complied, forcing herself to walk at a normal pace instead of fleeing as quickly as she could; once she was home, in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she buried her face in her pillow, her mind crammed with images of her parents, her grandmother—and now Micky—all repudiating her, all leaving her alone.
Isabel deliberately avoided the Pad the following day, immersing herself in her work well after hours, coming home late and checking in with a phone call, pleading a headache. Peter assured her that Micky was improved enough that they didn't need her to help take care of him that night.
"Hope you feel better, sweetheart," he said, his voice laced with concern. "See you tomorrow, okay?"
"Sure," she replied softly, not certain of that herself. The thought of facing Micky again made her stomach knot up, and she didn't know when she'd be emotionally prepared to see him again.
To her surprise, Mike didn't drop by, but at the same time, she was relieved that taking care of Micky was keeping him occupied; if he'd suspected anything was wrong, he'd worry her to death until he'd ferreted out the problem, and she didn't feel ready to admit the truth even to him.
But her luck ran out the next day when Mike called her as soon as she walked through the door after work, announcing without preamble that she needed to come over right away.
"Why? What's up?" she asked, suddenly worried. Had Micky relapsed? "Is Micky all right?"
"He's fine," Mike assured her. "Doin a lot better. But he wants to talk to you."
"To me?" she squeaked. "Why?"
"Dunno. He wouldn't say," he replied curtly. "But I think you ought to come on over before he gets too tired out."
"Okay..."
She hung up the phone and reluctantly headed next door, feeling as if she were about to face a firing squad. But before she went inside, she paused outside the door and fixed what she hoped was a cheerful smile on her face, then walked in. Davy was in the kitchen washing dishes, and Peter was on the bandstand, softly running through some bass riffs. Mike was nowhere in sight, and she assumed that meant he was in the bedroom with Micky.
"Hi!" she called out, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
"Hey, Isabel." Davy lifted a soapy hand in greeting, and Peter flashed her a bedimpled smile as he greeted her with a warm, "Hi, sweetheart."
Just then the downstairs bedroom door creaked open, and Isabel jumped, startled, when Mike abruptly called out, "C'mon in here, Isa."
Mentally steeling herself for whatever was to come, she marched past Mike, who was holding the door open for her, and into the bedroom; before he closed it behind her, he leaned in and whispered, "I'm goin on the beach for a while"—a subtle clue that he was taking himself out of earshot so he wouldn't inadvertently eavesdrop, and she tossed him a grateful smile in acknowledgment.
Then she turned and faced the room to see Micky propped up on two pillows in his bed, the covers neatly tucked around him; he was pale, and dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath his eyes, but his expression was calm, even pleasant.
"Hey, Izzy," he said, giving her a watery smile. "Thanks for coming."
"No problem," she replied breezily—but she made no move to approach him. Instead, she leaned against the door, her hands clasped behind her back as if she were ready to grope for the doorknob so she could bolt at any given moment.
They studied each other for a long, silent moment, and to her relief, Isabel saw no trace of the desperate anger that had haunted his eyes since he'd stopped taking the painkillers; no, those dark brown depths were clear for the first time in days, and although they weren't alight with his usual mischief and mirth, they were at least free of the fury that had once filled them.
"Yeah..." he nodded slowly. "I think there is."
Isabel felt her stomach plummet to her feet at that; if he questioned her, if he started probing too deeply...
"I remember a little about the other night," he continued, faltering a little as he spoke, his cheeks growing flushed again, but not with fever—with shame. "What I said—"
She looked in his eyes and saw the anguish there; despite his teasing nature, Micky didn't want to deliberately hurt anyone—in that he was a great deal like Peter—and somehow he knew his words had wounded her.
"It's okay," she assured him, hoping he would accept what she said and move on, but such was not her luck.
"No, it's not," he insisted stubbornly. "I need to explain—" He broke off with an exasperated sigh, waving his fists in a typical-Micky gesture of frustration. "Come over here, willya? I don't want to yell this across the room."
A dubious look flitted across her face as she paused, then reluctantly moved to perch on the edge of his bed; as if he could sense her hesitation, he didn't reach out to touch her, fixing her with an earnest look instead.
"When I woke up the other night and realized you were watching over me," he began in a subdued tone, "I was glad because it showed how worried you were about me and how much you care."
"Of course, I do—" she started to affirm, but he cut her off with a wave.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah—but it's nice to have proof, y'know?"
She nodded, smiling a little.
"But—" He lowered his gaze, focusing on his hands, which he held tightly clasped together in his lap. "But I gotta admit that part of me meant it, too."
All color drained from her face as she stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless with shock. He meant it...? No...
"Izzy—"
At last he began to speak again, and she could barely register his words through the static buzzing in her head. He meant it...?
"Izzy, you know I love you like a sister," he said haltingly. "And I care about what you think, and—" he paused, his features suffused with an emotion she hadn't seen on him before: humiliation. "And knowing you saw me—like that—I hated it."
Isabel closed her eyes, feeling on the brink of collapsing from sheer relief. She thought she knew where he was headed, and she breathed a tiny sigh, the knot of tension in her chest loosening considerably.
"Oh, Micky..." She gazed at him silently for a moment, feeling a rush of compassion for him. It didn't seem fair that such a cheerful, happy-go-lucky person should have to suffer so much. "Micky, I told you before that I didn't judge you," she reminded him softly. "You don't judge people you love or put conditions on them. All I wanted was to help somehow. That's what we all wanted. We've all felt pretty helpless the past few days."
"Guess I've made things pretty hard on you guys, huh?" he asked, bowing his head.
Isabel reached out, grasped his chin and made him look up at her, forcing him to meet her eyes as she fixed him with a no-nonsense scowl.
"Now you listen to me, George Michael Dolenz," she began, her tone laced with anger at his determination to heap unnecessary guilt on his own head. "We took care of you because we love you, and we want you to be well again. What happened was an accident—both the wreck and your addiction. You didn't ask for it to happen, and you couldn't help it. We don't blame you, and we don't see you as a burden. We see you as someone who needs the help and support of his friends."
With an exasperated sigh, she released his chin and scooted until she was close enough to slip her arms around him, silently encouraging him to lean against her; she didn't have to invite him twice. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head on her shoulder, and she thought she felt the tension finally beginning to drain away—from him and from herself.
"I understand what you meant," she added, gently stroking his tangled curls. "But you don't need to be ashamed or embarrassed. Not with me. Not with Peter, Mike or Davy either. I think I can safely say that any one of us would have gladly traded places with you if it would've relieved your pain."
He gave her a brief squeeze at that, but didn't speak, but the silence was a comforting one as Isabel let go of the fear that had plagued her since hearing Micky's ill-chosen words and as Micky drew on her strength to help rebuild his own.
Long moments passed, and finally he spoke up again, sounding thoughtful this time. "Izzy..." he began slowly. "Can I ask a favor?"
She pulled away enough to give him a quizzical look. "Sure," she replied. "What?"
"I've got an idea," he said, his eyes distant and unfocused as if he were already deeply immersed in plans that were forming in his mind. "But I'm going to need your help..."
The next day, he could get out of bed. And beginning that very day, Micky and Isabel began to sneak off on a regular basis. They vanished from the Pad at 6 and usually didn't return until till 9. Invariably, Micky was flushed and out of breath when they returned, and more often than not he retreated to bed early.
After the fourth straight day of this, Mike pulled Isabel aside before they could pull their disappearing act and hissed, "Mind telling me what's goin on?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do," she replied saucily, raising on her toes to give him a quick kiss as she waited for Micky to wheel across the room and out the door.
"We've got a surprise. You'll find out what on Christmas day." She took a deep breath and sighed very softly, "I hope."
Mike's eyebrows rose, and Isabel smiled wryly—she had forgotten that he could hear her no matter how softly she spoke.
"Trust me," she whispered for his ears only. "You'll like it if it works out."
"I'd better," he groused.
Christmas morning dawned with Peter and Davy making their usual mad dash for the tree, diving underneath, grabbing the nearest—and biggest—presents in a frenzy that would put a five-year-old to shame.
Mike and Isabel made hot cocoa—three with marshmallows, Mike and Peter's without—then sat back on the couch to watch with identical bemused smiles as they stayed safely out of the way while Peter and Davy stockpiled the gifts by name, tossing them around heedlessly.
It had become a tradition for the four of them to serenade Isabel with "Riu Chiu"—and as soon as Micky wheeled out of the bedroom, an anticipatory light in his eyes that his room-mates assumed was aimed at the pile of presents waiting for him, they did.
Afterwards, Micky exchanged a secretive smile with Isabel. Today was the day their surprise would be revealed.
After much whining and begging from Peter and Davy, they finally gathered in a loose half-circle around the tree, all of them except Micky sitting on the floor near their respective gift pile.
Each of the five got presents from Davy, Mike, Peter and Isabel—but none from Micky. "What happened?" Mike asked, curious. "You could've asked one of us to take you shoppin if you needed to."
"I made mine," Micky announced, a smug grin curving his lips as he wheeled over to the staircase. With a pleased smile of her own, Isabel uncurled herself from her place on the floor and disappeared into the bedroom.
"And Izzy helped," Micky continued as he positioned himself at the base of the stairs with his back to the rest of the room and leaned over to flip the footrests out of the way. "We worked on this every day for almost two weeks. Okay, you guys go stand over there," he commanded, indicating the bandstand, and, their faces revealing varying degrees of bewilderment, the other three obeyed.
Isabel emerged from the bedroom with an armful of odd-looking equipment, some of which she handed to Micky, although she kept a pair of thin metal poles cradled in her arms. Micky bent over, appearing to be fastening something.
When Micky turned the chair around again, he wore metal braces on his legs. He took the poles from Isabel and slid his arms into the cuffs, grasping the handles. Metal crutches, Mike realised.
"One," Micky said, smiling up at Isabel, who gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"Two," she counted, a note of anticipation in her voice as she stepped back out of the way.
"Three!" Micky planted the crutches onto the carpet and, with a grunt, hauled himself out of the wheelchair.
And stood there.
"Micky..." Peter breathed in admiration.
Micky shook his head impatiently, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Just watch," Isabel instructed softly, clasping her hands together, her eyes never leaving Micky.
Suddenly he swung the right crutch forward—followed by his right leg.
With jerky, stiff-kneed movements, Micky walked across the room to the bandstand.
On his own two feet.
He stopped in front of Mike, his cheeks practically splitting with a grin that contained all the cheerfulness they had missed seeing for the past few weeks.
"Merry Christmas, guys," he sang out—then promptly sagged backward, exhausted by his effort. Mike and Peter caught him on either side, and Isabel hurried over with the wheelchair.
Micky sank gratefully into it, trembling from exertion, but he couldn't stop smiling, especially when Peter and Davy knelt beside him, almost in tears as they noisily congratulated him.
"You were only supposed to take four steps, not cross the room!" Isabel admonished, but the pride in her voice belied her stern words, and Micky laughed, obviously unrepentant.
"Hey," he said, grinning at her, "you're forgetting something."
"What's that?"
Micky jabbed both fists into the air, making Mike and Peter duck as he nearly hit them with the crutches still attached to his arms.
"I walked!"
And the celebration began in earnest.
Three more agonising weeks passed in a blur of physical therapy and strength training. Micky graduated from the wheelchair to crutches and braces, to walking with two canes.
His legs and feet had full feeling now, but movement came frustratingly slow. He grew impatient with his own progress—or lack of it—but his therapist and his friends constantly assured him he was doing marvelously; Isabel was particularly adept at defusing his temper when he felt he wasn't advancing quickly enough, usually by trying to soothe him with reason—but when that didn't work, she didn't balk at unleashing her own temper, which he admitted to Peter had his beat by miles.
But slowly...ever so slowly...Micky learned how to walk again and became able to walk again.
When he was finally able to lose the canes and walk on his own, the guys and Isabel sprung for something they knew Micky would like the best.
They spent a few hours at an amusement park, letting Micky choose what they did and dictate their pace; they stopped to rest often, which Micky used as an opportunity to get snacks, and for once they indulged his bottomless pit of a stomach, treating him to all the hot dogs, popcorn and cotton candy he wanted. Knowing he loved seeing all the colorful park lights, they stayed until after dark, not leaving until Micky indicated he was ready. By the end of the adventure, Micky was trembling from exertion, but he was obviously delighted to be out in the real world on his own two feet again.
"I'm OK again," he murmured to himself just before he curled up and dozed off in the middle seat of the Monkeemobile on the way home. "I'm finally okay again..."
"That's great, Micky," Peter said, then noted the snores. He chuckled, then groused, "Great," not taking his eyes from the unfamiliar road. "This would be the one time I win the shoot."
"Just keep drivin to Exit 38 and take that exit," Mike instructed from the main back seat where he sat with Isabel, who yawned and leaned on his shoulder, for once not caring that they had witnesses. "That leads to downtown Malibu Beach. I think you can find your way home from there."
"Yeah, I think I can," Peter said with a smile, stealing a glance at his seatmate. Davy had slipped to sleep as well. "Well, it's just you and me now, Mike."
There was no answer.
"Mike?"
Peter looked into the rearview mirror to see Mike resting his cheek on top of Isabel's head, eyes closed and mouth curved in a very slight, but contented smile.
Peter sighed. "Night, guys," he mumbled.
As the Monkeemobile cruised on toward Exit 38, Peter's thoughts began to whirl. Mike had gone blind. Davy had gone deaf. Micky had lost the use of his legs.
Thank goodness they had all recovered....
Bad luck comes in threes, he thought. That's what the old superstition says. Does that mean the weirdness is gonna stop now and nothing bad will happen to me?
Man, I hope so....