Mike passed his fingers over the tiny bumps slowly, noticing the grainy texture of the paper for the first time. As with his hearing, his sense of touch seemed heightened now; but that didn't make the mental translation of bumps on a page into words any easier.
Peter painstakingly lead him over each line, each word, each letter until he got it right—a gradual process that wore Mike's nerves to a frazzle. It hadn't taken him this long to learn to read music—why was this so much different?
"No, that's a 'm'," Peter corrected him—again. He seemed to have an unlimited supply of patience, which was good because he needed enough for them both.
Mike let out an annoyed sigh, fighting the impulse to slam the book shut and throw it across the room. Losing his temper wouldn't do either of them any good, and it wouldn't help him learn Braille any faster.
Finally, after what seemed like hours later, something clicked in his head, and he found himself remembering the shapes and their corresponding letters a little better. Perhaps all that tedious repetition Peter had made him go through had paid off!
"Okay—" Mike heard the familiar rustle of a turning page and felt the sofa cushions bouncing as Peter shifted on his end, pulling his legs up so he could sit cross-legged. "Um—the next line is—"
"Hold on, there, shotgun." Mike could barely repress the note of smug satisfaction in his voice as he skimmed his fingertips over the next sentence, moving his lips a little as he sounded it out to make sure his translation made sense. "I think I got it."
"Really?" Peter's voice rose with excitement, and Mike had a vision of him leaning forward, his eyes alight, those dimples of his nearly splitting his cheeks in two. "Okay, great! Read it to me!"
"And a comb and a—um—" he hesitated, frowning a little as he deciphered the word letter by letter. "A brush and a bowl full of mush and a—" He paused again; this one was a little harder. "Quiet!" he exclaimed triumphantly.
Off to the side, he heard the front door open and light, quick footsteps enter the room, but he ignored it and kept reading, assuming it was Davy returning from the grocery store.
"A quiet old lady whispering 'hush'!" He finished the line, then without thinking about it, turned his head in the direction he knew Peter to be. "How was that?" he asked.
There was no response. Peter had grown very silent and still beside him, and for a moment Mike wondered if he had somehow managed to get up and leave without him noticing.
"Peter?" His dark brows drew together in a puzzled frown. "Pete? Are you still there?"
From near the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of someone sucking in a horrified breath—and even though Davy didn't have the deepest, most masculine voice Mike had ever heard, there was no way Davy could sound that feminine.
Isabel.
Isabel was home.
He cringed inwardly as he realized what a shock this must be for her. He'd thought about calling her—or having one of the others call—at her grandmother's, but in the end he hadn't done it. There was nothing she could have done except either cut her visit short for no good reason or spend the time worrying about him. And if he was totally honest with himself, as much as he had found himself wishing she were there, it was hard enough for him to rely so heavily on Peter, Micky and Davy without being a burden on her as well.
"Mike—?" The words came out faint and shaky. "Mike, what's going on here?"
"Um—" The couch springs squeaked and shifted as Peter stood up. "I'm just gonna—um—I'll leave you guys—I'll be in the other room if you need—" Finally he broke off and hurried away, his soft moccasins making little sound on the hardwood floor as he beat a hasty retreat.
"Mike—?" Her voice had risen with alarm, and he tossed the book aside, stretching out one hand to her, his first thought not to explain what had happened but to soothe her fears and promise her everything was going to be okay—even though he had no idea if that were true or not himself.
A clatter of feet, a rush of air—and then she was in his arms. He cradled her in his lap as she clung to him, her breath hitching as if she were fighting back tears.
"What's happened to you?" she whispered as she caressed his cheek, ran her fingers through his hair, stroked his arm—a hundred little touches to assure herself that he was safe and unharmed.
"I'm blind," he said simply.
She gasped and drew back from him, and he could feel her beginning to tremble. He gathered her in his arms again, pulling her close. She resisted, holding herself stiffly away for a moment, but then she collapsed against his chest, burying her face in the curve between his shoulder and neck. She wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing so tightly he worried he wouldn't be able to breathe if she didn't loosen up.
"How?" Her voice was muffled but understandable.
"Well, it all started when Micky forgot to close the window," he began, quietly recounting the unfortunate chain of events that led to this conclusion.
When he finished, she sat up, and although he couldn't see it, he felt her gaze boring into him.
"Why didn't you call me?" she asked, her voice low but intense.
"You couldn't have done anything," he replied with a little shrug.
"I could've been here to support you," she countered immediately. "For heaven's sake, Mike—this is one of the most traumatizing things anyone could go through! Didn't you even think about letting me know? Didn't you want me here?"
"Yeah—more than anything," he admitted reluctantly. "But—"
"But what?" she pressed.
"But it was bad enough havin' to deal with Micky, Peter and Davy fussin' over me like a passel of mama hens without you doin' it too!" he blurted, and she fell silent for a moment as if considering his words.
"I understand how you feel—" she began hesitantly, but he cut her off, another surge of anger welling up inside him.
"No, you don't—you can't," he replied bitterly. "I've lost my sight, Isabel—how can you possibly understand how I feel right now?"
"I understand how you feel because I understand you, Mike Nesmith!" she growled, extracting herself from his arms.
He heard her retreating footsteps, and he wanted to call her back, to feel her comforting presence again, but he remained obstinately silent.
"I know how much you want to be in control, and I know how much you must resent being forced to rely on other people for things you've always been able to do for yourself—I'd feel the exact same way."
A door suddenly opened and closed on the far side of the room, and for a moment, he was afraid she had left. He was getting awfully good at making people storm out of the room in anger these days...
His ears pricked up as he detected the faint strains of a whispered conference, and he instinctively turned his sightless dark eyes in that direction, trying to pinpoint the source. "Peter—?"
"No..." Isabel replied slowly. "It's still me." She paused, then added in an almost conversational tone, "Y'know, it occurs to me that I still haven't shown you how much I missed you while I was gone."
Despite his simmering temper, a smile curved his lips. He didn't need his sight to enjoy the images her words created in his mind!
"Well, come on back over here, and—"
"No." She cut him off firmly, her tone brooking no argument. "You come over here."
He frowned, not liking this turn of events. "Where is here?" he demanded, and he could hear the undercurrent of amusement in her voice as she replied, "Well, that's what you'll have to figure out, isn't it?"
He paused to deliberate—
"It'll definitely be worth your while" came the sultry purr, and that alone was enough to bring him to his feet.
"Good," she encouraged. "Now see if you can follow the sound of my voice."
"Well, if you're gonna make me do this, don't stop talkin'," he grumbled, evoking a peal of laughter from Isabel.
"Have you ever known that to be a problem?" she retorted. "Just start walking, shotgun," she continued, deliberately teasing him.
He took a hesitant step forward, resting his fingertips on the arm of the couch until he cleared it without stumbling. Then suddenly he found himself in empty space without a clear direction and without anything—or anyone—to support him.
"Your right foot is getting close to that end table," she told him, and he scooted a little to the left to compensate. "There we go—now keep moving."
"You're in the kitchen, aren't you?" he asked, picturing the layout of the room in his head, trying to fix on a location based on where he thought her voice was coming from.
"Getting warmer," she replied in an annoying sing-song tone.
He shot an irritated glare in what he hoped was the right direction. "I know of someone's backside that's gonna get warmer as soon as I can reach it."
"And I know of something that's gonna be downright hot when you reach it, so hurry up."
He heard an indistinct burst of laughter that sounded as if someone were trying to muffle it behind his hand. "I reckon Peter's just gonna have to cover his eyes, then," he commented wryly, and Peter gave up trying to pretend he wasn't there.
"Aw, you never let me have any fun," he mock-complained.
Groping with his left hand, Mike found the stair rail and kept hold of it, trailing his hand along the cool, smooth metal until he moved beyond it and into the kitchen area. "Okay, now what?" he asked, finding to his surprise that he was enjoying the little game and not only because of the reward that awaited him. With a mental map of the room in his head, he wasn't finding it as hard as he expected to make his way around alone.
"Stop before you hit the table," Isabel instructed, and he complied immediately. "I'm standing by the sink," she said, and he turned right, moving with a little more speed and confidence across the short distance from the table to the counter.
To his amazement, he actually felt the moment he drew near her, sensing her presence a split second before she reached out and slipped her arms around his neck. "Well done," she murmured, "And all by yourself."
And then she pulled him into a passionate kiss that made him momentarily forget his recent suffering.
Peter stood by the doorway to his bedroom, watching the two of them kiss. They're so much alike, he thought. Her coming home might just be the best therapy for him there is. His grin widened as he remembered something he'd left in his bedroom. He came back out, holding several sheets of Braille, just as they came up for air. "I hate to break this up," he said, "but I've got something else for Mike to read."
Mike rolled his eyes and blew an exasperated sigh. "Peter, couldn't this wait? We're kinda busy here—"
"No, man, I'm serious! Come on to the bandstand and I'll give it to you."
"Now?" Mike asked, keeping one arm across Isabel's shoulders.
She reached up and captured the hand he rested on her shoulders, linking their fingers, then slipped her free arm around his waist, giving him a playful nudge with her hip. "Get going, shotgun," she teased. "This is important—I can tell."
Between Peter's soft singing and Isabel's gentle directions and guidance, Mike got to the bandstand rapidly. He untangled himself from Isabel, sat down and grumbled, "Okay, fine—I'm here. Now what is it?"
"Something I typed out at the library this morning." Peter laid the sheets in Mike's lap. "Try that."
Mike continued grumbling under his breath as he slid his fingers slowly over the raised bumps. Then his brows snapped together in a bewildered frown. "Peter.... this doesn't make any sense."
Peter was grinning. "Doesn't it? Just tell the letters, then."
"F...C...A..." Mike's eyes widened as the lightbulb clicked on in his head. "Hold on there..."
He slid his fingers down off the row. His eyes widened even more and he grinned in delighted surprise.
There they were.
Music notes.
Mike groped around on the bandstand until his fingers touched a familiar smooth shape; he slid his hands up the body of the guitar, carefully lifting it over to his lap.
"Mike, that—" Isabel started to say something, but she was quickly hushed by Peter.
He slid his fingers over it and chuckled, amused by his mistake. "The bass? Sorry, Peter..." But he was grinning with excitement.
Slowly, he began to play what was on the paper. Every few bars, he would slide a hand down and check to see what the next notes were. He played the song through three times, the third time from memory.
Perfectly from memory.
"Peter, how in the world—" he began, his voice uncharacteristically low and shaky.
This was a possibility he hadn't dared to even imagine; suddenly the world was starting to open up to him again, and the future—and his music career—didn't seem so bleak and hopeless.
Peter's wide grin showed in his voice. "You were right, Mike. You do need to see the music to learn new songs. So I found a way to make that happen. That's why I insisted that you learn Braille first. So you could do what you just did: learn new songs without depending completely on your ears."
An hour passed. Isabel had gone home to unpack. Peter was sitting on the couch, using the business end of an unsharpened pencil to push up dots on five layers thick pieces of masking tape to put on Mike's hangers, when the door opened.
Peter looked up to see Micky walk in, Davy behind him, both their faces obscured by grocery bags.
"Hey," Micky said as he emptied his arms onto the kitchen table. "Pete, that's groovy music! I've never heard that song bef—" He turned, and the words died in his throat as he saw Peter sitting on the couch, no instrument to be seen.
Peter smiled at Micky and jerked his head toward the bandstand. Micky raised his eyes, and his jaw dropped a fraction of an inch at the sight he thought he'd never see again.
Mike sat with his right foot propped on his left knee, Peter's bass cradled in his lap, his head bent low as he experimented with the new-to-him instrument. It was different, but he was making the adjustment quickly—thank goodness. His ego couldn't take much more abuse. He was paranoid enough as it was.
He came out of his reverie long enough to realize there was a conversation going on, and out of habit, he glanced up.
"Hey, Mick," Mike greeted him calmly, his expression more serene than it had been since the accident. "You like it?"
"L-like it?" Micky stammered, walking into the living room, Davy trailing him with his mouth also hanging open. "Man, that's incredible!"
"Hey, Michael," Davy asked, "what're you doin' playin' Peter's bass? And where'd you learn that song?"
Mike lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. "Thought it up just now while I was gettin' the feel for the bass."
He deliberately downplayed his reaction—what he really wanted to do was shout from the roof that he might actually be able to function as a musician again. That alone was better therapy for him than Peter's books and Braille.
Peter couldn't restrain the chuckle as Micky started bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, wide grin splitting his face in his excitement. "Micky's about to start bouncing off the walls, Mike."
But Davy was so curious he would not let this go. "Michael—you didn't answer my question. Why are you playing bass?"
His mouth thinned with annoyance at Davy's persistence, and he blew out an exasperated breath as he glared in the direction of Davy's voice. "Because I couldn't remember where I left my own guitar, and Peter's bass was the first thing I found, so I grabbed it. I needed music so bad I would've played your stupid maracas if that was all I could find. Okay?"
"Okay, man," Davy said, throwing up a hand that he forgot Mike couldn't see. "Just wonderin' if we were restructurin' the band or somethin'. Glad that's all it was—last thing I need is to be stuck behind those drums!"
"Hey!" Micky snapped.
"Cool it, you two," Mike admonished them sternly, and the other three glanced at him, startled, and then grinned at each other with open delight.
Finally things were getting back to normal!
Peter laughed at the mock arguing. He stood up. "Mike? I'm ready."
Micky blinked. "Ready? For what?"
"Pete learned how to dress me," Mike replied, keeping his face carefully deadpan. This was one time he really wished he could see their faces. He was always amazed at how easy it was to tease them as long as he kept a straight face. They still couldn't tell sometimes whether he was joking or not, and taking advantage of his naturally serious expression to cause trouble was one of his secret pleasures.
It took Peter all of five minutes to affix the Braille stickers to the hangers. He stuck some on with extra little bits of tape, so they would stay put. Then he stepped away from the closet and sighed.
"All right... let's try this out. Mike, how about your... uhm… your black button down shirt and a pair of blue jeans?"
Mike stepped forward until he could reach the garments easily, and then stretched out his hands, holding each hanger steady with one hand as he "read" the strips Peter had attached to them with the other. He flipped past a couple of shirts, paused long enough to comment, "You spelled 'orange' wrong" and then finally found the right shirt; a few hangers down, he located the jeans. He pulled both hangers out and held them up against his chest, turning to face the center of the room.
He heard Micky's soft, "Wow..." followed by Davy's low whistle, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
"I guess that means I got it right?" he asked, but for once his voice wasn't filled with apprehension. He knew he was right thanks to Peter, and he felt a small portion of his old confidence returning. Perhaps he wouldn't be as dependent as he'd feared.
"There's just one hitch to this," Peter said. "One of us'll need to hang up your clothes, since you're dependent on the tags to tell you the colors."
At that, Mike couldn't hide the impish smile that bloomed on his lips. "You mean, one of you guys gets to clean up after me, is that it?" he asked. "I think I'm gonna like this after all."
"Not one of us," Micky said suddenly, "Peter."
"Me?" Peter gasped. "Why me?"
"Because," Micky said, "you're the only other one of us who knows what those bumps mean!"
Mike froze, his eyes widening; it hadn't consciously occurred to him before, but Micky was right—Peter did know Braille. He was so accustomed to thinking of Peter as the slow one that he hadn't given him enough credit. He grimaced, annoyed with himself for not realizing that the only way Peter could have taught him Braille was if he'd known it himself.
"That's right, ol' buddy," he drawled. "You did real good learnin' all this stuff. Lucky for you, though, it's me and not Mick who's gone blind."
He swept his hand to encompass the room. If nothing had changed since the last time he'd seen it, then it was probably a shambles, mostly due to Micky's habit of flinging his clothes—clean or not—onto whatever piece of furniture was nearest to him at the time. "Otherwise, you'd never be able to keep up."
This produced peals of laughter from the others, and a "Hey!" from Micky.
For the first time since the storm two nights ago, things seemed almost completely normal again.
Mike made his way slowly down the stairs, still slightly hesitant about his steps, still clutching the rail; he was beginning to feel a little less insecure about going up and down the stairs—but not much. Not yet.
He was almost at the bottom, when Davy sang out, "Morning, Mike!"
"Hey, Mike!" Micky said. "Whoa—you did it!"
"You sure did," Peter said amid a slight clattering of dishes. "Looks great!"
For once, Mike's smile broke forth like a ray of sunshine; thanks to Peter's new system, he hadn't needed any help that morning. He had gotten dressed all by himself—in his orange shirt and black jeans. Davy had called it his Halloween outfit, and with the trepidation he felt about all he still had to face regarding his new condition, it seemed appropriate.
"Only one problem," he said. "One of you wiseguys took my hat." He moved toward the kitchen, where all the voices had come from.
"Okay," Peter said. "Davy, why don't you go up and—Mike, freeze!"
Mike stood absolutely still, frozen by the urgency in Peter's voice. "What is it?" He scowled a little; obviously there was some obstacle in the way. He felt the stirrings of resentment that his environment had to be so rigid, so unchanging now. He felt as if he were stripping away the informality they'd all gotten so accustomed to. After all, unless a girl was coming over—other than Isabel, who'd seen the place trashed before—they never worried too much about tidying up behind themselves. Now they all had to be scrupulous about not leaving things lying around.
All because of him.
"You got it?" Peter asked one of the others.
"I got it," Davy said. "Sorry, Mike."
"Mike," Peter said. "Davy went swimming this morning and he left his wet towel right in your path. I've told him he can't do that anymore—"
"I said I was sorry!" Davy snapped.
"Guys," Mike said wearily, "give it a rest, willya?" He moved on to the table and sat down. "What's for breakfast?"
"Pancakes," Peter said. "A la Tork."
Mike winced. "Since when did he take over all the cooking?"
"Not all of it," Peter said, woundedness in his voice. "Just breakfast."
But to everybody's surprise, for the second day in a row, Peter had made a breakfast that was actually good. "You're improving, shotgun," Mike said between bites.
"I know," Peter said. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper, for Mike's ears only. "So are you, pal."
And Mike's features softened with pleasure as a new burst of confidence spread through him.
The beach house had quieted down for the evening, each of them scattering to pursue their own interests for a while before they began practice. Davy was on the phone—as usual—but Mike couldn't tell what either Peter or Micky were doing. He assumed Micky wasn't even in the house anymore just because he couldn't hear him—an unusual phenomenon if he were within a mile radius.
He slowly made his way to the back door, taking the stairs down to the beach carefully so he wouldn't slip on the sand scattered liberally on each step. He could already hear the steady roar of the waves, and he used the sound as a guide, letting it lead him towards the shoreline, but staying far enough back that the water didn't reach his feet and end up soaking his boots.
Faint laughter floated to him on the evening breeze—someone was calling for their kids to come in to dinner—all these sounds had been easily tuned out before, but now they seemed so loud, so clear. He wondered if he would ever get used to the change...
He dropped heavily to the sand, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back on his hands as he let his mind wander. Foremost in his thoughts, of course, was his blindness and all the havoc it was wreaking in his life—and in the lives of those he cared for. If it were only affecting him, that would be one thing, but his situation was forcing everyone around him to change as well. Micky and Davy couldn't be their usual slobby selves—but perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing, he thought with a wry smile. And Isabel—she certainly was getting the short end of the stick on this one—!
His thoughts turned to the young woman who had somehow entangled herself almost inextricably in his life—something no one else had ever done, and something he stillwasn't certain how she had managed to accomplish. Micky had remarked more than once that he didn't know how they managed without killing each other because they were so much alike. Perhaps that was the secret, after all. Neither of them let the other get away with anything because they already knew the games before they were played.
He closed his eyes and tried to picture her in his mind—then experienced a flash of panic when he couldn't. Taking a deep and releasing it slowly, he focused on one specific memory—the road trip? No...The day at the park...? No. Something more recent...Ah, he had it.
The bonfire on the beach.
Earlier in the spring, they'd all gone out on the beach and built up a huge fire; Davy had brought a girl, and Micky had invited the chick he hung out with sometimes—Pansy, that was it—and Peter was solo that night. They'd roasted hot dogs and marshmallows, sung a few tunes with the girls providing high-range harmony, and then the group had broken up. Davy had gone off to cuddle with girl #7,486; Micky and Pansy had decided they wanted ice cream, and Peter had gone back to the Pad when it became evident that Mike and Isabel could have the fire to themselves if he left.
Mike could still remember the sting of the smoke in his eyes, the warmth of it searing his left side as he faced her—and it was that look he wanted to remember.
He concentrated, trying to pull up every detail, every nuance of expression, every contour on her face. Her eyes appeared nearly black, more luminous by firelight, and the dancing flames picked up the auburn highlights in her hair as it spilled over her shoulder. She had just asked him what he wanted to do, knowing what his answer would be, and her face was alight with mischief—and desire. It still amazed him that someone so inexperienced could possess such a sensual nature, and he was enjoying watching it blossom with every passing day.
Her dark eyebrows arched saucily, her full lower lip curving into a roguish smile—all directed at him. He remembered that he had reached out then, lightly stroking her cheek with his fingertips, unable to resist the temptation any longer; she had closed her eyes and leaned into his caress, her expression softening as she let go of the public mask she wore—the one that was intended to fool people into thinking that she didn't care as much as she did—and allowed her true feelings to show. The face only he was permitted to see.
That was the expression he wanted to hold on to, the one he hoped would never fade. The look that told him more clearly than any words could possibly express just how much she loved him—
"Mike!" Peter's voice shattered his reverie, and he jumped, startled by the sudden interruption. He scowled, irritated at having to let go of such a pleasant memory.
"What?" he yelled back, not bothering to hide the fact that he was annoyed.
"Time for practice!"
With a muttered curse, Mike stood up and dusted his jeans off, then headed back to the house.
Reality beckoned once again.
July 19
Mike woke with a start. There it had been again—that stupid dream. Full of colors, full of light—
Full of Isabel breaking up with him.
His heart was heavy as he showered and dressed—was that how she really felt? Would she reject him because he was now—incomplete?
You're bein' silly, Nesmith, he chided himself as he shaved and combed his hair. She's given you no reason to think this way—no sign that she'll throw you away!
He slid his fingers over his hair—wishing for about the millionth time that he could find his hat—and sighed deeply, looking toward the mirror as if he could see his reflection in it. "Okay, Nesmith," he said aloud, "enough of this. You wanna know? Quit beatin' yourself up like you have for the past week—and go ask her!"
Mike loped down the stairs, skimming his hand along the rail rather than clutching it as he'd done only a few days before. He still wasn't taking the stairs with his former speed, but he no longer went down one step at a time, feeling for each one with his foot. He paused at the bottom, listening for any signs of life in the living room, and sure enough, he caught the tell-tale creak of the hammock swinging back and forth.
"Hey, Mike," Micky greeted him casually. They had all fallen into the habit of announcing themselves whenever Mike walked in so he would know which one and how many of them were in the room.
"Hey, Mick—" Mike's voice was soft but full of purpose as he addressed his friend. "You busy?"
"Nah, just reading the paper. What's up?"
The hammock squeaked louder, and Mike guessed that Micky was sitting up now. He moved into the room and made his way over to the bandstand, perching on the edge.
"Is Peter around?" he asked hopefully.
Micky's wide grin showed in his voice. "Peter's already gone to the library, and Davy's still asleep."
"Oh." Mike didn't bother to hide his disappointment. Even though he had initially been reluctant to depend on anyone for help, his attitude had by necessity undergone a change, and he found himself turning to Peter for help and support more and more. "Why this time?"
"He said he was going to put the new music we're gonna practice this afternoon into Braille for you."
Mike nodded. He had almost forgotten about practice. "I need a favor." As much as he could manage now on his own, there were still some things that required help, and moving around in new territory was one of them. Since Peter wasn't available, he would have to rely on Micky instead. "I wanna go over to Isabel's, and I need a guide dog," he teased.
Micky let out a shrill series of barks that sounded suspiciously like his werewolf impression, then panted like a dog. Mike felt a swirl of air and the intrusion of a presence in his space—and then Micky pushed his head under Mike's hand and whined.
"Cut it out." Mike swatted the back of Micky's head lightly, but he was amused by his friend's antics, picturing what must be going on quite vividly. "Can you help me out or not?"
"Sure," came the quick reply. "When d'you want to go?"
"Well, she's probably home right now, so..." He rose to his feet and stood waiting for Micky to take his arm or his hand, but nothing happened. He waited a moment longer, and then shook his head. "Are you waitin' for me to get a leash?" he asked, bemused.
"No, I—" Micky hesitated, sounding a bit embarrassed.
Mike smiled slightly, suddenly understanding the dilemma. Peter had been the one who had taken charge of leading Mike around—among other things—so Micky probably had no idea what to do or how to do it.
He bent his arm at the elbow and held it out from his side a little. "Just grab my arm," he instructed. "And don't let me walk into any furniture or doorframes."
"Okay..." Micky replied hesitantly.
Mike felt Micky's fingers close around his elbow gingerly as if he were afraid to hold too tightly, and Mike suppressed a beleaguered sigh. He'd brought it on himself after all; the others knew he wasn't all touchy-feely, and they'd learned to respect that early on, even Peter: Mr. Hands-on.
"I'm not gonna break, Mick," he said gently and felt Micky's grip tighten in response.
"Okay," Micky said again with a little more confidence. "Here we go."
Micky guided him carefully out the door and across the lawn to Isabel's place, leading him to her front door. It was only a short distance, and Mike might have been able to make it by himself, but he hadn't been able to clearly picture where all the bushes and flowerbeds were in her yard, and he didn't want to fall flat on his face in view of the entire neighborhood.
Once they reached the door, Micky let go of Mike's arm. "You want me to hang around, or—"
"Beat it," Mike replied curtly.
"Okay, man." He could hear the impish grin in Micky's voice. "I can take a subtle hint. Call if you need me to come get you."
Mike gave him a "you must be joking" look. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
With that, he heard Micky's fading footsteps on the sidewalk, accompanied by his delighted laughter. When he knew Micky was out of sight, he reached up and felt along the side of the door until his seeking fingers found the doorbell; he pressed it firmly, letting it ring a second or two. It practically took an earthquake to get her attention when she was writing—and she usually was doing just that—and he wanted to make sure she heard the bell. Here we go, he thought.
After a minute, there was the soft patter of running footsteps from inside the house, then the scrape of a lock—and then the next thing he knew, cool hands cupped his cheeks, pulling him down, and soft lips brushed against his. "I'm glad you dropped by," Isabel murmured in his ear. "I was planning to go see you later."
"Well, I figured we needed to talk, and your place is a lot more private than mine," he replied, reaching up to capture her hands and giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.
"What do we need to talk about?" He could picture the little crease in her forehead that always accompanied that particular tone, and he found himself smiling at the image.
"Us," he said simply.
"I see."
Her tone was pensive, and he gave her a little nudge so she would go back inside. He didn't want to have this conversation out where anyone could walk by and hear it.
Without a word, she led him inside through the entrance hall and into the living room. "Mind the coffee table to your left," she reminded him quietly as she guided him to the couch.
Once there, Mike dropped into his usual spot at one end, and he felt the cushions bounce as she settled on the other end. He remained silent for a moment, unsure how to begin, then he decided that blunt honesty was the only route. Neither one of them were the type to beat around the bush, and he didn't see any need to start now.
"Isabel, I wanted to know—" he hesitated, part of him afraid to voice the question for fear of the answer. "I wanna know how you feel about all this. Me bein' blind, I mean."
"I don't feel sorry for you, if that's what you're asking," she replied slowly.
"No." He shook his head with a frustrated grimace. "I know you don't. But—I guess what I'm tryin' to say is if this has changed the way you feel about me—"
"Don't even say it!" she growled fiercely, and he could see her flashing dark eyes as clearly in his mind as if he were looking at them. "Don't say it, and don't think it! If we could survive my grandmother, we can survive this."
"This is a little different—" he countered, but she cut him off again.
"It's a tragedy," she said. "That's what it is. But you're still the same person with or without your sight. That's all I care about."
"Isabel, it's not fair for you to be tied down to a—"
"A what?" Her tone was harsh, and he knew that temper of hers was starting to flare.
"A crippled man—" he said bitterly.
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the couch.
"Oh, for—" She made a sound of pure disgust—and then the sofa cushions lurched as he suddenly found himself with an armful of Isabel.
She threw herself in his lap, wrestling him down until he was no longer sitting upright but half-reclining against the couch arm; he felt the weight of her body stretched out along his torso, then felt her fingers sifting through his hair, sending delightful tingles all over his scalp. Before he could think twice about the wisdom of his actions, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pinning her against him. Her breath was warm as she nibbled his lower lip before coaxing him into a deep, lingering kiss that conveyed more tenderness and passion than her words ever could. He ran his hands up and down her back in languid strokes, allowing himself to forget what might be the right or honorable thing to do and simply enjoy his feelings.
Eventually, she removed her lips from his just enough to say, "For a helpless crippled man, you're a mighty fine kisser, Mr. Nesmith. That right there's enough to make me keep you around."
Mike lay perfectly still for a moment, a thousand thoughts colliding in his head—then one shone clear out of all the rest.
Isabel really didn't care if he was blind or not.
She wasn't going to abandon him because he was suddenly flawed.
Suddenly? He gave a mental snort of self-derision. She'd been putting up with all kinds of flaws from him since day one. One more wasn't going to hurt.
He laughed out loud then, a burst of undiluted amusement such as he hadn't felt since the accident. And it felt so very good...
"I'm bein' a fool, huh?" He grinned, knowing her answer before she even spoke the words.
"As big as Texas," she answered tartly. "We'll get through this together, Mike. We're not just you and I anymore—we're also 'us'. And that means we help each other and support each other in times like this. I don't run at the first sign of trouble anymore than you do. You should know that by now."
"I do know," he admitted. "I just wanted to give you a chance—"
"I don't want it." She rested her head on his shoulder, her breath tickling his neck as she spoke. "I just want to be with you whether you can see or not. No matter what happens."
Mike nestled his cheek against the top of her head, truly relaxing; her presence was soothing, comforting, and being held in her arms was like visiting a peaceful oasis where nothing bad could touch him, even if it was only for a short time.
"Feel better?" she whispered at last.
"Yeah...I think I do..."
"Good," she replied firmly. "Now close those bedroom eyes of yours. You don't need to see for what I've got in mind."
"If this is what's gonna happen every time you come home from a trip, I think you need to leave town more often," he teased as he had for the last week, then her lips found his and there was no more need for words.
When Isabel led Mike back to the Pad, she slipped her hand into his, linking their fingers. Somehow, it didn't feel as much like he was being led around when she helped him that way, and he liked it a great deal better. Unfortunately, she was the only person he could do that with.
They walked in just in time for setting up.
"Hey, guys," Peter said. "Mike, come on over. The new music's here."
"Hey, Izzy," Micky called. "Why don't you hang around?"
"Yeah, Isabel," Davy added. "What do you say?"
"Sure," she gave a little one-shouldered shrug. "For once I don't have a deadline hanging over me, so I've got the whole day off..." She gave Mike's hand a squeeze before releasing it. "I'll be on the couch," she said quietly, then moved across the room to settle in her favorite listening position, resting both arms on the back of the sofa with her chin propped on her arms.
Mike moved on to the bandstand and sat on the edge of it, fingers brushing around the speakers. He found his 12 string and slid it on. "Where's the music?"
Peter slid several sheets of Braille into his lap and, by way of tuning up, Mike played softly what was on the paper.
"I'm set," Micky said. "Guys?"
"Almost," Peter said, trying to get the top string of his bass to behave.
"Me too. Almost," Mike said, playing the riff again to cement it in his mind.
"All right," Davy grumbled. "Who ate my maracas? Never mind," he said, fishing them out from under the cowbell on Micky's drum. "I'm set."
"Ready," Peter said.
Mike stood, moving to his old place in the quartet, a tight knot of nerves forming in his stomach despite all his mental assurances to himself that things wouldn't be—couldn't possibly be—as disastrous as their first rehearsal since...
At least this time he had the music.
"Ready."
Micky counted off, and they began to play "Steppin Stone"—an easy song to get all the kinks warmed out of the instruments.
Suddenly Mike gave a grunt of exasperation, and the music stopped entirely.
"Mike?" Peter asked.
For answer, Mike merely scowled. His fingers slid up the neck of the guitar to the bottom row of buttons, and he turned the third one up as he picked at the string.
"For once," he said, mock-grumbling, "this is something I can fix."
The others laughed at this.
"Mary, Mary," Mike announced, and they launched into the song.
Mike's fingers glided over the guitar like they had wings, and the others smiled at him in delighted pride.
"The new one," Mike said, only the slightest note of hesitation in his voice. "I think I'm ready. Uhm... what's it called?"
"I haven't decided," Peter said. "I was thinking something like 'This Generation' or 'Born to love one another', or..."
Mike groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward impatiently. "For Pete's sake, just pick one!"
"Hey, yeah!" Micky said, "For Pete's Sake! That's a groovy title!"
Davy counted off, and they started. Mike stopped the song halfway through, to check the music and see if he was doing it right.
He was not.
Muttering a curse, he took a deep breath, wrestled his temper down—and glared at the giggle he heard from the couch.
"What are you laughin' at?" he demanded, for a moment thinking she was amused by his poor performance.
"Oh, just go ahead and say it," she told him, an undercurrent of laughter still in her voice. "I know you're not supposed to say things like that in front of a lady, but it's not like I haven't heard it before, so don't hold back on my account."
"Oh, for—" He let a grimace be his reply, then turned back to the group, ready to play, and they began again, much slower.
They practiced "For Pete's Sake" three times. The third time, it was up to tempo and everybody got their parts right. When it was over, even Mike was grinning from ear to ear.
As the last note faded, he cried, "I did it, I did it!" He was laughing so hard he was almost crying.
For once, he threw all reserve to the wind and didn't give a hoot as to who saw him. He was a musician again, and that's all that mattered—Peter had given him back his music!
A cacophony of babbling voices surrounded him as Micky, Peter and Davy crowded around him, slapping him on the back and jostling him in rough, exuberant hugs, and at the moment, he wasn't inclined to pull away. If he had ever known another moment of triumph like this one, he couldn't remember it, and he basked in the congratulations of his friends.
Abruptly, they backed away from him, and he drew his brows together in a puzzled frown. Why were they—
And then the answer came in the form of slender arms around his neck, a wet cheek pressed against his own and the whispered words, "I'm so proud of you," in his ear. He gathered Isabel in his arms and held her tight, feeling like a complete human being again for the first time in days.
"Mike," Peter said after the general celebration had died down a bit, "I need to talk to you in private, okay?"
Mike gave him a quizzical look, and then shrugged. "Sure, ol' buddy."
They went into the bedroom Peter shared with Davy and each one sat down on a bed.
Peter hesitated a second, then said, "Mike, I'm just gonna come out and ask this, because I don't know of a gentle way to put it. Do you feel confident enough for us to play a gig?"
Mike sat, wide-eyed and frozen with shock for a moment.
A gig...?
Sure, he'd gotten through one new song, and that was a major accomplishment, but getting in front of an audience...? In an unfamiliar room...? It was one thing to negotiate his way smoothly around the Pad, but quite another to venture into unknown territory.
"Aw, I don't know, man," he said at last. "That's kind of a big step, don't you think?"
Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, it's a real big step. I wouldn't even ask, except we've been offered one. At the Dance A Go-Go. We've played there several times, and they haven't changed anything... except they've got a new manager who really wants to hear us play...." His voice trailed off and he bit his lip.
Mike deliberated for a moment; his first reaction was to say no, he wasn't ready and he didn't want to do it, but the more he thought about it, the more his stubborn pride pushed him to agree. He had gotten through the new song, and he already knew he could play the old tunes just fine.
"Okay, look," he began slowly. "If we do this, we gotta keep the new material to a minimum, okay? I mean, I know you wanna play your new song and all, but I don't know if our first gig after—" he paused, took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "After the accident is the best time to do it. And you gotta work out a way for you to make sure I don't run into anything without makin' it look like I'm helpless. Dig?"
Though he couldn't see it, he could actually feel those dimples flashing at him.
"Dig. We'll work something out. Trust us."
"Do I have a choice?" Mike said under his breath. He was already feeling a great deal of trepidation about getting in front of an audience again, but he had to get back on the horse sometime, and putting it off wasn't going to make it any easier.
"I trust you guys," he admitted. "It's myself I'm worried about. But we gotta work, so let's do it."
July 20
Davy came backstage to where the others were huddled.
"Okay," he reported, "Isabel and the manager are seated out front. They're ready. Are we?"
Mike hesitated a second. It had taken quite a bit of wheeling and dealing for Isabel to talk Mister Cochrane into letting them play for him privately before the gig. She had explained that it was a way for him to hear the group, but actually it was a way for Mike to see if he could perform in front of someone other than the guys and Isabel, given his new... limitations.
Peter was looking over the stage. "Be right back," he said softly, and walked out onto the stage.
He walked over to the leftmost microphone and raised it level with the bridge of his nose. Smiling at Isabel and giving her a reassuring wink, he headed back to the others. "Your microphone's ready," he said. "Level with your mouth. When we get out there, I'll stop you so all you have to do is just bend down and pick up the 12-string. Your mike will be one half-turn to your left and one step forward after that."
Mike nodded, picturing the layout Peter described in his head. "And the set list?"
"No new songs," Micky said. "Just old stuff. One of us will announce each one beforehand, so you'll know. The first one is 'Clarksville'."
Mike nodded again. He wiped suddenly clammy hands on his black trousers. "I guess that's all there is to that, then," he said. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let's do it."
As usual, Peter took his elbow, and then whispered in his ear, "There's going to be a loud noise. Micky is going to divert their attention so, hopefully, Cochrane won't notice I'm leading you."
"Good idea," Mike whispered back as they began to walk.
His nerves stretched tight as he mentally reviewed the information Peter had given him, and he walked carefully, hoping he wouldn't trip over something and give himself away. When they were halfway across the stage, Mike jumped, startled when he heard Micky yell as if in surprise and heard drumsticks clattering and drums crashing.
"Micky," Davy gasped loudly, "are you all right?"
Peter took advantage of the distraction and led Mike swiftly to his spot. Mike bent down and picked up the 12-string. He then took a half-turn to his left, slinging the guitar on.
"I'm fine," Micky groused, standing up and retrieving his knocked-over tom-tom.
"Ready," Mike heard Peter say very softly. Mike nodded and took the one step forward.
"Hi there," he said into the microphone, and winced slightly at the sound of his own amplified voice. "We—We're the Monkees, and we're gonna start off tonight with 'Last Train to Clarksville'." He then took one step backward and hit the strings with his pick, producing the distinctive six-note riff that started the song. So far, so good...He breathed a sigh of relief and let himself drift with the music, his confidence growing with every note.
They did five songs in a row: "Clarksville", "I'm a Believer", "Steppin' Stone", "She", and by the time they reached "Papa Gene's Blues", Mike's voice rang out strong and clear, sounding like his old self even to his own critical ears. Then they launched into "You Just May Be The One."
And it was in the middle of that song that Cochrane stood up and shouted, "Stop the music!"
Instantly silence reigned from the stage. Mike glanced over toward Peter and Davy's direction, and he sensed they were looking at each other and him.
"Is something wrong, Mister Cochrane?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and steady. His pessimistic instincts were on full alert, but he was determined to bluff his way through it if he could.
"Yeah, something's wrong!" he snapped. "Why are you pretending?"
"We're really playing, Mister Cochrane!" Peter protested.
"I know that!" Cochrane said sharply. "I meant him!"
And four people involuntarily drew sharp breaths.
Cochrane was pointing directly at Mike.
Mike froze, feeling fairly certain all working eyes were focused on him at the moment; he fixed his sightless gaze in the direction Cochrane's voice came from and put on his best inscrutable face. "Do you mean me?" he asked as if the very notion was absurd, but with his next words, Cochrane shattered Mike's bravado to bits.
Cochrane took a deep breath. "Look, son—you're a good actor. You really are. If my sister hadn't been the same way, I never would have guessed you can't see."
Mike's face went from inscrutable to completely blank. He closed in on himself to shield himself against what he feared was coming next.
But Cochrane surprised them. He didn't shout or order them off the stage. Instead, he said, "The only thing is, why are you trying to be something you're not? So you're blind. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Like I said, my own sister's blind. That's how I detected the tell-tale signs."
"What signs?" Isabel asked.
"The slight hesitation and reluctance to move around could be attributed to nervousness," Cochrane said. "But his eyes never focused. He didn't even try to focus them, and he never made eye contact with me or the girl here." He addressed Mike again. "So, son—why?"
"Because it's new!" Mike blurted, fresh anger and frustration bursting forth once more. It seemed like every single time he tried to make progress in dealing with his new situation, something happened to slap him back down again. "Because I don't want people thinkin' of me as a helpless cripple!"
"Even though that's how you still see yourself?"
Mike's jaw worked for a second, but no sound came out. If he said anything now while his temper was seething, he could blow the whole gig for them. For once, he chose discretion and remained silent.
"Look," Cochrane said. "I wanted to hear you play. I like what I hear. The only thing I don't like is him pretending to be something he's not. If you can be true to yourself, son—I want you to play a ten week gig, starting tomorrow night."
The others cheered—they got the job! Mike stood still, unable to join in the celebration—uncertain of how to react. True to himself? How could he do that when he didn't even know who he was anymore? When he wasn't even sure if he was a real musician anymore?
Mike slid rapidly into a foul mood that hadn't improved any even after the others had finished negotiating the deal with Cochrane and they headed back to the Monkeemobile. He slid into the second back seat, and felt Isabel slide in beside him, deliberately bumping into him, but he didn't so much as crack a smile. He folded his arms across his chest and lowered his head as the car started and began to move. Cochrane's words echoed in his head, and he grew alternately angrier and more depressed the more he thought about them.
"You must be upset," Isabel teased in his ear. "You didn't even ask who's driving."
"Why should I?" Mike said. "Pete's driving."
There was a gasp from the seat in front of him, and he heard the skiff of the seat as Davy turned and said, "That's right! How'd you guess?"
"Because Pete always drives these days," Mike said, closing his eyes. It was just one more thing that Peter had taken over since... "Isabel," he asked suddenly, "when we get home, mind if I crash at your place for a few hours? I need to think some things through."
She kissed his cheek lightly, and ran a finger across his jawline. "You're welcome anytime, love. I have an article to write, but the couch is all yours."
He heard the concern in her voice, the unspoken questions, but he wasn't in the mood to discuss anything at the moment, not even with her.
”Thanks," he said. For once, he relaxed his personal rule against a lot of public displays of affection, capturing her fingers and kissing them before she wrapped the arm around his chest and lay her head on his shoulder. He needed the support her presence offered, and if Micky and Davy were in the middle seat giggling at them, so be it.
They rode like that all the way home. By the time Peter shut off the Monkeemobile, they were both asleep.
Mike sat on his end of the couch, playing Isabel's guitar. He was disturbed by what had happened a few hours before, and could not shake it from his mind.
It's nothin' to be ashamed of, he thought. What's got me so bugged? The fact that I keep gettin slapped in the face with the fact I can't see? Or am I just tired of pretendin' that I'm not less of a man now than I was before the strike?
That thought filled him with despair. Less of a man....
A pair of soft hands suddenly sifted through his hair, and Mike jumped and let out a startled exclamation.
"Sorry," Isabel laughed, coming around to sit beside him. "So... you feel better?"
He sighed deeply.
"No, huh?" She removed the guitar from his lap, and then cuddled up next to him, stroking his hair soothingly. "You know, if you're going to get depressed every time you think, I'm just going to have to make you stop thinking."
That made him smile.
"Way I feel right now, that may be a good idea. Isabel... can I just hold you for awhile?"
For answer, she crawled into his lap, slipping both arms around him and squeezing tight once before relaxing her hold. He curved both arms around her and kissed the top of her head gently.
"I love you," he murmured against her hair.
He felt the sharp jerk as she looked up at him. "What brought that on? Not that I'm complaining, mind you..."
Mike chuckled . "Just... feeling."
And she lay her head back on his chest, idly stroking his arm. "I love you, too," she replied softly.
Mike looked upward, sighing deeply again. Why is it, he thought, that I get the distinct impression that I'm the only one here who feels that I'm less than I used to be?
She loves you, Nesmith, he chided himself. Blind or not, she loves you with the kind of love that only comes along once in a lifetime. The kind of love that you only find if you're very lucky or very blessed. And she deserves better than you sittin' here feelin sorry for yourself all the time. She already said you were actin' a fool once--are you just gonna keep on provin' her right?
Mike absentmindedly unwound the elastic band from Isabel's braid and began to gently unweave her long brown hair as he thought hard about what to do next.
He had reached a turning point in his life. The others had done all they could to fill him with confidence, to show him he could function without his sight—now it was up to him. Was he going to fall into a pit of despair, forever mourning what he had lost? Or was he going to accept that this had happened to him and live his life the best he could?
He combed his fingers through Isabel's hair and kissed the top of her head again. "Come with me," he said. "I need to go for a walk on the beach."
Isabel stood up, leaving a slight chill where her warmth had penetrated. "And talk?"
"No," he shook his head firmly. "I'm through talkin'. I just want to walk. I don't need to be led on the beach—but I do want you beside me."
"More thinking, huh? All right—let's go." She paused, and then added, "Just remember you're going to have to tell me what all this thinking leads to, though!"
He lost track of time quickly once they hit the beach. The roar of the waves lulled him into a meditative state that helped his mind sort through all the tumultuous thoughts he was having. It wasn't until they'd been gone quite a while that he realized he'd been the one determining their path. Isabel had simply held his hand and followed. Apparently, she still thought him capable of acting as a leader, and he must have done fine, otherwise he would have heard about it. She had never been one to hold back on voicing her opinions, he thought with some amusement.
He straightened his shoulders and pulled Isabel into a hug. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Feel better now?"
"Uh-huh." He captured her face in his hands and guided her into a warm kiss, pouring all the love he had into the act. She responded eagerly, and the kiss lingered for a long time.
Mike finally broke the embrace and smiled. "Okay. Let's go home."
"Uhm... Mike... that may be a problem."
His brows snapped together in a frown. "Oh?"
"It turned dark while we were out here. It's cloudy—no moon, no stars. We've walked so far I can't make out the beach house lights."
The irony of the situation hit him, and he laughed despite himself. "You mean you're as blind as I am right now?"
She laughed too. "Yep. We're in the same boat." She nudged his ribs with her elbow as a not-so-subtle hint. "So... what do we do now?"
But Mike didn't answer for a minute. He was laughing too hard.
Isabel stood by and waited patiently for Mike to catch his breath. When he had laughed himself out and finally wiped away the tears, she asked again, this time with a decided note of annoyance, "What do we do now?"
"All right," he gasped, still giggling a little. "I've had a little experience with this kind of thing lately—" he said, then started laughing all over again.
It really wasn't that funny, he thought, but the laughter was a good release for him that he desperately needed—and besides, the idea that he really would have to drop back into his leader role and act as her guide amused him to no end.
"First things first," he ordered, still snickering, "lay your right hand on your right shoulder."
He heard the puzzlement in her voice. "Okay..."
He reached toward her voice and located a shoulder. Sliding his fingers across the bottom of her neck, he encountered her other shoulder—and her hand. He took it in his, giving it a squeeze.
"Now... we walked this way the whole time, so let's just... turn around."
They faced the other way and, fingers entwined, began to walk. Mike sensed her hesitation, her tentative steps.
"It's all right," he said. "There's nothing but sand out here. Just walk. This was the first place I found out I could walk normally." He felt her pace quicken, her legs slip into the familiar easy rhythm of two steps for his rangy one. "There you go," he said, and he couldn't stop the grin. "Man, talk about the blind leading the blind..."
And Mike felt a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder from Isabel's swat.
After a moment, Isabel said softly, "So this is what you see now."
"Uh-huh."
"No wonder you react the way you do. This is terrifying!" He felt her shiver suddenly, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze.
"Almost a physical thing, isn't it? The dark is so black it's almost palpable."
"Yeah," she said, "suffocating." He heard her breath quicken.
"Hey, cool it. Your blindness is artificial, remember? Soon as we get near the beach house, you'll be fine again."
He heard her take a deep, shuddering breath. "Well, then why don't you hurry up and get me there?" she prompted, and he picked up the pace until she punched him again to make him slow down.
"You are one incredible man, Robert Michael Nesmith," she murmured, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
"And you are one incredible lady, Mary Isabel Evans."
Just then, he heard a squeal of delight. "I see it! I can see the beach house lights!"
He brought them to a stop, keeping his arm across her shoulders as they stood there for a moment. "Tell me about it," he instructed.
He wanted her to paint a picture for him to carry inside his head. He'd taken the sight of the beach house at night—and millions of other common, everyday beautiful sights—for granted, and now he found the details fading from his memory.
"The lights are on inside, and the outside light to the verandah is on. Someone's standing there, watching for us... Too tall for Davy..."
They took a few steps closer, and she laughed. "It's Peter," she announced with authority. "The hair is too straight for Micky."
Mike shook his head. "Ten to one he's comin' down the steps and runnin' to us."
"Not yet. He looks like he's talking to someone inside—wait a second, here he comes." And they both chuckled.
"Hey, where've you guys been?" Peter demanded. "I've been getting worried—"
"You're not my real mother," Mike replied, the perverse streak of mischief in him making him turn the line he'd heard so often himself on Peter.
"We were fine, Peter," Isabel added soothingly. "No problems."
"Well, not at first," Mike said. "Get this, Pete—I had to lead her back 'cause she couldn't see in the dark! What a trip, huh?"
"Why couldn't you see?" Peter asked, a puzzled note in his voice. "It's a full mo—OW! What was that for?"
Mike went totally still for a moment, replaying the conversation in his head just to make sure he'd heard correctly.
"Do you mean to tell me," he began in a deceptively calm and pleasant tone. "That you lied to me?"
"I did indeed," she said without a trace of remorse or apology. "But it worked, didn't it?"
"What worked?" he demanded, placing his fists on his hips and giving her his best forbidding glare.
"Father-Knows-Best finally crawled out of his shell," she retorted, referring to a nickname she used whenever she was amused by—or annoyed with—the more controlling aspect of his personality. "And frankly, I'm glad to see he's back. I was beginning to think he'd gone for good."
"Why, you little—" He lunged at her, catching her around the waist and sending them both tumbling into the sand. "Just for that—"
"Oh! No, Mike—! Don't—!" Isabel shrieked with laughter, squirming and struggling to escape as his fingers danced along her ribs—her most vulnerable tickle spot.
Peter sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward as he patiently waited for their tickle fight to end.
Continue On to Part Three