July 21
Mike woke up, got dressed, and headed down to breakfast like always—
Except his keen ears told him as he hit the bottom of the staircase that nobody else was up. He was on his own. A rare private moment in this house—he planned to savor it.
He moved to the door of Peter and Davy's bedroom and carefully pulled it shut, muffling the loud snores coming from Davy and soft ones from Peter. He shook his head and moved on into the kitchen.
Humming softly, Mike skimmed his fingertips along the counter and made his way to the sinks. He raised a hand up until the back encountered the bottom of the cabinets, and he pulled one open. Reaching inside, he skimmed his fingers over the dishes till he found the bowls.
He pulled a bowl out and set it in the sink. Then he brushed sensitive fingertips over the drawers, mentally counting them. When he hit three, he slid the drawer open and reached inside a little too fast.
Mike mouthed a curse and brought his finger up to his lips, tasting the unmistakable tang of blood. He'd sliced a finger on one of the sharp knives. He rinsed the finger off in the other sink, and reached—slower this time—into the drawer again.
He pulled out a spoon and set it in the bowl. Mike then turned toward another set of cabinets—then turned back, smiling at his forgetfulness. He shut the drawer and the overhead cabinet door. "Don't wanna break my head or hip," he said to himself.
Mike found the leftmost set of cabinets and pulled one open. His searching fingers found a box, which he slid out and opened. He reached inside the box and eased out some of the contents, tasting it.
"Bleah!" he grimaced at taste of the hard, unyielding granules. "I don't think uncooked rice would make a good breakfast." He replaced the box.
The second try produced the unmistakable taste of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes. Mike smiled and took the box to the sink. Using his finger inside the bowl as a ruler, he poured the cereal. When the flakes met his fingertip, he stopped pouring and returned the box to the cabinet. He repeated the process with the milk. As he poured the milk, he was still chuckling at nearly forgetting to taste what he'd pulled out of the refrigerator. He was glad he had remembered—Frosted Flakes and orange juice wouldn't have been very appetizing.
"If this keeps up, they're gonna start callin' me 'Peter'," he cracked to himself.
Replacing the milk, he went back to the sink and cradled the full bowl in the crook of his arm. He stretched his other arm in front of him till he encountered the back of a chair. Pulling it out, he set the bowl of cereal on the table and sat down to the first meal he'd made by himself since the accident.
He'd eaten about five bites when he heard an unmistakable laugh.
"Congratulations," Peter said. Mike heard the scrape of a chair as Peter sat down.
"How long were you there?" he demanded, scowling a little. He didn't like the idea that someone had been watching him unawares, even if it was Peter.
"You woke me up shutting the door. I've been here ever since. You were so absorbed, I'm not surprised you didn't hear the door open back up."
Mike took another bite, and smiled after he swallowed. "Thanks for not offerin' to help."
"No problem. You seem a lot more... confident this morning. What's changed?"
Mike's smile broadened. "I done a lot of thinkin' last night. And I decided that, yeah, chances are I'm gonna be like this the rest of my life. So... you were right," he said simply. "I decided to use my Nesmith stubbornness to stop feelin' sorry for myself and start livin'." He looked in Peter's direction. "So? What do you think?"
It was eerie, the way he could feel those dimples whenever Peter's smile showed up in his voice. "I think you're going to be just fine, Mike." Peter stood, and Mike felt the clap of a hand on his shoulder. "Now I'm gonna get me some breakfast. Want some toast to go with that cereal?"
"Sure."
"And some orange juice?" The voice was teasing now.
Mike laughed. "Sure. Uhm... I forget what shelf it ended up on."
"I'll find it."
After they had eaten, Peter went to rouse Davy. Mike climbed the stairs so rapidly that Peter came back out of the bedroom and shouted at him, worried. Mike turned and waved impatiently down the stairs before heading into his own bedroom; he was fine—he was going to be fine.
The mental picture of Micky curled up in his cozy bed, sleeping like a peaceful little angel was too much of a temptation for Mike to resist in his present good mood. He woke Micky by flinging a pillow at him.
"Hey!" Micky bellowed, sitting up and, without thinking, returning the pillow forcefully.
It hit Mike full in the chest, knocking him backward onto his bed, where he bounced a couple of times before lying still, clutching the pillow to his chest.
"Oh, man!" Micky gasped, horror and remorse battling for control of his agile face as he bolted out of bed.
But Mike hauled himself upright, smiling. "Morning, Mick."
"You all right?" Micky asked, his voice laced with concern.
For answer, Mike stood up, holding the pillow. An impish look suddenly crossed his face and he swung the pillow in Micky's direction as hard as he could, shouting his pleasure as he felt a solid impact.
"Why, you overgrown stork—" Micky spluttered, and Mike had a mental image of him diving for his bed and grabbing his own pillow. Mike felt a sigh of air, then a pillow hit him squarely on the arm—but not very hard.
"Oh, you call that hitting me?" he taunted, deliberately egging Micky on. "Isabel could do better, and she's a girl."
It was quite a spectacle that greeted Peter and Davy, drawn upstairs by the sound of riotous laughter. The pillow fight was in full swing by then. Micky had a decided advantage because he could see—and he was annoyed enough by Mike's non-stop insults to attack in full force—but Mike was more than holding his own.
Peter and Davy looked at each other for a beat, and then each one yelled as they grabbed the spare pillows and waded into the fray.
Ten minutes later, the four of them lay on the floor, laughing hard and wiping tears.
"What a morning," Peter gasped. He glanced at his roommate and Micky. "You two need to get dressed," he informed them. "We've gotta be at the club by two to set up for tonight."
"What time is it?" Mike asked, still gasping from the laughter. Life was definitely getting back to normal, and he was so very glad...
"A few minutes after eleven." There was embarrassment in Peter's voice. "I forgot to set the alarm."
At two o'clock, the Monkeemobile pulled up outside the Dance A Go-o. The four piled out. Micky popped the trunk, and he and Davy began unloading instruments onto the sidewalk. Peter and Mike walked inside.
Cochrane was waiting. "Hi, boys! Are you ready to set up?"
"Almost," Mike said without waiting for Peter to respond—a first since the accident. It had been too easy for him to fall into a sulk and pout because Peter had "usurped" his position, but it was easier still for him to take on his responsibilities again now that his confidence was returning to its old levels. "The others are getting our gear out of the car. I wanted to take a look around—" a corner of his mouth jerked upward, "if you'll pardon the expression—to get a feel for the place if you don't mind."
"Feel free," Cochrane said. "So... you decided to take my advice?"
"Yes, sir," Mike said, smiling slightly. Between Cochrane, Peter and Isabel, he wasn't being allowed much time to wallow in self-pity anymore.
The wide smile showed in Cochrane's voice. "Good deal, son. What's your name, anyhow?"
"Mike, sir. Mike Nesmith. And my 'eyes' over here is Peter Tork."
"We've spoken," Peter said. "He knows my name."
"The others are Micky Dolenz and Davy Jones. Davy's the short British one."
"I heard that!" Davy cracked as he and Micky wheeled in the cart containing their instruments.
"We're assuming you have an organ?" Peter asked. "And that it's capable of producing harpsichord sounds?"
"On the bandstand," Cochrane reminded him. "You used it last night."
"Oh, yeah," Peter said, smiling slightly. "I did, didn't I?"
Mike chuckled and covered his eyes with his free hand, shaking his head. Some things never changed....
While the other two set up the instruments, Peter led Mike to his position onstage. He then let Mike go and went to help with setup.
Mike stepped off the stage and skirted along the wall, moving hesitantly, hands telling him the position of the tables and chairs. He felt his shoulder bump into something hard and unyielding, and found it to be the jukebox.
He made his way back to the stage, mentally reviewing what he'd learned from his sweep of the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. Peter had been right—nothing had really changed from the last time they'd played here. There were still twelve tables in a horseshoe pattern along the walls, a jukebox in the corner, two doors leading to the hallway and outdoors, and a huge dance floor in the middle of the room.
And then Mike miscounted the number of steps and tripped coming back onstage. His temper flared for a second, then he pictured how silly he must have looked and let out a noise somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. It wasn't like he hadn't seen Micky walk into the doorframe a thousand and one times—and he could still see!
Hearing that, Peter smiled at the others, who returned the grin. There was Mike's self-deprecating humor.
Mike was indeed beginning to heal.
"Soundcheck!" Peter announced. "Mike, you ready?"
Mike had donned his 12-string. For an answer, he nodded and played the first notes of "For Pete's Sake." Startled, but delighted, the others swung into the tune.
And they all played it perfectly.
Mike stood at the edge of the backstage area, listening to the laughter and music coming from the jukebox. He smiled despite the butterflies in his stomach. Without having to hide the fact that he was blind, he could focus on the music and just enjoy himself, which was the way things were supposed to be—and the way he'd once feared they never would be again.
"We're on in three," Micky called from behind him.
Mike turned and nodded calmly in that direction. He heard footsteps approach.
"Nervous?" Peter asked from beside him.
"Some," Mike admitted. "But I'll be okay." He turned toward the voice. "What about you?"
"A little," Peter said. "But we'll all be fine. First time out's always rough, remember?"
Mike gave him an infinitely patient look. "It's hardly my first time, Pete."
"It is since you went blind."
Mike sighed. He'd been consciously trying not to think about that. "I know." He shrugged negligently. "But I had to get back out there sometime..."
"One minute!" Micky screamed, voice cracking.
Mike and Peter both whirled to face him. "Calm down!" they both yelled in matching annoyed tones. Then Peter looked at Mike and Mike looked toward Peter's voice. Both of them burst out laughing.
It would seem that the mantle of leadership was being shared at the moment...
Mike winced at the whine of a microphone being tapped, the harsh squeal hurting his newly sensitive ears.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Cochrane announced, "may I present, without further ado, THE MONKEES!"
They walked out onstage, waving at the crowd of teens. As Peter led Mike to his spot, Mike heard a familiar voice cry out, "You can do it, shotgun!"
Mike smiled. Isabel was out there somewhere. As he slid on his 12-string and took the one step forward to the microphone, his nervousness dissipated somewhat. Just knowing the woman he loved was there made a great deal of difference. "Hello, everybody," he said into the microphone, automatically wincing at his amplified voice. He wondered if he'd ever get used to that first shock of sound that was only more intense with sensitive ears. "We're the Monkees, and to start out tonight, we'd like to do..."
His mind went blank. In all the excitement, nobody had remembered to tell him what the first song was!
There was only a second of silence before Peter stepped up to the microphone and announced, "'I'm a Believer'!" He stepped back and hit the opening notes on the keyboard.
Mike nodded quickly, picking the first notes of his part. The cheers as the music started full swing and the unmistakable sounds of dancing feet on hardwood floor gave all of them strength, Mike especially. This was where he belonged, what he was meant to do. This was reality, this was peace.
This was Mike's triumph over himself.
Seven songs passed—"I'm a Believer", "Clarksville", "She", "Papa Gene's Blues", "You Just May be the One"—Mike mixing up the words of the title as always—"For Pete's Sake" and "Look Out Here Comes Tomorrow."
Then Peter noticed the slight trembling in Mike's fingers as the last notes of "Tomorrow" faded. He moved to Mike's microphone—he'd been standing next to him anyway—and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to take a short break. We'll be back in about ten minutes with the rest of the set!"
He took Mike's elbow and whispered, "You need a rest."
Mike shot him a grateful look as the four left the stage. When they got backstage, Mike's hands began to shake in earnest. Not from nervousness, but from effort. They had only practiced three or four songs in a row—and now he'd played seven straight, which had been tougher than he thought. He hadn't realized that when he'd avoided practicing, it would have such an adverse effect when he tried to jump back into playing like they used to do.
Peter got Mike some water to drink, and Mike just sat at the edge of the backstage area and rested his hands. Isabel slipped backstage to join him, startling him when she caught his hands and began massaging them gently. "If looks could kill," she laughed softly.
"What?" He looked in her direction, his expression quizzical.
"You've already got groupies," she informed him. "And when some of those teeny-bopper girls realized Mr. Cochrane was allowing me back here, he almost had a mob scene on his hands!"
"Oh, really?" He raised one eyebrow, one corner of his mouth quirking smugly.
"Yes, really," she mocked. "But they were all screaming for Davy, so don't get too excited."
By that time, their break was over, and they went back out and finished the set: "Laugh", "Cripple Creek" (Peter's solo, which Mike was grateful for, as it meant another break), "Steppin' Stone", "Girl I Knew Somewhere", "Sometime in the Morning", and "I Wanna Be Free". They ended the gig with a rousing, bring-down-the-house version of "Mary Mary."
The crowd went crazy. They were on their feet, stamping and yelling for more. Mike said into the microphone, "Thank you! Thank you very much! What? More? You guys want more?"
"YEAH!" the crowd screamed as one.
Mike smiled. It was only a nightclub, but the reaction couldn't have pleased him more if they'd been playing in an arena. Someday... he thought. "All right!" he yelled. "More it is! Only one, though—we've gotta go!"
The crowd moaned.
Mike whispered a song title to his bandmates. Peter slid over and handed Mike his bass. Mike passed the 12-string to Peter. Davy slid behind the drums, freeing Micky to come to the front of the stage. Mike counted off, and they began to play the song they had been working on the night of the disastrous rehearsal, the one that had almost led to blows—the one they had subsequently learned with the help of Peter's Braille.
"'Words'."
Mike had surrendered vocals to Peter, concentrating instead on the new music. The combination of Micky's high voice with Peter's unexpectedly steady lower one struck the crowd dumb. The others chose not to tell Mike until much later that two women actually fainted.
After that one encore, Cochrane snagged them backstage and doubled their pay on the spot.
That almost made them faint!
July 29
Mike opened his eyes and stared into the darkness for a few seconds. He no longer woke up screaming, but it did take a few minutes for it to register that he was indeed awake.
Sighing, he rolled over and groped on the nightstand for his watch. Micky and Peter had combined their mechanical skills and Braille knowledge and had converted an old pocketwatch into a Braille wristwatch for Mike. Mike popped the cover and checked the time—
Ten AM. The alarm should be going off any—
As if on cue, the alarm by Micky's bed began its shrill clanging. Mike couldn't repress the laugh as Micky awoke yelling gibberish. Micky, still babbling incoherently, rolled over and shut off the alarm. Mike heard another alarm going off, but the sound was muted with distance.
"The downstairs one is going off, too," he informed his grouchy roommate. "Time we all got up."
"Shoot you for the shower," Micky said, and Mike heard the springs squeaking as he rolled out of bed.
"You're on." Mike held out a fist and an open hand.
Micky laid a fist in Mike's open hand and counted, "One, two, three, shoot!"
Mike felt two fingers jab into his hand. He himself had shot three. "You got it," he said, reaching for his robe. "I'm gonna go see if I can help with breakfast."
"Meetcha there," Micky said, voice heading for the bathroom. "Oh... Mike?"
"Yeah?"
"Watch it at the bottom of the stairs, okay? I think I dropped my coat there last night."
"MICKY!" came the bellow from downstairs.
"Yup, you did," Mike noted wryly.
"I'll kill him," Mike heard Peter mutter as he came up the stairs.
"Over a coat?" Mike asked incredulously, raising one eyebrow as Peter stormed into the room.
There was silence for a second, and then Peter laughed. "Sorry. Forgot about those ears of yours. I gather he won the shoot?"
"You gather right. Anything I can do to help with breakfast?"
Peter thought for a second. "Uhm... yeah. You can put away last night's dishes while I make the waffles."
"Okay, sure." They both loped down the steps with equal ease and speed, Mike first so he wouldn't risk colliding with Peter on the way down. Mike moved into the kitchen, and began what the others jokingly called 'his' chore. Peter moved efficiently around him, and within minutes the distinct smell of blueberry waffles reached Mike's nose. Mike shook his head in wonder, a bemused smile curving his lips. He was constantly amazed at how much Peter's cooking had improved in the last two weeks—from necessity. Well, at least they didn't have to worry about being served any more cream of root beer soup...
Mike heard the two showers turn off at roughly the same time. A few minutes later, Davy walked into the kitchen. "Mmmm.... blueberry pancakes!" he cried.
"Blueberry waffles," Peter and Mike chorused. Then both shook their heads, grinning. Since the night when they'd both snapped at Micky to calm down, the unison bursts had been happening more and more. Apparently, it hadn't taken long for Peter to get used to his new position of power, and Mike was growing confident enough to resume his former post.
Davy and Micky were getting used to it—but they were expecting some minor skirmishes in the near future as the pair worked out some sort of compromise—or Mike staged a coup.
"Mike," Mike heard Micky say upstairs. "I'm out. All yours."
"He's out," Mike informed the others. "I'll see you in a few minutes."
Mike dressed in his black button down shirt and blue jeans—Isabel's favorite outfit. He remembered very well indeed the look in her eyes whenever she saw him wearing black, and it was enough to make him consider building an entire wardrobe of nothing but black clothes...Come to think of it, it would make color-coordinating a lot easier as well... He reached for his boots—and his fingers encountered empty space. He slid under the bed, reaching—no boots.
He stood, hands on hips, blind eyes flashing fire. "Peter!" he bellowed. "Where are my boots?"
"Bein' shined!" Peter called back. "Cochrane noticed the toes were scuffed last night, so I gave them to Leonard to shine for you!"
Leonard was the boy who lived on the other side of them. He took in odd jobs like shining shoes to help out, as his single mother worked long hours for little money. Mike understood completely: he had done the same thing at Leonard's age.
"Fine," he groused. "Just great." He'd have to resort to something else, which was annoying because he had a particular look in mind, but he supposed he didn't have a choice. He returned to the closet and swept his hands along the bottom until his fingers skimmed over the fringe of his moccasin boots. Not what he wanted to wear, but...
Mike loped back down the stairs and called out, "How are those waffles comin'?"
"Last batch is in now," Peter said. Then Mike heard a beleaguered sigh, and Peter finished, "If Mister Mouth here doesn't eat them all!"
"Well," Micky grumbled defensively, "I'm hungry!"
"Yeah," Davy snapped, "but seven?"
Mike hovered over his chair, arrested by this new development. "Seven?" he gasped incredulously. "Man, you had five hamburgers last night, now this?" He sank all the way into the chair, shaking his head.
"Like I said," Micky repeated, "I'm hungry."
"What are you doin'—havin' a growth spurt?" Mike teased, throwing his napkin toward Micky's voice.
After breakfast was over and Mike helped Davy with the dishes, it was nearly twelve. Late mornings were common now, as the guys played at the Dance A Go-Go from Thursday through Monday, and would for another nine weeks. Between gigs, practice and chores, there wasn't much time for anything else.
Well, today, Mike was going to make time. Isabel had told him she had gotten permission to leave about two from the paper—"I told Gregory I couldn't concentrate on my story with all the noise," she'd told Mike with a mischievous grin, "but I've already gotten it written, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him!"—and he wanted to be there when she got home. Between their mutually packed schedules, they had had precious little time as a couple, and he was not going to blow it today, not when he'd missed seeing her so much.
The guys sat on the bandstand and worked out the set list for tomorrow night. Mike agreed to be home at nine, so they could practice for a few hours. That left seven hours to be with Isabel. Plenty of time, he thought, with an anticipatory smile.
While they were there, they dickered over the chore assignments. As usual, Micky hated his. Peter, for once, managed to shut Micky up by pointing out that he had a lot less to do than Peter did. After all, Peter pointed out, Peter was the one who cooked every morning, who did all the driving, who took the laundry to the laundromat and hung up both his and Mike's clothes...
Peter would have gone on, but Mike held up a hand. "We get the point, shotgun. You're the busiest one of us, lately. Think it's time you backed off a little?"
Then Mike felt that unnerving sensation of those killer dimples flashing at him. "Oh," Peter said, laughter in his tone, "like you did so little before?"
"Peter, I didn't ask you to take over," Mike reminded him. "I know I've been unable to hold up my end lately, but—" He paused, bewilderment stealing over his features as he thought about the situation that had developed in their household. "Why did you step in like you did?" There was no accusation or evidence of hurt feelings in Mike's voice, only curiosity.
"I saw a void to be filled," Peter said simply. "And nobody willing to fill it. So..." He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.
Mike found his shoulder and squeezed it. "Thanks, old buddy. You've done a good job, but I think you can back off a little. I can do a lot more now, and these two—" He gestured in Micky and Davy's general directions. "—can start pitching in a little more as well." He was using his best firm, no-compromise voice, and there wasn't a hint of argument from the table. He nodded his satisfaction, then flipped open his watch and brushed his fingers over the dial. "One o'clock. Time to go." He closed the watch and stood up. "Whoever's nearest my 12-string, would you hand it to me, please?"
Davy lifted it up to him. Mike waved his thanks and headed for the door. "Be back later," he said, deftly snagging the long stick by the doorway on his way out.
The others waited till the door closed behind him, then shared three huge smiles of uncontained pride in Mike's independence.
Mike used the stick to avoid the flowerbeds and shrubs around Isabel's house. He let himself in, leaving the door unlocked so she would know he was here. He propped the stick near the doorway and counted silently the steps he crossed from the entranceway to the living room.
He found the couch and sank onto his end of it, making himself comfortable for his wait. He began to play his guitar, singing softly to himself.
"Mrrow?" a gentle feline voice asked. Mike smiled, recognising from the timbre which cat it was.
"Hello, Rose," he greeted her, patting the cushion beside him. The tiger cat sprung up and snuggled up next to his leg. "Come to hear some music?" He scratched her ears and smiled as he heard her quiet purr start up. "Where's Gil?" he asked like she could really tell him.
He heard Gil's answering "Mrrow" from the other side of the room and had a picture of the lazy ginger cat stretched out on the windowsill, scarcely even moving except to yawn.
Mike laughed. "Suit yourself," he teased, beginning to play again.
He closed his eyes as he played, letting himself drift away with the music. It would probably seem silly to anyone else, but shutting his eyes helped him concentrate on just the music—and forget his affliction for a little while. He played ten songs before he heard the door open and Isabel's high-heeled shoes clattering on the hardwood floor.
"Hi, Mike," she called.
"Hi yourself," he called back.
He opened his eyes again and twisted around in his seat to "look" in her direction—and then he sat frozen as his brain registered a blurry light.
LIGHT!
He leaped to his feet, sending both guitar and cat crashing to the ground.
"Whoa!" Isabel dropped her briefcase and ran over to him, dropping to one knee as she retrieved the guitar, cradling it carefully in both hands. "What was that all about?" She stood up slowly, looking up at him with growing concern as she set the instrument on the couch, out of harm's way.
But Mike had not moved a muscle. He was simply staring down at her, his eyes wide and round with shock.
"Mike? Are you all right? You're looking at me so strangely..."
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped as the implication of what she'd said sank in. "You're... You're looking at me! Mike, your eyes are focusing!"
"I..." His voice wouldn't come out above a whisper, though he wanted to shout it from the rooftops. "I saw you moving... There's a halo of light around you... Isabel, you look... you look like an angel."
Tears spilled from her eyes. "Colors," she said. "Can you see colors?"
"No... not yet. But I can see light, Isabel! I can see movement!" He abruptly grabbed her around the waist and spun her around off the ground, whooping with delight. "I can see!"
He set her down and caught her mouth in a hungry kiss. She kissed him back as fiercely, then broke the embrace. "We... we need to tell the others..."
He smiled, his whole body trembling with excitement. "You're right..." He headed for the door, pulling her along by one hand.
"Hang on, Mike!" she gasped, laughing. "I can't move that fast, long legs!"
"Okay, then..." he said, and Isabel shrieked with laughter as he scooped her up in his arms and headed for the Pad at a run.
Then, suddenly—"Stop!" she screamed.
Mike pulled up short, nearly spilling them both.
"What?"
"You almost ran past it!" she gasped. "You're still half-blind, remember?"
He set her down and kissed her again. "I don't care," he said, laughing. "I can half-see, Isabel! That's all that I know! That and I love you!"
She pulled back, startled. If he was displaying this much affection in public, he must be half out of his mind with joy! "All right." She grinned up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Mike Nesmith?"
Mike laughed, bounding up the front steps and throwing open the door to the Pad.
The Pad looked like a tremendous blur of white light—and he thought Heaven Itself couldn't be more beautiful. He couldn't even wait to see that awful totem pole Micky had insisted on buying. Mike looked toward the bandstand, where three dark figures suddenly rose against the brightness of the windows.
"Mike?" Peter asked, surprise in his voice. "Isabel? What's wrong? We didn't expect you for another few hours!"
"Wrong?" Mike blurted, laughing. "Nothing's wrong! Something is finally right!"
He saw the three dark figures turn toward each other, then back toward them. "I don't get it," Davy said.
Mike released Isabel's hand and moved very quickly toward the bandstand. "Davy," he said, pointing directly at the shortest black figure. "Micky," he said, pointing to the one in the middle with the fuzzy mop. "Peter," pointing to the one on the end. "You're right there."
There was stunned silence for a second, and then Micky's gasped, "You... can see?"
"Light," Mike said. "And movement. Not much else..." He laughed again. "But it's better than darkness!"
And the bandstand fairly erupted as the other three swarmed over Mike, pounding his back and jumping up and down, cheering at the top of their lungs.
Isabel hung back, steepled fingers touching her lips, tears of joy pouring down her face. Then Peter abruptly raced over, scooped her up—this is getting monotonous, she thought—and dumped her right in the middle of the celebration. Then she was caught up in the exhilaration of the moment, all five of them sharing the joy just as they had shared the tears.
July 30
The late-morning sunshine streaming through the window struck Mike's eyes. He opened them and for a split-second thought he was still dreaming.
Then he remembered yesterday afternoon, and a huge grin split his face. He looked toward Micky's bed. Micky, as usual, was tunneled under the covers with only his unruly mop of hair showing. And it was all Mike could do to keep from shouting with delight.
His vision had improved during the night. He could see the patchwork blocks on Micky's quilt, the grain of the wood on the bedpost. There was only a slight blur around the edges.
And there was still no color. The world for Mike was composed of various shades of grey.
But he didn't care. He could see—that's all that mattered. He was confident the colors would return.
Mike hopped into the shower and quickly back into the bedroom. He paused, looking at the closet. He smiled at the irony of his situation. Yeah, he could see the clothes, but he still could not tell the colors with his eyes.
Mike slid his fingers along Peter's Braille stickers, "reading" the colors. He slid out his navy blue shirt and a beige pair of pants. He glanced down, to see his boots had materialized over night. He dressed quickly and slid back into the bathroom to brush his hair.
Man, he thought, I really wish I could find my hat! He grabbed the brush on the sink and automatically raised his eyes to the mirror—
And stopped cold. Who was that? Dark hair, wide dark eyes, dark shirt, slender face with visible beard stubble, mouth opening slightly in astonishment—
"Is that me?" Mike gasped aloud. The figure in the mirror mouthed the words, and to his chagrin, he realised it was him. He'd forgotten his own face.
Mike remembered when he and Isabel had been on the beach three nights ago. He had felt the heat of the fire she had built, and the comforting warmth of her in his lap, head against his chest.
"Isabel," he had asked, "can you do me a favor?"
"Anything."
"Can I see what you look like? You're fadin' away."
As hard as he'd tried to hold on to the memories he had of her, they were slowly dissipating, growing fainter each day. In response, she had caught his hands and raised them to her cheeks. From there, he had gently skimmed his fingers over her features, careful not to miss anything-her high cheekbones, small nose, gently sloping forehead and rounded chin, her full mouth curved into a slight smile. From that moment on, he had had a perfect picture of her in his mind.
The guys had let him touch their faces as well. Peter had suggested it first, actually, and he had been the first to volunteer, guiding Mike's hands over his features to show him what to do, how to "see" people with his fingers instead of his eyes. After that, it had been easy for him to remember Micky's strong jaw and Davy's generous mouth. But he had never thought to do that to his own face! He had actually forgotten what he looked like!
And now he was seeing himself as if for the first time.
Mike tore himself away from staring at the black and white image in the mirror and got down to the business of parting and combing his longish black hair. He tried to do it by sight, then gave up and did it by touch. When he looked back in the mirror, his slightly crooked teeth were revealed in a large smile.
By touch, he'd parted his hair perfectly.
Mike opened the medicine cabinet to get his razor and toothbrush and finish getting ready for the day. Suddenly he blinked, looked closer, and burst out laughing.
He then reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out the wool hat.
"Micky..." he chuckled. Micky had a constant—and annoying—habit of hiding the hat as an ongoing prank, and apparently he hadn't given up his game despite Mike's loss of sight. Mike reasoned that the day a little over two weeks ago when the hat had vanished, the day after Peter had attached the Braille to Mike's hangers, Micky had hidden the hat in the cabinet, assuming Mike's fingers would locate it.
But he had stuffed it into a corner on a top shelf, and Mike's reaching fingers had consistently missed it.
Mike adjusted the hat on his head and looked back into the mirror—a light shade of grey rested on the blackness of his hair. He sighed, hoping his color vision would return soon. This was getting ridiculous.
Still operating primarily by touch, Mike shaved and brushed his teeth. He looked in the mirror again, and a surge of excitement shot through him despite the lack of color. I can see, he thought, grinning. I can actually see! He slipped out of the bathroom and bedroom and headed downstairs, so full of excitement and delight that he did something he had only done once before.
Mike slid down the tornado staircase banister, letting out a whoop to rival Micky's as he landed on his feet at the bottom.
Peter turned from the stove, smiling at him. "Morning, Mike. How are you doing?"
Mike locked eyes with Peter, striding confidently into the kitchen.
"I'm better...And you know, Isabel was right," he said lightly.
"Oh?" The light brows drew together in confusion.
"You've got gorgeousdimples," he replied, mimicking Isabel's intonation and word choice. Mike turned away then, chuckling as he heard the spatula clatter into the pan as Peter dropped it in shock.
"Hang on, there!" Peter laid a hand on Mike's arm, stopping him. He spun the taller man around and gripped him by the upper arms, wide eyes boring into the newly-sighted ones. "You ... you can see my features? I'm not just a blur?"
Mike shook his head, grinning. "I can see you clearly—except you're in black and white. There's still no colors."
The afore-mentioned dimples cut deep grooves in Peter's cheeks as he let Mike go and punched the air, whooping with joy.
Then Peter scooted back to the stove, as the bacon he had been frying had started to smoke.
Too late. The smoke alarm went off.
Mike cried out in agony, hands flying to his ears. Peter snapped off the eye and ran over to Mike, gripping his shoulders.
"MICKY!" he hollered. "DAVY! HELP!!!"
"Too loud—" Mike whimpered, feeling as if someone had just stabbed an icepick in both eardrums. The shrill sound had gone right through his skull, setting his teeth on edge and giving him the beginnings of an awful headache.
Micky took the stairs two at a time, colliding with Davy at the bottom. The alarm was still blaring, cutting through Mike like a sword.
"Open the windows!" Peter ordered. "Get the smoke out of here! Wave it away from the alarm sensor!"
Davy took the windows. Micky, who was a bit taller, waved the smoke away from the sensor. The second the alarm cut off, Mike sagged in relief, sighing his gratitude.
"You all right?" Peter asked.
"Man, what happened?" Micky gasped.
"His ears are still sensitive," Peter said. "Still at the level they were when he was blind."
"How?" Mike gasped, extricating himself from Peter's grip and rubbing his ringing ears. "I can see now!"
Peter smiled a little. "The books said to expect this. Sorry, I should have warned you, but we didn't think..."
"I'd ever see again," Mike finished, nodding his acceptance. That made sense. "It's all right—neither did I. So... how long did that book say this was going to last?"
Mike frowned. That expression on Peter's face—was that embarrassment? Must have been, because that's what Mike heard in his voice.
"I forgot. I still have that one—I'll look it up after breakfast."
Davy was spooning the ruined bacon into the garbage. "Bacon's shot," he said. "So now what's for breakfast?"
Peter ran a hand along the collar of his robe. "Let me get dressed," he said, "and you and I'll go get breakfast."
Davy nodded and followed him into the bedroom, shutting the door. Micky walked over to Mike, who was still frowning deeply. "Mike?"
Mike looked into the almond eyes and shook his head. "Everything's clear... just in black and white... but I'm still not there."
"What do you mean?" Mike licked his lips, unsure of how to explain. "I... seem to have forgotten what expressions look like. I couldn't put a name to the look on Peter's face till I heard the embarrassment in his voice."
Peter peered around the bedroom door, sans shirt, obviously having overheard the conversation. "Michael," he said, and Mike looked at him. "That's normal."
"It is?"
Peter walked over to where they were standing, shrugging on the eight-button shirt as he did so. "Yeah—I just looked it up. People who've been blind as long as you were forget what things look like. Don't be surprised if you have to touch things to tell what they are. That doesn't last long, though. It'll pass."
Mike closed his eyes in relief, and then opened them in a hurry. As irrational as he knew it was, part of him was worried that if he left them closed too long, everything would be dark when he opened them again. But everything was still there: his black and white world was intact. "That's good to know," he said. "But the ears—?"
"That's normal, too," Peter said. "That varies from person to person. For some it lasts a matter of weeks, for others their entire lives. There's no way of telling."
Mike nodded. "Hey," he said suddenly, "let me drive into town and get breakfast!"
To his surprise, Peter shook his head firmly. "You're not ready, man. Give it awhile."
Anger flared in Mike at this casual assumption of his leadership—then it died just as suddenly as he realized Peter, as usual when it came to things regarding his recent handicap, was absolutely right. He wasn't yet ready—he was still too giddy with the joy of just seeing. No sense in risking that Mike would get distracted by something and forget he was driving. He might wreck.
"You're right," he said softly. "We'll be waiting." In the meantime, he was going to crawl all over the Pad and just look.
Mike still hadn't calmed down after regaining his sight. As soon as Peter and Davy had left, he immediately pored over every square inch of the Pad while Micky looked on, a bemused look on his face that changed to outright laughter when Mike actually hugged the tacky totem pole.
After refamiliarizing himself with their house, he went outside, returning only when Peter and Davy arrived with breakfast from McDonald's.
Davy set out the food and then called "Breakfast!"
Micky came bolting down the stairs. Mike walked in from the verandah, salt spray clinging to his hair. "Went to the beach?" Peter asked.
Mike smiled. "Busted. It looks just like it sounds—wild and untamed—" He'd found himself just staring at the rolling waves, mesmerized by the sight, profoundly grateful that he could once again see the ocean as well as hear it. He shook his head in wonder and walked to the table. He sat down—
And the smile faded. On the table were things that might as well have been from outer space, for all Mike knew what they were. He just sat there staring at the table, eyes widening with horrified surprise. He should know what they were... but he didn't.
A cold knot formed in his stomach as he struggled to recall the proper names of the foreign objects, but his brain was obstinately blank.
"Mike?" Micky asked. "Are you all right?"
Mike took a deep breath. He remembered Peter had said that he may need to touch things to know what they were, that sometimes blinded people forgot what things were and they seemed alien when sight returned.
"Yeah... I'm okay." He closed his eyes and reached out, tentatively placing his fingers on the strange things, stroking them lightly—and his cheeks flamed red as he realized they were silverware. He opened his eyes and looked at them again. The tall round thing must be a glass, he realized, and the plate is that in front of me.
"I feel like a baby," he growled, a sudden surge of anger welling up inside. As soon as he thought his ordeal was finally ending, something else happened to drag him down again! "I'm havin' to learn how to see all over again!"
"It's only to be expected," Peter said gently. "You had to learn how to function without sight, now you have to learn how to function with sight. You were blind over two weeks, man. The things we take for granted faded from your mind. You were right—in a way, you are a baby all over again, learning about a world you haven't seen in ages."
Mike jumped up, throwing his napkin on the table. "Don't patronize me," he snapped.
"I'm not," Peter said. "I'm only saying you've got to be patient with yourself! It'll take time to—"
"Time I ain't got!" Mike practically shouted. "We play tonight!"
Peter was on his feet now, too. "Yeah, we do. And you'll do just fine. Michael— go to Isabel's. Go for a walk. Do something to calm down. We'll practice later, and you'll see you can do it—just like before."
"Okay—okay." Mike held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine. I'll be on the beach."
Mike stormed out of the Pad, barely keeping a lid on his simmering temper after this latest set-back. Frustration boiled up within him, and his fists clenched by his sides, jabbing at the air as he strode onto the sand for lack of anything else better to strike at. He wanted—needed—to hit something—to release some of this pent-up rage in one explosive punch. But he had no outlet, and he found himself pacing up and down the beach, stalking like an angry jungle cat.
He didn't know how long he'd been out there when he spotted someone running towards him from between the houses. For a moment—but only a moment—he thought it was Davy from the height, but he quickly saw that the figure had curves that didn't belong on Davy. As she approached, he identified Isabel as the intruder, but this time he wasn't even certain he needed to be around her—not the way he felt. He was likely to blow up at her, which would be totally unfair.
"I thought you were at work," he stated flatly when she skidded to a stop in front of him, panting a little, her hair flying around her face in disarray. Despite his silent decision to pretend she wasn't welcome, he reached out and tucked one wayward tendril behind her ear.
"Peter called," she explained. "He told me what happened, so I asked Gregory if I could take an early lunch."
"You shouldn't have," he replied brusquely. "I'm not good company right now."
"I didn't expect you would be," she retorted impatiently, her mouth thinning in that stubborn line he already recognized as meaning trouble. "You want to tell me what's going on?" She folded her arms and leveled a no-nonsense gaze at him. Her attitude was clear: she wasn't going anywhere.
"I can't recognize things anymore—simple stuff like a fork or a glass—shoot, I didn't even recognize myself in the mirror this morning," he ground out, not bothering to hide his disgust.
He turned his back to her, shoving his hands in his back pockets as he looked out over the ocean. "I'm sick of this, Isabel," he continued. "I keep thinkin' I'm gettin' better, and something else happens to knock my legs out from under me. I just want all this to end!"
He kicked viciously at the sand, taking out some of his frustration on that, and Isabel stood back, regarding him somberly.
"And?" she prompted.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised. "Isn't that enough?"
Instead of answering, she moved to stand in front of him and just looked up at him for a long moment, not saying anything. He stared back at her for about two seconds, and then averted his eyes, suddenly feeling awkward and embarrassed. "What?" he asked at last, wondering what in the world she was up to now.
"Can you still see me?" she asked, her voice calm and even.
"Yes—"
"Then what are you whining about?"
His jaw dropped slightly, and his mind went totally blank. There was a good answer for that—he knew there was—he just couldn't think of it right then.
"I'm serious," she insisted. "You can see now—you ought to be grateful for that instead of complaining about something Peter says will probably wear off eventually, but even if it doesn't, so what? So you have to touch things every once in a while to remember what they are—who cares? At least you can see again!" she shouted, pinwheeling her hands to emphasize her point, and he found himself backing up a step to escape her unrelenting vehemence.
And the worst thing about it, he thought irritably, is that she's right. I hate that. I really hate that.
He blew out a long, exasperated breath and glared down at her, his dark eyebrows snapping together, but she didn't even flinch. She just glared back.
"Do you and Peter ever get tired of bein' right?" he asked at last.
She stared at him, her stern expression wavering, and then she gave up trying and laughed. "I don't know about Peter, but I don't," she replied, bemusement lurking in her voice.
"And this is what I gotta put up with," he said, rolling his eyes heavenward.
She shrugged and slipped her arms around his waist, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, you had a choice—"
"No, I didn't."
"Oo, I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you, sweet talker," she teased. Then her expression turned serious once again. "I don't mean to sound totally unsympathetic, Mike. I'd probably feel the same way if I were you, but really, you should try to focus on the progress you've already made. I know it's easy for me to say—"
"Yeah—it's just hard sometimes," he sighed. "I want to fix this now—"
"And you can't because it's out of your control," she finished for him. "I know—believe me, I know. But it's going to be okay. You just have to be patient a little while longer."
"I'll try," he said, smiling slightly. "But I'm not promisin' anything."
"Good enough," she said, giving him another comforting squeeze, and this time, he put his arms around her and returned the embrace. "Now let's go let Peter know you're okay," she teased.
"Man—that guy—" Mike shook his head as they turned and began walking back to the beach house. "We gotta have a little talk. He's gettin' too bossy—"
"Oh, please!" Isabel came to a screeching halt and stared up at him in blatant disbelief. "Pot kettle black, babe!"
"Oh, please!" he mocked, imitating her tone perfectly. "Don't let me see any stones in your pretty little hand either, sweetheart."
She stuck her tongue out at him, and when Peter came out on the balcony to check on them, he was greeted with the sight of yet another tickle fight in the sand.
"Man, you guys are gonna make the biggest mess trackin' all that sand in here," he complained, but they ignored him.
To Mike's eternal shock, practice that afternoon and the gig that night went very well—as far as he was concerned, it was one of the best series of gigs they'd ever played. He'd never been happier to be able to see as well as hear a crowd's reaction, even if it were mostly teenage girls weeping over Davy and throwing their phone numbers on-stage to him. Cochrane rejoiced just as loudly as they had when he found out Mike's sight had mostly returned.
Mike spent several days in a black and white world, learning about what things were and even how to read all over again—the letters looked like so many weird black squiggles at first. The music notes on the handwritten sheet music weren't much better. Mike had to skim his fingers over them like they were Braille and hum them before he got the tune. Peter fell back in his role as teacher, and Mike fell back into the role of simmering student, but he kept reminding himself that it hopefully wouldn't last forever.
Meanwhile, he found himself using his sense of touch more and more even when he didn't need to, and he wondered if he'd ever completely shake the habit—although that heightened sensitivity did have certain advantages...
August 4
Mike opened his eyes and rolled over, smiling to himself. Today was the day, he'd decided. Today he was taking control of his life again! He could see now, even if the colors were still gone, and he was determined not to let the others coddle him anymore. Smiling, he thought to himself that he might even stage a small coup today. He wanted to drive again, he wanted to quit being a follower. It wasn't natural to him, and being forced into the role had long since begun to chafe.
He sat up and swung his long legs out of bed, stretching. Mike suddenly frowned.
Something was... different. He couldn't put a finger on it....
Mike went into the bathroom for a glass of water. He raised his eyes to the mirror. The glass slipped from his fingers, hitting the sink with an almost musical crash, shattering in the porcelain sink.
He knew that his eyes were brown—but he was still startled by seeing that fact peering back at him! His skin was lightly tanned from being out in the sun so much, his hair was jet black—but the eyes...
Those chocolate brown eyes....
"Micky," he yelled. "Micky, I can see colors!"
"Groovy, man," Micky mumbled, still half-asleep. "Just great. So you can see colors..." There was a sudden rustle of covers and Micky's voice rose, squeaking mid-sentence. "You can see colors??"
Mike started laughing. "It's back, Mick! It's all the way back!"
They both made a mad dash for the stairs, jostling and shoving each other in the attempt to reach the bottom first, and they burst into Peter and Davy's bedroom, shaking their mattresses roughly and shouting the good news at top volume.
Mike called Isabel and shouted it in her ear, then hung up without even identifying himself. But apparently she figured it out because she showed up at their door clutching her robe around her neck two minutes later. As soon as she threw the door open, she let out a deafening yell—the most undignified noise any of them had ever heard her make—ran across the room and flung herself in his arms, covering his face with smacking kisses.
And all five of them celebrated that entire Tuesday. Mike remembered the names of the colors—he had seen them enough times in his dreams.
No more blindness, he thought. No more side-effects. I'm whole again—I'm normal again! Now if Peter would only let me drive again.... A smile crossed his lips. Just wait, shotgun, he thought. Just you wait...
Suddenly a car horn blared outside the Pad, startling Mike. He looked at the others and snapped, "Man, I'm gonna complain to Babbitt about that!"
Four pairs of eyes turned to him in alarm.
"About what?" Davy asked.
"These walls are too thin!" Mike snapped. "You could have heard that car horn in Poughkeepsie!"
"What car horn, love?" Isabel asked.
And Mike's eyes widened as the blood drained from his face. "Oh, no..." he breathed.
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