This fic was inspired by a story I heard about Warren Nesmith—Michael Nesmith’s father, and the reason why Bette Nesmith left him and took Mike with her. Whether or not the story is true is unknown; the original source is unknown and this story should not been seen in any way, shape, or form as an impugnity to Mr. Nesmith or a statement about his character. I did not know him; this is a work of FICTION, nothing more, something that I had to write in order to purge it from my system.
The smack comes again. Sharper. Louder.
This time, however, she’s ready for it. Or so she thinks. When it comes, resounding with the sound of flesh striking flesh with enough force to bruise down to the bone, the heat explodes into her face, her heart giving a mighty thump as the boy hits the ground for the hundredth time. Each time she watches, waiting for a deadening, an end to the agony and anger, a moment where she can bear it without the knifing, white-hot pain that forces reason from her head.
But not this time.
She leaps forward, roaring, and the world fades to black.
~*~
Mich pushed her front door open, stepping into the welcome warmth of her home. The bank of lights above the sink were dark, as was the ornate chandelier above the dining room table. The remains of what appeared to have been an epic chess game lay scattered over the table, some of the pieces propped up on the volumes of Shakespeare Nev had left there.
A rustling sound brought her attention back to the kitchen. Dante was kneeling on the counter, reaching into the cabinet that held the cookie jar. A full glass of milk sat on the counter next to him, though Mich held little worry that he’d spill it; Dante’s reflexes were even quicker than her own.
“Dante Ronday Nesmith, what are you doing?”
Dante turned, his mouth a wide ‘O’ of surprise, and froze. “Uh, well . . . I was, um, gettin’ a drink of water, an’ then I thought ‘bout maybe milk’d taste better, and—”
“And you thought a cookie would help wash it down quicker, huh?” Mich said, hiding her bemusement behind her crossed arms.
“Yeah!” Dante said, his face breaking out into a wide smile.
Mich couldn’t help but laugh as she crossed the room to Dante’s side. “Oh you . . . ” She lifted the precocious seven year-old to the floor. “You can have two cookies but that’s it, okay?”
Dante pouted. “Just two?”
“How about none?”
“Two is fine,” he replied quickly.
She smiled. “Good.” Two chocolate chip cookies were quickly passed into Dante’s waiting hands, the milk following a few seconds later. Dante clutched his treasure, looking up at his mother with all the love of a child who lives in that peculiar state of absolute trust foreign to those who have reached adulthood.
“Night Mom,” he said, accepting the kiss she firmly planted on his forehead. “I love you.”
She watched him scamper off to his room, still managing to not spill a drop of his milk, and blinked back a sudden rush of stinging tears. The image of her son—his bright green eyes and mischievous smile—mixed and merged with that of the younger boy, his face red not only from the tears that spilled from his eyes but from the bruise marring his cheek.
She waited until Dante was safely in his room before trudging down the hall to hers, opening the door to find Nev sprawled on the couch, staring fixedly at the muted TV.
“You went there again, didn’t you?”
His tone was quiet, lacking the accusation or rebuke she’d been expecting. “Yes, I did. What’s it to you?”
“Mich, why do you keep torturin’ yourself? It’s nothin’ you can change, you know. Happened a long time ago to someone that you haven’t really met.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I have to, Nev.”
“Why, Mich?” he said, flicking off the TV with one jab of the remote. “Why dwell on somethin’ you can’t change?”
She sat next to him, her hands reaching for his face. “Because we have a seven year-old boy living with us, and I need to keep my wits about me.”
Nev raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see how watching the Right Dishonorable Warren Nesmith smack the hell out of his son is gonna help you handle Dante. I really don’t.”
She stroked his hair, her fingers trailing across his cheek, as if doing so would erase those painful memories. “It’s not so much about ‘handling’ Dante. It’s . . . Nev, I need to be able to handle it. If Dante is,” she swallowed hard, “hurt, I need to be able to keep my head on straight.”
Nev reached out, gently massaging the back of her neck. “You’re worried that someone’s gonna smack Dante around like that, and that if it happens you’re gonna go thermal and take off everyone’s head, right?”
Mich nodded.
Nev leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and giving her a long look. “Somehow I think there’s more to it than just that, Mich.”
“You’re probably right.”
“So, tell me.”
Mich rubbed the heel of her palm against her forehead. “I just . . . the LOOK on his face, Nev. I can’t . . . no matter how many times I . . . I SAVE him I can’t get that look out my MIND. It’s driving me crazy, Nev.” She waited for him to snort or make some sarcastic remark, but he didn’t. “I have demons I need to purge, Nev. It’s nothing more complicated than that.”
Nev nodded, obviously still troubled. “I’m worried about you, Mich. This ain’t healthy.”
Mich stood up. “Yeah, well, Nev, I can’t keep this stuff locked up inside me. That ain’t healthy either.”
She showered and dressed, still unable to shake the worried, gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. Shutting off the lights, she crawled into bed with her husband, curling into the protective circle of his arms.
“I love you, Mich,” he murmured, his lips touching hers. “I wish you wouldn’t torture yourself like this. Just let it go.”
She waited until his breathing had slowed, his grip loosening as he drifted away. She stared for a long time at his slumbering face, a face, that, if twenty years younger, would have been identical to that of the boy. What if it had been you? she thought, gently sifting the fine strands of his hair through her fingers. What if it happens to our son? She knew perfectly well that Nev would never hit his son in anger—or for any other reason—but nevertheless Mich knew that it would happen somehow, some way. And she also knew that the knowledge would drive her back to the boy and his father.
Part Two
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