The next morning Mike insisted upon getting up; he’d had enough “layin’ around in bed”. It took him several minutes to pull his jeans up over his scraped, bruised legs, but finally he stood in front of the mirror, buttoning one of James’s old shirts, which, like the pajama top, fit loosely on his narrow body.
He gazed at his mirror image dispassionately. There was still a thick white bandage over the gash on his temple; his chin still sported a long scratch, and he’d lost count of all the cuts and abrasions that marred the rest of his body.
Almost like I was beaten . . . The thought made him shiver. He reached up and began combing his long fingers through his hair, trying to bring the tangled nest back to some semblance of order.
“Hey,” Jeremy said, slipping into the room. “Try this—it’s easier.” He handed Mike a comb while trying to suppress a grin. Mike resisted the urge to swat the teenager as he took the comb and raked it through his hair until the dark locks rested in a familiar flip over his left eye. He didn’t know what possessed him to comb his hair that way—it just seemed right.
“C’mon, Mama’s got breakfast downstairs. I’ll race ya.”
Mike chuckled as he followed Jeremy from the room and started down the hall. “I don’t think I’ll be runnin’ anywhere quite yet, son.”
Jeremy stopped. “I’m sorry, Rob, I didn’t mean—”
Mike laughed openly and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “It’s okay, man. I know what you meant.”
Jeremy sighed in exaggerated relief. “Thanks.”
Mike took careful note of his surroundings as he followed Jeremy down the stairs; the farmhouse was small but immaculate—the furnishings were worn and spartan but it was obvious that a family lived there. The stairs terminated in a large living area, with a large oak table that could easily sit eight people dominating one side of the room; a couch, several armchairs, and a small battered television sat huddled at the other end. A warm, wonderful smell wafted from the kitchen, and Mike breathed deeply. “That smells good, whatever it is.”
Jeremy closed his eyes. “Mama’s making bacon and eggs and waffles. She must really like you,” he teased.
Mike looked up as the front door opened and a man in his mid forties entered. His denim coveralls were dusty and his red flannel shirt was pushed up to his elbows. Mike stared in open awe at the man’s deeply tanned, muscled forearms and his tough, calloused hands.
“Hey, look who’s up and about!” the man said, smiling broadly. “I’m glad to see you’re okay, son.” He crossed the room and reached out to shake Mike’s hand. “My name’s James Barrett. I found you out by the road and brought you here. I think you already know my wife and son.”
Mike nodded, still slightly stunned by the power and firmness of James’s handshake. “Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful for your help—I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.”
“It’s no problem. I’m just glad we were able to help.”
“Yes, and the door’s open, James!” Deborah said. She emerged from the kitchen bearing a large heaping plate of waffles that made Mike’s mouth water. “You were not raised in a barn—kindly shut it.”
“Yes ma’am,” James said; looking at him, Mike could see where Jeremy had inherited his playful, teasing nature.
“All right, boys!” Deborah called. “Come and get it!”
Mike was fairly sure that he’d never had such a delicious meal, despite the fact that his memory only extended to the previous day. The waffles were just crispy enough, the eggs were light and fluffy, and the biscuits were hot enough to melt the butter that Mike spread upon them but not enough to burn his mouth. The Barretts laughed and talked as they ate, and Mike was pleasantly surprised when they included him in their laughter and jokes, as if he were already part of the family.
After breakfast Mike allowed Deborah to fuss over him for only a few moments before he wandered outside. He walked with Jeremy down to the end of the dirt road, where the boy climbed aboard a dusty yellow school bus, waving to “Rob” as it disappeared down the rural highway.
Mike turned and ambled back towards the house. The air was pleasantly warm, and the hot sun felt good on his face as the breeze gently ruffled his hair. I could get used to this.
When he reached the house’s gravel driveway he turned and headed for the barn instead, exploring the cool, dark structure—peering into the feed room and petting the cows—
—I guess I better go warn the cow—
He shook his head as a fragment of memory flashed across his consciousness. Had he been on a farm before? Without knowing why he knew the answer was yes, but when?
“You all right, son?” Mike turned to see Barrett standing near the feed room, pitchfork in hand.
“Yessir,” Mike answered. “Just . . . I don’t know . . . kinda gettin’ a little deja vu.”
Barrett nodded. “Maybe that means your memory’s coming back. Listen . . . Robert . . . I just want you to know that for however long it takes, you have a place to stay. My home is yours.”
“I really do appreciate that, Mr. Barrett,” Mike said. “And as soon as I’m feelin’ better I want to start helpin’ around here.”
Barrett held up his hands. “Please, that’s not nec—”
“No, really,” Mike said, the strength of his voice taking Barrett by surprise. “I wouldn’t feel right if I lived here without contributin’ somethin’, you know?”
Barrett scratched the back of his neck. “Well, if that’s the way you feel . . . all right. But you get healed up first. Otherwise Deb’d have my hide.”
~*~
“Mike! Mike! Wait, don’t go! MIKE!”
The sound of Peter’s frantic cries brought Ella running. She burst into the upstairs bedroom to find Micky futilely trying to quiet Peter’s violent thrashing.
She gently pulled Micky aside and sat down next to Peter. Her hands, calloused from years of dedicated drumming, delicately brushed the sweat-soaked hair from Peter’s forehead. At the light touch of her fingertips Peter’s eyes flew open.
“Mike!” he shouted.
“Peter, ssh, easy,” Ella said soothingly.
Peter’s frantic gaze moved from Ella to Micky to Davy, who stood in the doorway, his large eyes wide. “Mike?” Peter asked.
“No, Peter,” Ella said softly.
Peter collapsed into tears, sobbing as Ella gathered him into her arms, rocking him as he grieved for his lost friend.
“‘Ow long can we keep this up?” Davy asked.
“As long as it takes for Mike to get back,” Micky said.
Ella looked up at Micky, her teary, regretful gaze asking the question that no one wanted to face—What if he doesn’t come back?
On to Chapter Six
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