“Leave? But why?”
Mike sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. They sat in the farmhouse’s small living room—Deborah and Jeremy sat on the couch, James in his armchair. Mike paced back and forth, trying to explain to the people who’d taken him in and included him in their family why he had to go.
He clenched his teeth in frustration, unable to properly explain his jumbled thoughts and the fragments of memory. “I don’t know. I keep havin’ these . . . flashes . . . like I’m almost rememberin’ . . . something, you know?” He desperately hoped that some of what he said was making sense.
Deborah leaned forward, clasping her hands before her. “What is it that you’re remembering? Family? Friends?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know. Both, I think. But I know there’s someone—or a couple someones—out there that need me . . . or miss me . . . or both. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t at least try to find ‘em.”
“I don’t want you to go!” Jeremy said. “It’s been fun having someone to hang around with.”
“I know,” Mike said. “But I might be a father, or a husband, or a brother . . . I don’t think I could ever rest knowin’ someone’s out there who can tell me who I am.”
Jeremy slumped back against the couch. “I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Mike dragged the toe of his boot across the worn carpet, staring at the path it made. “Well, Jeremy, I don’t like it much, either, but I gotta know.”
~*~
That night, as Mike packed up the secondhand clothes that Deborah had given him, placing the guitar strings on top of the bag, several hundred miles away Peter Tork thrashed in his sleep, restlessly soaking his sheets and pajamas with sweat.
They’re leaving me! First Mike, then Davy, now Micky . . . Ella, wait! Don’t leave me alone! Please! DON’T GO!
“Peter!” He gradually became aware of a pair of arms grasping his, then a hand gently brushing his cheek. His eyes flew open and he saw Ella sitting next to him, the dimness of the room obscuring her face but not the concern in her voice. She shushed him quietly, her voice a low hum that quickly eased the pounding of his heart. “It’s all right, Peter. It was just a dream.”
“You were leaving,” he said. “Mike and Micky and Davy all left, and then you were leaving me, too.”
“I’ll never leave you, Peter. I promise,” she said with such quiet firmness that he had no choice but to believe her. “Come on, come with me.” She led him into the bathroom, where she used a wet washcloth to wipe the sweat from his face and neck and back, then changed the sheets on Mike’s bed while he changed into dry pajamas.
As he slid under the dry sheets Ella tucked him in, then startled him by snatching a blanket from her bed and curling up next to him.
“Ella, w-what are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said teasingly, snuggling up next to him. “You need some companionship, and quite frankly . . . I do, too.”
Peter smiled openly and nestled closer until their heads nearly touched. “I’m glad you’re here, Ella.”
She smiled sadly. “I am too. Playing with you . . . three . . . has been wonderful, but forgive me for saying I’d gladly trade it to have Mike back.”
“I don’t think he’s ever coming back,” Peter whispered.
“Don’t say that, Peter. Don’t give up hope so soon.”
“Do you think he’s coming home?”
Ella bit her lip. Truthfully she harbored great doubts, but for Peter’s sake she pushed them aside. “I don’t know, Peter. I dearly hope so. If he’s alive he’ll find some way to get here—of that I have no doubt.”
“You-you . . . do you think he’s dead?” Peter said, his voice barely audible.
“No,” she said firmly. “That Texan is too stubborn to die.”
~*~
Mike sat next to James as the battered pickup rattled down the road, heading south towards Bakersfield. From there Mike decided that he was going to head to L.A.—he knew that he’d find whatever he was looking for there.
As he’d eaten breakfast that morning, trying to ignore the heartbroken look on Jeremy’s face, he’d discerned that he was indeed a musician—he kept hearing music in his head and words to songs that he could almost remember.
—you tell me that you’ve never been this way before—
—you tell me things I know that I’ve heard somewhere—
“You take care of yourself, Robert,” Deborah said. “Don’t forget us.”
“Oh, Mama,” Jeremy said, laughing through the tears that shimmered in his eyes. “That was terrible.”
“Hey,” Mike said. “You take care of yourself, okay?”
“Okay,” Jeremy said huskily, dragging the toe of his sneaker through the dirt. “You too—and promise me you’ll come and visit?”
Mike gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder, then pulled the boy into an awkward hug. “You know I will, Jeremy. I promise. And no, I won’t forget.”
The truck had pulled out of the drive several minutes later, with Mike waving to the people who’d become like family to him. And hopefully somewhere out there I have another family waitin’ for me . . .
“You’ve been awful quiet, Rob,” James murmured.
Mike shrugged. “Don’t have much to say.”
“Well, we’re going to be coming into Bakersfield soon. You have any idea where you’re going?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna head to L.A. Wander around and see if it doesn’t jar anything loose.”
James raised an eyebrow dubiously. “You’re just going to wander around one of the largest cities in the country? That doesn’t sound too smart to me, son.”
“Maybe not. But there’s this feelin’ in my gut . . . I can’t explain it but I know I’ll find what I’m lookin’ for there.”
James returned his gaze to the road, and the endless blue sky beyond. “Well, Robert—you are certainly an intelligent, responsible young man. I’m confident that you know what you’re doing.”
Twenty minutes later they pulled into a bus station in Bakersfield; Mike purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles and went back outside, where James stood by the bus’s door, his expression unreadable.
“Well,” he said. “Take care of yourself, Robert, and good luck in finding yourself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barrett. I’m gonna miss you and your family, and I can’t thank you enough for everythin’ you’ve done for me.”
James shook his head. “No, thank you. I don’t know how long I would have chopped away at that stump without your help.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of bills that he stuffed into Mike’s hand. “There. That’s for you.”
“No, really, it’s oka—” Mike began.
“No, it’s yours. That’s about two weeks worth of wages. I’d give you more if I could, but this should be enough to help you find what you’re looking for, or to get you back to our house in case you don’t.”
Mike felt a faint burning in his eyes and he blinked several times. “Well, um . . . in that case . . . uh, thanks.” He grimaced inwardly at the lameness of his response.
The two men might have stared at each other indefinitely if the bus’s engine had not started up. Mike and James shared a brief look of understanding before Mike clambered aboard. He found a seat and waved to James as the bus pulled out of the station and headed down the road.
~*~
Micky slipped quietly into the upstairs bedroom, intending to quickly grab some of his clothes and head back downstairs for a shower. He stopped dead, nearly losing his grip on the door, a move which nearly sent him crashing to the floor.
Ella was curled up securely in Peter’s arms—which was strange in and of itself, because during the past few weeks it had usually been the other way around. Her head was nestled against the slope of his neck, and his left arm was curled tightly against her shoulders. Peter had a solemn, protective look on his slumbering face that somehow reminded Micky of Mike . . .
Though normally Micky would be inclined to awaken the pair with raucous laughter or cries of ‘lookit the lovebirds!’ this morning he decided to silently collect his clothes and slip out without either one noticing that he’d ever been there.
As he walked—not slid, walked—down the stairs he realized for the first time how much Mike’s absence had changed him. He didn’t run around the house like he used to. He didn’t play any more pranks or crack any more jokes. At one time he thought such a change would have been impossible, but now that Mike was gone Micky found the responsibility was coming easily to him.
Perhaps a little too easily.
“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered. “Why should I be any different because Mike’s gone?”
“Because Mike’s gone,” Davy said from his slumped position at the kitchen table. “One of us had to try and take ‘is place—and you stepped up to the plate.”
Micky sat down next to Davy. “Yeah, but why me?”
Davy shrugged. “You saw a need and you filled it, mate. Simple as that. If it hadn’t been you it might have been me or even Peter . . . you were just the quickest.” Davy looked down at the table. “And just between you and me—you’ve been doing a great job.” He excused himself to his bedroom to dress for the day and missed the broad, radiant grin that lit up Micky’s face.
On to Chapter Eight
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