“I have no . . . more . . . um, let’s see . . . than I did . . . before . . .” Mike paused, unable to finish the line. He knew there was more, but he couldn’t remember the rest of it.
He slumped back against the seat with a weary sigh and gave his brain a rest. The memories were returning in piecemeal fashion, which frustrated him almost beyond endurance.
Mike slowly closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander; thankfully the bus was nearly empty. He always felt strange about nodding off when there were strangers around.
When he closed his eyes the images became more clear. He was now certain that there were three, maybe four other people who were very important to him—he kept seeing their faces in his mind but he remained unable to put names with them. Three of them were male—one with dark brown hair and large eyes, one with a riotous mass of curls, and the last with straight blond hair and dimples . . . for some reason Mike felt particularly connected to this last person.
The last face was female with dark brown hair and a cocky jaunt to her eyebrows. She was not as familiar to him as the other three, but she was nevertheless prominent in his mind.
Maybe these are . . . siblings, or friends . . . no, they’re more than friends . . .
He continued to think about them as the gentle rocking of the bus slowly lulled him to sleep.
~*~
“One two three four!”
“Mick, wait!” Davy bent down and retrieved one of his finger picks. “Okay!”
“One two three four!” Micky waited for the familiar opening notes of “Tomorrow’s Gonna Be Another Day”. When they were not forthcoming he opened his eyes and peered at Peter, who stood with his hands clasped over the neck of Mike’s twelve-string.
“Peter? Hello, Earth to Peter!” Micky waved his hands for a few moments, the movement finally snapping Peter out of his trance.
“Oh, sorry,” Peter said. “What were you saying?”
“Micky,” Ella said, tiredly brushing her hair out of her eyes, “we’ve been at this for a while; I think we need a break.”
Micky sighed and set down the tambourine. “You may be right.”
“Of course I am,” Ella said, favoring him with a wan smile. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we go out?”
“Out where?” Davy asked as he slipped the bass from around his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Out. Let’s just walk out the door and down the street and away from the funk surrounding this house.”
Peter looked to Micky, who shrugged. Micky looked at Ella, who cast a sidelong glance at Davy, who looked back at Peter.
“All right, that’s a yes, because I say it is,” she said, placing her drumsticks on the floor. She linked arms with Peter and almost literally dragged the bassist from the stage, barely giving him time to put down Mike’s guitar.
“You gotta love a girl who can take control,” Micky said as they walked out the door into the late afternoon sunshine.
~*~
Mike wandered down the street. He had changed buses in Burbank, choosing to head west to Santa Monica and Malibu instead of heading to LA. Like all the decisions he’d made that day this one was based on instinct and fragmentation of memory--Mike had learned several hours before to trust those feelings; they hadn’t steered him wrong yet.
The more he walked the more the memories returned. Some, like his name and the names of his . . . friends, he was almost certain they were friends . . . remained stubbornly elusive. Others, like the names of clubs that he had performed at and the kind of car he drove, came readily to mind. If only the important things weren’t so outta reach, he thought.
He lifted his gaze beyond, to where a group of people approached--the distance and the glare from the setting sun left him unable to make out their faces. He turned away, peering curiously into the nearest shop window. He really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone . . .
~*~
“Guys, can’t we go back home?” Peter said, trying to keep the whine from his voice. “I’m tired.”
“Listen you three,” Ella said sternly. “We have all spent too much time moping around that house. Just because Mike isn’t here doesn’t mean that we should stop living our lives!”
At the mention of Mike, Micky and Davy directed their eyes at the ground, and Peter looked away, trying to fight the tears welling up in his eyes. His gaze fell on a tall, thin man who was studying a display behind the nearest shop window.
“You know,” he said as the group passed by, “I’ve been thinking about Mike so much that everyone is starting to look like him.”
Ella stopped and turned, giving the man at the window a much more thorough glance. Every muscle in her neck constricted and she gasped, the sound a high-pitched whistle that stopped the other three in their tracks.
“What is i--?” Micky asked, but was cut off by Peter’s hysterical cry:
“MIIIKE!”
On to Chapter Nine
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