Page 109 of Severance

My mother’s silhouette lingers on the porch. Then she rushes over and shoves a few bills at me. “Just in case.”

My gaze bounces between my parents and the Subaru keys and money in my hands. Tears begin to sting my eyes.

“Don’t forget to fill up with gas before you get on the interstate.” My father’s gloomy voice hums in my head.

“Okay. I won’t forget.” I push the words out and throw my arms in the air searching for a hug and he reciprocates. I forgot how warm and safe my father’s embrace was. I forgot how much I missed it.

28. After

My heart begins to dance when I hit the Seattle city limits. The digital clock on the dashboard shows seven and the sun bleeding into the skyscraper-studded horizon is bright orange and furious.

I only stopped once near Chehalis to fill up the Subaru and use the restroom, and part of me regrets not planning this trip better. I want to at least take a shower before going to see Mikah, but deep down, I know a shower won’t make a difference. The words will. That’s why it’s important I say the right ones. Luckily, three hours on an open road has given me some new perspective on things.

While I was at the gas station, I smoked a couple of cigarettes, sent my parents a mandatory check-in message, and googled a few hotels near the club where Mikah’s scheduled to play his show tonight. Most places were charging an arm and a leg, and I almost changed my mind and decided to look for something outside downtown, but the idea of getting into a car again only fed my anxiety.

My parents once took me to Seattle to see the Space Needle, and although my childhood memories of that trip are vague, they’re mostly bright and happy. The brooding city I’m driving through right now is nothing like the one I remember visiting. This city is dark and loud with sleek-looking buildings scraping the cloudy sky. The traffic is nerve-racking and the roads are insane. They’re like rollercoasters, twisting and bending when you least expect it. Unlike Portland, people here seem to be in a hurry. The air is thick with urgency, and I wonder if it’s because it’s the weekend or if this is a typical Seattle night.

I can almost understand why Mikah would want to leave so badly. He’d fit in better here. He’d be a perfect addition to this mega puzzle.

At close to eight, I pull up to the hotel I randomly picked from my list. My panic is in full swing because, according to the venue’s website, Mikah’s set is scheduled to start at nine and he only plays for thirty minutes.

I rush to the check-in desk, fill out the paperwork, and get a room for two days, which pretty much eats my whole bakery paycheck.

At quarter to nine, I exit the hotel, showered and determined, in my light pink sundress and leather jacket. The air smells odd—exhaust fumes and summer rain. My eyes dart from the map on my phone to the long line of streetlights illuminating the busy sidewalk. Anxiety doesn’t really begin to mess with my head until the marquee of the club across the street enters my line of vision as I reach the intersection that’s humming with nightlife. Seeing Mikah’s name flickering above the heads of people crowding the entrance sends cold shivers down my spine. I stiffen and stop for a second to regain my composure.

What if someone brings a gun?

Bang! Bang!

“You need a ticket?” A voice drags me out of my panic-infused daze, and I shift my gaze from the marquee to the person who’s attempting to talk to me. He’s older with a thin face and jumpy eyes, and his smile doesn’t strike me as sincere.

“No, I’m fine.” I draw a deep breath.

“Half-price.” The guy tries again, motioning at the club.

“No, thank you.”

“All right. Your loss, beautiful.” He switches his attention to the couple standing to my left.

When the light changes, I cross the street and walk up to the line forming in front of the ticket window. My hands begin to shake and a surge of terror pings in my chest. The voices around me are distorted and unsettling, and the fear of going into a new place is bigger than ever.

After getting my wristband, I step aside to smoke a cigarette, but the high of the nicotine only lasts a few minutes. As soon as I get inside, panic ties my gut into a throbbing knot. The club is tiny and far from full. Small groups are scattered all over the main floor, and there’s plenty of room near the stage, but I choose a spot in the middle. I don’t want him to see me just yet.

The noise-filled darkness makes my heart go haywire. My gaze jumps from one person to another, scanning their jackets and hands, and then it flicks to the lonely guitar on stage. I fix my mind on the soft music playing in the background and try not to let panic ruin my evening.

A short time later, the lights in the club dim down and the whispers of anticipation disperse into the heavy air.

My anxiety has twisted up all my senses, and I’m not sure how to feel when Mikah’s silhouette appears on stage. A few shy claps roll through the curious crowd as he walks over to the microphone and picks up his guitar. Under the spotlight, I can see that he’s wearing a plain black t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans, and his hair falls loosely across his broad shoulders. The simplicity stirs me and my eyes devour every little detail, every move, every smirk, every blink. Every strum of the chord and every breath.

I’m in a daze as I watch him play and sing. His voice is a fine blend of tenor and baritone and is a perfect match to his acoustic guitar, the fusion of them bleeding across the room like oxygen. It’s refreshing. It fills my cells with a strange buzz.

When the first song comes to an end, there’s a wave of enthusiastic cheers, and a young man with a cell phone plunges to the front to record.

My chest swells with pride. I stand in my spot and listen to the music he’s written until the very end of his set. I don’t care that my legs are tired and my back hurts after the three-hour drive. He’s devastating and stunning and I’m scared to move, because his songs have given me a moment of balance between all my worries and hurt, and I want to make this slice of peace in my heart last just a bit longer.

Mikah shifts on his stool and adjusts the microphone. “Thank you all.” He slowly runs his palm across the scratched wood of the guitar body and clears his throat. “It means a lot to me that you came out to see me play. I have one more song left. I’ve never performed it live before, but I rehearsed the hell out of it yesterday.” A faint smile tugs the corner of his mouth and laughter rumbles through the audience.

Mikah pauses, then his eyes slowly scan the crowd, and the lines in his forehead deepen. “A few months ago, I lost my brother.” There’s sadness in his tone. The whispers die and the silence is practically absolute. “We had a band and we made music together, and I didn’t actually think I was going to do solo stuff at that time.” Mikah’s expression looks troubled. “My brother wrote amazing lyrics. I don’t believe I’ll ever be anywhere near his level so…this song I’m going to play isn’t mine…” His voice trembles and I can see him losing himself in the speech. “I found these lyrics after he died and I wrote some chords. But it’s really his song. It’s called ‘Moonchild.’”

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