Page 45 of Hard Rock Temptation
For fun? Something that wasn’t related to the band? I began to sweat. Was it a bad sign that I couldn’t think of anything?
“Oh!” I suddenly remembered. “I’m making a dress.”
“Sewing your own clothes?” Nancy asked, looking impressed.
“Just taking an old button down and repurposing it,” I said.
“Kay’s worn a couple of her own original designs on stage before,” Micah said proudly.
“I wouldn’t call them original designs,” I laughed self-consciously. “I just cut up old stuff and patch it together in new ways. I guess it’s a different way of being creative.” It kept my mind and fingers busy in a way that was different from when I was playing drums. “Why don’t you ask Micah what he’s been doing for fun?” I said, trying to take the attention off myself.
“I already know my son’s a workaholic.” Nancy rolled her eyes fondly. “I’m hoping the two of you getting together might help you see beyond that little bubble you’ve wrapped yourself up in.”
The band, a bubble? No way. The band was my life.I didn’t need anything else. But I supposed that perspective might be hard to understand from the outside. Not everyone found their calling in life, their passion, the way I had. I knew I was one of the lucky ones.
“The next time you visit, you wear that dress,” Micah’s mom said.
“I will, I promise,” I smiled at her.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled back. Then her eyes squinted, as if the lights in the kitchen were too bright. Herforehead wrinkled with pained lines and she started to waver on her feet.
Micah was at her side immediately.
“Mom, are you okay?” he asked urgently. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She gripped her son’s arm and took a few trembling steps.
“I’m just feeling a bit tired all of a sudden, that’s all.” Her voice was thin and thready. “I think I’d like to lie down in bed.”
“Sure, of course,” Micah said, supporting his mother’s weight as they made their way to her bedroom.
I followed a few paces behind, fretting but not wanting to get in the way.
Visiting Micah’s mom was always bittersweet. She was such a cheerful, upbeat person, always worrying so much about us, as if we were her own children. But she had been sick for a while, some sort of autoimmune disease that flared up at random. Some weeks she would be fine, and others she would be bedridden.
I knew it was hard for Micah, especially because we were often on tour. It had gotten especially hard ever since his dad had passed away. He hated leaving his mom alone.
I hovered outside the bedroom door until Micah’s mom was settled in and made comfortable. Then Micah left the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He let out a soft sigh.
“She’s already half asleep,” he said. “These episodes take it out of her.”
His hand was trembling as he brought it to his hair, pushing back dark, messy strands to reveal his forehead, lined with worry.
I took his other hand in both of mine and looked up at him.
“Has she been getting worse?” I asked softly.
Micah lifted one shoulder listlessly.
“She’s actually been doing pretty good lately,” he said. “But I suppose we shouldn’t have gotten our hopes up.” He let out a frustrated growl, pulling his hand from my grip and turning to pace the living room. “I hate this,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I hate that it comes on with no warning. I hate that I’m always just waiting for something to happen, dreading those moments when her own body turns against her.”
I came up behind him, pressing myself against his solid back, and wrapped my arms around his waist, stopping him mid-step.
“I’m so sorry,” I told him quietly. “I wish there was something I could do.”
He let out a deep breath and brought his hands up to cover mine where they laid clasped against his stomach.
“Just having you here with me helps,” he replied. “Thank you.”
