Page 119 of Naughty Dreams
A pause. “I cried when I saw you helping DJ out of the limo. The way he leaned against you, I knew you had his trust. That he wasn’t alone with this.”
“I’m not sure it’s enough.” Hell, he hadn’t meant to say that. DJ wanted him to assure Marjorie all was well.
No, he hadn’t said that. He’d said Roy would know where his head was at. And what to say.
It made Roy’s gut ache, his heart hurt like a bitch, watching DJ trying to get out of bed, move forward, figure out what the hell he was without his bandmates. Sex could make both of them think they were doing okay, but when someone was walking a cliff edge where the ground was precarious, did each day he survived that path mean he was less susceptible to plummeting?
“He’s up and down. Normal stages of grief, but normal is a useless word when it comes to loss. I’m trying to help him get through this. Any advice?”
Another shaky breath. But when she spoke, he heard the experience of a woman who’d dedicated herself to caring for children the rest of the world had said they didn’t want. “They learn to absorb blows, sometimes in good ways, sometime in not so good ways. Like Tal.”
Another silence. Since he suspected she was thinking of the best way to answer his question while holding herself together,he waited. “All foster kids are different. Some focus on survival, taking what they can get, trusting no one. Others focus on caring for other kids like them. Still trusting no one, but they’re service-oriented. The peace bringers.”
A smile touched her voice. “When DJ was struggling with anxiety and difficult emotions, I’d have him help me serve food at the homeless shelter where I volunteer. He'd play with the kids, give their moms a few minutes to nap or take a breath. I have St. Francis of Assisi’s prayer on my wall, and when he was thirteen, DJ put an extra line on the bottom of it. ‘Seek to see, rather than be seen.’”
“He adapted that for one of their songs,” Roy recalled.
I’d rather see than be seen.
Except by you.
“Yes. He’s been writing lyrics most of his life. It’s an ironic one, since his path has put him so squarely in the public eye. Right now for a reason I would never have wished for him.”
She made a thoughtful hum. “Keep giving him things to care about, Roy. Things he can do for you, or others that need it. But staying connected to his music is vital. It’s his circulatory system. His heart doesn’t work without it. Is he doing any writing or playing?”
“No, ma’am. Today was the first day I saw him write, and it wasn’t for long.” Roy decided not to tell her what had motivated it and hoped she wouldn’t ask. They were all adults, but she was DJ’s mom.
“If you can figure out a way to get him to play music, any music, it will help. It’s like an umbilical cord for him, if that makes sense.”
It did, now that she put it that way. In Madison’s shop, Roy had sensed DJ’s desire to fight and reject it. Turn his back on his muse, whether from guilt, anger, or emotions too tangled to sort out.
Maybe DJ hadn’t lost his ability to hear the music. He was holding it at arm’s length, the way he’d been holding everyone else back since his band died. Including Marjorie. Because an umbilical cord attached the soul to life. To others.
“I’m working on that,” he said, thinking of The Rocking Duck. It was reassuring to hear he was on the right track.
“Good.” This time her response was swallowed by a half sob, and she managed the word in a broken tone. “Just be there for him. He has a wide-open heart, Roy. I never expected him to have to face something like this, so just…stay close. And when he’ll come, please bring him home to me.”
“Okay. I’m so sorry. Take a moment, Marjorie. It’s okay.”
He listened to her cry. He thought about offering to let her hang up, but she could do that herself. Maybe it helped to cry with someone. DJ needed to give Gilda her contact information. Roy would prod him on that.
When she started to slow down, regaining some composure, Roy went for distraction. He wasn’t ending the call until he was leaving her in a better place. Which would be with memories of living with her boys, not losing them.
“So how did you end up fostering kids?”
“My home hasn’t been a working farm in many years, but my grandfather grew tobacco here. It’s about a hundred acres. I lost my parents young, and he raised me. Since he invented a few things that resulted in some lucrative patent money, I received a considerable inheritance.”
She blew her nose quietly, and took a steadying breath. “After he passed, I remembered how lost and worried I was after myparents died. What was going to happen to me? Where would I end up? That’s when I decided to become a foster parent.”
“Marjorie, I’ll get him home to you.”
“You tell him I love him, Roy, and I consider him mine. No matter what. It’s the promise I made to him, to all of them, and it will never be broken.”
When Roy disconnected, he was shaken. Because he felt exactly the same way about her foster son.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Ihave a new addition to your disguise, since it’ll be too dark for sunglasses in The Rocking Duck. You’d need a seeing eye dog.”
