Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
I had gradually reconciled the what-made-a-man-a-man part with who I was. Because I was the center of everything. Without me, Cy was different, not the man he was now, warm and loving and free. Without me, the boys didn’t feel protected and grounded and safe. Without me, Lyn didn’t have a wall to lean on, someone who had her back no matter what. They were all a blessing, especially Cy, but I mattered too, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything.
“Oh dear God, what is that?” Cy whimpered beside me, bringing me back from my roaming thoughts to the here and now of the Easter program.
“It’s a xylophone,” I informed him.
“A what?” Lyn whispered from the other side of me.
I rolled my eyes. “Micah plays the xylophone and sings. Where have you people been?”
“Are you kidding me?” Lyn poked me in the arm.
“It’s loud too,” Tristan informed his uncle from the other side of him, putting his hands over his ears. “That’s why Weber makes him practice in the garage.”
“That’s why he’s been in the garage?” Cy asked me.
I nodded as the first notes on the xylophone were struck. The microphone was right there, right where the resounding noise could travel all the way through the crowd and run straight up your spine to the center of your brain. The lady in front of us said ohmygod, but not in a good way. The man behind me jolted and kicked my chair. “Sorry,” he gasped, startled.
Lyn started giggling, Pip climbed out of his seat and into my lap, and Cy turned to me like it was all my fault.
“What?”
“Are you kidding?” He was horrified. “This could damage my cerebral cortex.”
I shook my head. “Probably not.”
“I’m sorry, when did you get your medical degree?”
“I live with a doctor.” I waggled my eyebrows. “You pick up a bit.”
Another chord was struck.
“This is torture,” Cy whimpered.
“It’s only for the first three songs. Then they switch to maracas.”
He was stunned.
I made sure Micah saw me when he looked up, that he saw me smile. The kid had to be supported, for crissakes.
Before New Year’s, we were all having dinner together, and Micah had asked Cy to please pass the mashed potatoes. And Cy had. We made no event of it, and when we made the trip up to see his parents on the first day of the year, having seen them at Christmas a week before, they were shocked to hear him talking like it was no big deal, not speaking any louder or faster or even more, but just like he used to. His life was settled. If he wasn’t at school or at an activity or with his mother, he was with me. I wasn’t going to die on him, and neither was his mother or his uncle. He had faith in all of us to stick around. His father was gone, but the man had been too busy to spend much time with his kids—busy in more ways than one, as it turned out—and the sad part was that Micah didn’t miss what he hadn’t ever had. He didn’t miss the relationship with his father, didn’t mourn the man’s absence. None of the boys did. They didn’t even ask after him, which made me think even worse of the man. I did hope he was happy living in Vegas, though, and I, like Lyn, wished he’d remain there and have a good life. Ours was perfect; we didn’t need to begrudge him his.
The tap on my shoulder brought me from my thoughts. Turning, I saw the very pained-looking but beautifully dressed and accessorized mother of one of Micah’s classmates. “Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Did you say only two songs like this, or two more and then the maracas?”
“Two more after this, then the maracas.”
She winced. “Thank you. Aren’t you Micah’s nanny?”
“Yes, ma’am, and you’re Kellie’s mom.”
“Yes.” She tried to smile at me.
“She plays a mean ukulele. I heard her practicing yesterday.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She was trying to hold on to her smile, her forced cheerfulness. “I forgot there’s that too. Thank you.”
I nodded and turned back around as a hand slipped into mine. Looking over at Cy, I found him smiling at me.
“What?”
“I love you.”
“I love you back.”
“I’m still going to kill you for not warning me about the xylophone,” he moaned as a wrong note was gonged. It was really loud, and his eyes got huge.
“That was cute there, Doc.”
He growled under his breath.
Two hours and fifteen minutes later, after the last percussion and vocal interpretation, everyone wanted to know why the Easter program had xylophones, maracas, bongo drums, and ukuleles anyway.
“It’s about experiencing and appreciating different cultures and their musical interpretations and gifts,” I explained.
“It’s what?” Cy asked as some of the other parents squinted at me.
“World music. You need to open your mind.”