Chapter 16. Micah
MICAH
The cold water cramps my gut the more I chug.
My mouth’s like a cotton ball. I push aside my glass, lean into the kitchen sink, turn on the water, and tilt the kitchen nozzle into my mouth.
My phone buzzes behind me on the island, where a much younger version of my dad and Aunt Max used to eat breakfast.
Less than a minute—got to be a new record. I slide the back of my hand across my mouth. “Music Man, thought I missed you.”
From photographs, I can piece together the few memories I have of being on the road with my dad and when I began calling him Music Man. Like the time I was hospitalized with a fever in the Philippines and when I met his parents and younger sister, my Aunt Max, in New York for the first time.
The Music Man played Madison Square Garden that night and some woman in a uniform put me to bed in the guest room down the hall from Aunt Max.
I couldn’t sleep, missing the lull of my dad’s guitar. The next day, I searched for his things but they’d disappeared. I remember crying, thinking he’d died.
He’d only gone on tour.
Looking back, I should have asked more questions when Granddad started calling me Son.
“Micah? I can hardly hear you. The guys keep messing with the guitars onstage.”
I sit at the island, my limbs heavy. “Move to a quieter space.”
“You go, girl! You can put that over there.” He slips a smile into his voice, probably for one of his roadies.
I rub my eyes. “Dad . . .”
“Okay, okay. Take a chill pill.”
A door closes.
“What’s crack-a-lackin’, my main man?”
“I wanted to hear your voice.” My throat tightens.
“Crank up the tunes, fool.” He cackles like a smoker with the warmth of smoldering embers. “Been taking your meds?” he asks, his tone suddenly hushed.
“Yes, though . . . some days . . .” I swallow the golf ball rolling up my throat.
“The docs said this could happen, remember? You’re still growing, your body’s changing.” He laughs. “How tall are you now?”
“Six one.”
“Well, you passed me. How’s it going staying at the old home-stead?”
“Quiet.” But my ears still ring from last night’s soccer fans.
I couldn’t settle after walking back here—my mind was still at the bar.
“Dad, those dreams have returned where I’m somebody else and I feel, I don’t know, all peaceful inside.
Then I wake up and I’m the same guy who brought this bad shit into everyone’s lives. What if this doesn’t work?”
“You and your wild imagination. Remember filling up all those notebooks, asking me to send you more? While other kids read stories, you envisioned them.”
If only I could live someone else’s story. “I don’t know how much longer—”
“Give it a few more weeks. Then call Dr. Barnes to change your dosage. She warned us it’d be trial and error until we got the right cocktail in you. Hell, if you’d stop growing, maybe these meds would have a chance to work on that thick head of yours.” He chuckles.
“Dad—”
“Hey.” His voice goes gentle. “Is it too much, Mic? Let me know and I’ll fly you back there. Say the word.”
Brynn’s face flashes in my head. Our lowly intern would laugh hearing her boss whine to his daddy, my carefully crafted facade obliterated.
I squeeze my forehead. Why do I bother?
A group of high school kids passes by the window facing MacDougal.
One walks backward, leading the pack. He wears sunglasses too large for his face and an open Hawaiian shirt. With his chin raised and shoulders back, he shouts something.
His crew doubles over in laughter.
A suitcase filled with rocks rests on my chest. I used to be that kid, a leader among my friends. Now I’m just an empty shell.
My dad speaks to someone off to the side.
My cue. I shouldn’t burden him with this. When did I become such a basket case?
“I can wait and see if it gets better.” My vision blurs.
“Atta boy, Harmonica.”
I sniffle, blinking. “God . . . you haven’t called me that in . . . I don’t know how long.”
“Your mom, so convinced you’d be a girl; she picked out that name and wanted to call you Monica for short.”
I muster the energy to play along. “I know, and when I came out—hello, baby boy on deck, watch out for that thing! And Monica became Micah.”
“Your mom would have approved. Or called you Joe. Whichever one.” He cackles. “I’m . . . I have to get back. They’re buggin’.” He laughs like I’m in on the joke.
“Dad—”
My phone goes quiet.
I fling it on the counter and drag myself to the yellow couch in the living room, pulling the cotton blanket over me.
The same old dull ache rises inside my chest. Still I pretend.
I like to picture him here—slinging an arm over my shoulder, assuring me in the same whispery voice he uses when discussing my psychosis that this monster inside will one day discover a new body to inhabit.
What Dad makes time for I see as distractions. Interruptions from his eager fans and endless handlers, working like dogs to fulfill his needs so everyone gets paid.
Dad thrives on it. Keeps us from sharing anything real. He doesn’t like to dwell on the less glamorous part of his life. Doctors, experimental treatments, and a deranged son can be a real buzzkill.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him in the past two years.
In high school, before the Shadow People came around, my close friends were my brothers—their moms and dads my surrogate parents.
I’ve always been good at rewriting my story. I’ve had no choice.