* * *
At some point,I must’ve fallen asleep, because I nearly fell off the couch when I startled awake. I turned off the music and listened.
“Come on, breathe, dammit!” The screams from the bedroom sent a chill straight to my core. I bolted down the hall, praying it was Michael having a bad dream and not something wrong with Jagger. A quick peek in Jagger’s room showed him still sleeping soundly, although I wasn’t sure how he managed to sleep through his father’s painful pleading.
I paused outside Michael’s door, debating whether I should wake him or wait to see if he got through it on his own. Logically, I knew he was likely dreaming about Erica’s death. It made sense. She was gone, but I could tell her presence was still strong with both of them. Her death still haunted them. The problem was the brain isn’t always logical, and there was something in his tone that made me jump every time he cried out.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. If he wanted to be pissed at me for barging into his room, that was his problem. There was no way in hell I was going to listen to him suffering through his memories without waking him.
I stood back as I reached for his shoulder, on the off chance that he woke up swinging. My heart still raced from being woken up so abruptly. “Michael, come on, man,” I urged, keeping my voice low and nonthreatening. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
Michael fisted his hands in his hair, his head jerking from one side to the other. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you in time,” he apologized. “Help is on the way. You’re going to be okay. You have to be. Oh God, please let him be okay.”
Him? That wasn’t what I expected. “Michael, wake up,” I whispered loudly. “You’re going to wake up Jagger.”
He startled and in the dim light from the hall, I saw him staring at me through vacant eyes. “It’s you…”
“Yeah man, it’s me.” I bit back the urge to ask him who else would be in his bedroom in the middle of the night, figuring it wasn’t the time or place for sarcasm.
“How’re you here?” His words were slurred, but I knew him well enough at this point to know it was the remnants of sleep hanging on rather than him drinking after his shift.
“I fell asleep on the couch. You must’ve left me to sleep when you got home,” I said, trying to keep my voice soft as he rubbed at his eyes. “You had a nightmare.”
“That happens sometimes,” he said flatly as he turned away from me, curling the blankets under his chin. “I’ll be fine.”
“Whatever you say,” I scoffed. The more I learned about Michael, the more I realized he was anything but fine. That was just a mask he wore when other people were around so no one would criticize him. In the privacy of his own home, he let the pain break through the mask, and it was devastating to see. “If you decide you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.”
No way was I going to pressure him, but when we were both awake and it was a decent hour, Iwasgoing to see if I could convince him that both he and his son needed some heavy-duty therapy. They were starting to make me feel like my own fucked-up family wasn’t so bad, and that shouldn’t be possible.
