Father in the Making. Marie Ferrarella
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improbable family. Nothing remotely bearing a resemblance to a smile had creased his son’s lips.
Had Diane’s death completely wiped away Mickey’s feelings? No, he wasn’t going to accept that. He wasn’t certain how, but somehow, he was going to find a way to break through to Mickey.
But not today.
Blaine looked at his watch. It was getting late and was undoubtedly past Mickey’s bedtime. He’d never had the boy with him overnight. Even when he’d had the time, Diane hadn’t allowed it. They’d call it a night, he decided, and start fresh tomorrow.
“Ready for bed?”
Secretly, he hoped for a protest. Little boys always tried to wangle an extra ten minutes or so. It was inherent in their nature. Bedtime was something to be avoided at all costs, even if you were falling on your face, exhausted.
Mickey rose to his feet. Spangles gained his legs beside him. “Sure.”
It suddenly occurred to Blaine that the only spark of emotion he had seen his son display was when the boy had first seen Bridgette. It had gone out almost immediately, but it had been there.
That clinched it. If he listened, he could have sworn he heard a cell door clanging shut.
Bridgette was probably the key to unlocking what was boarded up inside of Mickey. Like it or not, he was going to have to put up with the woman for his son’s sake.
He didn’t like it.
He liked the fact that she was right even less. Right that this subdued manner in which Mickey was dealing with his mother’s death wasn’t good. Blaine readily admitted that he didn’t know much about children, but he knew that Mickey’s reaction just wasn’t natural. He hadn’t seen him shed a single tear, and Jack had told him that the boy had remained dry-eyed at the funeral, as well. Blaine knew Mickey had loved his mother and had been very close to her.
Blaine took Mickey’s hand. It curved, small and lifeless, within his. “Want me to tuck you in?”
“If you want to.”
A conversation with an apathetic, world-weary old man would have yielded more emotion. For a moment, Blaine thought of just retreating, just giving up. It would have been the easy way out.
But then Bridgette’s advice about Mickey’s needs echoed through his mind. Harped on it might have been a more apt description. Still, the point was that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Mickey if he gave way and retreated.
He had to find a way to reach him, no matter what it took.
Mickey began to cross to the doorway. Blaine sat down on the coffee table in order to be at eye level with the boy. He placed his hands on Mickey’s small shoulders. Mickey turned to look at him. Maybe he could eventually reach him through physical contact.
“No,” Blaine contradicted. “What do you want? I would like to tuck you in, but I don’t want to do anything that might upset you.”
Diane had probably tucked him in hundreds of times and Blaine didn’t want to remind him of that. God, but this road he found himself on was so hard to navigate. He felt as if he were constantly losing ground.
Blaine searched his son’s face, looking to see if anything he was saying was registering.
“Mickey, you’re going to have to help me out here. I know I’m your dad.” Blaine’s mouth curved in a smile. “My name’s on your birth certificate, but that doesn’t mean I have the skills, the training to do this job right. I’ve never been the dad of a ten-year-old before. If I mess up, I want you to tell me.”
Mickey solemnly nodded his head up and down. “Sure, I’ll tell you.”
It was like talking to a glass of water, Blaine thought, frustrated. Releasing Mickey, he rose to his feet. “Okay, we’ll compromise. Why don’t you get ready and I’ll look in on you in a few minutes?”
He expected no protest this time and received none. Mickey left the room.
Behind him, credits were running over a scene of the family they’d been watching for the last half hour. All five people were tangled up in a huge group hug. Blaine pressed the On/Off button. The scene disappeared, folding itself up into a small, round blue dot before vanishing altogether.
He didn’t know why he had wasted his time and Mickey’s watching the show. Life wasn’t a half hour sitcom where problems were neatly resolved in twenty-three minutes—subplots even faster.
But he could wish for that, just this once.
Blaine ran a hand through his hair, upbraiding himself for being foolish. This was going to work out. It was just going to take time. Lots of it.
And some of it, he’d resigned himself, was going to have to be spent in Bridgette’s company. Starting at five tomorrow.
He wondered, as he walked down the hall to Mickey’s room several minutes later, if she was going to be coming by car or by broom.
The door to Mickey’s bedroom stood wide open. Light was flooding out into the hallway. Mickey was afraid of the dark and no paltry night-light adequately held the ghosts and haunts at bay. That was left up to a sixty-watt bulb. And Spangles.
When he looked in, Blaine saw that Mickey was already in bed and apparently asleep. Spangles was stretched out across the foot of the bed like a living black-and-tan accent rug. The German shepherd Blaine had given to his son for his seventh birthday raised his head slightly as Blaine walked in and approached the bed. He was Mickey’s dog all the way.
“Mick?” Blaine whispered softly.
Mickey made no response. Long lashes rested like dark crescents against his cheeks. His breathing was steady and rhythmic.
Blaine felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. He’d wanted another opportunity to talk with Mickey, but he had a gnawing feeling that no matter what he said, nothing would be changed. Not yet, at any rate.
He sighed. He was just going to have to be patient. Like a shot that had to be framed just so, things would fall into place, he promised himself. He loved Mickey too much for things not to work out.
Blaine patted the dog’s head as Spangles rested his muzzle on his paws. His large brown eyes were trained on Mickey.
“At least he feels he has you,” Blaine murmured to the dog. “That’s something.”
Withdrawing quietly from the room, Blaine didn’t see Mickey’s eyes opening. Nor did he see the endless well of sadness in them as Mickey turned toward the wall and the photograph of his mother hanging there.
Blaine realized that he had unconsciously been listening for the sound ever since he’d brought Mickey home from school: the sound of a car pulling up in his driveway. He’d been listening for it, anticipating it and dreading it all at the same time. When he finally heard it, Blaine glanced out the window toward the driveway. He was in time to see Bridgette getting out of her silver compact car.
Obviously her broom was in the shop, he thought.
Bracing himself, telling himself that this was for Mickey, Blaine was at the door when the doorbell rang. It sounded oddly like the bell at a boxing arena. Round two, he imagined. Still, if Mickey responded to her, Blaine supposed he could put up with the woman. In small, bite-size doses.
He opened the door and was surprised to note that she appeared somewhat uncomfortable. Now what? Did she have a bomb strapped to her, set to go off within five minutes, and was now wondering how to remain in his company until it detonated?
Bridgette raised her eyes to his. He looked larger than he had yesterday. Or maybe she just felt smaller. Bridgette wasn’t in her element.
She’d rehearsed the apology all during the drive over. In several different versions. No matter how she phrased it, the apology still sounded wrong. It wasn’t that apologies were foreign to her. She’d certainly done