Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (12 page)

Would I meet my son later today? My chest pounded in fear and excitement.

“I
cannot believe you are doing this, Marissa.”

“Doing what, Mom?”

Tristan, after being awake long enough to eat some macaroni from his lunch tray and to look at the activity books his Gammy brought, fell into a doze, leaving me essentially alone with my mother. He had slept after breakfast also.

Curled on the short couch beneath the window, I had caught some sleep until my mom showed up and began harassing me about Jack.

“Doing that.”

“I’m not doing anything.” The false declaration was sullen, and I didn’t meet my mother’s eyes.

“I have been more than patient, thinking you might confide to me on your own. But you never do, do you?” Indignantly, my mother carried on with the tirade, “Always have to be so secretive. As if what goes on in your life is so much more important than the rest of ours.”

“I’m not talking about this right now.” Keeping my voice low, in case the little boy in the bed was not fully asleep, I turned my back as I finished the fruit from my own lunch.

“For five years, you have hidden the identity of this man, and then he waltzes right into our lives and you are going to continue—”

“Mother! Stop!”

My phone blipped with a text, and I circled to where it lay on the foot of the bed near Bandit and Tiggy.

The texts passed back and forth, and I even sent a few more after my mother’s pointed throat clearing. It was hard to believe this was happening, whatever ‘this’ was. I wasn’t going to mess it up, before it even began, by throwing Jack too quickly to the wolf who was my maternal parent.

All day, I relived the kiss, over and over, and even imagined taking it farther. The anger and humiliation of the phone call, and the following legal letter was not forgotten. But, if many wonderful little things could cancel out one big thing, similar to the way five years ago, we had jokingly struck a ratio of fifteen texts to one phone call, then he was well on his way to redemption.

Was I though? Was I in need of forgiveness from him? The blurt before he had stopped himself concerning me not telling him about Tristan nagged at my memory for a moment.

My mother’s insight could be uncanny, and this was one of those times. A habitual early riser, waking before daylight each morning, my mom napped each afternoon. However, today she wasn’t budging. My father stopped by after his workday, and even his company didn’t send my mother scurrying as it normally did.

A perky hospital aid delivered Tristan’s supper, and I had just finished setting the tray up for easy eating when the first guitar lick blared.

My parents’ reactions to this ring tone were much the same as the occupants in the waiting room the previous evening, but Tristan’s eyes rounded with pleasure. “Answer it, Momma! Please!”

Tristan’s reaction further fascinated my mother and father, but I quickly did as my son said.

As if I could refuse calls now…

The feel of Jack’s lips gently brushing mine had me quickly pressing the screen.

“Hi!” As I spoke, I held up a polite finger—not the one I wanted after seeing my mother’s frown—and took the call to the privacy of the hall.

“Hey!” The smile in his voice carried through the cell towers. “Coast clear yet?” Heaving a sad sigh, I responded to the negative, and he replied, “I don’t mind meeting them, you know. I was just hoping, I guess I was just thinking that…” He dwindled to a pause, and as I absently watched a patient being coaxed to walk along the hall, I heard a barely audible sigh from his end. “Is this even the right time for me to meet Tristan? Should I wait until he’s not feeling so… Mariss, I don’t know what to do.”

“Well it’s not the right time to, you know, to tell him.”

With as much frequency as the last kiss between us, the various possible scripts of explaining to Tristan who Jack was to him, danced in my mind. The hospital was not one of those scenarios.

“But he’s feeling really good. I’m amazed at how good. So if you wanted to come by, hang out… My parents are about to leave.”

Spectators shouldn’t be at this momentous event. Squaring my shoulders when Jack affirmed, I resolved to rid the room of the audience. Returning to the room, I found my mother helping Tristan with his juice box, and surprisingly, not an eyelash batted when I related a version of the truth.

“A friend of Tristan’s is coming by, and I’m thinking he should get some rest until then.”

A knowing look passed between my parents, and my father hastily agreed and then curved a pleased smile when my mother did the same. Obviously, they had conferred while I was on the phone, and for once, my mother was going along with his advice.

“Who’s coming?” Tristan promptly asked, as soon as hugs were dispensed and his grandparents were out of the room.

Thinking his interest was on the tv, I had kept my voice low when speaking to my parents, but as always, nothing got by him. Gently running a comb through his hair, I explained, “A new friend. The one that brought Bandit while you were in surgery.”

“The one that plays the music?”

“Hmm?”

This question unbalanced me, and I scrutinized his tiny face, wondering how he could know ‘this friend’ was a musician.

“The one that plays the music when they call on your phone.” Tristan was obviously feeling more himself, because the usual vexation at having to explain himself was strong.

Confusion still riddled my brain. Although I now knew he was speaking of Jack’s ring tone, I was becoming suspicious that Tristan did not know exactly what a ring tone was, and that in his four-year old mind, he visualized the caller making the sound in real-time.

A nurse bustled in, humming as she checked his vitals and fussing over him with attention as most staff did. Jack rang back, and when Tristan darted a look over as I answered, I resolved to show him ring tones soon.

“You said Tristan likes Oreo Blizzards? Are they letting him eat that stuff today?”

The frozen treat conjured in my mind, and I smiled, finding it sweet that Jack remembered the little things about Tristan and wanted to perk up his hospital stay. Confirming to Jack that Tristan was on a normal diet, I stepped aside for the nurse to exit and then turned to find my son’s expectant gaze avidly watching as I spoke into the phone.

“So how about you? What do you want?” Jack questioned.

“Oh, thanks, but I don’t want anything,” I assured. A warm glow radiated to every cell because he had asked. Silly, but it happened.

“Yes you do,” he argued like a big brother, best friend, or… a boyfriend.

“I don’t. Really.”

“Did you eat today?” The mindful question completed the devoted feeling.

“I ate.” In answering, I reassured him that on this floor, an extra food tray for the parent accompanied the patient’s tray.

Jack stubbornly insisted on getting a food preference from me and even threatened he would pick at random from the menu if I didn’t choose.

“Besides, how will it look if I come walking in with something for Tristan and me and not you?” he teased.

“Alright, alright!” Relenting, I blocked out the carbs and calories and requested a slush latte. Only once or twice had I ever allowed myself this treat, so I didn’t know the specific flavors. Before he could ask, I went on, “Surprise me.”

Tristan said nothing when I disconnected but continuously studied me, similarly to the way he would around Christmastime, or his birthday, when I came home and sneaked straight to my room to hide presents.

Nervously, I fiddled with my day-old hair in the mirror.

This morning, I had showered in the room’s tiny connecting bathroom and changed into jeans with a comfortable pullover shirt. Now, I took in my appearance, wishing I had packed with the foreknowledge of Jack making this trip.

Easing beside Tristan’s tiny form, I settled on the bed to wait, my mind reeling with the odds and ends I needed to do this week, and as always today’s recollection…

…Jack’s kiss…

The slight rap on the door yanked me from this reverie, and I looked down, seeing Tristan was dozing again. Jumping up, I pulled open the door and gave myself over to the familiar flutter in my stomach when Jack’s dark eyes hit my face.

Both disappointment and relief crossed his face when he observed Tristan sleeping. Handing off my frozen drink, he set the other on the stand at the side of the bed and eyed the stuffed animals at the footboard. Finally, his gaze moved back over Tristan’s sleeping face and tenderness filled his eyes.

Initially, seeing the natural paternal instinct in Jack’s expression swelled my heart, then like before, abrupt fear constricted my insides.

Suddenly, I was wishing Tristan were not such a perfect miniature of his father, as if that would stop some of the closeness Jack already felt. A good mother would have robbed a bank for the money, not risked custody.

“What’s wrong?” Jack wondered, concern weighing his words.

Immediately jumping to the conclusion that my consternation related to our son, he asked about the doctor’s earlier visit. Forcing a smile, I related the positive things Dr. Millosky had to say during his examination this morning. Tristan would only be hospitalized a couple more days, and once we were home, a physical therapist would come to work with him three times a week.

“Is he the one, Momma?”

Both of our gazes whipped to Tristan, and obviously wondering what Tristan was speaking of, Jack spared a quick glance to me.

“Your ring tone.” Hastily, I supplied the explanation to ease any fears he might have of my having already revealed his identity to his son. “He’s fascinated by your ring tone.”

I wanted to run to Tristan’s side but held back, only standing while Jack approached the bed.

“Oh.” Jack’s smile was tense, but he moved a shoulder in a carefree shrug. “I’m the one, I guess.” Setting his cup down, he indicated the remaining one. “Your mom said you liked Blizzards.”

“Only Oreo.” Tristan’s tone was hopeful, yet resigned, as if knowing a stranger might not get his flavor right.

Jack picked up the cup, peering beyond the rim with a pucker of his brows– the same pucker Tristan had when contemplating. “Hey! It’s Oreo!”

Tristan’s mini brows shot up, and when he sent me a tolerating look, I knew my son was not fooled by adult shenanigans. But he said nothing to Jack of this reasoning that the customer purchasing would know exactly what he ordered. Instead, he beamed a grateful smile and held his tiny hand out.

“So, how do you play that music? Drums and guitar?”

Now Jack was the one who sent me a surprised look. Even though the origin of the question confused him, I knew he must be pleased that the first conversation his son started with him was music related.

“I play the guitar part. My friends play drums, and bass.” Jack alluded to the band members but said nothing of the band itself.

Watching this exchange, I wondered if I should introduce them, but Tristan beat me to it.

“What’s your name?” he asked curiously.

They politely clasped hands after their self-introduction, and I watched, amazed, as the two of them carried on a conversation for a quarter of an hour, only occasionally glancing my way. They talked music, comparing song knowledge, and they talked dogs, comparing Bally and Rusty. Eventually, I sank to the chair and ate my dessert, uncaring that it was a day’s worth of calories in a cup.

Jack remained until visiting hours were up at nine. Tristan slept some but awoke as if by instinct when Jack was about to leave. With a ruffle of his son’s dark hair, Jack promised to see him next time he came to town. At this, I started, my spine lifting from the back of the chair.

Waiting until we were in the hall, right outside the door, I phrased the inquiry, careful to keep it emotionless. “Are you leaving?”

“My flight is in the morning. I have a thing. I would get out of it if I could.” His dark eyes seemed both apologetic and as disappointed as I was.

Keeping my voice light, I slanged the common adage, “Well, watcha gonna do…”

“Yeah…” He quirked a half-grin, rewarding me with almost one dimple. “Watcha gonna do…”

With that last phrase, he seemed closer in distance as well as height. Was it a double entendre? If so, what I was going to do was…

Kiss him…

When I tipped my head up, he met it before I lifted on tiptoes.

The kiss was warm and sweet, and the touch of our tongues wildly electrifying.

Despite the public venue, and our son just on the other side of the door, I took the kiss to the next level, sucking, savoring his tongue with more delectation than the ice cream earlier. His throaty rumble was felt, more than heard. He pressed against me, pushing my backside against the wall, taking his tongue away enough to tease the sweet spots on mine and then swiping it across my lips before giving it back to me to do with whatever I desired—

“You kids need to take that somewhere else!”

The female voice was haughty, as if we were teens being reprimanded, and maybe the woman thought we were.

Surprised, I jerked but there was no place to go. Jack was slower to ease up, continuing to press his length against me as he stole a few more seconds of the mind-blowing kiss. My heart raced at a dizzying speed, and I was glad he only pulled his lips away and not himself or I would have slid limply down the wall.

Unanimously, our heads turned to the retreating figure of a large woman wearing Scooby Doo scrubs. My giddy giggle couldn’t be stopped, that is, until Jack brushed another kiss on my lips, reacquainting our tongues a few more seconds before moving back a step.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he promised. I nodded or voiced some form of agreement, then enjoyed watching him walk away before turning back to the room.