Eye of the Storms (Eye of the Storms #1) (8 page)

Tristan kept up a steady chatter, and a smile found its way to my face as I listened to the news of the day. Aunt Liv had bought him a new book app for the tablet she had given him for Christmas. The Chinese food delivery had taken almost an hour. One of his favorite shows recorded twice. Bally ate broccoli. Pleasantly, his tiny voice filled the room and as always, was the highlight of my evening.

The shred of an electronic riff, the pounding of drums, and a deep throaty howl interrupted the soothing sound waves, jarring me from my mindless leg thrusts, and rendering Tristan speechless.

“Is that your phone?” Round eyes accompanied his inquiry, and his short legs stopped their pedaling.

Jack’s number had been dumped, along with the rest of my contacts, from phone to phone, over the years. It was understandable that I had never deleted it. What could be considered unusual was my post cell upgrade ritual of scrolling through my sound files and assigning his special ring tone once more to his number.

Leaning to the side, I snatched the phone from the floor and verified the caller ID. Numbly, I took in the shaking of my hand as ’RUSS’ flashed the screen.

“It’s going to stop! Answer it!” Tristan’s frantic cry brought my attention to a miniature version of the face that haunted my dreams, and whose voice was now a click away.

My thumb hovered and then pressed.

A
quick click routed the call to voicemail.

“Momma, why did you do that?”

Vaguely, I brought my gaze from the phone to Tristan’s disappointment and wondered if somehow, subconsciously, he felt a connection to the caller– to his dad. Even Bally was now sitting, instead of lying, on her haunches with a judgmental ear cocked back.

“I didn’t feel like talking.” While defending my actions to my four-year old son, I was listening for the voicemail tone but wound up as deflated as Tristan looked when there was none. The truth was that the finely-worded custody clause in the letter was terrifying.

“You should’ve answered it.” Tiny feet renewed the slow rotation of the bike pedals.

“Why?” Again, I was curious, sensing some urgency in his reproof.

My mother viewed these types of conversations as my son’s lack of respect toward me as the parent, deeming things should be told, not explained, to a child. She didn’t get that Tristan was extremely mature for his age, thus could reason things out.

“To see who it is.” The pronouncement was heaved as if I were dense. Okay, so maybe I was sometimes too lax in asserting authority…

“Why did you want to know who it was?”

“Because I liked the music.”

My muscles relaxed some at that answer, and I revolved to the stair-master. “You did, huh?” Maybe it was because I had rocked the house non-stop with it during pregnancy. “Well, maybe I can find some music like that for you to listen to.” Concentrating, I tried to remember if the lyrics to all of Jackal’s songs were risqué, or if maybe there was just one song tame enough for the ears of the lead vocalist’s son.

The week passed far too quickly. Olivia decided to kennel Bally in her own home instead of driving back and forth to care for the dog. I bought a few new pajamas for Tristan since the ones he normally wore were faded or outgrown. I packed for both of us in luggage acquired years ago as a high school graduation present. A chic, yet comfortable, pantsuit hung on my closet door to wear the day of his surgery.

On the day before we were to arrive at the hospital, my car idled in the bank parking lot for a full ten minutes before I resolutely switched the ignition off. The walk from the car to the door was strenuous enough to be uphill, and the glass seemed heavy to pull open. Veering to a teller window, I cashed the check from Jack, sealing my fate, and Tristan’s, in some way, which would soon be determined.

Olivia drove us to the hospital the next morning and hovered with me around the bed, which was far too big for the tiny boy in it. We both winced as blood was drawn, but Tristan only frowned, and after the initial ouch, attentively watched the vial turn red. My thoughts went to the paternity test, yet to be scheduled, and I wondered if he would have to endure needles again after his release from the hospital.

“Hi Gammy!” Tristan sang out, looking beyond the phlebotomist who was packing up the blood vials.

Whirling around, I found my mother and moved to give her a hug after she finished embracing her grandson. My parents had been divorced since my childhood, and it was normally a strain to have both of them in the same area. However, they were supportive. My father showed up just minutes after Tristan was wheeled into the surgical area.

Coffee and the comfort of couches down the hall beckoned the rest of them, but I remained in the room, unpacking a stuffed tiger from Tristan’s gear. ‘Tiggy’ was Tristan’s favorite plush toy, ranking sleeping privileges in his bed along with Bally. Tiggy was still in my hand when Olivia returned less than a minute later.

“Want something to eat with your coffee, Rissa?” When I shook my head and moved to the window, my friend persisted. “You coming down to the waiting area?”

“How is a paternity test done?” Ignoring the question, I asked my own.

Concern darkened Olivia’s normally bright blue eyes. “Don’t think about that right now, okay? You have enough to deal with—”

“Is it a blood test?” Clutching the stuffed beast, I persisted.

“No, I’m sure it’s a swab test.” Softly, Olivia recited the assurance and studied the tiger in my arms.

“Oh.” Relieved, I placed the king of the jungle in the window, and answered the original question, “No, I can’t eat right now.”

Reluctantly, I followed Olivia to the family lounge area and sank into a chair, submissively allowing my friend to mix my coffee.

Conversations between my best friend and my family commenced while I alternated between staring glumly into my cold coffee and at the wall clock with a specific time on my mind. The surgeon had estimated that Tristan would be out of surgery and in recovery within ninety minutes.

The realization that the chatter had dwindled to a stop was meaningless until I noticed all three heads pointed one direction; six eyes fixated on one common focus.

“I’ll be damned!” The swear was just under my father’s breath.

My mother’s lips formed a silent ‘O’.

Olivia hissed, mimeishly and without moving her lips. “Russ is not who you think he is!”

This entire scene played out in less than a few seconds, and sending my own gaze along the same geometric plane resulted in a debilitating case of déjà vu.

Shocked, yet obsessed, I watched Jack as he sauntered closer and closer.

The hood was down on his jacket, which hung open loosely over a casual shirt. His raven hair was slicked back into a ponytail that was mostly hidden, sandwiched between the hoodie and his shirt. A cap jammed onto his head covered most of any remaining hair and shaded his face. Like the day we had met, his long legs were clad in jeans, and prestigious sneakers encased his feet. The stuffed animal drooping in one arm was enormous.

Jack had yet to notice his stunned audience. Just before reaching the connecting hall that the large waiting lounge opened into, he paused, resting a hand on the ledge of the nurses’ station.

The young woman’s flush was obvious even from a distance, and as she pointed, Jack’s head twisted.

A nanosecond later, his dark gaze locked with mine.

“Y
ou came…” Rising, I crossed to meet Jack just as he hit the large open entry.

My parents and Olivia were still gob smacked, and Jack dipped his head their way in a courteous, yet uneasy, nod.

With a slight tip of my own head, I indicated my wish for him to follow. Slowly, I started down the hall, ignoring my mother who lunged from the chair, obviously wanting an introduction.

Written on my parents’ faces was recognition, not of who he was, but of who he was. The resemblance to Tristan was strong, especially with his hair pulled back. Factoring in the toy he carried, they had done the math, figuring out he was the missing father of their grandson. Olivia, groupie that she had once been, most probably knew his face from the rock media sources she had once fed on.

One foot in front of the other, buffed linoleum tile after tile, the clunk of my ankle boots was matched by the soft-soled squish of his sneakers. We continued this way, only stopping once we were closed inside the hospital room. Earlier, the room seemed vast and empty once Tristan, along with the bed, was rolled out. Now, with Jack’s presence, the walls seemed to close in.

Ambling over, he set the ginormous plush toy next to the tiger.

“I called you.” His firm words were spoken as he turned, and his eyes met mine, gauging my reaction.

Cowardly, I could not hold his gaze and instead studiously studied the floor. “You didn’t leave a message.”

“I didn’t have a message.”

Now I looked up, needing his expression as an aid in this combative exchange. “So why did you call if you had nothing to say?”

“I have a lot to say. I said I didn’t have a message. I wanted to talk to you…”

“Really? What could we have to talk about? We only fucked once, or was it twice?” Just as he had mocked me in our recent phone call, I now pulled from that chilly phone conversation a rebound of the hurtful barb.

“Je—” The sight of innocent plush animals in the window seemed to cut his curse. Possibly, he was counting to ten, because in roughly that many seconds, his eyes bounced back to my face. “I’m sorry about that. About being an ass when you called. But you just dropped something like that on me out of nowhere! What did you expect?”

“I kinda expected most of it! I just didn’t expect to get hung up on like a bill collector!”

The words flew from my lips without any thought. When they reverberated in my head, it embarrassed me to the extreme to have used that analogy. He would never understand collectors calling after a stressful workday or the degrading calls interrupting Tristan’s sweet chatter during dinner.

“I sure as hell didn’t expect to get re-routed to your lawyer like some stranger!”

“You kinda are a stranger…”

Until now, I had thought the term ‘seeing red’ was just that. But at this moment, the room seemed to shade with my fury.

“Get out!”

“Were, I mean. Not are. Were.” Jack hastily attempted to correct the obnoxious answer but epically failed.

“Get out!” The scream ringing from the depths of my soul sounded exorcist-like as it reverberated off the walls.

Always I had been a strong person through everything thrown at me. Through my less than ideal childhood; through losing my college scholarship; through catching a cheating fiancé in the act; through a pregnancy with a rock star’s child; through the physical problems that child was born with; through cheapening myself by repeatedly looking for some sort of nirvana I never knew existed until experiencing it with a man who I could never be with– the same man who had just pushed me to this breaking point.

As the mother of his child, I had never felt like a stranger, even while living separate lives. Yet, apparently, I was. Any connection between us beyond a small child was all in my fantasizing mind.

“No.” Arms folded over his chest, he stood, daring me to say those two words again.

“Please go…” It wasn’t my intention, but the plea was dangerously close to a grovel.

“I gave you a chance to be more than a stranger and—”

“You gave me a chance?” Derisively, I parroted the self-inflated words.

“I wanted you to come to LA and you wouldn’t…” His hands fell to his side, but his gaze remained strong and slightly challenging.

Truly, I must have cracked, because the hysteria faded, and a quiet calm pervaded my emotions. Imitating his stance of a minute or so ago, I crossed my arms and sent him a smug smile. “Did you? How badly did you want me there?”

“Pretty bad.” His admission was hushed and humble, and his eyes held mine.

Movement registered in my corner vision, and unwillingly, I dragged myself from his hypnotic brown gaze to the door, which eased open. Not surprising, my mother’s head slipped through just before the rest of her. “Marissa darling, is everything okay?”

“Yes, thanks mom.” It was possible my parent had lingered outside the door long enough to hear our raised voices, but more likely, my mother sought an explanation, and still an introduction. I wanted to turn pointedly away until she left. But, after the initial shock and condemnation of the wild ways that made me an unwed mother, my parents had both stepped up. So, I remained patient with my mother’s nosy nature. “Could you give us a few minutes more?”

The door fell shut, and in unspoken agreement, neither Jack or I immediately picked up the conversation until a safe half-minute passed.

“Think about it. How badly would you have wanted me there?” Softly, I repeated the question to make the point.

“I thought about it a lot before inviting you, and a lot after you said no…” Comprehension caused his jaw to go slack, and his astonished gaze rested on my face before dropping to my stomach. “You were pregnant then.”

“Very.”

Intently, I studied his expression. The trail had forked at this point five years ago, and I had taken the path of least resistance. Had my fears to reveal the pregnancy been justified? Would he have flipped? Or was I wrong; would he have actually wanted to share in the experience?

Fingers went up as if to fork through his hair, and a twinge of familiarity registered. On the fateful day, which forever tied us together, his hair had been long and loose, and he had pushed it from his face many times while hovering over me. Encountering no stray strands, the hand fell away, and he turned to the window. This time, he lifted Tiggy, staring into stitched eyes.

“Does he like dogs?”

Unable to wrap my mind around the subject change, especially since my feelings were turbulent, the word resounded in my head.
Dogs?
Realization dawned. He was speaking of the stuffed toy he had carried in, and I attempted a smile. “Yes, he likes dogs. Especially that dog.”