Smoky Mountain Dreams (51 page)

“Of course it is! Jesse made it.” Christopher showed her how
it opened and how it could hold four photos. He’d even put them in already—one
of him, Jackie, and each of his cousins.

“Well, I declare. This is downright special.”

Christopher grinned.

Gran leaned forward sharply and slapped his face. Not hard,
but hard enough.

“Ow!” Christopher touched his cheek, playing up the hurt,
but laughing at the same time. He’d half expected it.

“Serves you right, boy. You know better than to buy me
expensive things! I’m on my way out and you should have saved your money.”

“Like I said, Gran, if I hadn’t bought this for you, then
Jesse and I wouldn’t have ever happened.”

She shook her head and gazed at the locket. “Well…I’ll be
dag-blamed. Fine, put it on me.”

Christopher took the locket and snapped it closed around her
neck. It hung down to the middle of her bosom, and she picked it up, studying
the front of it with a smile. No matter what Gran said he knew she loved it,
and she loved him. Between this moment here and now with her, and his
relationship with Jesse, he had no regrets. He knew he’d done good.

“O
H,
THANK GOD! I NEED YOU, RYDER.”

There was no escaping Shannon’s grip, and the wild look in
her eyes made it plain that Christopher was going to have to help her out with
something
. He almost made a dumb joke, but instead asked, “What’s
up?”

“I’m not supposed to be here today, but Corey’s up in West
Virginia visiting her mother in the hospital, so when Jeanette’s voice gave
out, guess who they called in on her day off?” She pushed the long,
straightened hair out of her eyes. “I’ve got to hurry into makeup and fix this
hair, but I’ve got a problem, and you owe me.”

“I do?” Shit. It was his day off too, and he’d only dropped
in to grab his schedule. He’d left his copy at Jesse’s without adding it to his
phone calendar the way Jesse had taught him, and he hadn’t added it to his wall
calendar at home because he’d barely been there.

“Yes. Remember how I covered for you that time you needed to
go down to Knoxville for your sister’s wedding?”

“Actually, Lash covered for me.”

“Right, but he was so drunk he forgot half his lines and I had
to sing them for him, and then backstage he was probably about to feel me up
when he vomited on my shoes instead. I liked those shoes, Ryder.”

“Okay?” He braced himself.

“I’m supposed to be down in Sevierville in two hours for the
Christmas sing-a-long at the nursing home where I volunteer. Old people need
their carols, Christopher, and you’re going to sing for them.”

“Me?” Sure, he’d contemplated spending Christmas with
Shannon singing with her at the nursing homes, but this wasn’t his plan for the
day. He was going home to work on his new songs, and maybe lay down a rough
track or two on his old portable MIDI recorder. As much as he and Jesse wanted
to spend every night together, it wasn’t fair to push himself on the kids like
that, so Christopher had planned to hole up at the cottage and concentrate on
the music in his head.

Still, he had to admit two days at Gran’s place seemed cold
and lonely after almost a week at Jesse’s house with the kids always moving,
talking, laughing, playing, and bringing friends around. The cottage seemed so
empty now.

“You’ll love it. The old ladies will think you’re adorable
and the old queers will invite you back to their room.” She leered. “Just laugh
like they’re joking, or go back with them—whatever floats your boat.”

“Ha, ha. Shannon, I sort of had plans.”

She blinked, her dark eyes turning dangerous. “Vomit on my
best damn shoes, Christopher Ryder. If you’d been there that night, I’d still
have those shoes. Do you get me?”

“I got you. Fine. Where do I go and what do I need to do?”

Shannon put her arm around him and smiled. “That’s my boy.”

Marcy’s nursing home looked the same from the outside
as it had the last time Christopher had been in its parking lot. Because
of course
that’s where Shannon volunteered. Christopher’s
heart had dropped when Shannon gave him the name and address, but he’d agreed
to come, and he ordered himself to get over it. Sure, Jesse’s
not-completely-dead wife was inside, but it wasn’t as if the poor woman would
be coming to hear the carols.

He turned off the engine and examined the building. It wasn’t
anything like Gran’s nursing home’s pastoral scene, but it was clearly an
expensive facility. He got out of his car, palms sweaty and his heart beating
fast as he grabbed his guitar out of the trunk. This time he was going inside,
and he didn’t know what Jesse would make of that.

He’d walked by Holly’s Crazy Hat Stand on the way out of
SMD, but she hadn’t been working. He’d wanted to ask her advice about whether
or not he should tell Jesse where he was going. In the end he’d decided that
telling Jesse wasn’t necessary. He was going to the nursing home to sing to
conscious old people. He wouldn’t be seeing Marcy at all. Still…

There was no denying his curiosity. He remembered Jesse’s
intensity when he’d essentially commanded Christopher to stay in the car. He
trusted Jesse. He knew that Marcy truly was gone. Yet there was some part of
him that wanted to see the woman. If he was going to be sleeping with her
husband, engaging with her children, helping Jesse choose what colors to
repaint the bedroom, and basically trying to make her family and home his own,
then he felt like he owed her the dignity of seeing her at least once. Seeing
her face-to-face and, if possible, looking into her eyes.

He’d been willing to wait before. Truth be told, it hadn’t
really hit him how much he wanted to visit Marcy until Shannon had told him
where he was going and the realization that he would be in the same building as
her had washed over him like an icy wave. Now he knew the urge had always been
there in the back of his head, itching when he saw Marcy’s portrait in the
hallway, tugging at him when he’d woken that night in the red womb room of
hers, and hooking into him when Jesse had denied him access to her that day in
the car.

He should wait, he told himself, hitching his guitar strap
over his shoulder and heading toward the front door of the facility. He’d sing
to the elderly and help them get into the Christmas spirit, and then he’d
leave. And that would be that. He’d tell Jesse about his day later on, and
maybe he’d tell him where he’d sung and maybe he wouldn’t. If it would hurt
Jesse, he didn’t need to know. Right now, though, Christopher just needed to
capture the attention of the nurse behind the desk so that she’d buzz him in.

Monique greeted him after a short wait in the reception
area. Her glossy black hair and dark skin revealed her Indian heritage, and
Christopher admired her lovely dark eyes, so warm and liquid. He knew when she
spoke that she had been raised in Tennessee, though. The nasal accent was
unmistakable.

“We’re so grateful to you for filling in for Shannon. The
residents look forward to her visits so much, especially at Christmas. Don’t be
too upset if they’re disappointed to see you at first. They’re very big fans of
Shannon.”

“No problem. I’m used to people being disappointed when I
walk onstage,” Christopher said good-naturedly, continuing on when Monique
looked confused. “I’m Lash Hinkin’s stand-in on his days off.”

“Oh,” she sighed knowingly. “That’s gotta be tough.”

“But the fun part is when I win them over anyway.” He gave a
little cocky grin.

She chuckled. “I’m sure you can handle this crowd then.” She
guided him into the lounge, where residents sat around on sofas, soft chairs,
and folding chairs, as well as some in wheelchairs.

Christopher wasn’t sure he could handle them, actually. They
all looked at him with impatient, almost hungry faces.

One old man in a wheelchair took one look at him, a thin
trail of what seemed to be drool sliding down the side of his chin, and said, “Ah,
screw it. I don’t need no faggot singing to me. I only came to see the black
girl’s knockers.” He stood up and haltingly left the room with the aid of a
walker.

There was a bit more grumbling from the rest of the crowd,
but there were no more defectors as Christopher let Monique introduce him to
the group. She took hold of his elbow when he approached the cleared area that
was supposed to function as the stage.

“When you’re done here, we’d love it if you went to a few
rooms to sing for some of the bed-ridden residents? We’d hate for anyone to
miss out. It’s so good for them to hear live music. It engages their brains in
important ways.”

Christopher’s throat went a little dry, wondering if Marcy’s
room would be one where he’d be asked to sing. Another facility worker handed
him a water bottle as he turned to the seniors gathered to hear him. He took a
swig of it before introducing himself. He opened up with a cover of Sara
Bareilles’ and Ingrid Michaelson’s “Winter Song.” It was a tender tune
examining whether light and love lived on even in the darkest death of winter.
The seniors coughed and shifted, most of them seeming impatient for something
more familiar, so as the song closed, Christopher transitioned without
completely stopping into “Frosty the Snowman,” which delighted the women,
especially.

Over an hour later, Christopher considered his nursing home
show a success. He’d eventually won over the skeptical audience, including one
elderly gentleman who’d shuffled over to the piano in the corner of the room
and added his accompaniment to Christopher’s performance. His improvisations
had been fun to jam to with the guitar, and Christopher had let him take the
lead with some of the musical bridges. A few of the more mobile residents had
risen to dance and almost all of them had sung along at times. One lady did
fall asleep in her wheelchair, and another man just sat and stared somewhere to
the left of Christopher’s shoulder, but by the time he wrapped up his set, most
of the others had been coaxed into participating.

Monique was clearly pleased. “Thank you so much,” she said,
leading him down an antiseptic-scented hallway toward what she called the “private
rooms” in the back. “It really means a lot to all of them. Shannon will be back
next week on Christmas Day, of course, but today will buoy their spirits. The
holidays are some of the toughest times for our residents.” She paused and put
her hand on Christopher’s arm. “I must warn you, the rooms I’m taking you to
now won’t be as rewarding for you, but we try to give all the residents the
opportunity to engage with volunteers and performers.”

“I understand,” Christopher said, his voice catching
slightly as he passed a door with a printed name tag next to it reading
Birch, Marcy
. His heart thudded hard against his ribs and
he cleared his throat.

“Some of these residents will be conscious and some won’t,
but—” Her phone beeped, and she glanced at it. “Oh, damn,” she whispered, and
then smiled up at him. “It’s a problem back in the lounge. Mr. Feeney is being
difficult again. Christopher, would you mind starting without me? I won’t be
more than a few minutes.”

He nodded, his mouth dry.

She rushed on to explain, “These first three rooms have
residents who are in what you might call a coma or a permanent vegetative
states. The patients can seem a bit spooky at times if you’re not familiar with
the behavior these sorts of injuries can engender.” Monique smiled
reassuringly. “Their eyes may open and they may vocalize, but I assure you—”
Her phone beeped again. “Oh, hell. Please, just go ahead and choose a room.
Leave the door open, of course. Natalie and Jason will be right here at the
nurse’s station if you need anything.”

She took off back the way she came after waving a hand
toward a couple of young nurses. Both Jason and Natalie looked up at hearing
their names and lifted their chins at him in greeting. Christopher shifted his
guitar from one hand to the other and smiled at them, but it felt false.