[ new fic: The Greatest Gift ]
Dec. 22nd, 2003 11:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymThe Greatest Gift - Chris, through Bev's eyes. No pairing, no warnings.
for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hammerhead22. happy birthday, honey :)
Many thanks tokittenfishlambs and pierson for the impromptu readings for me :)
Waves of pain. They started in your mid-section, like cramps, but a hundred times worse. Your mom held your hand each time you whimpered, whispering words that probably were supposed to comfort, but managed to fall short. She didn't want you to do this; didn't want you to keep the baby. Too young, everyone had said. Stupid, they called you, behind your back. Irresponsible. You ignored them all, hands smoothing over your growing belly. If your parents had somewhere to send you, they probably would have, except you'd sworn not to ever come back if you couldn't come back with your baby.
More pain. Hot and thick, it rushed up over you, swallowing you down. You felt chewed up and spit out before it passed, leaving you weak and panting.
You hadn't thought the pain could increase, but then it did, and there was movement, and your mom – cold comfort, but still comfort – was made to leave the room. You were bundled onto another bed and wheeled into the delivery room, tears stinging your eyes. You didn't want to be alone for this.
It hurt like nothing else you'd ever experienced. The doctor kept telling you to push, and the nurses clustered around you, one holding your hand, two helping you hold your legs up and apart. It was demeaning and humiliating and the pain seared its way through your body and into your soul.
You were never, ever doing this again. Ever.
You forgot that resolve the minute you heard the thin cry; it picked up steam and strength, and all around you the nurses smiled and congratulated you and commented on the lungs your baby had.
"It's a boy, Beverly," the doctor said calmly, words muffled by his surgical mask.
The cord was cut and they handed you a tiny, wriggling armful of baby. He was still smeared with blood and birthing fluids, but underneath the streaks he had pale, creamy skin and a head full of dark, thick hair. His eyes were dark slits amidst fat, rosy cheeks, and his tiny mouth was open as he smacked his lips. He was absolutely, utterly perfect and you lost your heart completely to him.
~~~~~
You'd just laid down. Just. But the minute the whimpers turned into flat-out shrieks and howls you were up again, propelled as much by panic as instinct. You changed his diaper, rubbed his belly – distended and rumbly, but he wouldn't take a bottle – and wrapped him up to walk him.
You wished you could call your mom, but aside from not having a phone, you knew it was pointless. She loved you, she loved Chris, but she disapproved so much you couldn't bring yourself to ask for anything from her. From them. You would manage. You had your beautiful baby.
"Why won't he stop crying?" Byron's voice almost drowned Chris' wails out. Almost. It broke your heart to hear him, but you didn't know what to do besides try and comfort him and wait it out. You shrugged and changed positions, holding him close to your heart. "Bev, he never stops crying!"
"Yes, he does. Shhhh, baby." You jiggled him gently, pressed your arm against his tummy. You could feel his heart racing against the thin skin of your wrist, could feel his frantic sobs and cries echo deep inside you. You wanted to shriek yourself; you hadn't had more than a couple hours of sleep in days. Weeks. Maybe since he'd been born. "Shhh, Christopher. It's okay, sweetheart." You cuddled him against your breast and hummed under your breath, singing softly when that seemed to soothe him a little. Byron watched for a moment then turned away.
"Going out for a while." He didn't wait for an answer, and you weren't sure you were supposed to give one anyway.
"Merry Christmas, Christopher," you whispered, still jiggling gently. His eyes were wet from crying, and the lights from the ragged little tree in the corner of the room sparkled brightly in their depths. "Best present ever," you sing-songed to him, rubbing your nose to his. He smiled sleepily up at you, cheeks squinching his eyes up.
During the day he was mostly a happy baby, fat and laughing, delightful baby giggles when he grabbed onto your hair, or his daddy's glasses. At night, though, he'd cried a lot, and you didn't know if it was because he was hungry, or hurting somewhere. You checked for pins, made sure nothing was sticking him, made sure he was dry and clean as possible. You hated not knowing, hated feeling so inexperienced.
You hummed quietly until he fell asleep in your arms. When the sun shining through the thin curtains woke you the next morning – the first full night of sleep you'd had since he was born – he was still curled against you, your arms protectively tight around him.
~~~~~
Byron left you the month after Chris' first birthday. You'd known it was coming for months; the two of you almost always fought when he was home, and he was gone more often than not. He was pretty blasé about leaving; nothing more than a casual shrug, though his eyes lingered on Chris, jabbering at him from his perch on your hip. You thought you saw sadness in Byron's eyes when he touched Chris' cheek, but figured you were probably projecting.
You waited until the roar of his motorcycle faded before giving into the tears. It wasn't even Byron you were crying over, really – though that hurt, too. It was more the being alone, not having a clue what to do first, never mind next. How to take care of yourself and Chris, and provide for the two of you.
Chris patted your cheeks until you looked at him and then he smiled his big, happy baby grin and chanted "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma!" until you smiled back at him. When you buried your face in his neck and breathed in warm baby scent, then blew raspberries, he screeched with laughter and tugged on your hair.
You were thankful again for this baby who could help you find laughter through your tears.
~~~~~
Potty-training was both better and worse than you'd anticipated. Better, in that Chris took to it easily – long before you thought he'd be ready, he would come to you, little nose wrinkled up, tugging at the damp cloth. "Wet," he'd say. So he was ready, really, before you were.
Worse, because it seemed he didn't want to use the potty chair without an audience. Or at least without applause afterward. It was kind of funny, really, and you laughed until you cried, the first time you realized he was waiting for a standing ovation for peeing in his potty chair. You gave it to him gladly, giggling when he grinned and bowed at you.
It was a habit that became hard to break, actually, once Molly was born, because she was a natural audience for her big brother. Chris loved to ham it up, even if – or maybe especially if – it came to bodily functions, and he would clap at Molly until she figured out what to do, smacking her chubby hands together and crowing even though she didn't have a clue what all the fuss was about.
~~~~~
You sang to your children constantly, or at the very least hummed to them. When you had a radio, it was almost always tuned to the local station that played the Beatles, the Doors, Cream, the popular music. You sang Christmas carols all through December, whether there was a tree to decorate or not.
You didn't realize Chris was absorbing the words, taking the music in to become a part of himself, until you woke up one night and found him sitting beside Katie's crib, singing "Come All Ye Faithful", the words flowing soft and easy, in perfect pitch. In the dim light of the nightlight, you could see her eyes wide open, fixed on her brother.
You stood in the doorway and listened to him sing to her for half an hour, the sound so pure, so beautiful, it raised the hair on the back of your neck.
~~~~~
"Momma?" One slim shadow separated itself from the deeper shadows in the room, and Chris crept forward quietly. You watched him step around the floorboard that always squeaked, until he stood in front of you. "Mr. Davies came by again, momma." Chris' eyes were big and solemn in the near-dark, and you cringed. You were so tired, all you wanted to do was lay down and sleep. Or die, maybe. Your body ached, your feet throbbed, and the last thing you wanted to deal with was your landlord.
"What'd he say?"
Chris shrugged. "Nothin'. Molly an' Katie an' me hid in the closet in the bedroom. Molly kept her hand over Katie's mouth so she wouldn't cry. We didn't answer the door. He knocked a coupla times, but didn't come in."
That made you want to cry. That, and the big, dark eyes staring up at you. He was too young to have to deal with this. Silently you cursed yourself, the babysitter who'd bailed on you, and the last boyfriend who'd bailed, too. Mostly yourself, though. You hugged him close, aware of how thin and small he was. You wished there was more for him to eat, but you knew he wouldn't unless he knew Molly and Kate had enough first. "You're the best boy, Chris. The best."
He wiggled in your grip, but from the hug or the praise, you weren't sure. You squeezed once more, then let him go. "Are the girls asleep?"
"Yeah." His eyes drooped and you realized he'd been sitting up, waiting for you. It made your heart break all over again. He surged up and hugged you tight. "'M gonna be rich some day, mom, so I can take care of you and the girls."
"I just bet you will, kiddo. You'll do anything you put your mind to." You led him to his cot and tucked him into bed.
~~~~~
It was so cold. So very, very cold, and worse now that the sun was fully down. Night always seemed colder, even if it wasn't. You wished for a moment that you weren't the adult, weren't the mommy, that you could whimper softly with the girls. You wished you didn't have so much pride that you couldn't ask your parents for some help, because no one should have to sleep in a car in December—especially little kids. Chris was the only one not saying anything, just sitting silently, arms wrapped around himself, watching out the window. A little sentry on constant vigil. He stirred after a while, breath ghosting out in front of him when he turned to look at you.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"'S it okay if…can we sing? Like, Christmas songs or something?" He gave you a small smile. "Might, I dunno, make the girls not notice."
You blinked really fast so none of them could see your tears. "Yes."
His voice rose over yours, over Katie and Molly's, and stayed there. You let it lull you into a fitful sleep. When the sun rose the next morning, Chris was still sitting up, eyes drooping with sleep but watchful.
~~~~~
"Again, Chris? Why, honey?" You couldn't afford to take the time off work for another meeting with the principal. The note said Chris was fighting in the hallway – again. For the third time that month. And there was still the matter of him not paying attention in class, of goofing off and being a class clown.
"They're just stupid kids," he grumbled. "Sayin' stuff. But it's mean, and they shouldn't say it."
"People will always say mean things, honey. You know that by now, don't you?" You wanted to say more, wanted to hug him tight, but on cue, like she knew, Emily started crying. You couldn't even remember any more when your life hadn't revolved around crying babies and hungry children, and trying to keep them warm and clothed and happy. "Chris—"
"I got her, mom." He darted out the door, obviously eager to end the lecture—if that's what it could be called. You tried to remember what you and your brother were like at not-quite-twelve, and couldn't. It seemed so long ago. You listened to the silly sounds Chris made, talking nonsense to the baby while he no doubt changed her diaper, and sighed when he danced back out, holding her carefully while he looped and spun around. "Look! Happy Emily!" She giggled when he blew a raspberry onto her neck.
"Chris." You had to say it three more times before he looked back at you. "Sweetheart, you can't keep getting into fights. And you can't keep getting in trouble in class. You have to pay attention."
"School's boring." He danced Emily around the room again, making clucking and popping noises until she was shrieking with laughter. "Hate havin' to sit still."
"I know." You did. You'd never seen a child more full of energy than he was. It wore you out to watch him. "But it's important. You can't do anything without school." And you knew that lesson better than anyone. Lately, you'd been thinking about night school, and trying to get your GED. You didn't want to waitress and be on welfare for the rest of your life. You owed your kids a better life than that. "You can't be rich and famous without school, Chris."
He paused partway through his own version of "Lion Sleeps Tonight", which all the girls adored, and stared at you. "No?"
You shook your head firmly. "No. And if you get kicked out for fighting, or held back for not paying attention…"
He heaved a big sigh. "I'll try, mom. But it's—there's so much to do! I hate sitting there, and having to just—sit. I see stuff, and wanna do it, and just—"
"All you can do is try, honey. That's all I ask. But you have to do that."
He nodded once, eyes so big and dark in his little face, then grinned at you before breaking back into song. You sighed and hoped at least some of the words sunk in.
~~~~~
You'd come to realize, through the years, that doors slamming open and shut often meant more than just a person passing physically from one place to another. One door closed and another opened for you, when you learned you were pregnant. When the doctor laid Chris in your arms. When Byron left. When your girls were born. You couldn't always predict what would happen when you stepped through the new door, and often you were unprepared. But life was an adventure and bad came with the good. And good came. You believed that, truly.
So when the door slammed open that particular afternoon, and you were home to hear it, you knew instantly, with the high-pitched screech that came with it, that it was more than Chris coming in from outside. It was one door closing, and a new one opening on a part of his life he was only just discovering.
"I'm gonna be the lead in Oliver! Moooooooo-oom! I'm gonna be in the play! They needed someone small, and someone who could look sad, and they needed someone who could say stuff and sound British, and sing and dance and I did it, mom, me! Me me me!"
He danced around and spun in circles until you were dizzy watching him, and then he picked Emily up and spun her in circles, laughing and chattering a mile a minute the entire time.
It took you a good fifteen minutes to get him calmed down enough to tell you all the details, and then you were so proud of him you thought you'd burst with it. Especially when he did his cockney accent – and where the hell did he learn to speak like that?
It wasn't the stage that Chris loved so much. Or rather, it wasn't the acting part of the stage that Chris loved. You watched him, carefully, going to as many rehearsals as your job would allow. It was the singing. The performing. Up on stage, your baby shone like the star you knew he was – and would be.
School wouldn't matter to Chris any more; he'd found his niche. He would play sports, would excel at things like hockey and basketball, but singing…you could see it in his eyes. Music held a part of his soul, and he released a piece of that every time he let the notes out.
~~~~~
You hated moving the kids around, hated putting them through the rigor of having to make new friends, adjust to new schools and schedules, learn a new home. You hated moving yourself, having to start over with a new boyfriend, husband, whatever. Hated having to meet new people, to explain to the school systems why you had four children with three different last names, none of which were yours. Sometimes you wondered how life might've gone if you'd done this or that differently – finished school, for starters.
You still felt hampered by lack of knowledge, even about child-rearing. Sure, you had four kids, the oldest of whom was in middle school, but things just seemed to slide right by you sometimes. You knew Chris was small – not only short, but thin. He was wiry and muscled, testimony to the hours he spent bagging and carrying groceries, chasing a hockey puck or shooting hoops in the streets with neighbor kids, but he was a very small kid. You'd watched him pass part of his dinner or breakfast, or whatever, to whichever girl whined or fussed about still being hungry…but it never really clicked until the phone rang one afternoon, with a call from a friend who worked in the cafeteria at Chris' school.
It was hard enough to sit and listen to her talk about Chris going into the gym every day at lunch to shoot hoops when he could've been eating a decent lunch in the cafeteria. What made it worse was the knowledge you'd done that to him. You'd put him – however unintentionally – in the position of having to pick pride over eating, when those two things shouldn't even come into play together.
Chris was scrawny enough as it was. Food was sometimes hard to come by at home, if emergencies came up. He needed to eat. He needed to be able to be proud about his family, about his home, about everything. You were the adult. Having him and the girls, you realized, didn't make you an adult. But realizing you needed to change things about yourself and your lifestyle to make things better for them…that made you an adult.
It was time to get off welfare. Time to get your GED, and get some higher education, and get on with things. You had four children to support, and the men who'd come and gone in your life never seemed to stick around to make sure things went well. It was up to you.
~~~~~
It took you long, long months to get your GED. Months of working three jobs, and doing homework on your lunch breaks; of going home at night to eat whatever leftovers Chris set in the oven for you, then taking your books out to work some more. Sometimes he waited up for you and the two of you did your homework together.
One of the proudest moments of your life was when you 'graduated'. Chris took your diploma and had it framed for you. He stood on a chair – pale as milk and shaking the entire time – and hammered a nail into the wall to hang it on.
You hugged him tight afterward, and wondered when your baby got so tall. He was still small, still scrawny, but compared to the baby you remembered, he was so big. So grown up.
~~~~~
"Orlando?" You were really thankful for the chair behind you when you sank down. "Wow. That's—a long way away, Chris." Why now, was what you really wanted to ask, though that wasn't fair at all. It was just the timing. The timing really stunk.
"I know." He had his face scrunched up in concentration, though you could see his eyes moving around, watching Emily and her friend playing tag. "Um. Dad…said I could stay with him, while I get settled in, and he'd help me with tuition. And I got a scholarship. And a lead on a job with Universal Studios. I could sing, mom."
You smiled faintly. "I'm not telling you not to go, or that you can't go. I wouldn't do that. I'm just—surprised, I guess." And you would miss him desperately, your fat smiling baby who'd turned into a man when you weren't looking…even though you never glanced away.
"Me too, kinda." He looked vaguely embarrassed. "I didn't want to say anything, in case stuff fell through. And I know it's not a good time—" He gestured randomly and you shrugged. Things with Phil would get better, or they wouldn't. Nothing Chris could do would change that.
"It's as good or bad as any time, honey." You reached out and hugged him close. "I'll miss you, though. When do you leave?"
He hugged back, squeezing you tight, then let go and sat back down, jiggling his leg beneath the table. "Right after Em's birthday, I think. It'll take a few days to drive down there, though dad said he'd send me bus fare if I wanted to do that. It'll be a long drive, but I'll need a car, so. Registration starts mid-August, and I gotta do orientation and stuff, and I wanna find a job as soon as possible—"
He was already making plans, figuring things out. Moving on ahead. In your mind, you saw one door swinging shut behind him, and another one opening up. You wondered if he saw them, too.
"Tell me about the school," you said quietly, scooting your chair closer to the table. "And what're you planning to major in?"
~~~~~
"I can be up there tomorrow, mom." One thing you didn't need to worry about was Chris' tenacious streak. That obviously wouldn't ever change.
"You don't need to do that, honey. We're okay. Really." You'd practiced saying that over and over in the mirror, until you felt you could say it and be believed. "You have school and work—"
"I can get bereavement leave. Just—let me come up, mom. Please."
It shouldn't have made such a difference, having him insist. It didn't change that your husband was gone, that you had a baby – again – and two other girls at home to take care of, with Molly flitting in and out of the house with her own baby. But it did. Because Chris would sing to all of you, and play with the little ones, and amuse Katie and charm Molly's young man.
And maybe, somewhere in there, you'd be able to catch your breath, for a moment or two. Maybe tears could turn to laughter for just a moment. Maybe you could tell your son how proud you were of him, of what he'd accomplished so far – school, job, good grades and a scholarship.
"Call me back when you have your flight info," you said quietly, and sighed when he agreed and hung up.
~~~~~
You really liked Karen and Roy Chasez, and the Fatones. Phyllis was a hoot, and the two of you had already coerced Karen into having coffee together before you and the girls left to go back home. The Basses seemed really nice, but a little distant. You could see the concern etched on Diane's face, and it amazed you when you thought about it—you were actually younger than Lance when you'd had Chris.
Good Lord but that made you feel old.
Lynn Harless was sweet and charming, but you sensed an iron core beneath all that southern charm. It made you a little more comfortable, knowing she and Diane were going along with the boys – because even your son was still a boy, for all he was grown up.
You'd thought Orlando was far away – that didn't even prepare you for the idea of Germany. It was something you couldn't wrap your mind around, that your son, your firstborn, your baby, was going to Europe.
"Are you sure about this, Chris?" It was stupid to ask him now; their plane left in just over an hour. They would start boarding pretty soon. You had to ask, though. Mother's prerogative.
"Yeah. I am." He nodded to someone calling his name, and took your arm, drawing you away from the crowd. "Be right there, Wesley." His eyes were so, so serious when he looked at you, and for a moment you wanted to ask where was your happy-go-lucky Christopher? But even when he'd been happy and wild on the surface, you knew there was a serious, intense boy who lurked beneath. "These guys…they're great, mom. We're tight. Just—like this." And he knotted his fingers together, holding them up to show you. "I love 'em like I love you and the girls. And we're gonna do this. We're gonna go over there and kick ass—I mean, butt, and it's what I want, mom. I want it…and I'm gonna do it for you guys, so you don't ever have to worry about anything, okay?"
"Chris." How many times over the years had he brought you to tears? From the time he was born to now, you weren't sure you could count that high.
"We gotta get ready to board the plane." He patted his shirt pocket where his passport rested; he'd been so proud of it when he showed it to you yesterday. "I love you, mom." When he hugged you, it was different, somehow. He was confident and sure of himself. "We're gonna be huge. Just wait."
You knew they would be. How could they not?
~~~~~
You alternated between frantic worry over the amount of sleep the boys weren't getting, to insane pride over how they were 'kicking asses and taking names', in Chris' words.
He called you nearly every night – at least every couple, unless their schedule was more hectic than usual. They were at least six months into things before Lynn put her foot down and said the boys needed at least one day off every week, before every one of them keeled over with exhaustion. You knew Chris was so tired when you talked, you often wondered if he actually remembered the conversations from day to day.
You hated to end the calls, but it wasn't possible to talk for too long. With the time difference between the states and Germany – or whichever country they were in at that particular moment – it made it really late for you, some nights. It was hard to get the girls settled down, too, because they always wanted to talk to their brother.
"I need to get going, Chris. Emily has a test in the morning, and she'll never get up if I don't get her to bed. Love you, sweetie." You could hear someone – you thought it was Joey – yelling in the background, and wondered, as always, where the hell they found any energy for jumping or shouting after the days they had.
"Okay, mom. Love you, too." You heard his laughter, wild and manic, just before the connection cut out.
It always took you a minute to hang the phone back up after the click; the dial tone buzzed before you could make yourself do it.
~~~~~
They'd done all they could in Europe; now was the time for the big test: back in the US.
You were a little amazed by the men you saw standing in a huddle before the show began. They were playing an outdoor concert at the Wal-Mart you were working at—free promotion was never a bad thing, Chris assured you. You remembered gawky boys, eager and awkward and uncertain. In their places were five men, young, yes, but men. Still eager, but definitely more polished. Professional. You watched them sing and dance their hearts out in the summer heat, then stay afterward to sign every single autograph requested of them.
You were so proud of Chris…of all of them…that it hurt.
~~~~~
"We're filing a suit against Lou, mom."
First words out of your son's mouth after 'hello', and you heard the tension in them. The tightness. The guilt.
You knew there was something going on; you talked to Karen Chasez at least once a week, and she'd told you there were problems with royalties and payments – at least, you thought that was what she'd been talking about. Now you wondered if you hadn't misunderstood. "Tell me, hon."
His eyes flashed bright, angry, and his braids – those ridiculous braids that made you alternately laugh and shake your head – swung around his face. "He's been withholding earnings. The contracts we signed…we signed everything over to him, basically. Like a fucking deal with the devil."
"Are you suing him?"
"Yeah. All of us, and um. The Basses and Justin's mom." He scowled. "God. I can't even remember who all's named on the suit. That's how much I suck." He kind of slid onto the couch, scrunching himself up into a small ball. "I should've known, mom. They trusted me—"
"Christopher Alan Kirkpatrick, you stop that." You smacked his knee. "You weren't the only one who read those contracts. If Diane and James and Lynn are involved in the suit, then they're as much to blame – or not – as you."
"I'm the oldest."
"Yeah, and?"
"I don't know." He sighed and closed his eyes, and you wondered how long it'd been since he'd had a decent meal and a night's sleep. "I just feel like I let 'em all down. Something. I should've known. Me an' Angelo should've known. We're the ones who hung out with Lou all those months before the group even came together. Wouldn't I have known?"
He rubbed fitfully at his eyes. You weren't sure when the last time was that you'd seen Chris cry, but you'd bet it was before puberty. If he'd cried since then, it'd been somewhere you weren't privy to.
"Maybe." You reached out and tugged him over, until he curled up against you. "But maybe not. There's really no way to know. If he fooled all of you…don't be so hard on yourself, okay?"
"'S what JC keeps sayin'. But man. I just." He heaved a sigh, and you wished it were something as simple as when he was little, learning how to skate. Or ride a bike. He'd fall down, scrape his knee, and holler until you put a band aid on it and kissed it better. That, you could fix. This…was beyond your scope.
"You should listen to JC. His momma's a smart lady." The braids felt funny beneath your fingers, but you stroked anyway, felt Chris relax against you. "It's going to work out, Chris. Have faith, baby."
"'K, mom." His voice was sleepy, heavy, and it wasn't maybe a minute later that he snored softly against your shoulder.
You blinked your tears away while he slept.
~~~~~
*Nsync was everywhere. Literally. You couldn’t turn around without running into their music, their merchandise, their fans. Girls giggled over the boys everywhere you went, and it didn't take too long before they knew who you were, as well.
That took some getting used to.
You didn't want to be a celebrity. That was reserved for Chris and the other boys, who'd earned it. It wasn't yours to have, just because you'd birthed and raised him. But the girls – and some boys – didn't seem to care. Some came to your house, others walked up to you in shopping centers and malls. You exchanged stories – some good, some not – with the other parents and found the Fatones and Lynn Harless actually had a worse case happening; at least your Christmas decorations hadn't been stolen.
The Ananda Lewis show was…interesting. Still uncomfortable to be in the spotlight at all, but you wanted the world to see how much you loved your son, how proud you were of him.
It surprised you, really, when you realized he was just as proud of you.
"Mom had me pretty young, so we kind of grew up together."
That broke your heart at the same time it made it swell with love for him.
~~~~~
"We need a break. All of us." His voice was cheerful enough, but you knew how much Chris could hide behind a cheerful tone. You wished you could have this conversation face-to-face instead of on the phone. "It's cool, though. Just a break. Nothing big. J wants to do a solo thing, and Lance thinks he's gonna be the next Yuri Gagarin, and Joey's ready to beat Broadway into submission."
"And what about JC? What about you?" You watched Avery riding his bike up and down the street, and sat down on the nearest porch chair. Cordless phones were just the greatest things. Perfect for grandmas with unexpected baby-sitting duty.
"Dunno what C's gonna do. I think he's gonna head to LA and disappear into his studio for the next year, probably."
"And--? Don't make me ask again, Christopher."
"God, you're pushy." That sounded like a smile.
"That's because I'm your mother."
"Yeah, yeah. I kinda have a gig I'm gonna do. Nothin' big, just—a friend is working on a solo thing, and I promised him we'd do some writing together, do a little driving around the country. After that…who knows? I haven't had a vacation in years, mom."
"You're a mega-rich superstar, kid. Your whole life's a vacation."
He laughed in your ear. "Yeah, sure. And I do nothing to earn that, right?"
"Absolutely." You laughed with him. "When do you leave?"
"Eh. Not for a couple of weeks. I'm gonna be a bum until then."
"Like the mega-rich superstar you are."
"Yup." He paused. "Bring the girls over later in the week? They can swim, and I'll grill for us."
"You're offering to feed us?" You snickered. "Who are you, and what've you done with my Christopher?"
"Mom!"
"I'll call you and let you know which day, okay?"
"That's cool, mom. Give me like, a day or two notice, okay?"
"So you can clean the place up, I hope?"
"Nah. So I can get it dirtier."
"You're an ass, Chris."
"But you love me anyway." He sounded far away suddenly, and you heard the soft sound of a door closing. You wondered what the new one would bring for him, for you, for all of them.
"Yep, I do."
"Love you too, mom."
Tears and laughter, that's what Chris brought to your life. The greatest gift you'd ever received.
~fin~
for
hammerhead22. happy birthday, honey :)Many thanks to
kittenfishlambs and pierson for the impromptu readings for me :)Waves of pain. They started in your mid-section, like cramps, but a hundred times worse. Your mom held your hand each time you whimpered, whispering words that probably were supposed to comfort, but managed to fall short. She didn't want you to do this; didn't want you to keep the baby. Too young, everyone had said. Stupid, they called you, behind your back. Irresponsible. You ignored them all, hands smoothing over your growing belly. If your parents had somewhere to send you, they probably would have, except you'd sworn not to ever come back if you couldn't come back with your baby.
More pain. Hot and thick, it rushed up over you, swallowing you down. You felt chewed up and spit out before it passed, leaving you weak and panting.
You hadn't thought the pain could increase, but then it did, and there was movement, and your mom – cold comfort, but still comfort – was made to leave the room. You were bundled onto another bed and wheeled into the delivery room, tears stinging your eyes. You didn't want to be alone for this.
It hurt like nothing else you'd ever experienced. The doctor kept telling you to push, and the nurses clustered around you, one holding your hand, two helping you hold your legs up and apart. It was demeaning and humiliating and the pain seared its way through your body and into your soul.
You were never, ever doing this again. Ever.
You forgot that resolve the minute you heard the thin cry; it picked up steam and strength, and all around you the nurses smiled and congratulated you and commented on the lungs your baby had.
"It's a boy, Beverly," the doctor said calmly, words muffled by his surgical mask.
The cord was cut and they handed you a tiny, wriggling armful of baby. He was still smeared with blood and birthing fluids, but underneath the streaks he had pale, creamy skin and a head full of dark, thick hair. His eyes were dark slits amidst fat, rosy cheeks, and his tiny mouth was open as he smacked his lips. He was absolutely, utterly perfect and you lost your heart completely to him.
You'd just laid down. Just. But the minute the whimpers turned into flat-out shrieks and howls you were up again, propelled as much by panic as instinct. You changed his diaper, rubbed his belly – distended and rumbly, but he wouldn't take a bottle – and wrapped him up to walk him.
You wished you could call your mom, but aside from not having a phone, you knew it was pointless. She loved you, she loved Chris, but she disapproved so much you couldn't bring yourself to ask for anything from her. From them. You would manage. You had your beautiful baby.
"Why won't he stop crying?" Byron's voice almost drowned Chris' wails out. Almost. It broke your heart to hear him, but you didn't know what to do besides try and comfort him and wait it out. You shrugged and changed positions, holding him close to your heart. "Bev, he never stops crying!"
"Yes, he does. Shhhh, baby." You jiggled him gently, pressed your arm against his tummy. You could feel his heart racing against the thin skin of your wrist, could feel his frantic sobs and cries echo deep inside you. You wanted to shriek yourself; you hadn't had more than a couple hours of sleep in days. Weeks. Maybe since he'd been born. "Shhh, Christopher. It's okay, sweetheart." You cuddled him against your breast and hummed under your breath, singing softly when that seemed to soothe him a little. Byron watched for a moment then turned away.
"Going out for a while." He didn't wait for an answer, and you weren't sure you were supposed to give one anyway.
"Merry Christmas, Christopher," you whispered, still jiggling gently. His eyes were wet from crying, and the lights from the ragged little tree in the corner of the room sparkled brightly in their depths. "Best present ever," you sing-songed to him, rubbing your nose to his. He smiled sleepily up at you, cheeks squinching his eyes up.
During the day he was mostly a happy baby, fat and laughing, delightful baby giggles when he grabbed onto your hair, or his daddy's glasses. At night, though, he'd cried a lot, and you didn't know if it was because he was hungry, or hurting somewhere. You checked for pins, made sure nothing was sticking him, made sure he was dry and clean as possible. You hated not knowing, hated feeling so inexperienced.
You hummed quietly until he fell asleep in your arms. When the sun shining through the thin curtains woke you the next morning – the first full night of sleep you'd had since he was born – he was still curled against you, your arms protectively tight around him.
Byron left you the month after Chris' first birthday. You'd known it was coming for months; the two of you almost always fought when he was home, and he was gone more often than not. He was pretty blasé about leaving; nothing more than a casual shrug, though his eyes lingered on Chris, jabbering at him from his perch on your hip. You thought you saw sadness in Byron's eyes when he touched Chris' cheek, but figured you were probably projecting.
You waited until the roar of his motorcycle faded before giving into the tears. It wasn't even Byron you were crying over, really – though that hurt, too. It was more the being alone, not having a clue what to do first, never mind next. How to take care of yourself and Chris, and provide for the two of you.
Chris patted your cheeks until you looked at him and then he smiled his big, happy baby grin and chanted "ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma!" until you smiled back at him. When you buried your face in his neck and breathed in warm baby scent, then blew raspberries, he screeched with laughter and tugged on your hair.
You were thankful again for this baby who could help you find laughter through your tears.
Potty-training was both better and worse than you'd anticipated. Better, in that Chris took to it easily – long before you thought he'd be ready, he would come to you, little nose wrinkled up, tugging at the damp cloth. "Wet," he'd say. So he was ready, really, before you were.
Worse, because it seemed he didn't want to use the potty chair without an audience. Or at least without applause afterward. It was kind of funny, really, and you laughed until you cried, the first time you realized he was waiting for a standing ovation for peeing in his potty chair. You gave it to him gladly, giggling when he grinned and bowed at you.
It was a habit that became hard to break, actually, once Molly was born, because she was a natural audience for her big brother. Chris loved to ham it up, even if – or maybe especially if – it came to bodily functions, and he would clap at Molly until she figured out what to do, smacking her chubby hands together and crowing even though she didn't have a clue what all the fuss was about.
You sang to your children constantly, or at the very least hummed to them. When you had a radio, it was almost always tuned to the local station that played the Beatles, the Doors, Cream, the popular music. You sang Christmas carols all through December, whether there was a tree to decorate or not.
You didn't realize Chris was absorbing the words, taking the music in to become a part of himself, until you woke up one night and found him sitting beside Katie's crib, singing "Come All Ye Faithful", the words flowing soft and easy, in perfect pitch. In the dim light of the nightlight, you could see her eyes wide open, fixed on her brother.
You stood in the doorway and listened to him sing to her for half an hour, the sound so pure, so beautiful, it raised the hair on the back of your neck.
"Momma?" One slim shadow separated itself from the deeper shadows in the room, and Chris crept forward quietly. You watched him step around the floorboard that always squeaked, until he stood in front of you. "Mr. Davies came by again, momma." Chris' eyes were big and solemn in the near-dark, and you cringed. You were so tired, all you wanted to do was lay down and sleep. Or die, maybe. Your body ached, your feet throbbed, and the last thing you wanted to deal with was your landlord.
"What'd he say?"
Chris shrugged. "Nothin'. Molly an' Katie an' me hid in the closet in the bedroom. Molly kept her hand over Katie's mouth so she wouldn't cry. We didn't answer the door. He knocked a coupla times, but didn't come in."
That made you want to cry. That, and the big, dark eyes staring up at you. He was too young to have to deal with this. Silently you cursed yourself, the babysitter who'd bailed on you, and the last boyfriend who'd bailed, too. Mostly yourself, though. You hugged him close, aware of how thin and small he was. You wished there was more for him to eat, but you knew he wouldn't unless he knew Molly and Kate had enough first. "You're the best boy, Chris. The best."
He wiggled in your grip, but from the hug or the praise, you weren't sure. You squeezed once more, then let him go. "Are the girls asleep?"
"Yeah." His eyes drooped and you realized he'd been sitting up, waiting for you. It made your heart break all over again. He surged up and hugged you tight. "'M gonna be rich some day, mom, so I can take care of you and the girls."
"I just bet you will, kiddo. You'll do anything you put your mind to." You led him to his cot and tucked him into bed.
It was so cold. So very, very cold, and worse now that the sun was fully down. Night always seemed colder, even if it wasn't. You wished for a moment that you weren't the adult, weren't the mommy, that you could whimper softly with the girls. You wished you didn't have so much pride that you couldn't ask your parents for some help, because no one should have to sleep in a car in December—especially little kids. Chris was the only one not saying anything, just sitting silently, arms wrapped around himself, watching out the window. A little sentry on constant vigil. He stirred after a while, breath ghosting out in front of him when he turned to look at you.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"'S it okay if…can we sing? Like, Christmas songs or something?" He gave you a small smile. "Might, I dunno, make the girls not notice."
You blinked really fast so none of them could see your tears. "Yes."
His voice rose over yours, over Katie and Molly's, and stayed there. You let it lull you into a fitful sleep. When the sun rose the next morning, Chris was still sitting up, eyes drooping with sleep but watchful.
"Again, Chris? Why, honey?" You couldn't afford to take the time off work for another meeting with the principal. The note said Chris was fighting in the hallway – again. For the third time that month. And there was still the matter of him not paying attention in class, of goofing off and being a class clown.
"They're just stupid kids," he grumbled. "Sayin' stuff. But it's mean, and they shouldn't say it."
"People will always say mean things, honey. You know that by now, don't you?" You wanted to say more, wanted to hug him tight, but on cue, like she knew, Emily started crying. You couldn't even remember any more when your life hadn't revolved around crying babies and hungry children, and trying to keep them warm and clothed and happy. "Chris—"
"I got her, mom." He darted out the door, obviously eager to end the lecture—if that's what it could be called. You tried to remember what you and your brother were like at not-quite-twelve, and couldn't. It seemed so long ago. You listened to the silly sounds Chris made, talking nonsense to the baby while he no doubt changed her diaper, and sighed when he danced back out, holding her carefully while he looped and spun around. "Look! Happy Emily!" She giggled when he blew a raspberry onto her neck.
"Chris." You had to say it three more times before he looked back at you. "Sweetheart, you can't keep getting into fights. And you can't keep getting in trouble in class. You have to pay attention."
"School's boring." He danced Emily around the room again, making clucking and popping noises until she was shrieking with laughter. "Hate havin' to sit still."
"I know." You did. You'd never seen a child more full of energy than he was. It wore you out to watch him. "But it's important. You can't do anything without school." And you knew that lesson better than anyone. Lately, you'd been thinking about night school, and trying to get your GED. You didn't want to waitress and be on welfare for the rest of your life. You owed your kids a better life than that. "You can't be rich and famous without school, Chris."
He paused partway through his own version of "Lion Sleeps Tonight", which all the girls adored, and stared at you. "No?"
You shook your head firmly. "No. And if you get kicked out for fighting, or held back for not paying attention…"
He heaved a big sigh. "I'll try, mom. But it's—there's so much to do! I hate sitting there, and having to just—sit. I see stuff, and wanna do it, and just—"
"All you can do is try, honey. That's all I ask. But you have to do that."
He nodded once, eyes so big and dark in his little face, then grinned at you before breaking back into song. You sighed and hoped at least some of the words sunk in.
You'd come to realize, through the years, that doors slamming open and shut often meant more than just a person passing physically from one place to another. One door closed and another opened for you, when you learned you were pregnant. When the doctor laid Chris in your arms. When Byron left. When your girls were born. You couldn't always predict what would happen when you stepped through the new door, and often you were unprepared. But life was an adventure and bad came with the good. And good came. You believed that, truly.
So when the door slammed open that particular afternoon, and you were home to hear it, you knew instantly, with the high-pitched screech that came with it, that it was more than Chris coming in from outside. It was one door closing, and a new one opening on a part of his life he was only just discovering.
"I'm gonna be the lead in Oliver! Moooooooo-oom! I'm gonna be in the play! They needed someone small, and someone who could look sad, and they needed someone who could say stuff and sound British, and sing and dance and I did it, mom, me! Me me me!"
He danced around and spun in circles until you were dizzy watching him, and then he picked Emily up and spun her in circles, laughing and chattering a mile a minute the entire time.
It took you a good fifteen minutes to get him calmed down enough to tell you all the details, and then you were so proud of him you thought you'd burst with it. Especially when he did his cockney accent – and where the hell did he learn to speak like that?
It wasn't the stage that Chris loved so much. Or rather, it wasn't the acting part of the stage that Chris loved. You watched him, carefully, going to as many rehearsals as your job would allow. It was the singing. The performing. Up on stage, your baby shone like the star you knew he was – and would be.
School wouldn't matter to Chris any more; he'd found his niche. He would play sports, would excel at things like hockey and basketball, but singing…you could see it in his eyes. Music held a part of his soul, and he released a piece of that every time he let the notes out.
You hated moving the kids around, hated putting them through the rigor of having to make new friends, adjust to new schools and schedules, learn a new home. You hated moving yourself, having to start over with a new boyfriend, husband, whatever. Hated having to meet new people, to explain to the school systems why you had four children with three different last names, none of which were yours. Sometimes you wondered how life might've gone if you'd done this or that differently – finished school, for starters.
You still felt hampered by lack of knowledge, even about child-rearing. Sure, you had four kids, the oldest of whom was in middle school, but things just seemed to slide right by you sometimes. You knew Chris was small – not only short, but thin. He was wiry and muscled, testimony to the hours he spent bagging and carrying groceries, chasing a hockey puck or shooting hoops in the streets with neighbor kids, but he was a very small kid. You'd watched him pass part of his dinner or breakfast, or whatever, to whichever girl whined or fussed about still being hungry…but it never really clicked until the phone rang one afternoon, with a call from a friend who worked in the cafeteria at Chris' school.
It was hard enough to sit and listen to her talk about Chris going into the gym every day at lunch to shoot hoops when he could've been eating a decent lunch in the cafeteria. What made it worse was the knowledge you'd done that to him. You'd put him – however unintentionally – in the position of having to pick pride over eating, when those two things shouldn't even come into play together.
Chris was scrawny enough as it was. Food was sometimes hard to come by at home, if emergencies came up. He needed to eat. He needed to be able to be proud about his family, about his home, about everything. You were the adult. Having him and the girls, you realized, didn't make you an adult. But realizing you needed to change things about yourself and your lifestyle to make things better for them…that made you an adult.
It was time to get off welfare. Time to get your GED, and get some higher education, and get on with things. You had four children to support, and the men who'd come and gone in your life never seemed to stick around to make sure things went well. It was up to you.
It took you long, long months to get your GED. Months of working three jobs, and doing homework on your lunch breaks; of going home at night to eat whatever leftovers Chris set in the oven for you, then taking your books out to work some more. Sometimes he waited up for you and the two of you did your homework together.
One of the proudest moments of your life was when you 'graduated'. Chris took your diploma and had it framed for you. He stood on a chair – pale as milk and shaking the entire time – and hammered a nail into the wall to hang it on.
You hugged him tight afterward, and wondered when your baby got so tall. He was still small, still scrawny, but compared to the baby you remembered, he was so big. So grown up.
"Orlando?" You were really thankful for the chair behind you when you sank down. "Wow. That's—a long way away, Chris." Why now, was what you really wanted to ask, though that wasn't fair at all. It was just the timing. The timing really stunk.
"I know." He had his face scrunched up in concentration, though you could see his eyes moving around, watching Emily and her friend playing tag. "Um. Dad…said I could stay with him, while I get settled in, and he'd help me with tuition. And I got a scholarship. And a lead on a job with Universal Studios. I could sing, mom."
You smiled faintly. "I'm not telling you not to go, or that you can't go. I wouldn't do that. I'm just—surprised, I guess." And you would miss him desperately, your fat smiling baby who'd turned into a man when you weren't looking…even though you never glanced away.
"Me too, kinda." He looked vaguely embarrassed. "I didn't want to say anything, in case stuff fell through. And I know it's not a good time—" He gestured randomly and you shrugged. Things with Phil would get better, or they wouldn't. Nothing Chris could do would change that.
"It's as good or bad as any time, honey." You reached out and hugged him close. "I'll miss you, though. When do you leave?"
He hugged back, squeezing you tight, then let go and sat back down, jiggling his leg beneath the table. "Right after Em's birthday, I think. It'll take a few days to drive down there, though dad said he'd send me bus fare if I wanted to do that. It'll be a long drive, but I'll need a car, so. Registration starts mid-August, and I gotta do orientation and stuff, and I wanna find a job as soon as possible—"
He was already making plans, figuring things out. Moving on ahead. In your mind, you saw one door swinging shut behind him, and another one opening up. You wondered if he saw them, too.
"Tell me about the school," you said quietly, scooting your chair closer to the table. "And what're you planning to major in?"
"I can be up there tomorrow, mom." One thing you didn't need to worry about was Chris' tenacious streak. That obviously wouldn't ever change.
"You don't need to do that, honey. We're okay. Really." You'd practiced saying that over and over in the mirror, until you felt you could say it and be believed. "You have school and work—"
"I can get bereavement leave. Just—let me come up, mom. Please."
It shouldn't have made such a difference, having him insist. It didn't change that your husband was gone, that you had a baby – again – and two other girls at home to take care of, with Molly flitting in and out of the house with her own baby. But it did. Because Chris would sing to all of you, and play with the little ones, and amuse Katie and charm Molly's young man.
And maybe, somewhere in there, you'd be able to catch your breath, for a moment or two. Maybe tears could turn to laughter for just a moment. Maybe you could tell your son how proud you were of him, of what he'd accomplished so far – school, job, good grades and a scholarship.
"Call me back when you have your flight info," you said quietly, and sighed when he agreed and hung up.
You really liked Karen and Roy Chasez, and the Fatones. Phyllis was a hoot, and the two of you had already coerced Karen into having coffee together before you and the girls left to go back home. The Basses seemed really nice, but a little distant. You could see the concern etched on Diane's face, and it amazed you when you thought about it—you were actually younger than Lance when you'd had Chris.
Good Lord but that made you feel old.
Lynn Harless was sweet and charming, but you sensed an iron core beneath all that southern charm. It made you a little more comfortable, knowing she and Diane were going along with the boys – because even your son was still a boy, for all he was grown up.
You'd thought Orlando was far away – that didn't even prepare you for the idea of Germany. It was something you couldn't wrap your mind around, that your son, your firstborn, your baby, was going to Europe.
"Are you sure about this, Chris?" It was stupid to ask him now; their plane left in just over an hour. They would start boarding pretty soon. You had to ask, though. Mother's prerogative.
"Yeah. I am." He nodded to someone calling his name, and took your arm, drawing you away from the crowd. "Be right there, Wesley." His eyes were so, so serious when he looked at you, and for a moment you wanted to ask where was your happy-go-lucky Christopher? But even when he'd been happy and wild on the surface, you knew there was a serious, intense boy who lurked beneath. "These guys…they're great, mom. We're tight. Just—like this." And he knotted his fingers together, holding them up to show you. "I love 'em like I love you and the girls. And we're gonna do this. We're gonna go over there and kick ass—I mean, butt, and it's what I want, mom. I want it…and I'm gonna do it for you guys, so you don't ever have to worry about anything, okay?"
"Chris." How many times over the years had he brought you to tears? From the time he was born to now, you weren't sure you could count that high.
"We gotta get ready to board the plane." He patted his shirt pocket where his passport rested; he'd been so proud of it when he showed it to you yesterday. "I love you, mom." When he hugged you, it was different, somehow. He was confident and sure of himself. "We're gonna be huge. Just wait."
You knew they would be. How could they not?
You alternated between frantic worry over the amount of sleep the boys weren't getting, to insane pride over how they were 'kicking asses and taking names', in Chris' words.
He called you nearly every night – at least every couple, unless their schedule was more hectic than usual. They were at least six months into things before Lynn put her foot down and said the boys needed at least one day off every week, before every one of them keeled over with exhaustion. You knew Chris was so tired when you talked, you often wondered if he actually remembered the conversations from day to day.
You hated to end the calls, but it wasn't possible to talk for too long. With the time difference between the states and Germany – or whichever country they were in at that particular moment – it made it really late for you, some nights. It was hard to get the girls settled down, too, because they always wanted to talk to their brother.
"I need to get going, Chris. Emily has a test in the morning, and she'll never get up if I don't get her to bed. Love you, sweetie." You could hear someone – you thought it was Joey – yelling in the background, and wondered, as always, where the hell they found any energy for jumping or shouting after the days they had.
"Okay, mom. Love you, too." You heard his laughter, wild and manic, just before the connection cut out.
It always took you a minute to hang the phone back up after the click; the dial tone buzzed before you could make yourself do it.
They'd done all they could in Europe; now was the time for the big test: back in the US.
You were a little amazed by the men you saw standing in a huddle before the show began. They were playing an outdoor concert at the Wal-Mart you were working at—free promotion was never a bad thing, Chris assured you. You remembered gawky boys, eager and awkward and uncertain. In their places were five men, young, yes, but men. Still eager, but definitely more polished. Professional. You watched them sing and dance their hearts out in the summer heat, then stay afterward to sign every single autograph requested of them.
You were so proud of Chris…of all of them…that it hurt.
"We're filing a suit against Lou, mom."
First words out of your son's mouth after 'hello', and you heard the tension in them. The tightness. The guilt.
You knew there was something going on; you talked to Karen Chasez at least once a week, and she'd told you there were problems with royalties and payments – at least, you thought that was what she'd been talking about. Now you wondered if you hadn't misunderstood. "Tell me, hon."
His eyes flashed bright, angry, and his braids – those ridiculous braids that made you alternately laugh and shake your head – swung around his face. "He's been withholding earnings. The contracts we signed…we signed everything over to him, basically. Like a fucking deal with the devil."
"Are you suing him?"
"Yeah. All of us, and um. The Basses and Justin's mom." He scowled. "God. I can't even remember who all's named on the suit. That's how much I suck." He kind of slid onto the couch, scrunching himself up into a small ball. "I should've known, mom. They trusted me—"
"Christopher Alan Kirkpatrick, you stop that." You smacked his knee. "You weren't the only one who read those contracts. If Diane and James and Lynn are involved in the suit, then they're as much to blame – or not – as you."
"I'm the oldest."
"Yeah, and?"
"I don't know." He sighed and closed his eyes, and you wondered how long it'd been since he'd had a decent meal and a night's sleep. "I just feel like I let 'em all down. Something. I should've known. Me an' Angelo should've known. We're the ones who hung out with Lou all those months before the group even came together. Wouldn't I have known?"
He rubbed fitfully at his eyes. You weren't sure when the last time was that you'd seen Chris cry, but you'd bet it was before puberty. If he'd cried since then, it'd been somewhere you weren't privy to.
"Maybe." You reached out and tugged him over, until he curled up against you. "But maybe not. There's really no way to know. If he fooled all of you…don't be so hard on yourself, okay?"
"'S what JC keeps sayin'. But man. I just." He heaved a sigh, and you wished it were something as simple as when he was little, learning how to skate. Or ride a bike. He'd fall down, scrape his knee, and holler until you put a band aid on it and kissed it better. That, you could fix. This…was beyond your scope.
"You should listen to JC. His momma's a smart lady." The braids felt funny beneath your fingers, but you stroked anyway, felt Chris relax against you. "It's going to work out, Chris. Have faith, baby."
"'K, mom." His voice was sleepy, heavy, and it wasn't maybe a minute later that he snored softly against your shoulder.
You blinked your tears away while he slept.
*Nsync was everywhere. Literally. You couldn’t turn around without running into their music, their merchandise, their fans. Girls giggled over the boys everywhere you went, and it didn't take too long before they knew who you were, as well.
That took some getting used to.
You didn't want to be a celebrity. That was reserved for Chris and the other boys, who'd earned it. It wasn't yours to have, just because you'd birthed and raised him. But the girls – and some boys – didn't seem to care. Some came to your house, others walked up to you in shopping centers and malls. You exchanged stories – some good, some not – with the other parents and found the Fatones and Lynn Harless actually had a worse case happening; at least your Christmas decorations hadn't been stolen.
The Ananda Lewis show was…interesting. Still uncomfortable to be in the spotlight at all, but you wanted the world to see how much you loved your son, how proud you were of him.
It surprised you, really, when you realized he was just as proud of you.
"Mom had me pretty young, so we kind of grew up together."
That broke your heart at the same time it made it swell with love for him.
"We need a break. All of us." His voice was cheerful enough, but you knew how much Chris could hide behind a cheerful tone. You wished you could have this conversation face-to-face instead of on the phone. "It's cool, though. Just a break. Nothing big. J wants to do a solo thing, and Lance thinks he's gonna be the next Yuri Gagarin, and Joey's ready to beat Broadway into submission."
"And what about JC? What about you?" You watched Avery riding his bike up and down the street, and sat down on the nearest porch chair. Cordless phones were just the greatest things. Perfect for grandmas with unexpected baby-sitting duty.
"Dunno what C's gonna do. I think he's gonna head to LA and disappear into his studio for the next year, probably."
"And--? Don't make me ask again, Christopher."
"God, you're pushy." That sounded like a smile.
"That's because I'm your mother."
"Yeah, yeah. I kinda have a gig I'm gonna do. Nothin' big, just—a friend is working on a solo thing, and I promised him we'd do some writing together, do a little driving around the country. After that…who knows? I haven't had a vacation in years, mom."
"You're a mega-rich superstar, kid. Your whole life's a vacation."
He laughed in your ear. "Yeah, sure. And I do nothing to earn that, right?"
"Absolutely." You laughed with him. "When do you leave?"
"Eh. Not for a couple of weeks. I'm gonna be a bum until then."
"Like the mega-rich superstar you are."
"Yup." He paused. "Bring the girls over later in the week? They can swim, and I'll grill for us."
"You're offering to feed us?" You snickered. "Who are you, and what've you done with my Christopher?"
"Mom!"
"I'll call you and let you know which day, okay?"
"That's cool, mom. Give me like, a day or two notice, okay?"
"So you can clean the place up, I hope?"
"Nah. So I can get it dirtier."
"You're an ass, Chris."
"But you love me anyway." He sounded far away suddenly, and you heard the soft sound of a door closing. You wondered what the new one would bring for him, for you, for all of them.
"Yep, I do."
"Love you too, mom."
Tears and laughter, that's what Chris brought to your life. The greatest gift you'd ever received.
~fin~
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Date: 2003-12-23 06:50 am (UTC)