Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [19]
We liked to imagine our dad playing before screaming crowds—the kind we saw on television when the Beatles played. We even had long conversations about it, but our dad simply laughed when we asked him how he’d been able to fend all those girls off.
“My band wasn’t quite that popular,” he tried to explain, but we didn’t believe him. Why should we? The facts, after all, were clear. He was in a band. He sang and played like a professional. And he used to live in England. What could be more obvious? After a while, I think we actually convinced ourselves that he not only knew Paul McCartney and John Lennon personally, but had played no small role in their success.
And he was our dad.
Aside from watching spooky movies, listening to him play became our favorite activity with him. Usually, we’d be goofing off in the living room when we’d hear him start tuning his guitar. This was our signal to calm down, and we’d quickly take our places at his feet.
He never rushed. He always made sure the guitar’s pitch was perfect. He seldom sang right away—I think he was shy— but instead, would simply strum through a few songs, tapping his foot in time. His fingers moved amazingly fast, as if guided by unknown forces, and when he looked at us, he’d smile, occcasionally waggling his eyebrows.
Eventually he would sing, and we’d listen raptly for as long as he did. And when he finally got around to playing something by the Beatles, my brother, sister, and I would glance knowingly at one another, sharing the same thought: “See, I told you he knew them.”
Perhaps responding to the rising tension in the house—by that time, my parents had begun arguing about everything from money to my dad’s emotional absence in our lives, arguments that frequently left my mom in tears—my mom began coming into our room at bedtime, where she’d lie down with each of us in succession. Though I didn’t understand it at the time—back then, it simply seemed to be another way to show her love for us—I now think she used those moments to escape the stress of her marriage, if only for a short while. While in bed, she’d ask each of us about our day, and we’d whisper our answers, sharing whatever happened to be on our minds. We’d talk about God or school or friends and though she’d sometimes speak, more often than not she’d simply let us ramble on, jumping from one subject to the next. She was warm and soft, like a heated pillow, and those stolen moments felt like heaven itself.
Later, my dad would finally come to tuck us in. Most of the time, since he got home so late, we’d already be asleep, but I always woke as soon as the door creaked open and the light from the hallway spilled in.
Sometimes, I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, just to see what he would do. But my dad had a routine he always followed, whether we were sleeping or not. He went from one bed to the next, pulling the covers up, before gently stroking our hair. Then, he’d stand over us for a moment, before finally leaning down to kiss us on the cheek. By the end of the day, he looked tired and his whiskers felt like rough sandpaper. He smelled like Old Spice and cigarettes, and in a quiet voice, he’d whisper, “I love you,” to each of us.
Only then would my day finally feel complete. Warm and comforted, I wouldn’t wake again for the rest of the night.
That year—perhaps because our parents understood how their arguments were affecting their children—we experienced the only miracle of our young lives. I woke to find my sister nudging me awake early one morning.
“Come quick,” she said, “you’re not going to believe what I just saw.”
“What is it?”
“Come on,” she urged. “Hurry. I already woke up Micah.”
Rubbing my eyes, I hurried from the room, following my brother and sister. All of a sudden they stopped, and when Micah turned, I saw his eyes widen