Jack Who? (Book 1 Draft Version)

PART TWO~CHAPTER : 4

♪♫••═════ PART TWO~CHAPTER : 4  ═════••♬ ♭

How had Jack had it done so fast? The car bed that Tristan had wanted for several months was the focal point, but instead of being low to the floor, it had the illusion of being jacked up on a mechanic's lift. Beneath the bed was a couple of bean bag chairs. The dressers were red mock tool storage chests. The television was almost as large as the one downstairs in the den.

The car theme was the focal point of the room without being dominating, and while Tristan hurried to his bed, I frowned at it, especially when he propped his crutch and began up the ladder.

Protectively, I closed the space, and Jack followed. Whether optimistically or defensively, he explained, “As quick as he is getting along, I didn't expect it to be a problem. And, check this out. Retrieving a piece of molded plastic from where it leaned against the wall, he attached it to the bed, effectively making a slide.

“Mom! This bed is so—This bed rocks!”

Agreeing, I smiled, and this time there was no jealousy that Jack had far surpassed the car room that had taken a good chunk of my paycheck back home.

Jack passed him a remote control, and once Tristan began surfing the channels asked, “I'm going to show your mom—your momma her room. Cool?”

Tristan barely nodded, and I couldn't help but grin when I saw he was already setting the DVR to record his favorite shows.

“Tristan.” Moving to stand between him and the t.v., I had to verbally command his attention since he could look over my head. “ Tristan! Look at me. Do not get down from that bed until we come back. Understand?”

Only when my son nodded did I follow Jack to the hall, then a few paces down the hall to the room directly beside our son's.

“Wait! There is something you should know.” Jack's words halted my hand on the doorknob. “There is no car bed, no bean bags, no--” With an amused roll of my eyes, I cut him off and twisted the door open.

It was a normal neat guest room, and after peering into the dresser mirror, swiping at the shadows beneath my eyes, I sank to the plush spread of the bed.

“Tired?” Jack sat beside me, and resting a hand on the base of my neck, gently massaged. When I nodded, he asked, “Do you think he likes his room?”

It seemed a redundant question, given Tristan's ecstatic ramblings for the last quarter of an hour, and a trickle of irritation bubbled up before I pushed it down. Jack was not trying to outdo what I could do. He was simply trying to connect with a son he loved, already, I was beginning to believe, as much as I did.

“He loves his room,” I assured, resting a hand on his threadbare jeans.

“Are you worried about the bed? I thought the slide was a perfect solution to getting down until he is on his feet. And he seemed to climb it okay.”

“No. I'm not worried. It's good exercise.”

Through the curtain of his hair, his face didn't seem assured, and he asked, “Why did you tell him he couldn't get down? Until you came back?”

My fingertips had been brushing at the threads on his knees, and I pulled them back, wearily pushing the hair back from my face as I angled my face to better see his expression.

“The swimming pool,” I admitted. The huge sliding glass doors had a long rod at what looked to be around six feet from the floor, some type of lock, but I still worried. “I saw the lock. And Tristan minds well. But I've never had to test all of that around a pool. He loves to swim--well he can't actually swim yet, and that's the problem.”