Fleetwood Mac-Part III of Fritz Series

Convalescence

"Stevie! Stevie!!!!!" for perhaps the fourth time today stranded as I am on my back in my sick bed, I summon my wife from the other room by bellowing down the hall. She rejected my idea of a bell or tambourine jingle, with a withering look the second I suggested it. Two-way radios like they have in spy films would be cool, but impractical. So I have to settle for my second instrument, my voice. Granted it's not AS imperative to me as it is to Stevie, but I don't like straining it unnecessarily regardless.

"You bellowed?" my wife stands at the threshold with finger paint on her apron, Sara and Nova are making crafts "Can I have some more chocolate milk?" she huffs rolling her eyes at me before taking my empty glass "You're the one who forbid me from moving for two months" she gives me a look but says nothing heading into the kitchen and returning seconds later "The doctor and me you big dummy, and if you'd had your surgery when you were supposed to we wouldn't be in this predicament." In spite of her annoyed appearance Stevie's natural caring instincts overrule her impatience with me.

She adjusts my pillows and covers clearing off the dresser and handing over my medication for the afternoon. One of my guitars is I my lap while I sip my chocolate milk from a straw, I've been scribbling lyrics all day and I've just about got another song finished. Curious, Stevie looks it over raising an eyebrow at the particular song in her hand

"What makes you think you're the one

Who can laugh without cryin'?

What makes you think you're the one

Who can live without dyin'?

Every little bit

Is there

To see

Every little bit

Of you

And me"

She blinks twice slowly sitting next to me in bed "Something on your mind honey?" grumbling I pick absently at my guitar "No...not really. I was just messing around with something I wrote while we were...separated" folding her hands in her lap Stevie looks over at me her facial features softening "Linds, you're allowed to write songs about me. I write about you...constantly" yeah but hers are much more...poetic. Mine are harsh, and usually angry, without a whole lot of imagination required to translate. I wrote this after listening to "You're so Vain" and smoking about three fluid ounces of hash oil. Off topic but I'd kill for a joint.

"I want you to write about it, I've certainly filled about forty pages with lyrics surrounding that particular snafu. It's healthy Linds, and even though you're more open with me and more honest I want you to have a release for all of your thoughts" my hand rests on her folded thigh and I smirk up at her playing with the hem of her skirt "Have I told you I love you today?" she rubs the back of my hand slowly "Each time you've yelled down the hall for a refill or a new pillow or another guitar...yes" I'm as bad as AJ. At least he's wide awake in his play pen.

Little footsteps rush down the hall and the bed bounces under the combined weight of Sara and Nova "Mommy come on we have to finish so daddy can see his surprise!" realizing that she let the cat out of the bag Sara covers her mouth quickly making Stevie and myself snort with laughter "Come on sweet peas. It think it's time for lunch too, Nova baby it's your turn to pick" my son plucks a string on my mandolin then grabs his mom's hand "Scetti!" his generic term for pasta. Sara sighs in a sweet but long-suffering manner "He always picks that".

"Cuz I like scetti!" I sense an argument brewing, luckily Stevie heads it off "It's your turn tomorrow Sara then you can choose" Sara plucks at my guitar then sighs "Okay...can daddy have a turn?" what a wonderful suggestion. Daddy's been eating Scetti and grilled cheese for a week. Ruffling Sara's curls Stevie looks over at me "Well if you're willing to give up your turn tomorrow than daddy can pick. Puzzling the idea in her mind for a moment Sara finally nods "Okay, you can pick tomorrow daddy" Thank God.