When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 1

I'll put this here too, so it won't be ignored. This is a sequel. Don't read it until you read the two precursors.

*Prologue*
*Billie Joe*

"Alright, you all gotta promise me that you'll stay out of trouble while I'm away." Billie Joe knelt and fixed his two boys with a stern gaze. It was hard for him to abstain from grinning as Jakob nodded so vigorously that it seemed he was in danger of whiplash.

"Yeah." Joseph, at the ripe old age of five, nodded more sedately. He was now old enough to consider himself the man of the house when Dad was away. While Billie Joe was ruffling Jakob's hair, Joseph rolled his eyes. He immediately schooled his face to impassivity as he noticed that his father was watching.

"I'm not joking around here Joey," Billie Joe said mildly.

"I ain't!" Joey protested. "I know this a bizillion times. Be good, do chores, we know. We will," he droned, hanging off Billie Joe's arm to emphasize.

"And what about your mom?" Billie Joe asked. At this, his oh-so-wise older son looked stumped.

"We're good with her too. Be nice 'cause you aren't here," Jakob piped up. Billie Joe grinned.

"Right on. Now, make sure you do that, okay? I'm trusting you to do this." There was nothing like treating them like adults to get them to adhere to his requests. "C'mere an' give your old man a hug." Without further ado, Jakob rushed into his father's arms. Joey was less enthusiastic in his approach, but his hug was just as tight as his brother's. "I'll see you guys in a few weeks. I'll be back for Christmas," Billie promised.

The boys nodded and slipped out of his arms as he rose. Billie Joe put one hand on the handle of his suitcase and met eyes with his wife. A wry, lop-sided smile was on her face. Relieved, Billie Joe smiled back at her. A year ago, he had not even been sure it was the right thing to do, to go back into the studio, back to Green Day, and away from everyone else. A year ago, he had not been sure that if he left for a tour, there would be a home for him to which he could return. All lingering doubts washed away as he took a few steps forward to meet Adrienne. Habitually, they exchanged a brief peck on the lips. They had exchanged their more emotional farewells at an earlier time. "Have fun," Adrienne said warmly.

"How couldn't I?" Billie Joe responded. "I'll be having a blast with the guys." Adrienne bobbed her head in acquiescence.

"Well, try to keep out of too much trouble until we see you again, okay?" Playfully, Billie Joe cocked his head.

"When have I ever gotten into trouble with Mike and Tré? We're like angels." She laughed and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Well," he smiled. "I guess I better get going."

*Tré*

His feet grittily ground the loose dirt into the linoleum. He could hear, and feel, the particles under his slip-on shoes. Mud in the house was just another result of having a rambunctious four-year old girl. Tré was not complaining. He still remembered the post-rain compulsion to go out and run through mud puddles. Such desires, happening only yesterday, were not easily forgotten. To speak truthfully, he did know some of the finer points of mud enjoyment that his daughter seemed prone to forget. Today, Tré did not have the heart to chide Ramona about taking off her soiled shoes.

The girl in question was nowhere in sight. She had fled as soon as Tré had approached the door with his coat on. He had tried to make this visit more like a social call than a good-bye, but there was no fooling Ramona. Sighing, Tré exchanged glances with Lisea. His ex-wife gave him a sympathetic smile. "You know it's hard for her. She's old enough to figure out that you're not around. I noticed she acted a bit funny when you went off this summer."

"Yeah, I know. If she didn't have school, I'd take her with me. It's never too late to teach her how to kick a little ass." Tré coughed nervously as Lisea raised an eyebrow. "With your permission of course."

"Well, you better go see her before you go." Tré started to head towards his daughter's room. "Hey, take off the shoes," Claudia reprimanded. Swiftly, Tré kicked off the offending foot gear and continued on his way. At Ramona's firmly shut door, he halted.

"Hey, open up. It's me."

"No." The girl's reply was muffled as if her face was shoved into a pillow. Well, obviously this girl has no idea what it's like to live with three other people. Deliberately, Tré began tapping on the door, causing it to rattle. It started out as a simple tapping, but he soon let it evolve into a regular rhythm. Before long, the drummer could hear chuckling on the other side. Tré ceased hitting the door and plastered himself on the wall beside it. A few breaths later, the door creaked open. Ramona peeked out, looking the opposite direction of Tré.

"Gotcha!" Tré pounced and snatched the little girl up. Ramona squealed, giggled, and thrashed. Laughing, Tré swung his daughter over his shoulder and marched into the room. Quickly but gently, he set Ramona down on the bed. "Are you still going to be mad at me? Because if you are, then I'll call Billie and Mike and tell them I can't come."

"But isn't Mike sad already?" Ramona stared at her gaily-colored, animal-print bedspread.

"Yeah, but he'll get over it. Mike's a big guy, so's Billie. They know that sometimes you have to let people you like do what they want to do, or else they wind up sad."

"Is that why Mike's sad?" Ramona asked slowly, as if musing things over. Damn, this kid's perceptive.

"Well, yes and no." Tré paused to think things over. "He's sad because he didn't get to do what he wanted, and then when he got to, someone else got sad. He's sad because he can't make everyone happy."

"Will he get sadder if you don't come?" Look at what you just did, Tré, laid a guilt trip on your own kid.

"Nah. I don't think so," Tré amended. "Him and Billie'll just come over and visit me I guess." At this, a large frown marred Ramona's face. Oh God, what now? I can't hack this backpedaling.

"But what about Stella and her mom and Joey and Jakob and their mom?" Ramona asked.

"Uh, what about them?"

"Would they come over to your house too? Like a party? A sleepover?" An excited glint, which meant trouble for Tré, flickered in the girl's eyes.

"No, because I think Stella, Joey, and Jakob would want to sleep in their own beds. But, if their dads were away, maybe you could go sleep over at their house or they could come here," Tré replied carefully whilst thinking, there. I shot that down and gave her a better opening. There was a long pause wherein Ramona traced the outline of a lion on her sheet. Tré watched her and waited for her verdict. Finally, Ramona stood up and flung her arms around Tré's neck. A simple smile came to Tré's lips as he returned the embrace.

"I think, Dad, that you should go. That way everyone'll be happy." Ramona lowered her voice to a whisper. "I don't think Mike should be more sadder. He should get happy playing with you and Uncle Billie, right?" Ramona stepped back and waited for Tré to nod. "I'm going to be sad, but Joey and Stella and Jakob'll be sad too. Maybe I can visit them and then everyone would be better." Tré nodded again.

"Yeah. You know what? I think that'll work just fine."

*Mike*

He was riding in his truck again. For the first time in years, he was back in his truck. It did not seem to matter that his truck was, in reality, either in a junk yard somewhere or living life as a pop can. He was in the truck, and he was not alone. Before he could remember exactly who was in the truck with him, it happened just as it always did.

There was a horrific screech, followed by deafening thud. The truck jerked sideways, and then rolled over onto its side like a capsizing ship. With a shudder and a groan from its steel body, the truck continued to grate sideways on its right side. Glass broke with a musical shatter when Mike's head collided with the passenger window. Something nearby was roaring so loudly, he wondered if the sound was the cause for the blood running from his ears or if it was some other wound. Just as suddenly as it began, it was over. Perfect silence surrounded him.

Mike panted and winced at the agony lancing through his body. He tried to unbuckle his belt, but his wrists screamed in protest. Desperately, he bit his lip and tried again. This time, it was not the pain that stopped him.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. Aa...ah." A female voice, thick with suffering, broke the stillness. "It...it's." A shuddering gasp made Mike shudder in sympathy. The woman stated calmly, "It's sticking into me. I've got--ah-ah... Oh God, it hurts." Mike turned his head in order to discover who the woman was and evaluate the severity of her wounds, but he could not see her. His eyes would not allow his gaze to go past the gear shift to the driver's seat.

"How bad is it?" he asked. "I can't see you. You have to tell me." Painfully, the woman continued to breathe, and ignored him. "Please." Mike had no idea why he needed to know her damage; after all, he was in no condition to help himself.

"Listen, you're gonna be fine, we're not going to -" Mike stopped in mid-sentence as a chilling cry filled the air of the truck's cab. Not only was he going to die, not only was the woman going to die, a baby was going to die. Together with the soft, anguished moans of the woman the wail of the child made a horrible soundtrack. It kept going on and on, without stopping. Mike wished for everything to stop, just stop. Finally, quiet stole over the vehicle once more.The horrific silence began to press down on him when he realized why all was still. The air gushed out of his lungs in a terrified yell.

"Stella! Anastasia!" Half-disoriented, he clambered off of the couch, scattering beer cans and the odd grimy coffee cup. Once upright, Mike halted his mad dash in a comic double-take. His mind demanded time to slowly separate reality and dreams. The only truck crash he had ever been in was the one involving Tré, several years ago. Anastasia was safe, somewhere else, in her own house. Estelle was with Anastasia, safe as well. They had been in perfect health when he had visited them yesterday. He had no reason to worry. He could take it easy. It was just a dream, only a dream.

Rubbing his stubbly face, Mike wandered into the bathroom. Lazily, he leaned on the sink and blearily stared at his reflection. His haggard features gazed back at him through blood-shot eyes. Still eying himself up, he turned on the tap and began to lave his face. That accomplished, and feeling a bit more conscious, he picked up his watch from the counter. Mike casually read the digital numbers and felt all of his residual exhaustion drain away in a torrent. He had overslept by far too much. Slapping the watch on, Mike bolted into his bedroom. If he wanted to be moderately ready to depart, he had no time to lose. Hastily, he started throwing clothes into his already half-packed suitcase. He filled the suitcase, and then stuffed in more clothes until the suitcase was well past overflowing. Roughly, he slammed the lid shut and forced the zipper closed.

"Aw, son of a bitch," he muttered to himself as he took in his attire. Boxers and a dirty shirt were not exactly clothing suitable for public display. Perhaps someone less meticulous, or with a more exhibitionistic sense humor, would go out in such, but not Mike. Like an insane whirlwind, he unzipped the suitcase and yanked out a pair of pants and a shirt. These he threw on the bed before re-stuffing his other clothes back into his suitcase.

As he yanked the shirt over his head, Mike's mind continued to turn over the dream; the pain, the sound, the confusion over the other pass--. Mike paused a moment, and then continued to dress. A sudden stillness crept into his thoughts. After buckling his belt, he ran his hand though his lank brown hair to comb it. A weary sigh escaped his lips. With it, barely audible, was the ghost of one long-disused name.

"Wren."