“I have to say, this was really a treat, and not just because I was once a screaming sixteen-year-old girl.” The reporter smiled and brandished her tape recorder.
Scott shrugged. “It’s Christmas, the concert is for a good cause, and the four of us were all in the country at the same time.”
“Well, you guys sound better than ever. Any plans for a new album?” the reporter asked.
The four of them exchanged looks, and then Clay said, “Probably not. I mean, we’ll always make music with each other, but at this point our tastes and styles are pretty divergent. Scott has a good thing going with the grassroots vibe, and I don’t think he wants us crawling all over his studio.”
“You got that right,” Scott said, and punched Clay in the shoulder lightly.
The reporter’s eyes gleamed. “So, are the rumors true?”
“No, I’m not secretly an undercover agent for the Mounties,” Scott said promptly, and the other three laughed.
“There was a rumor going around a couple of years ago that you split because Dan came out to your father,” the reporter said.
The mirth faded, and the brothers looked at each other. Something silent passed between them, and then Bob spoke.
“Dad wasn’t too happy about Dan and Joey, but that’s not why we stopped touring and recording. It was my fault, actually.”
Clay flinched. “Man, don’t say that.”
The reporter leaned in closer; she could smell a good story.
“Remember when I cut my hair midway through the Just Another Phase promo stuff?” Bob asked.
The reporter nodded. “Definitely. The fans were devastated.”
“Well, I cut my hair because I was starting chemotherapy.”
The reporter’s expression was priceless.
“I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose my hair, and I figured if I buzzed it and then just shaved it all off, no one would notice. I had leukemia - it’s in remission now, and Clay donated some bone marrow for the cause, but once the chemo hit I just didn’t have the energy to tour.” Bob shrugged. “That’s the truth of it, I guess.”
“Leukemia?” The reporter searched for words. “Why didn’t you tell the fans?”
Bob laughed, a little self-consciously. “Well, I was miserable company for a while there. I mean, I was surprised that the fans hadn’t noticed I barely said a word during interviews and barely smiled. Given how horrible I was to my brothers, I felt no need to spread the misery, and besides, the doctors said I had a really good chance of beating it, especially with Clay hanging around, so I didn’t want to make more of a fuss than necessary.”
“But you’re all better now?”
“Yeah. It’s been in remission for a while now, and I’m getting back on my feet.” Bob smiled, and around him, his brothers smiled as well.
Someone’s cellphone buzzed, and Scott jumped. “Sorry - sounds like they want us on the next stage.”
The reporter nodded, still looked dazed.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Make It Through Together
Shelley screamed.
Dan leapt up from his keyboard and dashed up the stairs. He skidded to a halt on the landing in a solid fighting stance. Seconds later, Scott and Clay flanked him, ready to fend off an intruder.
“Uh...hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bob knelt down and began to pick up the laundry that had fallen when Shelley dropped her laundry basket.
“Bob, what did you do?” Shelley cried.
“Shelley, are you all right?” Dan stepped around Shelley to help Bob, and then he recoiled. “Whoa.”
“Whoa what?” Clay peered around Shelley, and then he went still.
“Guys, you’re freaking me out.” Scott joined the huddle around Bob, and his jaw went slack. “Bobby. You - your hair. Why did you cut your hair?”
It was a fairly neat job, buzzed short, shorter than even Clay had worn it during his Wild At Heart days.
Bob straightened up and handed Shelley the refilled laundry basket. “It’s been six weeks of the medicine. I start chemo this week. I figured if I cut it short and I started to lose hair, well...it wouldn’t be so weird.”
Dan blinked. “Oh. You - you’re gonna go forward with the chemo?”
“Yeah.” Bob shoved his hands into his pockets. “I, uh, I know I’ve been...kind of a monster these past few weeks, and - I’m sorry. You all have been really, really great, and I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed.”
“Bob, you’re seventeen years old. All seventeen-year-olds are self-absorbed.” Shelley’s smile was watery.
Bob reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Shelley.”
“Dude,” Scott said, “she just insulted you.”
Clay reached out, put a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “So, you’re finally taking me up on my offer?”
“Yeah.” Bob stepped back from Shelley. He ran a hand over his buzzed hair absently. “I am lucky, and not just because we’re twins. I’m lucky because I have all of you. I can make it through this because you’re here with me.”
Clay dragged Bob into a hug. “We are going to make it through this together.”
Dan threw his arms around Bob from the other side.
He laughed. “Hey, guys, I can’t breathe.”
Shelley was openly crying now, and she threw herself into the hug.
Scott said, “I’m not hugging you all.”
Dan caught Scott’s shirt and dragged him forward. “Get in here.”
Dan leapt up from his keyboard and dashed up the stairs. He skidded to a halt on the landing in a solid fighting stance. Seconds later, Scott and Clay flanked him, ready to fend off an intruder.
“Uh...hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bob knelt down and began to pick up the laundry that had fallen when Shelley dropped her laundry basket.
“Bob, what did you do?” Shelley cried.
“Shelley, are you all right?” Dan stepped around Shelley to help Bob, and then he recoiled. “Whoa.”
“Whoa what?” Clay peered around Shelley, and then he went still.
“Guys, you’re freaking me out.” Scott joined the huddle around Bob, and his jaw went slack. “Bobby. You - your hair. Why did you cut your hair?”
It was a fairly neat job, buzzed short, shorter than even Clay had worn it during his Wild At Heart days.
Bob straightened up and handed Shelley the refilled laundry basket. “It’s been six weeks of the medicine. I start chemo this week. I figured if I cut it short and I started to lose hair, well...it wouldn’t be so weird.”
Dan blinked. “Oh. You - you’re gonna go forward with the chemo?”
“Yeah.” Bob shoved his hands into his pockets. “I, uh, I know I’ve been...kind of a monster these past few weeks, and - I’m sorry. You all have been really, really great, and I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed.”
“Bob, you’re seventeen years old. All seventeen-year-olds are self-absorbed.” Shelley’s smile was watery.
Bob reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Shelley.”
“Dude,” Scott said, “she just insulted you.”
Clay reached out, put a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “So, you’re finally taking me up on my offer?”
“Yeah.” Bob stepped back from Shelley. He ran a hand over his buzzed hair absently. “I am lucky, and not just because we’re twins. I’m lucky because I have all of you. I can make it through this because you’re here with me.”
Clay dragged Bob into a hug. “We are going to make it through this together.”
Dan threw his arms around Bob from the other side.
He laughed. “Hey, guys, I can’t breathe.”
Shelley was openly crying now, and she threw herself into the hug.
Scott said, “I’m not hugging you all.”
Dan caught Scott’s shirt and dragged him forward. “Get in here.”
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Beyond Help
“Well, you certainly look happier.”
Clay blinked. “Pardon?”
A girl smiled at him. “I saw you a little while ago. You looked...sad.” It was her turn to blink at him. “And your hair was longer. I guess a haircut cheered you up.”
Success. “You saw me? With longer hair? Which way was I headed?”
That earned him a raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you remember?”
Clay winced. “The person you met - not me. My brother. I’ve been looking for him. Which way?”
“Your brother? I could have sworn it was --”
“Identical,” Clay said. He knew he was being rude and impatient, but he had to find Bob. “Please. It’s important.”
The girl’s smile faded. “Oh. Sorry. I - the harbor. Inner Harbor.”
“Thanks.”
Clay didn’t know what he’d find when he finally got his hands on Bob, but it would involve a good shaking, maybe a punch, and possibly a few choice swear words. For three weeks Bob had drifted through the house, a silent ghost, barely leaving his room, and now - now he was out prowling the town. Whatever had driven him from the safety of his mourning room had to be big.
Clay skittered down the boardwalk, ignoring the lure of the bright wares in the curious stalls. He drew to a halt at the bridge. On the other side, Bob stood overlooking the water. Half a dozen rugby players from the local high school had him circled, and - he had his head bowed, shoulders hunched. Perfect prey posture.
Clay groaned. He really couldn’t afford to get into a fight - and neither could Bob. He approached slowly, quietly, trying to gauge the situation.
“You some kinda junkie, kid?” one of the rugby players asked. “Or are you one of those wannabe vampire kids who never sees the light of day?”
Bob just stared at the water, hands in his pockets.
“You deaf, freak?” Another rugby player shoved at Bob’s shoulder.
He swayed dangerously on his feet, but he wasn’t so far gone that he’d let his own balance fail. Then he lifted his head. “Are you going to hit me?”
The first rugby player laughed. “I dunno. Are you any fun to hit?”
“Maybe.” Bob shrugged carelessly. “Although, since I’m dying, I think that would take some of the fun out of it.”
The rugby player froze, fist cocked to punch. “What?”
Bob tilted his head to one side, expression quizzical. “Whatever you do to me probably won’t hurt nearly as much as what my body’s doing to itself, so...if you want to hit me, go ahead. It’s not like I matter anymore.”
The group of boys exchanged uneasy looks. “Hey, man, we were just kidding around.”
Again with that careless shrug. “I know. But I don’t mind - I’m good at taking pain. What’s a little more, after all this? You might as well have your fun.”
The boys began to back away. “Dude, you need help,” one of them said.
Bob’s smile was almost angelic. “I’m beyond help.”
Clay blinked. “Pardon?”
A girl smiled at him. “I saw you a little while ago. You looked...sad.” It was her turn to blink at him. “And your hair was longer. I guess a haircut cheered you up.”
Success. “You saw me? With longer hair? Which way was I headed?”
That earned him a raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you remember?”
Clay winced. “The person you met - not me. My brother. I’ve been looking for him. Which way?”
“Your brother? I could have sworn it was --”
“Identical,” Clay said. He knew he was being rude and impatient, but he had to find Bob. “Please. It’s important.”
The girl’s smile faded. “Oh. Sorry. I - the harbor. Inner Harbor.”
“Thanks.”
Clay didn’t know what he’d find when he finally got his hands on Bob, but it would involve a good shaking, maybe a punch, and possibly a few choice swear words. For three weeks Bob had drifted through the house, a silent ghost, barely leaving his room, and now - now he was out prowling the town. Whatever had driven him from the safety of his mourning room had to be big.
Clay skittered down the boardwalk, ignoring the lure of the bright wares in the curious stalls. He drew to a halt at the bridge. On the other side, Bob stood overlooking the water. Half a dozen rugby players from the local high school had him circled, and - he had his head bowed, shoulders hunched. Perfect prey posture.
Clay groaned. He really couldn’t afford to get into a fight - and neither could Bob. He approached slowly, quietly, trying to gauge the situation.
“You some kinda junkie, kid?” one of the rugby players asked. “Or are you one of those wannabe vampire kids who never sees the light of day?”
Bob just stared at the water, hands in his pockets.
“You deaf, freak?” Another rugby player shoved at Bob’s shoulder.
He swayed dangerously on his feet, but he wasn’t so far gone that he’d let his own balance fail. Then he lifted his head. “Are you going to hit me?”
The first rugby player laughed. “I dunno. Are you any fun to hit?”
“Maybe.” Bob shrugged carelessly. “Although, since I’m dying, I think that would take some of the fun out of it.”
The rugby player froze, fist cocked to punch. “What?”
Bob tilted his head to one side, expression quizzical. “Whatever you do to me probably won’t hurt nearly as much as what my body’s doing to itself, so...if you want to hit me, go ahead. It’s not like I matter anymore.”
The group of boys exchanged uneasy looks. “Hey, man, we were just kidding around.”
Again with that careless shrug. “I know. But I don’t mind - I’m good at taking pain. What’s a little more, after all this? You might as well have your fun.”
The boys began to back away. “Dude, you need help,” one of them said.
Bob’s smile was almost angelic. “I’m beyond help.”
Pleading
Joe retreated to the old chapel that he had been going to for years. It was small and probably built in the last century. The wood was old, the pews dark wood, lined with moth eaten silk cushions. It was time for the evensong, the young choir boys filing in quietly, their voices lifted in song as they lined up. Joe remembered back to the time when he and Alec had been alter boys.
Joe felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Joe knew without looking that it was a withered and spotted with age. "Hey Father," Joe said without looking up.
"Joseph. What has you here at this time of day? Is there anything that I can help you with?" Father John asked.
"No. You can's help me. Only He can help me," Joe said, looking up at the crucifix.
"Yes. He helps all who ask," Father John said. He patted Joe on the shoulder, and shuffled down the aisle towards the alter, ready to give the evening mass.
God. Joe was not sure what to say. Please save him. I'll do anything. I'll join the priesthood, bring souls back to you. I'll go to mass, confession. I'll go to Rome and dedicate my life to you. I'll give you anything you ask. Anything.
The choir boys were pitch perfect this evening, their clear voices rising in the stillness of the chapel. Joe continued his silent pleading.
Exhausted, Joe sat back, running his prayer beads through his fingers, black and white beads. Alec's were blue and green.
Joe stood up and crossed himself, walking back down the aisle and out into the night.
Joe felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Joe knew without looking that it was a withered and spotted with age. "Hey Father," Joe said without looking up.
"Joseph. What has you here at this time of day? Is there anything that I can help you with?" Father John asked.
"No. You can's help me. Only He can help me," Joe said, looking up at the crucifix.
"Yes. He helps all who ask," Father John said. He patted Joe on the shoulder, and shuffled down the aisle towards the alter, ready to give the evening mass.
God. Joe was not sure what to say. Please save him. I'll do anything. I'll join the priesthood, bring souls back to you. I'll go to mass, confession. I'll go to Rome and dedicate my life to you. I'll give you anything you ask. Anything.
The choir boys were pitch perfect this evening, their clear voices rising in the stillness of the chapel. Joe continued his silent pleading.
Exhausted, Joe sat back, running his prayer beads through his fingers, black and white beads. Alec's were blue and green.
Joe stood up and crossed himself, walking back down the aisle and out into the night.
Busting It Up
Joe stood up from where he had collapsed into the hard plastic hospital chair, hands clenching and unclenching, pacing back and forth.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to grow old together, as close as any two brothers could be.
It's my fault. I should have been with him. I should have been there. Why did I say I would go out with her? She doesn't even mean anything to me. It's my fault. If I had been with him like I was supposed to be, this might not have happened. What happened anyway? It doesn't even matter. What matters is that it's my fault.
It's my fault!
JOe spun around and slammed his fist into the unyielding wall. He didn't care about the pain, he welcomed it. Looking at the wall, Joe hit it again, and again, leaving red streaks on the clinical whiteness.
"Sir?" a small voice said from behind him.
Joe spun around, fist raised. Before him stood a small nurse. She couldn't have been much older than Joe himself. Joe lowered his fist slowly, "Sorry."
The nurse approached him and took his broken and bleeding hand in her gentle grip, "Let me fix this up," she said.
Joe jerked his hand out of hers, "can you fix him?" his tone bordered on nasty.
The nurse looked up at him, "We are going to do our very best."
"But what if it's not enough?" Joe asked, his voice rising, anger seeping out to lash at this young woman. He stepped back as she approached him again, holding his hand out of reach.
"I promise you sir, I will give it all I have got, and not a bit less," she said.
Joe looked down at his mangled hand. Blood was dripping from his fingertips, and the skin was torn over the knuckles. He was pretty sure that the bones were fractured as well.
The nurse held out her hand to him and Joe reluctantly placed his injured hand in hers. She gently cleaned up the gore and applied bandages. "My name's Jen, by the way," she said.
"Joseph," Joe said; his eyes still burning with anger.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to grow old together, as close as any two brothers could be.
It's my fault. I should have been with him. I should have been there. Why did I say I would go out with her? She doesn't even mean anything to me. It's my fault. If I had been with him like I was supposed to be, this might not have happened. What happened anyway? It doesn't even matter. What matters is that it's my fault.
It's my fault!
JOe spun around and slammed his fist into the unyielding wall. He didn't care about the pain, he welcomed it. Looking at the wall, Joe hit it again, and again, leaving red streaks on the clinical whiteness.
"Sir?" a small voice said from behind him.
Joe spun around, fist raised. Before him stood a small nurse. She couldn't have been much older than Joe himself. Joe lowered his fist slowly, "Sorry."
The nurse approached him and took his broken and bleeding hand in her gentle grip, "Let me fix this up," she said.
Joe jerked his hand out of hers, "can you fix him?" his tone bordered on nasty.
The nurse looked up at him, "We are going to do our very best."
"But what if it's not enough?" Joe asked, his voice rising, anger seeping out to lash at this young woman. He stepped back as she approached him again, holding his hand out of reach.
"I promise you sir, I will give it all I have got, and not a bit less," she said.
Joe looked down at his mangled hand. Blood was dripping from his fingertips, and the skin was torn over the knuckles. He was pretty sure that the bones were fractured as well.
The nurse held out her hand to him and Joe reluctantly placed his injured hand in hers. She gently cleaned up the gore and applied bandages. "My name's Jen, by the way," she said.
"Joseph," Joe said; his eyes still burning with anger.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Giving It Up
Bob couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church for anything besides tourist curiosity. Until his parents divorced, he and his brothers had had a fairly strict Irish Catholic upbringing, but since the divorce, the brothers four had been footloose and fancy free when it came to Sunday worship. Bob wasn’t sure why he’d decided to come to the cathedral instead of one of the more modern, friendly places up the street, but this was what he knew.
He was hesitant to even touch the holy water, but he genuflected anyway and slid into one of the pews. Then he bowed his head and began to pray.
"Admhaim do Dhia uilechumhachtach,
agus daoibhse, a bráithe,
gur pheacaigh mé go trom
le smaoineamh agus le briathar,
le ghiomh,
agus le faillí --"
“You still pray in Latin, child?”
Bob lifted his head and saw a priest standing over him. “Hello, Father. I - no. Our mother was raised Irish Catholic. She taught us to pray in...Irish.”
The priest studied him for a long moment. “I haven’t seen you before, my child.”
Bob ducked his head. “It’s been a long time for me, Father.”
“And yet you are so young.” The priest studied him some more. “You look familiar. Have you lived in this parish a long time?”
“On and off, over the years.” Bob wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to feel brave, and he needed to get this out in the open before he chickened out, but there was no way he could say any of what he wanted in front of the priest.
“Perhaps that’s why I remember you. I hope St. Mary’s brings you peace. Know that I am here to listen to anything you should wish to tell me.” And the priest drifted away in a whispering of cassocks and robes.
Bob felt guilty for the relief that washed over him, but he bowed his head, finished the prayer. Then he began to whisper, feeling foolish but too desperate to care.
“If you’re listening, I’m here to make a deal. I’ll be the best Catholic boy you could ever ask for - I’ll go to catechism and confirmation classes, get confirmed and everything. I’ll give up all my vices and be nicer to my brothers and step-mother and father and --” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give up music forever, or even give up --” Carolyn. No. He couldn’t. “Give up rhythm. My voice. Please - just let me live. Make the disease go away.” He closed his eyes and prayed, Our Father, three languages. Then he opened his eyes and was out of the church before the priest could come back.
***
At three a.m., when he was hanging over the bathroom sink spitting out blood, he closed his eyes and prayed for the last time.
Please. I’ll give her up. If that’s what it takes.
***
It was months before Shelley noticed that all of his pictures of Carolyn were gone.
He was hesitant to even touch the holy water, but he genuflected anyway and slid into one of the pews. Then he bowed his head and began to pray.
"Admhaim do Dhia uilechumhachtach,
agus daoibhse, a bráithe,
gur pheacaigh mé go trom
le smaoineamh agus le briathar,
le ghiomh,
agus le faillí --"
“You still pray in Latin, child?”
Bob lifted his head and saw a priest standing over him. “Hello, Father. I - no. Our mother was raised Irish Catholic. She taught us to pray in...Irish.”
The priest studied him for a long moment. “I haven’t seen you before, my child.”
Bob ducked his head. “It’s been a long time for me, Father.”
“And yet you are so young.” The priest studied him some more. “You look familiar. Have you lived in this parish a long time?”
“On and off, over the years.” Bob wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to feel brave, and he needed to get this out in the open before he chickened out, but there was no way he could say any of what he wanted in front of the priest.
“Perhaps that’s why I remember you. I hope St. Mary’s brings you peace. Know that I am here to listen to anything you should wish to tell me.” And the priest drifted away in a whispering of cassocks and robes.
Bob felt guilty for the relief that washed over him, but he bowed his head, finished the prayer. Then he began to whisper, feeling foolish but too desperate to care.
“If you’re listening, I’m here to make a deal. I’ll be the best Catholic boy you could ever ask for - I’ll go to catechism and confirmation classes, get confirmed and everything. I’ll give up all my vices and be nicer to my brothers and step-mother and father and --” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give up music forever, or even give up --” Carolyn. No. He couldn’t. “Give up rhythm. My voice. Please - just let me live. Make the disease go away.” He closed his eyes and prayed, Our Father, three languages. Then he opened his eyes and was out of the church before the priest could come back.
At three a.m., when he was hanging over the bathroom sink spitting out blood, he closed his eyes and prayed for the last time.
Please. I’ll give her up. If that’s what it takes.
It was months before Shelley noticed that all of his pictures of Carolyn were gone.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Even If
“Is he all right?” Shelley asked.
Clay arched an eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Does he sound all right?”
Shelley winced. Bob only played Rush when he was in a particularly foul mood. He’d played YYZ for a week straight after Carolyn left.
“Should I go talk to him?” Shelley asked.
Clay shook his head. “We got it.” He headed up the stairs, pushed open Bob’s bedroom door. He winced at the onslaught of cymbals and waited for his brother to notice him.
He wondered why he hadn’t noticed how thin Bob had become.
“Hey Bob, what’s going on?”
The spin on around-the-world only got louder.
Clay sighed. “Oy, brother, conas atá tú?”
Bob caught the ride cymbal mid-strike and spun around. His expression was frighteningly blank. “Did you come here just to bother me with stupid questions?”
Clay flinched at the viciousness in his brother’s tone. “Bobby, we know you’re upset --”
“I don’t think upset begins to cover it, the way drunk doesn’t really cover it when Scott comes home caoch oltá these days.”
“So maybe he’s taking Carolyn’s absence harder than expected --”
Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Why is this happening to me? First Carolyn leaves me, and now - this. What did I ever do to deserve any of this?”
Clay reached out, settled a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He was glad when Bob didn’t automatically shake him off. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes this just - happens. And you have me, right? Automatic, perfectly-matched bone marrow donor.”
Bob lunged to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hands tapping a nervous rhythm on his thighs. His arms and wrists were bruised, the weals from his cymbals rebounding on him when he wasn’t quick enough. Bob looked like an abused child. Clay had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.
“This isn’t fair!” Bob flung his hands up. “Seriously - my life is some sort of sick joke. First Dad, then Carolyn, and now this. I’m pretty sure it can’t get worse, but if it can, it will.”
Clay’s brow furrowed. “What about Dad?”
Bob shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands curled into fists, and he eyed a spot on the wall with too much fixedness for Clay’s liking. Dan had the best punch by far, and Bob was more likely to kick while sparring, but he wasn’t above punching something when he was in a mood.
“What did I do, Clay? I had to have done something.” Bob’s voice was low, venomous. “Do you know how much it hurts, the ringing in my head? Or when someone touches me and I bruise and it aches for days? Some nights I wake up choking on my own blood.”
Clay bit his lip again.
Bob’s eyes glittered manically. “I’d better have done something to deserve this, because if I didn’t someone is going to pay. Even if I have to die to face him.”
(500 words; Rush is a Canadian band with a fantastic, wicked-fast drummer)
Clay arched an eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Does he sound all right?”
Shelley winced. Bob only played Rush when he was in a particularly foul mood. He’d played YYZ for a week straight after Carolyn left.
“Should I go talk to him?” Shelley asked.
Clay shook his head. “We got it.” He headed up the stairs, pushed open Bob’s bedroom door. He winced at the onslaught of cymbals and waited for his brother to notice him.
He wondered why he hadn’t noticed how thin Bob had become.
“Hey Bob, what’s going on?”
The spin on around-the-world only got louder.
Clay sighed. “Oy, brother, conas atá tú?”
Bob caught the ride cymbal mid-strike and spun around. His expression was frighteningly blank. “Did you come here just to bother me with stupid questions?”
Clay flinched at the viciousness in his brother’s tone. “Bobby, we know you’re upset --”
“I don’t think upset begins to cover it, the way drunk doesn’t really cover it when Scott comes home caoch oltá these days.”
“So maybe he’s taking Carolyn’s absence harder than expected --”
Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Why is this happening to me? First Carolyn leaves me, and now - this. What did I ever do to deserve any of this?”
Clay reached out, settled a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He was glad when Bob didn’t automatically shake him off. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes this just - happens. And you have me, right? Automatic, perfectly-matched bone marrow donor.”
Bob lunged to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hands tapping a nervous rhythm on his thighs. His arms and wrists were bruised, the weals from his cymbals rebounding on him when he wasn’t quick enough. Bob looked like an abused child. Clay had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.
“This isn’t fair!” Bob flung his hands up. “Seriously - my life is some sort of sick joke. First Dad, then Carolyn, and now this. I’m pretty sure it can’t get worse, but if it can, it will.”
Clay’s brow furrowed. “What about Dad?”
Bob shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands curled into fists, and he eyed a spot on the wall with too much fixedness for Clay’s liking. Dan had the best punch by far, and Bob was more likely to kick while sparring, but he wasn’t above punching something when he was in a mood.
“What did I do, Clay? I had to have done something.” Bob’s voice was low, venomous. “Do you know how much it hurts, the ringing in my head? Or when someone touches me and I bruise and it aches for days? Some nights I wake up choking on my own blood.”
Clay bit his lip again.
Bob’s eyes glittered manically. “I’d better have done something to deserve this, because if I didn’t someone is going to pay. Even if I have to die to face him.”
(500 words; Rush is a Canadian band with a fantastic, wicked-fast drummer)
Second Opinion
Bob stared up at Dr. Hamilton in disbelief. Then he scrubbed a hand over the bruises on his arm self-consciously. “What? No - the tests are probably wrong. These bruises - my brothers and I all do karate, and we rough-house a lot. I’ve just been tired, and with all the flying we do, changes in elevation often lead to nosebleeds --”
Dr. Hamilton smiled gently and placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right - this form of leukemia is entirely treatable, and you have the advantage of a twin brother for a bone marrow transplant. Some of the treatments might be painful, but there’s no reason you can’t live a full and energetic life. You’ll be able to make music for years --”
Bob shrugged the doctor’s hand aside and backed toward the door. “No. You’re wrong. I’m fine. I’m completely and utterly fine. Shelley’s just being overly-protective. Sometimes I think she overcompensates because she’s not our real mom.” He attempted to smile, but the expression turned bitter midway through. “I’m going now.”
Dr. Hamilton caught Bob’s wrist before he could touch the doorknob. “Robert, I’ve known you since you were two years old. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I ran the tests myself. Twice. And you have leukemia.”
Bob jerked free and whirled around. His dark eyes sparked with fury. “Stop saying that! Why are you lying to me? I am completely and utterly one-hundred-percent as healthy as a horse.”
“Bob, you’re in denial, it’s the first stage of grief --”
“Grief? Who said anything about grief? Nobody died. And I’m certainly not going to die.” Bob tugged the door open. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Hamilton, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”
Dr. Hamilton’s expression was pained. “Bob, please --”
The world went white. Just before Bob hit the floor, it occurred to him that maybe Dr. Hamilton was right.
(319 words)
Dr. Hamilton smiled gently and placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right - this form of leukemia is entirely treatable, and you have the advantage of a twin brother for a bone marrow transplant. Some of the treatments might be painful, but there’s no reason you can’t live a full and energetic life. You’ll be able to make music for years --”
Bob shrugged the doctor’s hand aside and backed toward the door. “No. You’re wrong. I’m fine. I’m completely and utterly fine. Shelley’s just being overly-protective. Sometimes I think she overcompensates because she’s not our real mom.” He attempted to smile, but the expression turned bitter midway through. “I’m going now.”
Dr. Hamilton caught Bob’s wrist before he could touch the doorknob. “Robert, I’ve known you since you were two years old. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I ran the tests myself. Twice. And you have leukemia.”
Bob jerked free and whirled around. His dark eyes sparked with fury. “Stop saying that! Why are you lying to me? I am completely and utterly one-hundred-percent as healthy as a horse.”
“Bob, you’re in denial, it’s the first stage of grief --”
“Grief? Who said anything about grief? Nobody died. And I’m certainly not going to die.” Bob tugged the door open. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Hamilton, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”
Dr. Hamilton’s expression was pained. “Bob, please --”
The world went white. Just before Bob hit the floor, it occurred to him that maybe Dr. Hamilton was right.
(319 words)
Monday, July 20, 2009
Superman
Joe was on a date when he got the call from his aunt. Alec had been in an accident. He was being rushed to Mercy General Hospital across town. From the tone in his aunts voice and his Uncle crying in the background, he knew that it was serious.
"I have to go Tam. Alec's been hurt," Joe said, snapping shut the phone. Tammy nodded her head and got into the car, not asking any questions.
Joe peeled away from Tammy's house five minutes later, intent on getting to the hospital as fast as he could. Joe dodged through traffic and ran lights, urging his old car to go faster.
Joe jumped from the car as soon as he slid into a spot at the hospital; tires squealing in protest. Running for the entrance, Joe found himself stopped up by a man in a white coat.
"Wait, you can't go in there," the man shouted, trying to block Joe's way.
"My brother is in there," Joe said flatly, staring down the shorter man.
"That well may be, but you can't just come barging in here like this," the officious little man said, his tone snide.
"Either move out of my way, or you will end up a patient here as well," Joe's statement was unfriendly, and carried a promise.
The Doctor finally decided that it was wiser to move out of the way. Joe jogged down the hall to the nurses station; gave his brothers name and was directed to a room a short way down the hall.
Joe walked slowly into the room, stunned to find his brother already hooked up to machines that were beeping and pumping air and various fluids.
Joe hoped that hearing his voice would bring Alec out of it. "Hey Alec, wake up man. Alec, time to get up. Alec, If you don't get up, I'm going to take your new car out for a spin," Joe was sure that that one would get him to respond.
Nothing.
"Come on Alec. It's not supposed to be like this, it can't happen like this. We're supposed to go to college together, you are supposed to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe whispered, squeezing his brothers hand. "Alec. You can't leave, there is so much left for us to do. You're superman, nothing can hurt you," Joe felt tears gathering in his eyes, but blinked them back.
"It can't end this way."
"I have to go Tam. Alec's been hurt," Joe said, snapping shut the phone. Tammy nodded her head and got into the car, not asking any questions.
Joe peeled away from Tammy's house five minutes later, intent on getting to the hospital as fast as he could. Joe dodged through traffic and ran lights, urging his old car to go faster.
Joe jumped from the car as soon as he slid into a spot at the hospital; tires squealing in protest. Running for the entrance, Joe found himself stopped up by a man in a white coat.
"Wait, you can't go in there," the man shouted, trying to block Joe's way.
"My brother is in there," Joe said flatly, staring down the shorter man.
"That well may be, but you can't just come barging in here like this," the officious little man said, his tone snide.
"Either move out of my way, or you will end up a patient here as well," Joe's statement was unfriendly, and carried a promise.
The Doctor finally decided that it was wiser to move out of the way. Joe jogged down the hall to the nurses station; gave his brothers name and was directed to a room a short way down the hall.
Joe walked slowly into the room, stunned to find his brother already hooked up to machines that were beeping and pumping air and various fluids.
Joe hoped that hearing his voice would bring Alec out of it. "Hey Alec, wake up man. Alec, time to get up. Alec, If you don't get up, I'm going to take your new car out for a spin," Joe was sure that that one would get him to respond.
Nothing.
"Come on Alec. It's not supposed to be like this, it can't happen like this. We're supposed to go to college together, you are supposed to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe whispered, squeezing his brothers hand. "Alec. You can't leave, there is so much left for us to do. You're superman, nothing can hurt you," Joe felt tears gathering in his eyes, but blinked them back.
"It can't end this way."
Mazey - ER Tango
Monday
I lost count of IV drips and began to dose. The nurse moved like a veiled thing, taking things away, putting them back, piercing and piercing and piercing.
I think at some point Eddy came by, his voice was paper burning in my ear. Gone before I could read it, but his hands, his cold palms, I knew he was there until he couldn’t be.
This wasn’t happening; I’m too young to die in a hospital bed.
Tuesday
Eddy didn’t come; I was inconsolable. I wanted my mother, my fathers rich voice, my little sisters questions. No one would say where my family had gone.
My cordial attempts turned dour, then frantic, and finally I managed to knock the needled nurse to the ground. I’ll never forget, vials of every color breaking around her. Even with bare feet I got off the bed to finish the job.
I probably would have, if I had been more than a broken mass of bones. It must have been the pain meds, I don’t recall feeling much after that seething.
Wednesday
A new nurse came, more my age with sympathy in her processed hair and skin. She was polite enough to leave when Eddy came in.
It hurt to smile, what’s wrong with my face, I kept asking. He skirted the question, an old hand at deception.
“Your still pretty, my rough diamond”, He went to kiss me, it burned, reminded me of glass, everything sharp I’d ever touched.
“Hey, Eddy Teddy, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you dare, you bastard.” It was deadly, the urge in his eyes, but I had to smile. I loved to verbally abuse him, he took it so well.
“It’s already in the cards, peach.” His voice, was like an old record, preserved perfectly from the Jazz Age.
“One more, one more sunset? One more day on the pier?”, he answered by leaving, quiet as night fall.
Thursday
When I was myself, they broke the news.
I was an orphan, thanks to a drunk driver.
Food seemed to rot in front of me, people looked like corpses, I saw nothing but the dead and the dying. They waited an hour before they told me about the clot in my brain, the sever head injury, the miracle of life.
I wasn’t a miracle. I was a gibbering mass of sobs all day. It went by quickly, eclipse by a fitful sleep.
Eddy knew better than to come around.
Friday
The nurses were changing shifts, ten minutes to
I refused to look up, just laid there, waiting for a coffin, or a kiss.
He climbed onto the bed, his weight sank the mattress in and I felt like I would fall away from him, go to the place that matched the blooming peace in my chest.
“It was always going to end this way, baby,” he crooned and lifted my chin. My neck became a riot of pain. He kissed the artery he loved, and then it was just a pinch, and nothing.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Project #36: On Death and Dying
So each of us has a pretty steady set of characters to work with. This week, we're going to have fun with those characters, and by "have fun" I mean put them through the five stages of grief. You have between 100 and 500 words to show how your character deals. Either day one or day six can be pre-dealing or post-healing; that's up to you. Let the character torture begin!
Overview #35: Nothing More Than Feelings
The title of this week's assignment reminded me, oddly enough of a song by The Offspring. I was mildly amused to note that I was the writer who started this assignment late and ended up having to backtrack and backdate a post to get all my poems in, but by the end of the week I was the Horatio of us all. I think my poetry was pretty decent this week - once in a while I caught myself falling back into the previous poetry assignment, but when I put my mind into it I realized that I could wring emotion out of the ordinary moments in my life, and I was pretty happy with that.
Overview #35 - Nothing More Than Feeling
So this week was an exercise in futility for me. And failure. Failure to post. Every time I sat down to write, the dreaded writers block descended from above and crushed my thoughts. Even now, I am pushing against it to no avail. Sigh. hopefully next week will be better.
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