It’s not much information, but compared to the vague updates we’ve gotten from Chorus over the past two weeks since arriving home, it’s practically a gold mine. Much more helpful than “Angel’s doing well,” and, “we can confirm narcotics rehab will be going ahead,” and “we’ll be back up and running as soon as possible.”
As for Angel, we all FaceTimed him a couple of times from his hospital bed, but the last time we spoke, right before he was discharged, he was almost as in the dark as us about how long his recovery would take. Then, once he left the hospital, we stopped hearing from him altogether. Logically, I know it was because he was checked into rehab somewhere, but without knowing exactly where he was or how long he’d be there, it’s felt a little like he’s been “disappeared” by Chorus.
Dad quirks a bushy eyebrow at me. “Hi to you, too. My day was great, thanks for asking.”
“Sorry. Hi.” I walk with him through the spacious, clean-lined hallway to the living room. “I got excited. What do you think?”
Until now, the perks of having a physiotherapist for a father have mostly involved having a useful set of warmup exercises to stay safe during dance training. But having him here to offer his uncensored thoughts on Angel’s recovery makes me appreciate his knowledge bank in a whole new light.
“What do I think?” he repeats. “It’s not much to go off.”
“But we know he’s been out of the hospital for a week, and he’s already started working on getting his movement back,” I press.
Dad shrugs and flops onto the sofa as Mom comes into the living room to greet him. “It depends on a lot of factors,” he says. “How extensive the injuries were, how they heal, whether he follows the hospital’s instructions, if there were any injuries missed in the initial screening…”
“But if he was really, really injured, he wouldn’t be up to therapy yet, right?” I ask, lowering myself to sit beside him. “So, he must be okay?”
Dad takes my hand and squeezes it. “Yes. It might take a couple of months or longer, and I would imagine it’ll be a long time before he’s back dancing with you all, but…”
“But he’ll be okay,” I finish. The relief makes me feel lighter, brighter. Sure, Chorus has been assuring us he’s been doing better, but they’ve been in denial about the severity of things enough times now that their platitudes are worthless.
“So, three weeks until he’s out,” Mom says.
“How do you know?” I ask.
She just gives me a wry smile. “I must be psychic.”
Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer, I guess. I know how she knows. She spent half her career choreographing movie musicals before opening her jazz studio here after I was born. You can’t work a job like that without hearing about a few rehab stints. Or, more accurately, a few dozen.
“I can’t imagine he’ll need longer than twenty-eight days, from what you’ve told me,” Mom says. “The bigger concern is how you’ll resume the tour with him out of commission. Media sympathy will only get you so far, and it can’t replace the publicity you’ll lose here. Or the ticket sales, for that matter,” she adds.
“I dunno,” I say.
“I guess you’ll have to stand Angel in the middle while he has a cast. But it’ll look odd once the casts are off and he’s still not participating,” she adds.
“I guess. But people will just have to understand.”
“You can hope they’ll understand,” she says. “But the general public have a short memory. They might not be forgiving of a lack of showmanship for the next year. If you ask me, you’d be better off replacing him for the next year while he gets his full range of movement back.”
In other words, she’s advocating for the racehorse route? The horse injures a leg, so he gets shot and replaced? The words bubble up, tempting me, but I don’t dare say them. I’m offended enough to push back as far as I can get away with, though. “We wouldn’t do that to our friend.”
Mom tries to exchange an exasperated look with Dad, who has one of his really, right after I finish work? expressions on. They’ve both made multiple comments over the past couple weeks about how abrasive I’ve been since I went on tour. How much less agreeable. Well, Mom’s made comments, and Dad’s hmmed, which is close enough to count. “Don’t be so dramatic, Ruben,” she says. “It’s just business. The band matters more than the individuals.”
“He’s not replaceable.”
“Everyone’s replaceable. And if you have to choose between Angel and your career, I hope you make the right choice.”
Everyone’s replaceable. Just like Zach and me, if we dare to show ourselves to the world. Just like Jon, if he pushes against his dad’s wishes one time too many.
Good to know I can’t count on my parents for support if I lose everything I have for being a little too gay. In this house, we put up walls to block the atrocities from the eyes of the paying spectators and shoot the limping horse. Call it exhaustion. Move on with the race.
“It’s not like it’s up to me,” I say dully.
“That sounds like a convenient excuse to not have to think about your future,” Mom shoots back.
“Do you think I want to be here?” I ask. “It’s not like I’ve loved being left out of the loop like this. But if Chorus doesn’t want us to know the long-term plan yet, it either doesn’t exist, or they don’t want our feedback. Either way, it’s not up to us.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. And swanning around the house for two weeks is definitely doing your best.”
“It’s not a vacation.”
“But you’re treating it like one!”
“I’m not. I’m still working out, I’m rehearsing…”
“You’ve barely been on social media.”
“Chorus doesn’t want us to be on it right now.”
“Ruben, stop talking to me like I’m your enemy. I’m trying to help you bounce some ideas around! What about when Zach visits tomorrow? I’m sure you can do a livestream or something to keep the band on the radar. If you message David tonight, you’ll have approval by tomorrow. It’s called being proactive. You’re an adult now; familiarize yourself with the concept.”