“He’s not on anything,” Dad says with a grim shake of his head.
“Well, he’s not unconscious for no fucking reason!” I say in a panic.
“He’s a type 2 diabetic with severe insulin resistance,” Dad imparts to the operator. I gape at my father as he works with Joel to try and revive him. Unsure of how much time passes, I avert my attention to LL’s lifeless body until two paramedics burst onto the balcony.
Sitting at LL’s bedside at the hospital, I stare up at the tiny holes in the ceiling tiles, blindsided by the fact that LL’s selfish decision—a decision he disguised as faith in my talent, mixed with his jealousy—is part of the reason behind everything that’s happened this past year.
Unreal.
If he ever wakes up, I’m going to kill him. At the same time, should I thank him? The odds are unlikely that will happen since the crazy bastard went kamikaze with my life choices to fulfill dreams he couldn’t accomplish on his own.
But if LL hadn’t made that call, Natalie would still have found those emails. Rosie’s story was Natalie’s excuse to come to Seattle—to me. Knowing Natalie, she might have come anyway.
That tip-off was the only decision in LL’s hands. The result after, completely and utterly a result of my own decisions—of Natalie’s decisions.
Is fate real?
The universe starts to feel small as I sort through the domino effect. I wonder if LL even knew his call to the paper in Austin, Texas, held such a history for my mother or if it was a coincidence.
He’s an observant fuck, so chances are, maybe he did his research. Perhaps the reason he placed the call was that he was aware of my mother’s history at the paper. It’s a well-known fact she started her career there.
“What the fuck, man?” I watch LL from the plastic-covered chair at his bedside, the monitors steadily beeping.
Syd and Tack held out for as long as they could, regretting their overindulgence at the party before heading back to the hotel to sleep it off. For some reason when we arrived, I lied to the hospital staff and told them I was LL’s next of kin. Oddly enough, Dad was listed as his emergency contact, so my lie would have been believable enough, though it was clear they knew who we were. Dad and I haven’t had a chance to talk about his huge fucking omission regarding my lead guitarist yet due to his mission to cover us with PR and get the hotel situation under control while the doctors stabilized LL. I cradle my neck, both hangover and fatigue setting in as the question of how long Dad’s known about LL’s condition begins to grate on me. As if sensing my need for answers, Dad appears by my side. Eyes on LL, he breaks the silence first. “You should go back to the hotel. Shower, eat. Get some sleep.”
“Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighs. “You want to do this now, son?”
“Considering what this bastard confessed, yeah.”
“He didn’t want any special treatment, and he knew his time was limited. That his disease wouldn’t let him play permanently with the band, and I felt for him.”
“Who the fuck is this guy?”
“A kid who grew up dirt poor, neglected by shitty parents, and wandered around totally fucked up until he found a guitar. That’s his summary, and it’s not even the worst of it.”
“What is?”
“Ask him yourself when he wakes up.”
“Dad, we don’t lie to each other. Or at least, I thought we didn’t. Not anymore.”
“I’m sorry, son, I am. This is the only thing I’ve been keeping from you, and it was for selfish reasons. I always knew I’d have to come clean, and this would probably be why. I was hoping you two would bond, so he would tell you himself.” He chuckles dryly. “That didn’t work out.”
“Selfish how?”
He looks down at me. “Try not to take offense, but you’re such a perfectionist, and I hate saying this, but I think his condition would have clouded your judgment and you would have missed touring with a great guitarist, and…in turn, LL would have missed fulfilling his dream. This was his last chance.” He exhales harshly. “I’ve been in his shoes, been as desperate as he was, and I noticed it right away.” Dad’s expression darkens, as it does when he talks about that time in his life, years before he and Mom got married. “He wanted it so badly, so much more than anyone else that auditioned, and he’s more talented than over half the guitar players I know. I’m sorry if that pisses you off, but I wanted him to have it.”
“You’re kind of making it hard to stay pissed off,” I say, glancing up at him.
Dad doesn’t answer, his eyes back on LL as I study him, nothing but empathy rolling off him as I spot my messenger bag dangling from his hand. Dad seems to realize he’s blanked out and lifts it within my reach.
“I brought this, just in case you decided to stay. There’s some grub in there too.”
I grab the offered bag. “Thanks. They’re bringing me a cot, though I’m completely clueless why I am staying. I damn near threw him off the balcony tonight.”
“Kindred spirits don’t always get along. In fact, they often butt heads. I’ve learned that over the years. Try to understand, son, the hand he was dealt was brutal. He may have proven to be a shifty asshole, but for some reason, he had a part to play in our lives.”
“You believe that 11:11 cosmic crap, Dad? Truly?”
“Fuck yeah, I do. There have been times that I tried to reason my way out of it, and even when I’m successful, there has to be a reason behind that reason. I gave up trying to figure it out years ago.”
“I get exactly what you’re saying. I wouldn’t have ten minutes ago, but trust me, I’m reeling.”
He shakes his head, eyes wary. “Facts are facts, and what’s happened over the years—especially in our family—most would consider a series of coincidences, but I deem small miracles.” He blows out a harsh breath. “I’m fucking beat. I’m going back to the hotel. Text me when he wakes up.”
“What if he doesn’t?” I ask, and we share a long, loaded silence.
“Then it will be a tragedy,” he replies, eyeing LL before pulling his gaze away.
“I don’t hate him, and I’m really not even that pissed anymore, but I can’t figure out why,” I confess.
“He looks pretty harmless on life support, and maybe because you finally recognize beneath his bullshit, he’s a human being that’s suffering, and I raised a good man.”
I swallow as I focus back on LL. “What the hell are we going to do about our tour? I don’t want to leave him in a hospital. I don’t think I could even get on stage if he’s…here like this.”
“One thing at a time,” he says, “and that’s a ways away. We’ll figure it all out.”
“Yeah?” I manage a grin. “You going to come out of retirement?”
“Fuck no,” he chuckles. “And I’m a drummer.”
“The best alive,” I add.
He cuffs my shoulder in goodbye. “Love you.”
“You, too,” I say as he leaves me in the room with LL, who’s only breathing right now, due to a machine.
Opening my messenger bag, I retrieve the toothpaste and brush, a clean T-shirt, and a travel-sized bar of Dad’s Irish Spring. I can’t help my grin at the sight of it and I head to LL’s pint-sized bathroom to shower. Tonight most definitely took a turn I wasn’t expecting. Distracted by the past four hours, it’s when I line my toothbrush that I realize I’ve propped my cell up against the sink out of old habit. Something I haven’t done in months. The difference is, on the other side, the screen remains dark. Gut-wrenching pain crashes into me as I replay every detail of the hours prior.
She signed.
Aching and raw, my thoughts stray back to where they have been the last year. I situate myself on the newly delivered bed that was set adjacent to LL’s, the quality far better than I had imagined it would be. Thankful for the comfort, I sit atop it and adjust the pillows before pulling my messenger bag into my lap.