The Jenna Rollins Real Love Tour

by Janci Patterson

  Some of the tension melts out of me. “Good,” I say. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “He didn’t hurt me. He hurt you and it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t—”

  “Jenna,” I say. “None of this is your fault. And I’m so glad I was the one to go get the food. Who knows what he would have done to you.”

  Jenna is quiet for a moment. “The police are charging him with attempted kidnapping,” she says. “Because he apparently had restraints and more weapons in his car.”

  We’re both squeezing hands so tight it hurts, but I can’t let go. The idea of him restraining her, laying a hand on her, let alone what else he intended—

  “Oh my god, Jenna,” I say, the horror of that pressing in on me, along with the overwhelming relief it didn’t happen. That it won’t happen. “I’m so, so grateful it was me.”

  The tears slip out onto her cheeks, and she looks like she wants to argue, but instead she presses her lips closed. A minute later, she speaks, though her voice is angling upward like she’s about to break down in sobs. “But if you relapse because of this, then it’ll be all my fault. And I know I’m supposed to kick you out if you do that, but how can I when it’s my past that did this to you, and—”

  “No,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m not going to relapse. I don’t want any opiates. I’ll stay on the Suboxone and I’ll take whatever they can give me that’s non-addictive, and I’ll be fine, Jenna. I’ll be fine.” I take a deep, shaky breath, and realize I’m trying to convince myself as much as her.

  No one can make me take drugs. I’ve decided not to, and I never have to revisit that decision.

  I just wish I could know now exactly how hard that’s going to be as I recover from being stabbed.

  “But if I’m not,” I say, “you have to protect yourself, and Ty.” I look her right in the eyes. “Nothing’s changed about that.”

  Jenna grips my other hand, and starts crying. She leans forward and buries her face in my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her, and hold her.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say.

  I wish I could be sure that was true.

  A few hours later I’m sitting up and trying to slurp Jell-O without letting go of Jenna’s hand, to hilarious and mixed results. The pain is getting worse, but it’s still fairly dull, and I’ve turned away two separate doctors who want to prescribe me opiates.

  I can’t get high while I’m on the Suboxone, because it has Naloxone in it, which is the drug that they use to reverse relapses. It neutralizes opiates, while still letting some of the pain relief take effect. Maybe it would be smart for me to take the drugs. But it just feels like a step down a road I’m terrified to travel. I remember the horror of seeing pills and needles thrown up onto the stage. Just looking at them made me feel ill.

  Anthony Kiedis relapsed after surgery. A lot of addicts do. I’ve heard stories from people at meetings who trusted their doctors and ended up back on the needle.

  Will I be able to stay clean if all I have to do to get high is conveniently forget my Subs?

  I promise I’ll get a prescription before I go back to heroin, and this seems to mollify them. It’s ten AM, and I’m about to try to persuade Jenna to get some sleep when Ty bounds in, wearing a gray sweater vest—the same one, I think, he was wearing when I first met him and Jenna on Hollywood Boulevard. It could be a coincidence—the kid has a shocking number of sweater vests—but knowing Ty, I doubt it. I can’t help but smile.

  He stops just short of bouncing onto the bed, and from the look on Jenna’s face, I think she was about to throw herself bodily in front of him to keep him from causing me further injury.

  “Felix!” Ty says. “Are you going to die?”

  My heart aches that he’s been worried about this. “No,” I say. “I’m going to be fine.”

  Jenna ruffles Ty’s hair. “I told you he wasn’t going to die,” she says, as if she didn’t spend the whole time I was out worrying about the exact same thing.

  I close my eyes briefly. I don’t even want to imagine the mess I would be if it had been either of them that got hurt like this.

  Ty reaches into a bag he’s holding and produces a statue of liberty crown. “It’s the Fourth of July,” he says. “It wasn’t your head that got hurt, was it?”

  Jenna looks like she’s about to protest, but I reach out and take the crown and put it on. Ty also pulls out some twisted strips of construction paper in multiple colors. “It’s a good thing we can’t get sparklers here,” Ty says. “Because I’m pretty sure the hospital wouldn’t allow them. But Pops said they don’t have rules about making your own because probably no one has ever thought of it before.”

  I take one of the construction paper twists, while Jenna eyes it warily. “You know we can’t light it on fire, right?”

  “No!” Ty says. “You shake them. Ready?” He shoves one into Jenna’s hand, and then shouts, “Go!”

  We shake the papers, and an explosion of glitter fills the air, settling down over my blanket and bedsheets. Jenna coughs, and I blink rapidly, hoping that my next surgery isn’t going to be to extract tiny shards of sparkling plastic out of my eyes.

  Ty pulls out a little patriotic party horn from his bag and starts tooting what I think is supposed to be a rendition of the “Star-Spangled Banner” with only one loud note.

  “Okay!” Jenna says. “Let’s do that a little quieter please.”

  I wish I could join him on my cello.

  And that’s when it occurs to me.

  “The tour,” I say.

  “Is canceled,” Jenna says firmly. “We only had two weeks left, and there’s no way we can go on without you.” She gives me a look as I open my mouth. “And you can’t play. You need to recover first.”

  I imagine she’s right, though I do want to argue that I don’t know if I can play, not having tried.

  “Does that mean we’ll be home for Halloween?” Ty asks. “And Felix can come with us trick-or-treating?”

  Jenna looks doubtful, but I give the kid a solid nod. “Yes. I’ll be home for Halloween,” I say.

  Ty grins, and I let myself focus on that. Home, with my wife and son, celebrating our first holiday together.

  If there’s anything I want to stay sober for, it’s that.

  Nine

  Jenna

  I’m standing in our kitchen, holding the disintegrated remnants of what used to be a bushy Hagrid beard, trying and failing not to think of it as a metaphor for my life. Phil says canceling the rest of the tour is going to be fine on us financially. We had event insurance, music sales and online merch are still selling like crazy, and I swear every paparazzo in LA is parked outside our front door. We’ll be able to sell our first exclusive interview about what happened for a bundle. The tour, Phil says, was a success, even started late and cut short.

  I didn’t snap back at him that I’m not going to call any event that got my husband stabbed a success.

  Ty sits nervously on a stool at the end of the breakfast bar. “You can fix it, right?” he says.

  He looks close to tears, so I don’t remind him that I told him not to wear the beard in the shower, even if it did have yogurt in it. Which it did, and quite a few other crumbs and spills, because Ty hasn’t taken it off since we got home and found it—along with a vest, heavy coat, and a scarf made out of fake marmots. Apparently the generic wizards robes at the costume shops they’d been to all over the country weren’t cutting it, and so my mom found a more authentic version on Etsy. If we hadn’t been on tour, she probably would have made it herself, because she’s amazing like that.

  I, on the other hand, inherited none of her crafty talent. And now I have to figure out how to restore what’s left of this beard to its full glory, and also snake the remnants from the drain in our upstairs tub.

  I want to call my mom, bu
t instead I take deep breaths. “I’m going to try,” I say.

  Ty squirms, but he doesn’t argue. He knows he made a mistake and I’m not about to rub it in. We’re all under enough stress as it is. Between my nightmares about being tied up by Grant and my waking worries about Felix, I’ve barely been sleeping. Ty and Felix need me to be there for them, but I feel like I have so little left to give.

  The egg timer dings and I put down the beard, brush the fibers off my hands, and pull a warm apple pie out of the oven.

  “Is that all for Dad?” Ty asks.

  I smile. Ty had been calling Felix by his first name about half the time, which is fine, but since we’ve been home he’s been calling him Dad more frequently. “No,” I tell him. “You can have a piece when it cools.” I set up Angry Birds on the iPad for him and make my way upstairs. Johnny Cash’s voice wafts down toward me; Felix has been running a playlist of all of his songs on endless repeat through the bedroom speakers, but “Walk the Line” is playing now, and I swear I’ve heard it a disproportionate number of times.

  I open the door, half-hoping the smell of the fresh-baked pie will convince Felix to get out of bed. He hasn’t been out of our room in the three days we’ve been home. He can walk—he did fine at the airport, even though he was obviously in some pain. I don’t think it’s that he physically can’t get up.

  “Felix?” I say. He’s lying on his side facing the wall. The music is turned up louder than I’d be able to sleep through, and while he’s been sleeping a lot—normal for healing, I tell myself—I don’t think he’s asleep now.

  Sure enough, he rolls onto his back. His hair sticks up in odd directions and his eyes have crusts collected in the corners. I walk over and sit down on the bed. There’s a get-well card on the nightstand that came yesterday from Alec. The outside of the card has a pondering cartoon bunny and the text, “Thinking of You.” Alec used a highlighter to emphasize the F in “of” and the U in “you,” and then on the inside scrawled “Love you guys. Alec.”

  I still need to thank him for his support while Felix was in the hospital, and now I think I need to find an appropriate greeting card for the occasion.

  “Want some pie?” I ask.

  He smiles, and if that’s all that comes out of it, baking the pie was worth it.

  “Maybe later,” he says.

  I press my lips together. He’s barely eating, though the doctor said food shouldn’t be a problem, even with all the internal damage.

  “Are you in pain?”

  Felix shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

  That’s his mantra. We’ve been changing the bandages twice a day, and he’s on Tylenol and Ibuprofen for the pain, plus the Suboxone. And I have a prescription for Percocet that I can fill any time, which the doctors say should be perfectly safe as long as he’s still taking the maintenance drugs. I’ve mentioned the possibility to Felix exactly once, and he looked like he was going to pass out at the thought.

  I think he can tell I don’t believe him, because he sighs. “It’s a lot better than it was. I don’t need any more drugs.”

  I nod. He sounds more honest now, at least. And the doctors did say that the worst of the pain should be past by now.

  “Do you want to come downstairs and eat with us?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and draws in on himself. “I think I’m just going to get some sleep.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been doing nothing but sleep. Don’t you think it would be good to get up for a while? Move down to the couch at least?”

  He shakes his head. “Not now,” he says.

  I’ve been getting this same answer for three days, and I’ve tried to give him space to recover, but if anything, he seems to be getting worse. I put my hand on his forehead, but he brushes me off. “I don’t have a fever,” he says. “You checked like an hour ago.”

  It’s been two hours, but he’s right. The doctors said if he runs a fever it’s a sign of infection and we should come in right away. I hate myself for it, but I realize I want him to run a fever, if only so that I have a reason to take him to the hospital to make sure he’s okay. Here there aren’t any medical professionals to tell me how he’s doing, and while I’ve suggested over and over that we have Gabby come look at him, he keeps refusing. She’ll just worry, he says.

  I’m worried, and here at home, I’m all he’s got. Well, me and the eight-year-old I keep having to restrain from bursting in here with every board game in the house and bouncing up and down on Felix like he’s a trampoline.

  I lie down next to him, and while he doesn’t exactly snuggle up, he also doesn’t move away. “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Okay.”

  I rest my cheek against his arm, where I know I won’t hurt him. “Felix,” I say, “you can’t get out of bed. You’re clearly not okay.”

  “I’m okay for a guy who just got stabbed,” he says, and I wince.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  Felix sighs. “For the millionth time, Jenna. It’s not your fault.”

  “I know that. But you wouldn’t be going through this if it wasn’t for me.”

  He doesn’t respond, and my heart squeezes. I did this to him, and he doesn’t want to blame me, but he probably can’t help it, at least a little. “I’d understand if you were mad at me—” I start.

  “No!” The force of his voice startles me, and Felix closes his eyes. “No,” he says more calmly. “God, Jenna, what on earth could I be mad at you for?”

  The corners of my eyes start to burn. “Could you talk to me?” I ask. “Because clearly you’re suffering. You can’t even get out of bed. And I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know if you’re in pain or if you’re angry, or if you want to use—”

  “I want to use,” he says, his voice low. “And you don’t want to hear about it. Trust me.”

  I put my hand over his. “No. I do. I’ve been doing a lot of research about it—about addiction and Suboxone, I mean. I know I haven’t handled it well, but I never want to be in a position again where you need me to make medical decisions and I don’t have a clue.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” he says.

  My eyes fill with tears. “I want to.”

  Felix pulls away, half sitting up. “Stop it,” he snaps. “You don’t want to. You don’t want anything to do with my addiction. You fucking broke up with me for having this problem two months ago. You try to pretend everything’s fine, that you want to hear about it, but every time I talk about it you pull away. You can’t even look at me and hear about the drugs, so don’t pretend you want to know about it, because I can’t take it anymore.” He’s shaking, and his voice is rising towards hysterics. I reach for his hand, but he pulls it away.

  My whole body feels hollowed out. I’m losing him. I’m failing him. I’m trying, but it’s too little, too late. “I’m sorry,” I say. The tears are running down my face now, and I can see them starting in his own eyes.

  That’s why he won’t talk to me. Because I’ve failed him so utterly he can’t bear to tell me about it. Maybe—

  “Do you—” I ask quietly, terrified but needing to hear the answer. “Do you still love me?”

  Felix takes a step back, so stunned it’s as if I slapped him. “How can you ask that?” he says. “Of course I do. Have I really made you feel like . . .?”

  Felix stares at me, and I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

  “I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t—I can’t be here right now.” He reaches for his keys on the dresser.

  My heart breaks in half. I take a step toward him. “Felix, wait.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I have to get out of here.” And then he walks out of the bedroom, gingerly favoring the side with his wound. He moves through the living room and to the front door.

  And then the door opens
, and Felix is gone.

  Ten

  Felix

  As I get in my car, I see Jenna watching me through the window. Her terrified expression guts me. I half want her to talk me out of leaving, but the other half feels like I’ll suffocate if I walk back in that house. From the street, cameras are flashing, and I know these pictures are going to be on the internet within hours. I don’t look at them. I can’t.

  My whole body is shaking. I’m failing Jenna. I’m failing Ty. Every minute of every day, I’m failing them. Grant was after Jenna, not me, and the knowledge of what he wanted to do to her must be eating her up. But I can’t talk about that, can’t do anything but lie in bed and not use. I need to put a needle in my arm and not feel pain—from the surgery, from hurting my wife and my son, from living inside my own head.

  I can’t do that, but I also can’t function without some kind of relief, so I’m left in a kind of angry, empty stasis. My own uselessness makes me want to stab myself.

  I back out of the driveway and pull off down our street, not knowing where I’m going. My abdomen throbs angrily. I didn’t bring any meds, so I’m going to have to stop for some over-the-counter painkillers.

  I get about a block and a half away before I realize I can’t drive aimlessly. I’ll end up looking for drug buddies, and the ones in LA are only four months out of touch. I can find them if I want to. I know it’ll be a day or two before the heroin works to full effect, but I didn’t bring my Subs. If I take enough—

  My forehead starts to sweat. If I take enough, will I overcome the Naloxone and get high? Or will I overdose?

  It’s that last thought that prompts me to call my sister Gabby. She’s been calling non-stop since she heard what happened in New York, but I’ve been putting her off with reassuring texts. I know if she hears me or sees me, she’s going to know that I’m not okay.

  Now I need her to know. I call her cell, but it goes straight to voice mail. She’s at work, and I’m desperate enough that I think I might walk in to wherever she’s working, except she’s with a big chain of clinics right now and rotates around. I have no idea where she is.