by Henry, Max
Hard to do when they follow you for new music, and you aren’t playing any.
The doctor’s clinic is housed in an old brownstone; each room converted into a private office for the varying specialists. I head through to what was probably once the kitchen, but is now a waiting room with basic facilities, and find a seat near the window.
E: How you feeling?
I swipe the screen to unlock my phone and tap out a reply.
A: Heard what happened, huh?
E: Shanae filled me in. Sorry I didn’t see you last night.
I chuckle, drawing the attention of an older guy sitting to my right. He glances away after a soft smile from me; probably thinks I’m another domestic violence case with my black eye and bruised face. Thank Christ, my damn hair covers the stitches in the back.
A: Trust me—you don’t want to see this mess right now.
E: Yeah. I do.
Gah—he tries so hard.
E: It can’t be that bad.
I lift my head and glance at the other two patients across from my buddy and me. And older woman busies herself filling out the crossword in the complimentary gossip mag, her neighbor taking five with his head back against the wall and eyes shut.
Ignoring the peeping Tom to my right, I figure why the fuck not and snap a selfie.
Lip pinched between my teeth to tame my grin, I wait on Emery’s reply.
E: Fuck, Alice. Fuck.
A: It looks worse than it feels.
E: I want to pummel the asshole that did this to you.
He has no idea.
A: I don’t condone violence against women, Em.
E: Huh?
A: Fria elbowed me when she fell backward. It was an accident.
E: Where are you? You’re not home.
I scroll back up to the selfie I sent him and check the background with fresh eyes. The edge of a poster about hygiene shows on one side, the buildings out the window not the same as those in my neighborhood.
A: Doctors.
If I want him to be honest with me from here on, then I need to be the same, right?
E: Why? Follow up?
A: Sort of. Fixing another issue.
He replies, but I don’t get a chance to check it.
“Alice Walker?”
I rise from my seat and nod toward the woman in pale blue blouse and slacks. “That’s me.”
“This way.”
I follow her through a door that leads into a portioned section in the front of a converted room. She gestures to the stackable chair and waits for me to sit before passing over a clipboard. “I need you to fill out as much of this as you can. The doctor will be with you shortly.” She closes the door we came in through and exits out another.
I complete questions about everything ranging from my health history to what kind of recreational drugs I take. There’s nothing quite as odd as not being sure of the answers you give about yourself; I feel as though this is some pop quiz on self-awareness.
Clipboard balanced on my knee, I flick the clicker of the pen repeatedly while I wait. After what feels like forever, a middle-aged African American man enters the room, regarding me over the top of his glasses.
“Alice?”
“I hope so. Otherwise, I’m in the wrong room,” I quip.
He chuckles, taking his seat on the far side of the partition. “You may come through.”
I walk three steps to “enter” his office.
“What brings you to me today?” His pen already flies across a patient sheet, even though I haven’t given him my forms yet.
I perch on the edge of the cushioned seat and slide the clipboard onto the corner of his desk.
He takes it without so much as a thank you, flipping back and forth through the pages to transcribe some of the answers across to his document.
“I’ve had tension headaches almost daily for close to three weeks now,” I summarize. “Most of the time, I wake up with them, and they’re worst in the afternoon.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I don’t know what he expects me to say next.
“What disturbs you about them?” He continues to look at his paperwork.
“Uh, the fact I get them every day.”
This grabs his attention. He tilts his head, peering at me over those damn glasses again. “Tell me about your day.” He taps the papers on his desk with the end of his pen as he swivels in his chair to face me. “Your history details a dislocation in your thoracic after a serious motor accident.”
I nod, waiting for him to continue.
“How long did that take to heal initially?”
To be frank, I can’t really remember. “I think it was around two months?”
“Before you could move as normal,” he clarifies.
Again, I nod.
“And how have you treated the area since? Are you prone to favoring the joints to avoid further injury?”
“I’m not sure.” I don’t think so.
“Let me walk you through a demonstration,” he says with that practiced sigh only doctors can manage. “Imagine you were to approach something heavy, below knee height, that required lifting to, say, chest height. Show me how you’d do that.”
“You want me to pretend?”
This time he nods.
I rise out of the chair and bend at the knee as advised, pretending I have a road case or something of the size between my hands.
“There.” He applies gentle pressure to my shoulder with his pen, keeping me in the crouched position. “Note how you over-brace your mid-section.”
“How on earth do you over-brace?” Seriously.
He walks me through the mechanics of my back, breaking down how I tend to over-arch my back, thinking it will relieve the stress on my upper spine. By the time he’s given me a more detailed lesson in anatomy than I ever received in school, I could easily pick out a dozen situations where I do this.
I treat my back with kid gloves.
“Contrary to what you fear,” he summarizes. “You need to put your body under load in a controlled and structured way to rebuild the imbalance that causes your current headaches.” He scratches down a name on a square of paper and passes it over. “I recommend this man. The co-pay is small, and you won’t have to wait too long to see him.”
“I’ve been getting acupuncture, though. Wouldn’t that be the same?”
He shakes his head, reaching across the desk to check a coffee cup. “You need to build the muscles. Needles will release the tension, but what you’re after is growth.” He points to the paper in my hand. “Start there.”
“And in the meantime?”
Soft eyes appraise me. “Continue with your pain management and stay as active as you can.” He sighs. “I would suggest taking at minimum three months to focus on rehab.”
My gut plummets, and he knows it.
“I understand it’s not ideal, given your career.” He tilts his lips in a soft smile. “But the alternative is pushing on and continuing to live with headaches that reduce your quality of life. It’s either fix the problem or suffer in silence, Alice. I urge you to consider the first option.”
I’m unsure how I leave, who I talk to, or which damn door I use. My mind is a hum of white noise while my subconscious blocks out the scary truth.
I need to take a break from performances.
Maybe I could stomach it, knowing the advantage at the other end. But there are two girls who rely on me to deliver so that they can continue to earn.
Fuck.
I lift my phone to call Shanae and see Emery’s unanswered message.
E: Chin up, beautiful. You’ll look back on this one day and laugh about it.
I’m not so sure.
FORTY
Emery
“The Great Leap” – Mortiis, Godflesh
“This came while you were away.” Mom slides an envelope across the outdoor table.
I give Mosaic’s head one last rub and then retrieve it, noting that the contents ar
e relatively thin. “What is it?”
“Read it, and then we can discuss what it means.”
I hesitate, fingers pinched on the contents while I meet Mom’s eye. She tips her chin toward the letter, urging me on.
Fancy fucking swirls bookend some swanky, unpronounceable name at the head of the sheet. I skim down the address and salutation, stopping when I get to the one fucking word sure to make any man cry: alimony.
“What the fuck?” My hand shakes the more words I consume. “She can’t do this, can she?”
“We’re seeking advice,” Mom explains. “Your father has called in a favor from a friend of a friend. We’ll get it all explained to us before you reply, okay?”
I throw the fucking summons on the table. “Fucking bitch.”
Mom opts not to say anything, granting me this one reprieve from respectful manners.
The fucking nerve of Deanna. After ten years together, she feels that common law covers her ass when she wants to go after half of what’s mine. Jesus.
“Has she shown her fucking face while I’ve been gone?”
Mom shakes her head, leaning forward to pet Mosaic when he limps around her side of the table. “I don’t think she’s that stupid.”
“She can’t do this. She won’t win, surely. We didn’t live together.”
Mom sighs, brow hard as she stares across the back lawn. “State law is a little vague around what rules need to be adhered to for common law marriage to be recognized. You might not have lived together, but you have presented as a couple for a decade, Emery.”
Worst ten years of my life, no matter what happens in the rest of them.
“How was the session?”
I shrug, mood notably fucked after that bomb. “It went well. We’ll head back in the new year.” I slide the letter toward me, dragging it off the side of the table.
Mom lunges across, saving it from the flame after I spark my lighter. “Darn, Emery.”
“What?” I flick the lighter a couple more times. “Looking at it makes me mad.”
“Then I’ll keep it safe.” She folds the paper down before stuffing it in her pocket. “You’ll be home for Christmas?”
“Got nowhere else to be.”
“What about Kris?” The hope in her eyes is almost adorable. “Would he like to join us again?”
The guy hasn’t spoken to his family in so long, he doesn’t even know if they still live in the same house. On more than one occasion, he’s joined us for Christmas, sitting in the corner silently while we go through the motions. He might not be the merriest of Christmas fuckers, but I know he likes to feel wanted.
“He has a girlfriend now, Mom. I’m guessing he’ll spend it with her family.”
“Oh.” Her disappointment almost leaves me jealous. “That’s good to hear, though. It’s about time he found someone.” She stares wistfully at Mosaic while he strolls around the garden, sniffing the plants and snapping at bugs.
“I should probably head out and get some presents organized.” I’ve been so wrapped up in my bullshit these past months that preparing for a goddamn annual tradition didn’t factor on my radar. “You need anything while I’m at the mall?”
Mom snaps her fingers while I rise. “There was something. Darn.”
“Message me when you remember.” I make it as far as the door inside.
“Grab your laundry before you go,” she calls. “I’m putting a load on once I’ve finished my tea.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and Emery?”
Eventually, I’ll get through the damn door. “Yeah?”
“I found a business card in your pocket the other night. I left it by the phone for you.”
True—my foxy little lesbian friend. “Thanks.”
I snatch it up on my way through the house, stashing it in the top drawer of my TV cabinet once I get back into my room. Rick seems to have all the marketing shit handled with some company he outsources to do it for us, but there’s no harm in keeping Stacey’s details just in case.
Christmas. Arms folded, I stand in the middle of the room and stare at the furniture. I don’t have a fucking clue what to get anyone. Every year, I give Deanna a grand and let her loose to sort it out for me. It never bothered me, considering not knowing what anyone got would make my day twice as exciting.
My attention draws right when Mosaic finally reaches the top of the stairs, showing his face in the doorway. He glares at me as though to say, “Thanks for waiting, motherfucker,” and then wanders over to collapse on his bed.
Using an empty envelope and the only pen I could find that still works, I drop to the floor beside the coffee table to make myself a list. Mom is easy enough, and Dad, well, he’d be happy with a voucher for the hardware store to get more supplies for his sculpting.
But there’s one present that means more than anything this year. And since I’ve never bought her a fucking thing, I don’t have a clue where to start.
My phone lights up where it rests behind my arm, Kris’s name on the screen. Whacking it onto speaker, I continue doodling on the envelope, hoping some great idea will spark to life. “What’s up?”
“Rick just emailed through a breakdown of when we’re needed again.” A prolonged intake of breath rattles the line. “You seen the news?”
“Nah. Busy trying to work out what to get everyone for Christmas.”
“True. Suppose I should get Henley something.”
I chuckle, setting the pen down. “It’s only, like, next week, douche.”
“You calling me names when you’re just as bad?” he teases. “You wanna tackle this together?”
“Sure.” I lean back against the sofa, eyeballing my lame list. “Henley not with you this week?”
“She’s at her dad’s today. We can meet up in an hour if that suits?”
“Yeah.” Not like I have any other significant plans these days. “What’s the news you mentioned.”
“Dude…” He huffs. “Jasper’s drummer got hit by a motorcycle last night.”
“Fuck.” I lean toward the phone, eager to hear more. “Bet he came off better.”
“He wasn’t driving, man. The guy was crossing the road back to their hotel when some moron overtook an SUV and cleaned him up.”
“Shit. What the fuck are they doing about their tour?” Lords of London had two months to go. In true Jasper style, he chose Valentine’s Day as the final show of the tour.
“They had a break scheduled over Christmas, anyway. Had to cancel two shows, but they’re searching for a filler to do the rest.”
I huff. “How much of an asshole am I if this news makes me feel good?”
“Exactly the asshole I know you are.” Kris laughs. “I’ll pick you up at half one, yeah?”
“See you then.”
Fucking karma, man. That dickhead had it coming to him. I never liked the guy from the moment I first met him. Some people just rub you up the wrong way, and that guy was one of them.
I snatch up the envelope and bend it in half to then shove it in my pocket when the handwriting on the back catches my eye.
Deanna’s scrawl. A note she’d written to remind me I had dinner ready to reheat when I woke up.
The crumpled paper sails from my fist and lands beside the trashcan without a sound.
Fucking karma.
I didn’t need the damn thing anyway. Presents are over-rated. Bullshit knick-knacks and shit people usually buy themselves anyway. What I need is the unique stuff. Shit that says, yeah, this year, I did it myself.
I swipe up my phone from the table and flick through to Alice’s Insta. So much of her feed is work-related, there’s barely a goddamn thing that’s personal. What the hell does she do in her spare time? Does she still like to tinker with custom jewelry, or was that just some teenage hobby? I keep scrolling, falling down the rabbit hole when I realize more-or-less I’m catching up on the years I missed. Stage shots, backstage candids, and the odd posed group photo to cross-promote with other
bands. The pictures themselves aren’t anything unusual, but it’s what they tell me.
I’m going back in time with her. Unraveling the work that she’s done until I reach the girl I left behind.
I don’t even grasp how far I’ve fallen in until a knock at the door snaps me out of my digital scrapbook.
“You ready?” Kris leans back against the railing, finishing a cigarette.
I tap out of the app and swiftly pocket the phone, praying I look at least halfway to being present in the moment and not lost in Alice’s past.
“I’m good.” A quick stop past Mosaic to rub his head, and then I meet Kris, beckoning down the stairs with my chin. “Know what you’re getting Henley yet?”
“No fucking idea.” He laughs softly. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing much.” I leap off the final two steps and stride toward his beatdown little car.
“Looked like something.” Gothic bastard pauses at his door, staring at me over the roof of the car. “You even know how long I was there before I knocked?”
“Just drive.” I drop into the seat, slouching to bring my knees up before me.
He gets in, laughing as he bends to slot the key in the ignition. “It wasn’t that long.” He cranks the engine, shaking us both as the bomb fires up. “But you looked engrossed.”
“I was doing research,” I relent. “Trying to figure out what to get Alice by stalking her Insta.”
“Work anything out?” He reverses into the street, the gears grinding as he forces the car into first.
“You want to take mine?”
“Nah. We’re good.” The car lurches forward before strangely becoming smooth as a baby’s. “Things must be serious if you’re already buying her a gift.”
“Things aren’t anything,” I grumble. “She said she wants to think shit through. We have a rough history, man; I don’t blame her.”
“Rate your chances?”
I shrug, staring out the side window. “I really don’t know.”
“So, what are you buying her?” He peers across at me briefly. “Run it past me so I can make sure you aren’t about to fuck it up worse.”