Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  “I am sorry.” He sighs into the phone.

  “It’s fine. Believe me, I understand. To be continued?”

  “Oh yes,” Serge says, “definitely to be continued.”

  You laugh again, and smile into the phone. “Have fun,” you tell him before you end the call.

  Sasha breezes by you on his way to bed. He lays the back of his hand against your forehead. “That must have been Serge,” he says.

  “It might have been,” you answer, a smile playing on your lips.

  “Sweet dreams, Henrietta,” he tells you, switching off the overhead light.

  Your dreams that night are very sweet, indeed.

  Everything about Louisiana is oppressive. Since there’s no hotel close to the venue, you stay on the bus. Wispy tendrils of steam rise from the gravel backlot into the broiling August air after a brief summer storm as you make your way into the venue.

  Freddie waits for you in the dressing room, looking like he’s seen a ghost.

  A sense of dread overwhelms you as you take in the pallor of his skin, the look in his eyes.

  “What is it?” you ask, bracing for the worst.

  “I think you need to see this.” Freddie thrusts his phone into your hand. The screen glows, a stark white backdrop against the rows of black text which take a moment to focus. A single photo of Crispin, smiling at some red carpet event, sits below the headline: CRISPIN HERSHEY HOSPITALIZED AFTER WILD NIGHT OF PARTYING. WHAT WE KNOW SO FAR.

  You look up at Sasha, who exchanges a quick glance with Freddie, then you scroll slowly down to read the full article.

  Crispin Hershey was hospitalized today after being found unconscious in a Los Angeles hotel room. The star reportedly spent the last two days partying in Hershey’s VIP suite with long-time friend and recent rehab co-attendee, Trixie Taylor. Taylor, who made the 911 call, reporting that Hershey was having a seizure, was arrested at the scene for drug possession. According to sources, Hershey was unresponsive upon arrival at Cedars Sinai Hospital and remains in critical condition. Hershey’s off-again-off-again love, Honey Noble, has not yet been contacted, according to a source close to the star.

  An ugly sob escapes your throat as you look desperately up at Sasha and Freddie.

  “I need to go to him,” you say.

  “Henrietta, think this through,” Sasha beseeches.

  “No!” you tell him. “There’s nothing to think about.”

  You do your best to stay calm and focused during the show, but the heat and the events of the day do nothing to help. You know it’s not your best performance, but the audience doesn’t seem to care.

  Freddie arranges a private plane and alerts the venue that tomorrow night’s show is uncertain. You fly through the night, arriving in LA at almost two in the morning, local time. A car takes you to the VIP hospital entrance. Even the halls of the ICU are hushed at this hour, lights dim, the only activity is the bustle of the nurses, who never stop darting in and out of patient rooms and back to the nurses’ station.

  Tears immediately spring to your eyes as they adjust to the dim light of Crispin’s room. His body looks frail in the hospital bed. Tangles of wires are draped across the metal bed rails, disappearing under the thin sheet covering Crispin’s frame. Tubes seem to spring from every orifice and machines beep incessantly from every corner. A nurse walks into the room, wheeling a cart.

  “How is he?” you ask her.

  “He’s stable,” she tells you. “But he’s not out of the woods. The doctor will be here in the morning. He can tell you more.”

  You keep vigil by Crispin’s side throughout the night, willing him to open his eyes. You sing softly to him, hoping your voice gets through whatever fog he is under. The room begins to brighten as dawn breaks. At last, the doctor, who remains determinedly unflustered by your presence, gives you what information he has. A battery of tests is to be run today, but initial bloodwork revealed a mix of drugs and alcohol which should have been fatal.

  “He is very lucky to be alive,” the doctor tells you. “But we won’t know what damage has been done until the test results are back.”

  “When will that be?” you ask.

  “Some will come in today, some will take a day or two. And the brain activity tests will be ongoing.”

  “Brain activity?”

  “There’s no way to tell how much, if any, damage has been done to his brain, until he regains consciousness. There’s a chance he was without oxygen for some time. And the person who made the initial call reported a seizure.”

  “I see,” you tell him—although you don’t understand completely. A hefty nurse comes into the room, arms laden with sheets and blankets.

  “Sorry to interrupt your visit,” she announces, “but it’s time for his bath and linen change.”

  “Oh, I can help,” you offer.

  “No, no, miss,” she says. “Visiting hours are over for today. Go home and get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

  Summarily dismissed, you take a car back to your house. The clean, black-and-white tile suddenly seems jarring. You realize you are beyond exhausted. You retreat to your bedroom and fall onto your still-made bed into a dreamless sleep.

  You wake with a start hours later, uncertain where you are and what time of day it is. You grab your phone and see a stream of texts filling the screen. It’s two p.m., almost twelve hours since you arrived in LA. You quickly brush your teeth and splash water on your face in an attempt to wake up, then quickly scroll through the texts.

  Several are from Sasha—those you’ll answer later. One thread is from Crispin’s mother, Marjorie, telling you she’s about to board a flight and will arrive in LA this evening. Interesting that she assumes you are there with her son. The last texts are from Serge:

  Sladkaya?

  Then a few hours later:

  Do you have time for a call?

  An hour after that:

  I guess you are sleeping. Sweet dreams.

  Then this morning:

  I am getting worried. But I am thinking maybe your phone has died?

  Hello? Can you please text or call me back. I will keep my phone on all night

  Serge’s final text knocks the breath from your lungs:

  Please call me. Something has happened.

  You quickly calculate the time difference—it’s just after midnight in Kiev—and call Serge.

  The call goes directly to voicemail. “Serge,” you say, “it’s Honey. I’m so sorry I’m just seeing your texts. Please call me back.”

  You turn the ringer volume as high as it will go then slide your phone into your bag. You add a change of clothes, a hairbrush, and your toothbrush and call a car to take you back to the hospital. On the way, you text Freddie instructing him to cancel the rest of the Louisiana shows.

  The day quickly becomes evening as you sit by Crispin’s bedside. Strangely, no one returns your texts and your phone doesn’t ring once. The cycle of nurse visits is almost hypnotic. The doctor reappears at the end of his shift with an update.

  “We’ve downgraded him from critical to stable,” he tells you. “We’ve managed to push most of the toxins through his system, and his liver and kidneys appear to be unharmed, but we still need to run more tests to be certain. We need to keep him on IV meds for a least the next few days, just to be safe. He’ll stay here in the ICU for that time period.”

  “Why hasn’t he woken up?” you ask him.

  “There could be a number of reasons,” the doctor tells you. “It could be the body’s way of protecting the brain. We see that sometimes with traumas. Or it could be something else. Right now it’s too early to speculate.”

  You don’t want to ask what the “something else” might be, so you thank the doctor and let him leave.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Marjorie bursts into the room with Crispin’s sister, Maxine, in tow. Maxine takes one look at Crispin and bursts into tears.

  “Do stop it, Maxine,” Marjorie admonishes.
Ever the stoic and elegant Brit, Marjorie considers such emotional outbursts beneath her. No doubt she’s done everything she can to keep Crispin’s latest scandal as quiet as possible.

  “But look at him, Mummy!” Maxine cups her hand over her mouth. You offer her the box of tissues. “Thank you, Honey!” Maxine pulls you into a sloppy embrace, wetting your shoulder as her body trembles, wracked with sobs.

  “Really, Maxine, that is quite enough!” Marjorie pulls her away and frowns at her daughter’s tear-stained face, mascara smudged and running underneath each eye.

  “It’s okay,” you tell her.

  Marjorie looks at you, and sympathy washes over her face. You must look worse than you imagined. “Thank you for being here, Henrietta.” Marjorie is one of the only other people outside of your immediate family and Sasha who calls you by your given name. Somehow it sounds lovely, in her clipped British accent.

  “What have they told you?”

  You fill Marjorie and Maxine in on the little you know. Marjorie glares at Maxine each time a new detail elicits a gasping sob.

  “Well, I suppose we can only wait,” Marjorie sighs when you finish. Then, “I think I’d like a cup of tea,” she announces brightly, getting to her feet.

  “We can’t just leave him here,” Maxine sniffles.

  “He can’t come with us, can he?” Marjorie asks, a little too tartly.

  “Why don’t you stay with him, Max. Henrietta and I will bring you something.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Maxine dabs at her cheeks, never taking her eyes from her brother.

  “How about you, Henrietta? You must be famished.”

  You cannot remember the last time you ate. “I actually am starving,” you tell her, and accompany her down the hall to the bank of elevators leading to the lobby. The second you walk through the elevator doors, your phone begins to buzz. More texts than you’ve ever seen fill your screen and the voicemail icon shows twelve missed calls and five new voicemails. “What on earth?” you mutter as you scroll through the phone.

  “Is everything quite all right?” Marjorie asks.

  “Um, I’m not sure. Looks like I missed a bunch of phone calls. Do you mind if I meet you in the cafeteria in a few minutes?”

  “Not at all.”

  You make a quick escape through the glass lobby doors and immediately call Serge. He picks up on the first ring.

  “Sladkaya,” he says, his voice strained and anxious. “I have been trying to call you.”

  “I know,” you tell him, pacing the hospital sidewalk as you talk. “There must be no reception upstairs. I’m at the hospital—I’m fine, though.”

  “Yes,” Serge interrupts you. “I know. Sasha told me. I called him when I couldn’t find you. I was very worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” you tell him.

  “No, no, it is fine,” he assures you, his voice more even. “I am just glad you are safe. How is Crispin?” His question sounds genuine and devoid of any hint of jealousy.

  “He’s in bad shape,” you answer. “He really did a number on himself this time. His mother just arrived—and his sister—so hopefully that will help, though his sister’s a bit of a mess. The doctors don’t seem to know the extent of it yet. And he hasn’t opened his eyes since they brought him in. No one seems to know what that means.”

  “I am sorry, Sladkaya,” Serge tells you. “It is good of you to be there.”

  “I guess,” you tell him. “I’m not sure I’m really helping.”

  Serge is silent for a moment. “What will you do? Will you stay there?”

  That gives you pause. Since you arrived at the hospital, up until this moment you hadn’t thought past the present. Driven by adrenaline, you just went. You think for a long moment. “I don’t know,” you answer honestly.

  Serge breathes in a long breath. “Well, you will do the right thing, Sladkaya,” he tells you. “I may not know you that well, not yet, but I do know you have a very good heart.”

  “Thank you.” Your chest tightens and suddenly you feel completely torn. “Serge, can I ask you something?”

  “Ah, I am being summoned, once again,” Serge says. “Will you call me tomorrow?”

  “Okay,” you tell him. “I’ll call you.”

  “Goodbye, Sladkaya,” Serge says, and you hear the line go still.

  You gaze down at the black phone screen, wondering what Serge meant when he said you would do the right thing. It takes you a moment to realize that at just past midnight in Kiev it is highly unlikely that Serge was being called away. And that you didn’t even ask him how things were going there. Or what his text meant. Tomorrow, you think, and walk back into the chilly hospital lobby to go find Marjorie.

  After a cup of coffee and a semi-hot meal, actually not bad for hospital cafeteria fare, you check back in on Crispin. Maxine has found a magazine and she reads it aloud to Crispin.

  “It’s meant to be a good thing to read aloud to them,” she explains, in answer to Marjorie’s puzzled expression.

  “I think that’s said about people in a coma,” Marjorie corrects.

  You smile at Maxine. “Anyway, it can’t hurt.”

  You excuse yourself to return the rest of your voicemails. Three were from Serge, two from Sasha, and one from Freddie, which you’ll deal with later.

  Sasha answers after a few rings. “How’s the patient?” he asks without preamble.

  “Not great,” you answer, without elaborating.

  You know Sasha is using great restraint to keep his opinions to himself, which you appreciate. “So, what’s your plan?” he asks you.

  “Why, is Freddie breathing down your neck?”

  “No, not yet. I want to know for my own information. And in light of the phone call I got from Serge yesterday, of course.”

  “What do you mean?” you ask. “I just talked to him a little while ago.”

  “Oh, so you know then.”

  The familiar sense of dread washes over you. “Know what?”

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  “Seriously, Sasha, just tell me.”

  “He didn’t say anything about Niko’s father?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. That’s odd.” Sasha pauses for a second. “I guess there’s no reason not to tell you. Apparently Niko’s father suffered a massive heart attack yesterday morning—evening their time. He didn’t make it.”

  “What do you mean he didn’t make it?”

  “I mean, he died, Henrietta. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Oh, God,” you gasp, as the realization hits you. “Serge didn’t say a word.”

  “He probably figured you were dealing with enough.”

  You can’t even imagine what Niko and Serge must be going through, having just reunited with their father after all this time. “God, I’m an idiot,” you say.

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I could have. I didn’t even ask.” Your mind is racing as you try to figure out what to do. “Listen, Sasha, can you do me a favor? I owe Freddie a call back but I can’t do it right now. Can you buy me some time with him please?”

  “I can try,” Sasha says. “But you know Freddie.”

  “I know, I know. Let me just figure a couple of things out. I’ll call you before I do anything, I promise.”

  * * *

  On the long drive back to your house, your mind reels. You feel pulled in two completely different directions. In one, there’s Crispin, lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life. The two of you have a long history, and part of you can’t help but think that if you hadn’t abandoned him when he needed you most you might have saved him from this terrible turn. In fact, the two of you might be back together now and he might be clean and sober had you not hung up the phone that day. Still, another part of you knows that Crispin has brought this fate upon himself, and that no amount of support from you can get him to want to turn his life around. Besides, now that his mother and sister are here, there’s no real reaso
n for you to stay—aside from your own sense of guilt and the hope that somehow your presence can help him recover.

  In the other direction is Serge, hundreds of miles away in Kiev, mourning the loss of his father. Though your relationship is still new, there’s something you feel when you look into Serge’s eyes that you’ve never felt before. He makes you feel safe and cherished, something no one has ever made you feel. The future could hold anything for the two of you, or your romance could fade, unable to stand the grueling tests of distance and fame. The fact that Serge didn’t even tell you about Nikolas when you called, that his only concern was your well-being, speaks volumes. He’s selfless, which is something new to you, too.

  You tumble into bed with conflicting thoughts spinning through your mind. Your last thought before sleep overtakes you is a desperate hope that you will awaken with some clarity.

  To go to Serge in Kiev, turn to page 219.

  To stay in LA with Crispin, keep reading.

  You awaken with a clarity you haven’t felt in months. You know you have no choice but to stay with Crispin, at least until he is on a solid road to recovery. You pack a fresh change of clothes and head back to the hospital, calling Freddie on the way to let him know that at least the next leg of the tour needs to be canceled. He is less than pleased, but you promise you’ll be back as soon as Crispin is well enough to be on his own. Fifteen minutes later, your phone begins to ring. Sasha calls incessantly when you refuse to pick up, so you turn the phone off completely the minute you walk through the hospital doors, knowing it won’t get reception once you step off of the elevator into the ICU anyway.

  Marjorie is snoring loudly in the corner chair when you enter the room. Maxine continues her bedside vigil, reading to Crispin in a raspy voice. She looks up and cuts her eyes toward her mother, acknowledging the noises coming from her usually elegant nose.

  “She would be mortified to learn she snores like a lumberjack,” she snickers.

  “We’d better not tell her,” you agree.

  “How is he?” you walk toward the bed where Crispin lies. He appears not to have moved a millimeter since you last saw him.

  “The same,” Maxine answers miserably. Cavernous black bags underline Maxine’s eyes.