In the Absence of You

by Sunniva Dee

  On day two, I wake up in my own hotel room; I’m the only girl on the tour that isn’t one of The Thalias. After thirty-six hours away from Emil, I expect the plague to roar at me full force, but instead there’s a void in my chest.

  Below the covers, I touch the area where my heart is. I swallow and realize it’s not wringing with longing. At first, it beats out a smooth, calm rhythm. Then it speeds up. When I focus, my chest isn’t empty either. It’s chock-full of regret.

  I inhale deeply. Let the air out through my nose in a long sigh. I click the TV on and blink against the glaring screen. As I do, I realize it’s not just regret I feel. There’s guilt in there too. Idly, I wonder if my great-aunt ever felt guilty while she fought for a love that was never hers.

  I count the days. The Thalias’ shows are clean, small, and in clubs prepared for their act. Middle-aged, wealthy patrons relax in dinner theater seating, drinking expensive wine and ducking heads as they nod over the talented singers.

  My job isn’t to sell merchandise. It’s to prepare stagewear ahead of each show and provide aftercare to it. Their opera-worthy costumes come in suitcases as tall as me. They’re tilted on their sides and wheeled into the dressing rooms. During each show, the girls change four to five times each. It’s my job to be there for the shifts, gowns held open and ready to lace them in.

  I don’t count the days with The Thalias. The girls are fine to work for, and this is an easy gig. What I count is the last days of Clown Irruption’s tour, keeping an eye on the entertainment websites. We’re hitting the middle of December. Tomorrow, they’re in New York, and it’s their last day on tour.

  Now that I’m away from Emil, I shouldn’t be healing. Depression should be drowning me. Since we landed in The Thalias’ midst, Shandor has kept close tabs on my mood, knowing this too. Even if Emil’s last salute to me was jarring, the plague of my people should hold me in its claws, making it impossible to focus on anything but my love fire.

  But things are happening to me, things I didn’t expect; my heart is relaxing, and my mind is brightening. Does it mean there’s a cure for the plague?

  Maybe its recipient has to treat you so badly you lose all taste for him? My need for revenge lasted only for twenty-four hours, and once it seeped off, relief set in. If this were a cure, shouldn’t I at least have craved retaliation?

  I think of arsenic, to back when it was a go-to poison for slowly getting rid of regents so the heir could take the throne. The king would fall ill. With each increased portion, he would get sicker, until one day he died in horrible pain. But if he were removed from the source of his illness, he would slowly regain his health. Was Emil my arsenic?

  I still care for Emil. He’s a complicated, flawed, loving man despite his shortcomings. I worry about his well-being, enough to text the band to see how he’s doing. Nadia and Bo are tight-lipped, giving me diplomatic answers, while Troll is up front, warning me to stay out of Emil’s life.

  I pull up a YouTube video of him from last night’s show. I watch it between dress changes at The Thalias’ second dinner show of the night, and it’s the same rendition of “The Entertainer” he’s done lately, only this time he doesn’t look pleased when Elias helps him to his feet.

  On the band’s website, there’s a post about a new song called “I’m Sorry.” The notification has been formulated so as to warn the audience and hype them at the same time. It’s going to be played tomorrow.

  On impulse, I send Emil a text message.

  Hi, it’s me. Good luck in NY. Your fans will post your new song on YouTube, I’m sure. I’ll be looking for it.

  I don’t expect an answer, but he ticks one out quickly. He doesn’t greet me back. Instead he texts, simply, I wish someone else would too.

  Zoe.

  Emil and Zoe.

  I don’t have the plague. Maybe there isn’t such a thing. Or if there is, maybe it’s a strain a few of us contract depending on our personalities? Perhaps the love fire isn’t restricted to families, to cultures, to clans like mine. Maybe Emil, from up there in cold, composed Scandinavia has it, while I, with my fire-blooded origin, am somehow destined for sweet, smooth, and calm?

  This new hypothesis is a pang to my carefully constructed world.

  Arsenic. An obsession.

  I return to Emil’s text, to the brevity of it, and consider how much emotion hides within each letter. He can’t live without her. He enacts his own death on stage every night without her, because it is all he has left to do. Me, it seems, all I needed was to get away from the root of my obsession.

  “For the one I let go,” Emil states on their website about “I’m Sorry.” If he has written an apology to Zoe, then she should hear it.

  I call Troy first. He’s surprised when he picks up, voice breathy and sexy from some relaxed position he must be in. I keep track, and Clown Irruption’s is a travel day. I bet they’re killing time with videos and board games on the bus.

  I hear Troy get up and move around. He doesn’t say my name out loud. I understand; Troll might have told them not to speak with me in case I make good on my hotheaded threat of suing someone.

  “I’m sorry—” he begins, and I know he’s not referring to the song.

  “It’s not why I’m calling,” I say. “Now that I’m away, I see things in more perspective, and it wasn’t just the two of you overstepping boundaries. The last days leading up to…” I trail off, needing to breathe. “Anyway. I saw the video of last night’s ‘The Entertainer.’”

  “Shit. Yeah, it wasn’t good. He threw up afterward.”

  “Drunk?”

  “No. We’ll get him help in L.A. in two days.”

  I scrunch my eyes shut. “Has anyone heard from Zoe?” I ask.

  “Well, Nadia and she speak all the time.”

  “Okay, so if Zoe isn’t reaching out to Emil, someone needs to step in. She needs to give Emil closure at least, or this won’t end well. I care about him—”

  “You do.”

  “—and I have this… feeling. Do you have her number?”

  He’s quiet on the phone, maybe trying to guess my strategy.

  “Troy, I get it. You don’t think you can trust me. But I see signs in Emil that I saw in relatives of mine, and all I want is to help him. I wish I’d done it earlier.”

  I swallow a lump in my throat. Suddenly, I feel far away from my family. Chavali and Kennick will be in Los Angeles for Christmas. I’ll join them there. But deep down, maybe for the first time since I left, I feel like being with my clan again.

  “Ah Troy. So many of my people have taken on death instead of finding new reasons to live after a love gone wrong. I… I’m afraid you might not have a singer for long if you don’t act.”

  I want to meet up with my family. Visit their campground. Sit around the bonfire with them, sing old songs with them, taste horrible moonshine made by old Zindelo with them. I don’t know if I’m suited for the close-knitted, one-for-all community I was born into, but the plague is disintegrating before my eyes, and my urge to hide isn’t what it used to be.

  “We’re aware. Help is waiting for him in L.A., I promise you,” Troy replies.

  “Have you completely written off Zoe?”

  “We’ve talked about it. No one believes she’s part of the solution. Zoe apparently took a month’s sick leave after she came out and saw us because she couldn’t cope with stuff either. It looks like they both just need to heal.”

  And that’s where our opinions differ. I don’t understand Troy’s logic, and from the way he says it, it’s not just him. It’s the entire band.

  I shared a lot with Troy while we were on tour, my closest ally, my friend, but with no one did I share the legend of the plague. If he had met Chavali and Kennick. If he knew the backstory to everything I did. Would his logic be the same?

  Chavali’s situation was different from Emil’s, but now that my mind isn’t clouded by obsession, it seems so simple: if Zoe can’t stomach their estrangement and Emil i
s falling apart over it, why doesn’t someone reach out to her?

  “She’d do more harm than good,” Troy murmurs as if he’s onto my trail of thoughts.

  “What do you mean?”

  He clears his throat. Mumbles, “Hold on,” then shuts a door.

  “What’re you doing?”

  He chuckles. “You literally have me locking myself into the bathroom.”

  “Phone sex!” Elias yells. “Whoever she is, tell her ‘Hi’ and ‘Enjoy!’”

  There’s a strange snorting sound, and I realize it’s Troy suppressing a laugh. It’s cute. “Shut up, Elias,” he growls once he’s in control of his amusement.

  I smile but sober quickly. “Tell me about Zoe.”

  “Have you heard Emil call her bitchy?”

  “Yeah…”

  “She is bitchy. Jealous and bitchy. Emil’s got weird taste in chicks, man. Clearly, he gets off on them being bossy, and Zoe’s the queen of bossy. She’s nice around us and all, but she loves to tell him what to do.”

  “Oh. Lots of arguments then? I heard them on the bus.”

  “No, oddly not. It was more a constant bickering and Emil laughing his ass off when her demands became ridiculous. And then of course, sometimes she’d be right and he’d apologize and just… sort of…”

  “What.”

  “Oh nothing. Loud makeup sex with explicit, verbal instructions running between the two of them.” Troy snorts again.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah. Nadia’s probably the only one who dares to give Zoe advice. She’ll bite anyone else’s head off is what I’m trying to say. And when it comes to you, since you’ve kept Emil warm, I wouldn’t bet on you surviving a run-in.”

  EMIL

  New York. I’m stone sober before the most important concert of my life. I’m here. Zoe won’t be—I know—I know—but thanks to my bloody mess on stage, we’ve been all over the media lately. I hope she sees.

  We’ve got TV shows visiting the gig, and our business manager is flying up from L.A. Reporters are popping by backstage, but the only person I can deal with right now is Bo.

  “You sure about this? We can still pull the plug on ‘I’m Sorry.’” He leans back in his seat, strumming quietly on his guitar. “I don’t want you to lose your shit up there.”

  “I’m losing my shit as it is, bro. Same difference.” I chuckle though I know he doesn’t find it funny. “Anyway. Let’s play ‘I’m Sorry’ right after ‘The Entertainer’ when I’ve got this white shirt all bloodied up in the front. I’ll look like a zombie singing it, don’t you think?” I pat the for-now clean fabric.

  His look turns steely, empathy receding to measured annoyance. “Yeah. You will.”

  Standing up, I pull in a breath, touching the low ceiling in this glorified locker room with my hand. “If they replay it everywhere, she’ll end up seeing it no matter what.” I hear the hope in my voice. Funny how I still have hope. “Maybe a friend will show her the clip.”

  “Emil, don’t. Let’s do this show, get our asses back to L.A., and once we’re there, we’ll get you sorted out.”

  I snort. “What, you’re gonna put me in the loony bin or something?”

  “No, but I want you to see someone that can help you screw your head back on because the way you’re acting isn’t normal, and it sure as hell isn’t you.”

  “A shrink. Jesus.” I laugh at him.

  “Guys, it’s time.” Troll is subdued tonight as he jerks his head toward the backstage corridor. Our walk-on music has started, and the audience is one solid hiss out there. My heart kick-starts. By the time we’re at the stage entrance, it accelerates into a thunder I’m addicted to.

  I’ve insisted on “The Entertainer” coming first. No one thinks it’s a good idea, but Bo is tired of fighting me. He’s been there. Almost been there; Bo knows all I care about is the demolition of my guts.

  Sometimes I wonder how I’m still standing.

  I barge out last, rush toward blinding lights, thrusting my fists in the air like I’m made of victory. I scream my hellos to the crowd, who goes ballistic, their hiss growing to a roar that finds me in their wall of approval.

  We play “The Entertainer.”

  The revolver. Familiar. Friendly in my hand. I squeeze tight, tight. Press it to my head. I fall to my knees as I sing, pushing its tip against my chest, and my last shout is everything triumph.

  I shake, my pretend suicide a respite from the deep red of my agony. Kneeling, I shake—electrocuted—it’s how you feel when your heart explodes. I’ve got so much blood on me.

  It’s all over my heart, my chest; I’m a carnage of heartache, the way she should see me. My zombie pain. She’s turned me into a zombie. Oh Zoe, Zoe, why do you do what you do?

  “I have a little song I want to play,” I whisper, hoarse. Road-worn and ragged out. “You guys haven’t heard it before. I made it for my girl who stopped being my girl. I wish she heard.”

  “I’d never stop being your girl!” someone shouts.

  My hands are bloody around the mic, I see them, I do, and in my peripheral, Troy closes his eyes against me. The adrenaline makes my body tremble. I pant because pain takes energy.

  He starts on the drums though, heavy, dark, low, the way we’ve rehearsed this song. They’re right. It’s a killer.

  The audience, they love us. They’ll take it. And what we play is nothing like the real deal.

  I shove hair off my forehead. It’s long now, messier than it used to be. No one yells at me to go to the stylist. No one books me an appointment.

  My fingers are slippery with fake blood.

  It’s cool.

  It’s cool against my face.

  AISHE

  “It’s the love fire, Aishe!” Shandor growls.

  “No, it’s not. This is humanity speaking.”

  “We’ve been away for less than a week and suddenly there’s no love fire, no plague, no fucking nothing anymore?”

  “Just. Look at him!” I scream. My eyes blur with tears as I turn my laptop to my cousin. “You worked for him for ten months, and you don’t give a damn? Listen, you’re not heartless, and I’m not a robot—just freaking watch! Then tell me. I don’t know how they let him go on.”

  With his arms scissoring his chest, Shandor is tense behind me as I play “I’m Sorry.” The concert is just over, but a fan even added subtitles before leaking the song to YouTube. It’s absolutely devastating.

  “He’s manipulating you,” Shandor snarls, a verse and a chorus into the song. “Don’t for a second believe—”

  “Shandor. The song isn’t about me.”

  He turns to me, yellow eyes searching mine. “It’s about Zoe, you think?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to help him sort this out.”

  Shandor throws his hands in the air. “Look, Emil is surrounded by people who love him. He’s got the band, his family, Troll too. They’ll help.”

  “What happens if someone’s bit by the plague at home?” I ask rhetorically, “home” being wherever our campers stop for the night.

  “We’re there for them.”

  “Right, twenty-four seven. And isn’t our first solution to see if the love fire is reciprocated? Then, isn’t someone there, making sure the meeting between the loving and the loved doesn’t end in disaster?”

  Shandor sighs, his chest sinking in time with his slow blink. His gaze floats back to the screen where Emil’s on his knees, trembling, the gun on the floor and tears streaking the blood on his face. “What’s your plan?”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi… Zoe?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I swallow, steeling myself for her reaction. “It’s Aishe.”

  “Aishe? How dare you call me!”

  She curses. Calls me names. Once she’s done, I’m still on the phone with her and she’s still on the phone with me. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

  Her patience with me won’t last. She hates me hard, and already her
voice is quavering so I skip niceties and move straight to Emil’s needs.

  “Did you watch the concert tonight?”

  “Aishe,” she mocks, dragging my name out like she dumpster-dove for it. “I wouldn’t dream of watching his sorry ass, and I definitely don’t need to see him with pathetic sluts like you.”

  “Emil and I aren’t together,” I hurry out before her words can sink in and hurt me. “He isn’t available. Emotionally, I mean. All he thinks about is you.”

  “Who put you up to this? Nadia? Bo?” she demands, tears dousing her voice. “Oh it’s one of Elias’ stupid bets, isn’t it? Well, forget it. Let him collect his twenty bucks from you, because I won’t be a pawn to him.”

  “I’m sending you a link,” I say.

  “A link?”

  “Yeah, to a recording of tonight. Emil wrote a song for you.”

  “Ha!” she says, choking her sob too late. I hear her.

  “I think you listening to this song is the only thing he has left to wish for.”

  “Really? Because all I wish for is to get over him!”

  “No!” I shout, and oddly, it silences her. “No…” I repeat more quietly. “You don’t understand. Emil wants nothing right now. Nothing spurs his interest. You’d lighten his burden just by watching it.”

  Zoe isn’t on the phone anymore. I’m not sure when she hung up. I lift my eyes, finding Shandor leaned against the countertop of the deserted hotel bar.

  “Told you,” he breathes out, sad for me.

  “I had to try.”

  “Why, cousin? He’s not your business. All he ever did was cause you grief and force you into a situation you’d never consciously choose.”

  I lift my shoulders in a shrug. Fiercely protective of me, Shandor is a guy; things are black and white for him. For me, it’s not that simple. “Emil meant a lot to me. That hasn’t changed.”

  EMIL

  “No. I mean it,” I sigh to Troy over the phone.

  I’m in Los Angeles, Bo and Elias are in Sweden, while Troy wants me to be with his family for Christmas. “I’ve got plans.”

  I don’t want him to know that I’m alone in my apartment on Christmas Eve. Though maybe it’s not a big deal to him; Americans celebrate tomorrow, not tonight.