More Than Anything

by R. E. Blake

  We’ve had dinner a couple more times, but it’s started feeling uncomfortable for me. Jeremy’s right. He does have more than a professional interest in me, which he’s hinted at, although not in a way that would interfere with our working relationship. Still, I know he wants something more than to hear me sing if he has the chance, and the last time he offered to take me out for a bite, I begged off.

  One thing Derek nailed was that when emotions come into play, things can get weird, and I can’t afford for anything to go wrong with Sebastian at this point. He’s really cool and definitely hot, but I’m not in the market. I don’t want it to get any heavier. So I’ve been a little standoffish, and he seems to have gotten the message – for now.

  The week drags by, although I’m enjoying my vocal tracks now that I’ve gotten the hang of the isolation booth. Sebastian has hundreds of tricks for coaxing the best possible performance out of me, and I’m absorbing them like a sponge. One unexpected side effect of recording is I feel like I’m becoming a better singer in the process, which can only help me in the long term.

  The morning of the big day finally arrives. I’m stuffing clothes into my backpack, which I still haven’t replaced, my pulse thrumming in my ears as I hurry so I won’t be late. My phone rings out in the dining room, and I curse as I race out to snag it.

  My heart sinks when I see the number.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hello, sweetheart. How’ve you been?”

  “It’s been crazy busy. In fact, now isn’t a good time.”

  “Sorry to bug you, then. I got a call a few minutes ago. It’s your mom.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s been admitted to the hospital again. I don’t need to tell you why. And this time it doesn’t look like she’s going to make it.”

  I slump onto the sofa and stare out through the sliding glass doors at the tiny balcony. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was. It’s bad.”

  “What…God, Dad. This couldn’t happen at a worse time.”

  “I’m sorry. But, Sage, she’s your mother.”

  I choke back the lump in my throat, a combination of sorrow and anger. He didn’t seem all that concerned about her, or me, when he disappeared, leaving us to fend for ourselves. And now he wants me to drop everything and sacrifice because she put herself in the hospital again? No. I’m not going to do it. I take a deep breath and try to sound calm. “I’m flying to New York tonight.”

  His voice gets soft. “I’d reschedule, Sage. She isn’t expected to make it to tomorrow.”

  I can hear my teeth gritting. This can’t be happening. “When are you driving up?”

  “As soon as you get here.”

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn. God hates me. I wonder what I could have done to offend him so much. I’m only seventeen. It’s not like I’ve got a history of war crimes or dog torture or anything.

  “I’ll call the airline and see what I can do.”

  “That’s the right call, honey.”

  I close my eyes and wipe a tear away. “I know. I’ll call you back.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Sebastian is understanding, although even his most patient tone has a trace of annoyance in it. I understand where he’s coming from. He’s only got a certain amount of time slotted to finish the record, and he just lost his star performer for one more day. I promise him I’ll make it up, but my promise sounds hollow even to my ear.

  The trip to the airport is the most depressing in my life. I call Derek on the way, and he can’t believe it.

  “It’s like we’re cursed.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Any details on your mom?”

  “No, just that she’s dying. If she’s hemorrhaging and they can’t get it to stop, it’s probably just a matter of hours.”

  “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry, Sage. Let me know if I can do anything.”

  “I don’t suppose you can fly to San Francisco?” I say and feel like crap the moment the words tumble out of my mouth. I bail out on him, and now I want him to drop everything so I can still see him.

  “You know I would, but I can’t. I’ve got vocals scheduled for the next two days. There’s nothing else they can do.”

  “I understand. That was totally selfish of me. I know you’re swamped.”

  “Hey, you have a great excuse.”

  “There’s never an excuse, Derek.”

  When we disconnect I feel a piece of me die. Just like that, all my dreams of spending an idyllic weekend with Derek are shattered, and I’m returning to Clear Lake – a place I despise. It’s not fair.

  My inside voice, sensing weakness, goes in for the kill. No, Sage, nothing is. Get over yourself. Your mother’s dying. This isn’t all about you.

  At least it’s reliable. But I can talk back to it. She’s dying because she’s systematically killed herself, against the counsel of everyone around her. She’s chosen death over life.

  I absently wonder whether everyone volleys back and forth with themselves like this, or if maybe I’m pulling a Joan of Arc, and the next thing I’ll be doing is standing on a street corner quoting scripture. After all, crazy seems to run in the family.

  The flight is mercifully smooth, and I keep my eyes closed the entire way, Melody’s Raiders hat on and pulled down low, shades insulating me from the outside world.

  My dad meets me at the airport. He’s got another rental, an even worse POS than the last time, and it’s a long and glum trip north. He asks about the recording, and I tell him what I can, but it’s quickly obvious that I might as well be speaking Mandarin – I’ve already assimilated so much technical jargon from being around Sebastian all the time that it’s hard for me to describe things in laymen’s terms.

  “So it’s going well, then?” he asks after I finish.

  “Yes, Dad. Really well. How about the carpentry thing?”

  “Still got all my fingers. That’s a plus in this business.”

  “You’re doing something right.”

  “That’s how I view it.”

  Nothing’s changed at the hospital since a few weeks earlier. Same bored nurse, same attitude, but a different room.

  My mom looks terrible. She’s so pale her skin’s translucent, the veins like purple spider webs in her arms. An ominously colored IV bag of blood is flowing into her line, and she’s unconscious.

  I take the seat next to her bed and hold her hand, cold as ice and frail as spun sugar, as my father goes to talk to someone who can give him more information.

  “Why did you do this? Why, Mom? Was it worth it?” My voice is hoarse, and tears are welling in my eyes. I’m so mad I could spit – at least that’s what I tell myself. But the truth is more complex. I’m angry, but I’m also torn up inside with guilt and sadness and self-pity, because as hard as I’m trying to understand, I can’t. Why did she choose to kill herself as surely as putting a gun to her head? What was so frigging unbearable in this life that she had to rush to get out of it?

  How could she do this to me?

  There it is. Even as she lies dying, I can’t view it outside of its relevance to me. Am I really that selfish? What kind of human being am I that I can sit at my mom’s deathbed and be thinking about her actions only as they relate to me?

  My dad returns, and I snap out of my pity party. I know as surely as I know the words to “Me & Bobby McGee” that I’ll have many nights to beat myself bloody over this. No point in rushing things.

  “It’s as bad as we thought. She’s not responding. All they can do is what they’re doing, but the doctor isn’t holding out much hope.”

  I look at the shell of a human lying on the bed and try to remember her as she was when I was a child, before the sallow skin and perpetual frown of the hungover drunk became her death mask. I try as hard as I can, but I can’t do it. That woman died long before this one arrived for her last stay in the hospital.

  I stand and let go of her hand. “I love you, Mom,” I
say, brushing tears away with the back of my arm. “I love you, and I’ll try to forgive you for…this.”

  My dad looks at me like I’m from another planet, but I don’t care. I push past him to the bathroom and slam the door behind me, and sit sobbing, my stomach cramping. The feeling like my guts are being pulled through my throat is so overwhelming I have to fight for breath.

  Eventually I get myself under control, and I wonder how anything can hurt this bad. The irony is that there’s no way she ever felt broken up about losing me, that’s obvious. So why am I reverting to the three-year-old girl who just wants Mommy to be there to hold her hand for one more day?

  When I come out of the bathroom, I feel nothing but cold. I’m not going to collapse. I’ll be fine. I’ve taken the worst the world has thrown at me and laughed in its face. This is just another rite of passage – for my mom, the final one; for me, an important reminder of how precious and fleeting life is.

  My dad’s sitting, holding her hand, as life drips from a bag into her veins in a futile prolonging of her self-induced misery. He’s whispering to her, and I can see he’s crying too, and I wonder if he can still love her after everything she put him through.

  And I realize in a flash that I want that, too. That’s the only real thing. The rest of this – the money, the scrambling for success, even for survival – is meaningless without that.

  Without love there can’t be hope. Maybe that’s why my mom turned to the bottle. The oblivion of drunkenness is better than the understanding that love has left, never to return.

  Or in my father’s case, returned too late to do any good.

  Five hours later, as the night shift is coming on the floor, the heart monitor flatlines and the alarms go off. The staff goes through the motions, the crash cart rolls in, the empty room’s suddenly filled with people doing their level best to bring the dead back to life. We’re escorted from the room by a different nurse, this one a petite redhead with the hard look of someone who sees this daily, and I wonder at how she can keep coming back, day after day. I couldn’t. It would get to me, and I see a flicker in her eyes that tells me that every time it happens, it gets to her, too.

  The doctor calls it, and the room clears out. Suddenly there are forms to sign and someone’s telling us they’re sorry. I want to spit at them, scream that they’re not sorry at all, how could they be, they don’t even know me, or her, or anything, but instead I nod mutely, in shock, as my dad says adult things that have to be said.

  Ralph appears in the corridor, and his face clouds when he sees me. A brief flicker of light flares in my mind as I realize that I’ll never have to see the miserable shitbag ever again, and I grimace. He thinks I’m smiling and goes off on me.

  “You little bitch. She’s dead, and you think it’s funny? I should have kicked your ass–”

  My dad steps between us as I’m sizing up how hard I can kick Ralph in the jewels. When he speaks, it’s a hiss that sounds as dangerous as a snake’s rattle.

  “Ralph, any reason I had not to beat you to a pulp just died in that room. You say one more word to my daughter, or to me, and so help me God there aren’t enough cops in the county to save you, do you understand?”

  Ralph’s eyes narrow dangerously. For an instant the air’s thick with tension, and then he nods once. My father steps back, giving him room, and Ralph spins on his heel and storms off.

  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you, you convict prick,” he snarls over his shoulder as he nears the door, and my dad tenses. I lean into him and say, as clearly as I can, knowing Ralph can hear, “No, Dad. He’s not worth it.”

  For a second, it can go either way, and then I sense my father relax.

  The moment passes, I take my father’s hand, and I feel him shaking, whether from rage or from adrenaline, I can’t tell.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  This town can’t hurt us anymore.

  It just lost its leverage. And with that, its power over us.

  Ralph will return to being a miserable fecal speck nobody cares about, a petty bully with a clock ticking off his remaining hours, stewing in his own bile of hate. He’ll punish himself far worse than my father ever could, and do it every day by the sheer act of breathing.

  I pull my father’s hand.

  “Come on, Dad. There’s nothing here for us.”

  Chapter 16

  The drive back to the Bay Area is somber. We discuss a memorial service for my mom, but I tell him I can’t make it – I have to be back at work, no excuses. What I don’t say is that I never want to see Clear Lake or Ralph again. I don’t have to. He can tell.

  We get to the city, and I have him drop me off at Melody’s. I texted her the news, and she insisted I stop by. Having nothing else to do, I agreed.

  Melody buzzes me in and greets me at her apartment door with a silent hug. She steps away and studies me before saying anything.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  “Come in. The Reese’s are on the table. I tried one to ensure they were fresh. Okay, I tried two – the first one could have been a fluke.”

  I set my backpack down, and we sit on the sofa.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “She went to the wharf with a friend. She’ll be back by dinnertime. You spending the night?”

  I unwrap a peanut butter cup and take a bite. “Probably not. I don’t really feel sociable right now.”

  She doesn’t say the obvious: that I’m never all that sociable.

  “Can I get you anything else? Milk? Beer? Valium?”

  I give a dry laugh. “Milk would be good. We can keep the heavy artillery for later.”

  “Always a wise choice.”

  Melody gets me a glass and sets it on the table. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. It was beyond terrible, and she did it to herself. Oh, and Ralph’s a complete A-hole.”

  I tell her about him going off on me, and she shakes her head. “Wow. Sounds like an assault charge waiting to happen.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll never have to deal with him again. So aside from hoping he chokes to death on his own tongue, my plan is to never think about him again.”

  “Good plan. Bummer about the Derek trip.”

  I’m not sure if I feel comfortable with Melody being thoughtful and caring. I think I prefer her shameless slut act.

  “True dat. I even had my bottle of oil packed.”

  “You did not.”

  “Okay, I didn’t. But I thought about it.”

  “Baby steps in the right direction. At this point that’s all I can ask for.”

  “Jeremy says hi, by the way.”

  “He’s mega fun.”

  “That he is. He got along great with Sebastian’s sister.”

  “Have you told Sebastian that the love of his life is planning a trip?”

  “I figured I’d let you surprise him.”

  “Is he as awesome in person as he looks in the photos?”

  “Better. He’s really cool. But intense.”

  Melody looks off and then makes a grab for another Reese’s. “Intense can be good.” She smiles. “I appreciate your keeping your hands off my man.”

  “All joking aside, I think he’s been trying to hit on me.”

  “Think? Trying?”

  I describe the interactions. She chews appreciatively and shakes her head. “Here I am, a blossoming example of womanhood, and you’ve got not one but two of the hottest guys around begging to get with you. And you’re not interested. Life’s not fair.”

  “I’m pretty interested in one of them.”

  “Right, but you weren’t when he was available. Sounds like I better accelerate my plan to come to L.A. and put Sebastian out of his misery.”

  “Very kind of you. Sort of like charity.”

  “I’m not even expecting any thanks.”

  I frown. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you may not be his type.”
/>   She laughs. “I’m everybody’s type. Everyone male, that is.” She looks at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s really quiet. I mean, totally charming, but really into his music.”

  “He can listen to it while I’m rocking his world.”

  “When you get lemons…”

  “Exactly! Sounds like he just needs some persuasion. I’ll go online and see what flights cost.”

  “Melody, you’re younger than I am, and he’s ten years older.”

  “Like fine wine, age makes them better.”

  “That’s optimistic. But he may want someone closer to his own age. Someone in the same business.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard that song, opposites attract? What matters is these” – she grabs her boobs and makes a face – “and this.” She slaps her bottom. “Proh-dooce me, baby! I need me some proh-duck-shun!”

  We burst into a laughing fit, and it feels good after the last twenty-four hours. I know she’s kidding, although only half kidding, about Sebastian. And who knows? Maybe he’d like to buy what she’s selling. Stranger things have happened. It’s none of my business. I’ve got Derek.

  Melody looks online for me and finds a flight in three hours that I can make. She calls me a taxi, and we hug when the car’s downstairs.

  “Do something fun with the rest of your weekend, girl. You’ve been working really hard. Go to the beach,” Melody advises, and I promise I will, even as I know I won’t.

  The flight’s bumpy, and my stomach’s in knots by the time we drop toward the airport, beyond which the lights of Los Angeles are spread out like a neon carpet. In spite of my best intentions, all I can think about is my mom’s final hours: her wizened face old beyond its years, the steady drip of the blood into her IV, the hissing and beeping of the machines monitoring her decline. I’ve told myself I don’t care, but like so much in my chaotic life right now, my mind doesn’t want to obey my best intentions, and seems hell-bent on making me miserable.

  When I get back to the apartment, it seems even emptier than usual. I try Derek’s number even though there’s a three-hour time difference and he’s probably asleep by now. Not unsurprisingly, there’s no answer, and I hang up before the voice mail prompt beeps.