“How?”
“Take a guess,” Scott said.
“It was going to happen at some point. You can’t do that many drugs and not expect something to go wrong.”
“I got a call from Mom. She’s wrecked. I’m booking a flight to come out there right now. I should be there tomorrow. Can I crash at your place?”
“What, not enough money to get a hotel room?” Dave said, wincing at the poor attempt at humour; ill placed and ill timed. He wished he could undo what had come out of his mouth.
“Don’t be a dickhead. It would be nice to hang out and be near family.”
Dave nodded and sighed. “You’re always welcome at my place, man…. Do you need me to do anything for Sue?”
“Nah, I already talked to Mom. She’s a bit surprised but didn’t want any help with the arrangements. She’s got this. It’s a project. You know how she gets. It will help her cope. She will probably call you in a bit. Be nice. She still loves you.”
“Love you, bro.”
“You too, man.”
The line went dead, and Dave choked back the reality of Sue’s death. Standing there, he tried to process what to do next. Another batch of people milled around the closed elevator doors, waiting to get on. They stood next to him, crowding around. Waiting.
His phone buzzed again, and he looked at the number.
Pushing open the door to the nearby stairs, he stood in the quiet stairwell, breathing deeply. It was his mother.
Picking it up, Dave held it to his ear, his expression softening.
“Hi, Mom…”
Chapter 3
Dave closed the door on the world and stepped into his apartment. Dropping his bag by the door, he left his work boots on and stood looking at the empty room. The chat with his mother had been their most civil in years. Plagued by feelings that he was the unsuccessful child, she had constantly encouraged him to give up the mining and do something with his life. As much as he tried to explain what he was doing, she seemed to think it was a waste of time.
Scott was an aging rocker living off the royalties of six albums and exposé book deals and now ran a recording studio in Los Angeles. Sue was a celebrated actress. Landing her first gig at fourteen, she was snatched up by agents and managers and crafted into a rising star.
Himself, well, despite trying to help his friend unlock the most interesting event that had ever happened to humankind, he was still “coasting,” as his mother put it.
That didn’t matter now. Sue was getting the attention, as usual. Neither of the boys could shine as bright as she did.
He looked at the punching bag in the corner and considered hammering on it for an hour or so until his feelings went away, but instead he walked over to the cupboard above the stove and pulled down a bottle of Scotch Scott had given him for his birthday a number of years ago. It was expensive enough that it wasn’t something to be wasted.
He put it back up and grabbed a cheap bottle of whiskey, pouring a few fingers of it into a tall glass before topping it up with a cold can of cola from the fridge. Sipping it, he felt the warmth coat his throat and chest.
His eyes watered, and he put his head in his hands and sobbed, leaning against the counter.
“Dumb bitch,” he muttered, angry at her for her mistake. Even as the words came out, he felt remorseful. She had always been sweet to both of them, even when fame had stolen her ego and perspective.
Standing up, he gulped from the glass and topped it up from the bottle. If there was one thing he wanted not to do today, it was think or feel. And Sue had taught them both how to avoid that.
“Family tradition,” he said, raising the glass.
Lowering it, he walked over to the couch and flopped down, setting the drink on the side table. He picked up the remote control and leaned back into the cushions but hesitated, worried that a trailer for one of her films or a rerun of a show she had been on would play.
A small vibration from his pocket interrupted him, and his rough hands pulled it out.
The text from Scott sat at the bottom of the screen.
Mom’s booked funeral for tomorrow at 4pm.
“That was quick,” he said to himself. It made sense; the media would be all over her death, and burying her quickly and quietly would be best. Even Sue would have wanted to keep it private.
Dave put the phone aside and took another sip from the glass, letting the anaesthetic quality wash over him. Outside, the sun was setting and he could see it passing behind the side of the black dome.
Pulling up the phone, he texted Tony.
Not coming in to work tomorrow.
Sue died.
Funeral tomorrow.
Tossing the phone onto the coffee table, he gulped back another mouthful of the acrid liquid before setting it next to him and closing his eyes.
The weight of the universe evaporated and his body relaxed. Far away, his phone buzzed again.
A heavy knock at the door, followed by more buzzing on his phone. Opening his eyes, Dave couldn’t see much in the apartment. There were no lights save for the screen of his phone displaying a laundry list of messages. Outside, the sun had long since set. The LCD clock on the stove read 3:00.
“Dave, wake the hell up,” Scott’s muffled voice chirped through the door.
“I’m coming!” Dave said, trying to stand. The world spun, and he drove his shin into the coffee table. Bright pain erupted, but he winced quietly as he shambled to the door. He was barely able to find the light switch.
The world erupted into colour, and he squinted as he reached for the familiar lock, clicking the deadbolt and pulling the door open.
Scott, dressed in a leather jacket and torn jeans, walked in. His natural orange hair, wavy and tied back in a bun, reminded Dave of how Sue used to employ Scott as a customer in her “hair dressing studio” when they were kids.
His eyes watered again, but before he could turn away, Scott stepped in and hugged the large man with skinny arms. “Hey, bro.”
Dave grunted, patting his brother on the back and pulling away. His two siblings were the artist types and in better touch with their feelings that he ever was.
“You been drinking?” Scott asked, noticing the empty bottle next to the couch.
Dave nodded, hesitant. He hadn’t intended on being loaded when Scott got there.
“Got any more?” Scott smiled.
Dave chuckled, “Just the good stuff,” before he stumbled into the kitchen.
Reaching up above the stove again, he grabbed the bottle of Scotch.
“One glass…” Dave leaned against the stove, swaying dangerously.
“I think that’s all you can handle right now,” Scott noted, smiling ear to ear.
Dave nodded again, trying to pull the cap off.
The rocker’s hands guided him to a chair at the table before heading back to collect two short glasses from the cupboard.
“She called me last week,” Dave said. “Never called her back. Was too busy with work. What if she was in trouble? Maybe I should have come and got her or something…”
“I talked to her a few days ago. She had gotten another part. Told me she was going to head out to party with a few friends before she had to begin sobering up and memorizing the script.”
Scott poured a conservative amount into each glass.
“Don’t get stingy,” Dave blustered.
“This shit’s not cheap,” Scott retorted. “And you will regret drinking it when you can’t taste it.”
Scott raised his glass, “To Sue…” There was a lull, and his face seemed absent as he tried to pull up a memory that wouldn’t crush them.
“… who even after she’s dead is still getting all the attention,” Dave finished.
“Morbid, but true.”
Both men sipped the Scotch silently at the kitchen table.
“I miss her,” Dave said.
“Me too, man.”
Chapter 4
Dave woke to his stomach turning
inside out. He rolled out of bed and onto the floor with a thud, scrambling to get to the en suite.
The cold porcelain greeted his hands as he pulled his head mid-retch over the bowl. The smell pulled another load of bile up.
Spitting, he let the world stop spinning for a moment and took a deep breath, wishing he had done so after flushing. A hand released the previous contents of his stomach down in a swirl of water.
Blinking, he realized he was feeling much better. A bit shaky, but better. In the kitchen he could hear a pan clang. Who was here?
Scott.
Breakfast.
Dave dry-heaved.
Steadying himself again, he stood and turned on the shower. He was so dehydrated that he didn’t even feel like voiding. It could wait until he had washed off the smell of Scotch and cheap whiskey.
Peeling off his work clothes that he had slept in last night, he stepped into the cold water. His diaphragm seized for a moment, hitching and refusing to breathe in the cold. The glorious water ran over his body, rinsing the smell away. It slowly warmed, and he turned the hot water down, not allowing himself the comfort. This was the punishment and the cure; a cold shower to rinse the fuzziness from his brain.
“Lunch in five!” came Scott’s voice through the door.
“Okay,” Dave said, wincing at the sound of his voice. It was going to be a rough day. A rougher funeral.
He had almost forgotten she was dead. He sighed; the reality had set in now. No more crying. No more emotional outbursts.
“Man up,” he muttered, turning off the shower.
The silence swallowed him as he reached for the towel to scrub the water from his frame. Looking in the mirror, he decided he would need to scrape the salt-and-pepper stubble from his face. There was a time when it looked good on him, but now it made him look like a homeless man. The bloodshot eyes were not helping.
A few minutes later he emerged from his room, shaven, clothed, and in the only suit he owned.
“Whoah,” Scott said, stopping mid-pancake, “I don’t think I have ever seen you in a suit.”
“I wore one for Dad’s funeral too. Figured I should do the same for Sue’s.”
Dave checked the clock on the stove. “Is it already noon?”
He flopped down into a chair at the table and placed his head in his hands.
“Yup.” Scott passed him a glass of water and two small pills. “Drink this and take these.”
“What is it?” The glass tipped back, and the pills disappeared quickly.
“Gravol, Aspirin, and antihistamines, world’s best hangover cure.” The rocker worked two pans and flipped the pancakes.
“Hope it works. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
A pancake slid onto his plate, followed by bacon and grease drippings.
“I’m not gonna eat,” Dave stated, pushing the plate away.
Scott flopped a pancake from a stack onto his own plate. “If you eat now, you’ll get over it by the time the funeral happens. If you don’t, you’ll still be hung over when we say goodbye.”
Syrup flowed from an unfamiliar bottle.
“Did you buy groceries?”
“Yup. Microwave meals and cereal don’t make good breakfast. Even if we are eating at noon.
A smell caught Dave’s nose. “Is that coffee?”
“Yes, and you can have some if you eat.”
Dave somehow was able to slice off a bit of pancake and chew it enough that his stomach wouldn’t reject it. The idea of coffee was starting to get his brain into gear.
A mug of coffee, with cream already added, slid toward him.
“No sugar?” he asked.
Scott shook his head. “Nope, bitter, just like you.”
Dave smiled. “You seem to have gotten the hand of domestic living. I thought Sara was the cook?”
“Never call her that. She’s a chef. Trust me, I made that mistake once… But yeah, gotten a bit domesticated. Not much to do now that I’m living off royalties and staying at home with the kid. I got the easy life. Do a few book signings, once or twice a year do a small gig with the band. Yeah, it’s not like the old days. I miss it, but I don’t… You know what I mean?”
“At least you didn’t end up like Sue. You made good choices.” Dave suckled at the mug.
“Not all of the choices were good. Just got lucky and stayed away from the drugs because I was drinking too much.”
Dave put the coffee down and finished the breakfast, his appetite quickly returning.
“You’re driving today.”
“Already got things sorted, car’s gonna pick us up in half an hour.”
Dave looked at his brother and shook his head. “You artist types and your drivers.”
Scott laughed.
A half hour later both men stood on Dave’s front step, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. Dave’s hands searched for his phone, but he’d decided he didn’t need it today.
The town car pulled up, and the two men didn’t wait for the driver to open the door before piling into the back.
It took Dave on a minute before he was asleep in the back seat, snoring against the expensive leather seats.
“We’re here bro.” Scott jabbed his brother in the ribs.
“That hurt.”
“Mom’s here.” A thick finger pointed past him out the tinted window.
Dave ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his tie.
“Let’s go say goodbye.”
The boys stepped out of the car and walked toward their mother.
“Hey, Mom. How you holding up?” Dave said, putting his arms around the frail woman. She was still moving around without a walker, but the years were catching up quickly.
“You boys look nice,” she said, avoiding the question and patting them gently on the cheeks.
“Thanks for setting everything up, Mom, but isn’t this really quick?” Scott asked, offering his leather-jacketed arm.
“I wanted to get this done before the press got a whiff of where it was and came shoving cameras in everyone’s faces. Her friends already know.”
The boys nodded and started the walk up the brick walkway toward the one-storey building. Dave considered how it reminded him of a park. The manicured lawn, sculpted bushes, and flowering beds seemed to hide the sting of the property’s true purpose.
Inside, the building was cool, and after a few steps pushing through the crowd milling at the entranceway, they moved toward the main seating area. Dave passed a hand drawn chalkboard with Sue’s birth name, “Sue Thompson.”
“I’m glad you used her real name,” Scott pointed out.
“That’s what she wanted,” the old woman said, patting her son on the hand. “She left instructions. Very neat and tidy. I think she knew that something might happen someday. I just don’t think she thought it would happen this quick.”
In the main viewing room there were ten rows of pews stretched out either side with mirrored stained glass letting diffuse light inside. The room could have easily been mistaken for a grand church if it weren’t for the low ceiling.
Dave’s heart crushed inward when he saw the closed cherry wood coffin at the far end. White flowers adorned each side. A framed picture of Sue from her better days sat to the left. It showed a girl in her twenties before her eating disorder had withered her muscles and the drugs had dampened the shine in her light blue eyes.
The boys and their mother slowly walked past pews of people, some recognizable, while others were strangers. Those that recognized the matriarch would force a smile and politely wave, acknowledging the elderly woman.
Eventually they arrived at the front row, which had been reserved for them, and they sat, calmly, quietly.
Dave’s mind wandered from his churning stomach to how strange it was to think his sister was gone from the world. Even as the priest stood in front of everyone, blessing the urn and talking about love, God, and eternity in heaven, all he could think of was how she laughed at everything.
She had laughed when she felt awkward, when she thought someone was being rude, when someone did something nice, or when something went wrong. It didn’t matter. She just laughed. Everything was amusing to her. Everything had been amusing to her, Dave reminded himself.
Others took centre stage and went on about how she was beautiful and the loss of life was tragic. Dave could only sit and feel empty, hearing the hollow words. Each time, his soul shivered as each person stepped down from the microphone and shook hands with the boys and their mother. Each person used the clichéd line, “Sorry for your loss.”
It was the world’s loss, not theirs, and it was unfair.
His mother eventually stood and talked about Sue when she was little. Dave never saw the women she had grown up into, only the small girl. Both the boys listened to the stories their mother told. Each telling about how Sue had played with them and kept up on her bicycle, even though she was much younger.
All Dave could remember was having to pull her out of college parties when she was still in high school and having to sneak her past their parents.
His fists balled, and he ground his teeth until each painful word and memory stopped.
It wasn’t tragic; it was stupidity. She was a dumb little girl dropped into the wide world without her big brothers to protect her.
His mother’s stories drew to a close, ending on the idea that she would be waiting for all of them in the next life.
A camera flashed off to Dave’s left, and he lifted his head. Someone reset the angle and snapped another photo of the boys and their crying mother. Dave glared at the man, tensing his large frame.
“The jackals are here,” Dave mumbled. “Picking the bones of their Hollywood sweetheart.”
“Easy, bro,” Scott said, knowing the look. It was that same look he got when his coach had taped up his hands before the prize fights.
“They’re trying to get the best picture for their tabloid magazines.” Dave’s white knuckles ground and popped as his thick forearms flexed.
The Black Page 3