Bittersweet Chronicles: Pax

by Selena Laurence

  Today is day seven, and it seems that this is a crucial day medically. So, last night, I talked to him. I haven’t much over the last week. I’ve mostly just sat and watched. Watched him breathe, watched his face, watched his hands as they lay on the blankets of his bed. Those hands that have held mine, first wrapped around my finger as an infant, then wrapped around my hand as a child, and finally palm to palm as a man. Now, those hands are motionless, like my son, and I might never get to see them fly over the strings of a guitar again.

  It’s after one when Tammy, Joss, and I come back from lunch. Mike is sitting with Pax, quietly reading to him from a guitar magazine.

  “Where’s Carly?” I ask as we enter the room and Tammy immediately starts rearranging flowers and straightening Pax’s covers.

  “I sent her and Vaughn to bring me one of the kid’s guitars,” he says.

  “You jonesing to play?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  The door swings open and a doctor, an orderly, and a nurse walk in, sympathetic smiles on their faces. I’ve come to despise the sympathetic smiles. All I see is “your son’s not going to get better. You poor son of a bitch.” They’re wrong, though, because my boy’s stronger than that, and he will come out of this. He’s just going to do it like he does everything—in his own way and his own time.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Clark?” The doctor shakes our hands.

  I tuck Tammy under my arm as we wait for him to continue.

  “Today’s an important day in Pax’s prognosis. We’re going to take him for some more tests—another CT scan, an MRI, and some blood work. If there’s been any decrease in brain function or any problems with his surgical site, we’ll be able to see that today.”

  “How long will he be gone?” Tammy asks, casting a tortured look at Pax.

  “It should all take less than two hours, and Jeff, the nurse on duty”—he gestures to a big guy wearing scrubs—“will stay with him the whole time. We’re very careful with our patients who can’t communicate for themselves. If you want to come along too, you’re welcome to. There may be a few moments when we have to have you sit outside in the hallway simply because the scanning rooms don’t have a lot of extra space, but you can walk around with him and get some immediate feedback from the technicians as he undergoes the scans.”

  I can feel the breath release from Tammy’s body. “Yes,” she says determinedly. “I want one of us to be with him.”

  “You go ahead, sweetheart,” I tell her, knowing she’ll only relax if she can see everything he’s undergoing as it happens.

  She nods. “Okay. Yes, I’d like to do that.”

  The doctor smiles, and the orderly and Jeff work to get Pax’s IVs and other machinery into portable mode. Within a few minutes, they’re rolling out the door, Tammy following behind. As she walks through the doorway, she turns and looks at me, and I can see it in her eyes—she can’t keep this up much longer. Something has to change.

  I collapse into a chair in the corner, running a shaking hand through my hair.

  “How you holding up?” Mike asks, concern etched on his face.

  “I’m not sure how much more of this Tammy can take. She’s going to snap eventually, and I have to hold it together for when she does. It’s exhausting.”

  “Why don’t you go back to the hotel tonight? Spend some time with your wife, get a decent night’s sleep. I’ll stay here with the kid.”

  “Really?” I ask, a trickle of relief weaving its way through my limbs.

  “Yeah. Let me make myself useful. You both need a break. I promise I’ll be on the phone the instant anything changes.”

  I sigh and lean forward with my elbows on my knees. “And if nothing does?” I ask, my voice gruff.

  “It will,” he says with conviction. “It will.”

  **

  Pax

  I’m walking down my favorite street in Portland—North Alberta. Carly is by my side, and I’m holding her hand. The sun is out, and when I look down at her beautiful face, I can’t help but lean down and give her lips a kiss. She smiles up at me, and all I can think is that this might be the most perfect moment of my life. But then she opens her mouth and she makes no sense. It’s like gibberish with a few legitimate words thrown in. I hear things about guitars—strings, porous wood, resonance.

  I squint at her in the bright sun. “What?” I ask, confused.

  She looks back at me, still smiling but not responding. Then a strange blurriness takes over and she starts to fade around the edges. I’m freaking out, irrational panic taking over.

  “What’s happening?” I shout.

  I try to grip her hand tighter, but she continues to dissolve into thin air. My heart is racing, and I feel a strange heaviness overtake my body. I’m struggling to stay on my feet now, and Carly is almost completely gone.

  “No!” I cry as I collapse onto the sidewalk and the air around me grows darker, denser. “Please, Carly! Don’t go!”

  But it’s too late and the blackness descends, taking over my mind, my body, and my very soul.

  **

  Carly

  Vaughn and I find Pax’s favorite guitar sitting in the corner of the living room, just where I said it would be. While I wait for Vaughn to make a couple of phone calls for work, I stand on the back patio and watch the waves roll in and out.

  Pax loved it out here. He loves it out here, I remind myself. I would give just about anything to see him sitting on the swing, his guitar resting on his knee as he gazes at the water and picks out notes for a new song. I’m trying so hard to believe he will be able to do all of those things again soon, but each day that drifts by with no change, it gets harder and harder to keep the faith.

  “When we were really little, our moms used to bring Pax and me to this big park in Portland that had one of those kids’ trains. You know the ones I mean? Where you ride on the top of the cars?” Vaughn’s voice is soft in the afternoon air as he steps onto the patio with me. “I was always into it for the rush of going around the turns on the track. At four or five, it feels like you’re at Daytona.”

  He chuckles. “But Pax spent his time watching for the conductor to ring the bells. He loved those bells, and he would always mimic the sounds and then add on his own little things, like complementary sounds or a few words. He was four years old and he was writing music. I don’t think anyone really got it then.”

  I turn to Vaughn and notice just how tired and racked with guilt he is right now. “He’s going to be okay,” I tell him even though I’m starting to question it myself.

  “Yeah,” he answers in a rough voice. “He has to be.” He gives himself a shake then reaches down next to my feet and lifts the guitar case. “Let’s go grab some food and then get this delivered to the hospital, I think Mike might have a plan for it.”

  Back at the hospital, it’s nearing dinnertime when we walk into Pax’s room. His mom is napping on the sofa, and Joss is sitting in a chair next to Pax’s bed, doing something on an iPad.

  “Hey,” Vaughn says quietly as we walk in.

  Joss pushes the screen lock button and smiles at us. “What’s the guitar for?” he asks, smiling.

  “Mike wanted it,” Vaughn explains. “Is he around?”

  “He ran over to the hotel. We’re tag-teaming the business stuff. I spent the morning on the phone, and now, it’s his turn. Conference call with a distributor for some of the band merchandise.”

  Vaughn nods and sets the guitar down next to Pax’s bed.

  “Have you heard anything about his tests this afternoon?” I ask.

  “They went fine,” Joss says, standing up and stretching. “But they don’t explain why he still hasn’t woken up. His brain function is normal. They don’t see any areas of damage or swelling. It’s still just a waiting game.”

  “Dammit,” Vaughn mutters, tapping a wall with his fist. “He’s always been stubborn, but does he have to be stubborn about this too? He’s putting us all through h
ell.”

  Joss huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah, he doesn’t do what anyone else wants him to most of the time. Maybe, if we all went home and quit pressuring him to come out of this, he’d finally feel free enough to wake up.”

  Just then, Walsh and Mike come back in.

  Walsh gestures to Tammy. “How long’s she been out?”

  “About thirty minutes,” Joss answers. “We’ll take her back to the hotel. How’d the conference call go?”

  “Fine,” Mike says. “I’m staying tonight though. You take Walsh and Tam home, get them some room service, and I’ll hang out with the kid.”

  Joss nods, and while Walsh wakes Tammy and everyone gathers their belongings, I sidle up to Mike.

  “We brought the guitar,” I tell him as we both look at Pax.

  He glances down at the floor where I’m pointing. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  “Can, um…” I falter, but he gives me a small smile. “Can I stay here with you? At least for a while? Today feels different, like things are changing—or maybe I’m about to change. I don’t know. I can’t explain it, but I really need to be here with him. Is that okay?”

  “Sure it is. I’ll get us a pizza delivered. How’s that?”

  I grin at him. “It’s perfect.”

  Mike Owens has a pretty bad reputation. I know that it’s years old—I’ve even seen the article in Rock Steady that was titled, Will the New Mike Owens Please Stand Up – Rock’s bad boy talks marriage, kids, and the image he’s never been able to shake—but all the same, he’s not the easiest guy to be around. He doesn’t talk much, and a lot of times, when he does, it’s harsh. He and Tammy snap at each other like foul-tempered badgers much of the time they’re together. I’m amazed that Walsh doesn’t get tired of it. He seems pretty inured to both of them, really.

  Joss places a well-aimed verbal jab Mike’s way every once in a while and Mike backs down, but the bottom line is he’s kind of caustic. Because of that, I’m a little scared to stay at the hospital with him. I hate to imagine what he thinks of me, and I keep waiting for him to nail me to a wall with one of his well-placed putdowns. But so far, all he’s done is ask what kind of pizza toppings I want and flip through channels on the TV. I have a book I’m reading, so I try to fade into the small sofa and hope he’ll forget I’m here.

  Once our pizza arrives, though, I have to interact. Mike sets up the rolling table that’s next to Pax’s bed, laying out the paper ware and serving me a slice of the sausage and olive thick crust we agreed on.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Much better,” I answer, realizing that, aside from Aunt Beth, no one’s asked me how I am in days. “Most of the pain is gone. I can start doing normal things in a couple more weeks, so that’ll be nice.”

  He nods. “You hear that, kid?” He looks over at Pax. “Your girl’s going to be fine.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “I’m not really his girl,” I say. “We’re just… Well, I don’t know exactly what we are, but I know I need him to get better.”

  “I remember the day he was born,” Mike says around a huge bite of pizza, letting my little confession go unanswered. “I’ve seen every important moment of this kid’s whole life.”

  “What was he like as little kid?” I ask.

  Mike sits back, leaving his pizza on the plate in front of him. “He was smart—so smart. I mean, I think my kids are freakin’ sharp as tacks, but Pax was different. He’s an old soul, you know? I mean, he makes mistakes like we all did at twenty-two, but ever since he was a little thing, he’s had this wisdom. He saw the world differently than other kids his age. He has Walsh’s charm, so everyone always liked him, but he’s complicated like his mom. And he’s talented—he has an amazing musical talent.”

  “I love to watch him perform,” I say. “I guess you taught him a lot of that?”

  “I gave him the tools he needed,” he answers, looking at Pax warmly. “The rest is all him.”

  We finish our pizza in silence. My thoughts swirl around Pax, his family, his friends, his music. I know firsthand how unfair this life can be, but if the world and all of these loving people lose Pax, I’m not sure I can believe in any sort of goodness anymore. It feels like Lagazo will have won even though I know he’s already paid the ultimate price.

  When we’ve both finished up our slices, Mike packs up the rest of the pizza and clears off the table, rolling it out of the way. It’s after seven p.m. now, and the sounds of the hospital have quieted out in the hallway as regular visiting hours are over. I’m not sure how Walsh managed it, but no one has ever once suggested that Pax be held to the normal rules of visitation. All of us in and out all day long, someone sleeping in his room every night… When Tammy said that she didn’t want him to be alone, everyone took it to heart—even the hospital staff.

  Mike pulls one of the chairs over next to Pax’s bed and bends down to take the guitar out of its case. I watch in silence from my perch on the sofa behind him. He sets the guitar on his knee, his hand hanging loosely over the strings.

  “You sing?” he asks.

  “I can carry a tune. That’s about it,” I answer, a feeling of anticipation undulating through me from head to toe.

  “Come sing some songs with me,” he says. “Let’s see if music can work some magic.”

  I swallow and nod even though he can’t see me. Then I stand and move to the chair on the opposite side of Pax’s bed. Darkness has fallen outside, and there’s only a small lamp on next to the bed to join the blinking monitors. The rest of the room is cloaked in shadows.

  Mike strums the guitar a few times, turning the pegs to tune it after each strum. I wait, my eyes on Pax’s beautiful face, his slow breaths, and his silent body.

  “What’s your favorite song?” Mike asks, giving me a small smile as he looks at me across the bed.

  I stop to think about my answer, and he waits patiently. “You’ll think I’m weird,” I finally say.

  “I already do.” He winks at me.

  I know I’m blushing in response. He may be old enough to be my father, but he’s still super hot. All the Lush guys are. When you’re around all of them together, it’s like being in a room full of finely aged wines.

  “It’s just that it’s a really old song, and most people my age probably don’t even know it.”

  “Hey, I wrote some of those really old songs,” he tells me. “What is it?”

  “'Wild Horses.'”

  “The Stones. Good choice,” he says, his tone full of admiration. “Sounds like your old man did something right.”

  My heart gives an extra beat at the mention of my dad. In the back of my mind, I know I’m eventually going to have to mourn him, but there’s been no time since his death, and now certainly isn’t right either.

  “He loved the classics,” I tell Mike.

  He nods and plays the opening chords to the song. After the intro, he starts to sing softly, his voice very deep and gravelly. He tips his chin at me, indicating that I should join in, and I do, reaching over and taking Pax’s hand at the same time.

  We spend the next half hour singing song after song—some Lush songs, some classics that I suggest, and finally a few of Pax’s originals.

  As the final notes of Coldplay’s “Always in My Head” fade away, Mike whispers, “Damn,” then takes his hand off the guitar strings. “I really thought music might be a key,” he says, shaking his head.

  Tears well up in my eyes, and I blink rapidly, trying to keep them from falling. I’d guessed that was the plan. Play him the right music and Pax would come back to us. I’m surprised no one tried it before now, but I guess everyone’s been so focused on the constant rotation of people, food, doctors, long-distance phone calls—the business of trying to keep hope alive—that they didn’t think about specific things that might trigger his consciousness.

  I clear my throat before I speak. “Maybe it will be,” I say, my words more hopeful than my heart. “We can try some more later—o
r tomorrow. Whatever.”

  He leans down to place the guitar in the case. “Yeah,” he answers, but I can tell he’s discouraged. He stands and stretches. “You want to watch a movie?”

  “Thanks, but I think I’m going to read some more. I’m dying to know how this book ends.”

  “Okay. Just yell if you change your mind. I have a ton of things loaded on here.” He gestures to his iPad as he picks it up from the sofa.

  I smile in return, and he flops down on the couch, kicking his feet up and getting settled before he puts a set of headphones on and starts watching.

  After I get my book, I take Pax’s hand again and rub my thumb across his palm while I read. The feel of his skin is comforting to me and disconcerting at the same time. It’s familiar and safe, but it also reminds me of when he would touch me consciously, tenderly. If I think about it too much, my heart aches, so I try to focus on the story I’m reading about a girl caught in a post-apocalyptic world where humans are hunted by an alien race using artificial intelligence and super-powered crystals.

  Minutes tick by, the only sounds Mike’s occasional laughter as he responds to whatever is playing on his screen. I’m at a terrifying part of the book when I suddenly hear a raspy voice slice through the darkness.

  “Why’d you stop?” he asks.

  My heart nearly leaps out of my chest as I jerk, inadvertently pulling my hand back. But Pax squeezes it as I do, refusing to release me.

  I stand and look down at him, certain that my mind is playing tricks on me. His soft eyes are open, blinking slowly as his lips tip in a ghost of a smile.

  “Hey,” he says as he returns my gaze. “Why’d you stop singing?”

  “Pax?” I squeak out. “Oh my God…” I’m unable to get another word out as sobs rack my body.

  I put my free hand to my lips, trying to smother the anguished sounds coming out of my mouth.