The Rock Chamber Boys : The Complete Series

by Daisy Allen

  I was in bad shape.

  I was a comatose list of your body is broken as all out fuck.

  Not that I remember much of the first month of it. That part is still kind of hazy. There was a lot of machines beeping and worried faces and people in blue and pink scrubs talking like I wasn’t in the room.

  But then the fog lifted, and for the last two months, it’s been me, holed up in this room, while my bones weld back together and my mind is so bored it feels like it’s fracturing.

  This room, in this supposedly exclusive hospital, which just means the chairs are padded, the TVs have cable and the nurse don’t give a fuck that you’re a celebrity. And I get seconds of the dessert jello if I ask nicely.

  The only thing I can say is, thank god for my boys.

  My rowdy, vulgar, bull shitting, annoying as hell, there for me every second of the way bandmates.

  So, thank you, God. If you’re listening. Thank you.

  Great. Now I’m talking to God. This is not a good sign.

  Get me out of here, God. It’s time for me to go home.

  There’s a commotion out in the hallway, and then a roar of laughter. I look at the clock, noon, on the dot. It’s time. They’re here.

  “Oi, Twatmuffin! What do you call a woman who is paralyzed from the waist down?” Brad shouts at me even before he enters my room.

  “What?”

  “Married!” Brad cackles, holding his own stomach as he bends over in laughter.

  “Why are you laughing? Don’t you have your own wedding coming up soon?” I ask him, and he freezes, mid laughter.

  “Eh,” he shrugs, “Emily won’t be like that. She’s got something other women don’t,” he preens, flexing his chest.

  “Her very own Pillsbury doughboy?” Sebastian asks, digging his fingers into Brad’s stomach, making him yelp.

  “Shut up. She likes my little pouch,” Brad pouts, rubbing his flat stomach. Truth is, none of us have bodies any woman would have much to complain about. God gifted us looks and talent in place of brains and maturity, it seems.

  Marius follows them into my room, his arms full of food and magazines and flowers. Just as they have been every single day since I’ve been here. Not a single day missed. Like I said, thank you, God.

  “Thanks for helping, wrinkled ballbags!” Marius pants, dropping everything onto the couch while the other two wrestle on the floor by the foot of the bed.

  “Uh, what’s for lunch, I’m starving,” I tell him, the room already filling with delicious smells.

  “Crispy pork belly roast with creamed spinach and caramelized carrots.”

  “Ugh, yes. Thank Emily for me, Brad,” I say, prodding his leg with my foot as Sebastian straddles over him, digging his fingers into his sides.

  “Oi, gerroffmeassole,” he yells to Seb, who finally lets him up. “How’d you know it wasn’t me who cooked it?”

  “’Cos it’s not frozen fries heated up in the bag in the microwave. With bonus still frozen crunchy bits,” I say, shuddering remembering some of his gourmet endeavors.

  “Ah, yes. My signature dish,” he beams proudly, and picks off a carrot from the container and pops it into his mouth.

  “The girls would be here but they’re doing some promo for us at the WKZ station,” Sebastian says, laying down on my bed, shoes propping up on the blankets and all, making himself at home.

  “Oh? What kind of promo?”

  He pauses and then continues, like he regrets having even brought it up. “Um, just for the… you know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, because we had to cancel the tour, they’re just doing some of the interviews we had lined up. We pre-recorded some stuff, so they’re just going to do the intro and answer some questions.”

  Ah. That’s why he hadn’t wanted to go into detail. They’ve done a lot to shield me from the PR shit storm of me first getting hurt, and then having to cancel concerts and public appearances. Right after winning the Grammy no less.

  “You guys should’ve gone,” I tell them, not for the first time.

  Marius waves my words away, “Nah, we had better things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like have lunch with you, mushroomdick.” Brad grabs the remote and turns the TV on, flipping the channel to sports.

  “Well, technically, they’re all kinda mushroomy,” I defend my own dick.

  “Not mine, mine’s majestic…Wanna see?” Marius offers, moving his hand to his belt buckle.

  “NO!” We three yell in unison, and he pouts, moving his hand away. Truth is, Marius is a bit of a nudist, and we’ve all had our fair share of run-ins with naked him in the decade of living on tour buses and hotel rooms in which we’ve been together.

  Sebastian obviously is thinking the same thing, “I think we’ve all seen yours enough times to never need to see it again, and to know the only thing majestic about it is how it’s still attached considering how much you tug on that thing. So, use your hands for something useful for once, you’re on feeding duty today,” he says, handing Marius a fork.

  I shake my head. “Er no, not him, thanks, you do it. I don’t want to think about where his hand has been.”

  Sebastian rolls his eyes and grabs the fork, stabs a piece of pork and lifts it to my mouth. I take a mouthful and crunch down.

  It really is delicious. At least there’s that. Even if I have to have it fed to me like a fussy toddler.

  The room goes quiet for a few minutes as we tuck into our food. It won’t last long though; as soon as their stomachs are full, the loud fighting and banter will start up again, until one of the nurses will come in and kick them out.

  And quiet will ensue.

  And it’ll just be me again.

  Me in my white room.

  ***

  The nights are the hardest. I can't remember the last time before the accident that I slept for more than three hours at a time without waking up and checking my phone or getting up to pee or just to walk around the house. My body is not made to be in one spot for too long. Or maybe it's just my mind that needs the stimulation, and it orders my body to move.

  Here, though, my broken body's been the boss these last few months, and it's a lazy, sit-on-its-ass-all-day fucker, and I feel like I'm trapped.

  So, yeah, the nights are easily the hardest. It's dark and the hallways are empty, and the nurses station is creepy the way the lights from the computer monitors reflect back on the night nurses' face, giving them an unearthly bluish tinge.

  So I just stay in my room, trying not to focus on the fact that no one has any idea how my fingers and wrist and arms are going to work once the casts come off. And how my life could be changed forever.

  "Hey, Jez." Robbie, one of the night nurses, pokes his head in the next evening, seeing my TV on in the background, keeping me company. "You okay, man? Can't sleep?"

  "Havin' a little trouble tonight, arms aching a bit," I admit, though I normally try not to. "Can you help?"

  He comes in and takes a quick look at my chart and leaves, coming back with a small pill in a plastic cup.

  "Few more days, huh? 'til the cast comes off."

  "Yeah. Can't wait."

  "You nervous?"

  "What about?" I reply, as nonchalantly as I can.

  He raises his eyebrows, "You might be famous, but I've been doin' this job a decade. Don't think I haven't heard it all. You can’t hide anything from me, man.”

  "Fine, a little nervous."

  He takes the empty pill cup from me, and fusses with my pillows.

  "Well, why don't you stop worrying about it, get some sleep, and enjoy the fact that you’ve only got a few more days left in here. And if it turns out there's actually something to be concerned about, man, you'll deal with it."

  "Who's mind actually works like that? I mean, you've seen my friends, I’m no monk.”

  He grins, flashing his rows of white teeth at me. "Yeah, them boys are really something. Okay, fine, why don't yo
u just focus on something else then? Go to your…"

  I cut him off. "If you say the words happy and place together in the next five minutes, I'm going to have to make you put a donation into the swear jar."

  "Got it. Go to your... um, joyful location."

  "Nice. Now it sounds like porn. Although, now it sounds like something I could get on board with,” I muse and he laughs.

  "Seriously though, just for those times it gets a bit hard, maybe you should have a go-to thought. Now get some sleep. I've got a lot of very serious nursing work to do."

  "Dodgers are playing?"

  "I have no idea what you're talkin' about."

  He leaves, pulling the door half shut.

  Happy place. I think. Joyful location.

  I can do that.

  And as I finally fall asleep, I picture a side alley and a girl with ash blonde hair and laughing hazel eyes.

  ***

  She's singing.

  Well, not singing, but, humming, kinda.

  Like her voice makes the sound of a guitar. No, not quite a guitar, guitar-like. A ukulele, maybe?

  Either way, the girl with the blonde hair and hazel eyes is singing like a ukulele, and the ukulele is playing... What is that? I can't place it.

  Oh. Wait no. It can't be, that makes no sense.

  Is she… she singing, the Rainbow Connection?

  Damn.

  She is.

  That’s weird.

  Good pills, Robbie… good pills.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Noémie

  “And then the guy behind me is like, ‘Lady, twelve items is twelve items, all duplicates still count as an item.’ So, then I asked if the six cans in his six-pack each counted as an item as well, or if each grain of salt in his salt shaker counted as well, and well, long story short, he let me through and I have a date with a hot teacher tonight.” She stops and takes a long breath and sinks into the armchair, sipping from her water bottle. “Noémie, did you hear what I said?”

  I look up at her, “Er, yeah. Sure. Sorry, just kinda zoned out.”

  “Did you sleep okay?” She frowns, concern filling her eyes.

  “Yeah, um, it was okay.” ‘Okay’ isn’t a lie. On the other hand, ‘long and uninterrupted by nightmares’ would be.

  “Ok, well, I won’t stay long, but I brought you this,” she says and holds up a purple book. “I found it yesterday in the living room bookshelf. It’s your photo album.”

  “Oh yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  “Do you want to have a look at it now?”

  I shake my head. “Um, maybe later, I think I might try to have a nap.”

  “Oh. Ok, do you want me to leave?”

  Yes. “No, it’s ok.”

  She smiles and pats my foot. “I’ll go, I’ve got some stuff to do anyway. I just wanted to make sure you settled in okay after the move.”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks… thanks for coming.”

  She comes over and smooths the top of my head with her hand. “Take care, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks. See ya.”

  She grabs her bag and gives me another smile before leaving.

  I sink back into the bed, exhausted. I appreciate her coming but each visit just drains me of every ounce of energy I have.

  After watching TV for a few minutes, I turn it off. My head still hurts when I'm focusing on a screen, but hopefully, that will eventually fade. Like everything else, I can't help but think. How ironic.

  The photo album Paige brought with her is still sitting on the table next to the bed and I reach for it, running my fingertip over the smooth, leather cover. I remember carefully choosing each and every photo I put in it, before my move to L.A., and how the first few months, I practically slept with it under my bed. But it's probably been over a year since I looked at it last.

  I turn the front page. and my own face is suddenly smiling back at me. Me and Mom and Dad, on the day of my college graduation. So full of life, so full of hope, fearless about what was lying ahead. Not in a million years, in that moment when the camera lens clicked, did I think four years later, I'd be here.

  I close the album. Not sure if I'm really in the mood for reminiscing. But it's not reminiscing, it's exercise, my brain tells me.

  It's a Thursday, says the calendar by the bed that Paige brought for me. Each month has a picture of little kittens in teapots. It will relax you, she'd said. In that moment, it was hard not to wonder who was the one with the sore head, considering how many times I'd told her I hate cats.

  Thursday, I look at the calendar again. Just to make I haven't forgotten. Not that that really means anything. Every day is just a copy of the day before it, and a prediction of the day ahead. And the only light at the end of the tunnel is that I'm slowly feeling better. And my mind is getting clearer.

  Just not clear enough, just yet.

  Give it time, they say.

  I guess time is all I've really got right now.

  I lay back against the pillows, looking around my new room. It's bright and airy. There's much less background noise up here, and if I close my eyes, I think I can almost hear the sound of the wind whispering through the sprouting leaves on the trees outside the window.

  My eyes scan over the room, taking note of where everything is situated. Bathroom is behind that door on the right. A stack of drinking cups by the sink. Enamel jug with faded blue flowers on the table. My purple ukulele case on the chair by the bed. I sit up, squinting at it, making sure my eyes are focusing right.

  My ukulele, what's that doing here? I haven't seen that since... well, I honestly don't remember since when. I guess Paige brought it with her today.

  I slide my legs off the bed and pick up the ukulele case with two hands, carefully. I settle back into the chair and lay it on my lap, staring at it for a moment. It's heavier than I remember, or maybe I'm just weaker. I flip the latch open and it clicks in that way that makes me instantly, involuntarily smile.

  I pull the ukulele out and close the case.

  My fingers twitch, in anticipation? Out of habit? But for a moment, I'm almost too scared to touch the strings. How long has it been? Two years? Almost three? Will I even remember how to play? I cradle the small instrument in my arms for a moment, like a mother coming home after a long work day, getting reacquainted with the precious child in her embrace.

  Do it, Noémie. Don't tell me you're scared of a freaking uke. Try it. Just play.

  My fingers twitch again. And I move them closer to the strings.

  A tune appears as if conjured from the broken recesses of my brain. Let us try, my fingers tell me. And I hesitate for one last moment before I relent. They strum over the strings. It's wildly out of tune, but I don't care.

  I want to do it again.

  I rotate the knobs a few turns and run my fingers over the strings again.

  Better.

  And then I play.

  The tune in my head stream from my fingers and are transcribed into song.

  I giggle, I can’t help it.

  Why am I playing a song known for being sung by a green frog puppet?

  I don’t know and I don’t care.

  It’s making me happy and I’ve forgotten what that’s like.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jez

  There's the music again.

  Except this time, I'm pretty sure I'm awake. I would pinch myself for confirmation, but I can't reach. I turn at the waist and my left hand makes contact with the nurse at the side of my bed, taking my blood pressure and I poke her, my cast digging into her side.

  "Ow! Mr. Petrescu, what was that for?" She glares at me and rubs her skin.

  "Really, Mister Petrescu? Still? After you've already seen my butt? Toni, please call me Jez."

  "That's exactly why I call you Mr. Petrescu, Mr. Petrescu. I prefer to only call people by their first name if I've only seen their butts in a social context."

  "Well, come down to our local pub on a Friday
, then you'll be among a whole lot of people who have a high chance of seeing my bare butt in a social context,” I grin, waiting for her to roll her eyes.

  "Thanks for the warning," she says, shaking her head as she puts the blood pressure cuff away. "Now, what was the pinch for?"

  "I was just making sure I wasn't dreaming."

  "No, hun, I really am this beautiful after a double shift and complete with Cheetohs’ dust on my nurse’s uniform." She makes an exaggerated model’s pose.

  "You are just absolutely stunning, Nurse Toni. But no, I meant... that music, can you hear it?"

  "Yes."

  "So, we're both dreaming?"

  "No."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because if I were dreaming I'd be standing beside a bed that had a naked Jason Momoa waiting for his sponge bath in it, not your pale, scrawny self."

  I gasp. "I'm hurt!"

  "Oh, where? Your arms hurt?" She glances at them.

  "No, I meant, you hurt my feeeeeeelings."

  She rolls her eyes and one hand comes up to rest on her hip. "Oh, is that all? Those ain’t my department, sugar. I'm purely blood pressure taking and butt sightings, only. For feelings repair, I'll have to call the Boo-boo Doctor. But he's usually pretty busy... in the children’s' ward."

  "Ouch. You did it again. I would clasp my chest if I could bend my arms. Do they teach sass in nursing school?"

  "No, honey, that's all me." She grins proudly.

  "Anyway, back to the music."

  "Ah yes, that's a new patient that's just been moved up to our floor. She's been playing the... what do you call it... um..."

  Please don't say 'ukulele', I think to myself. That would be too weird considering I was just thinking of Toilet Girl playing the ukulele last night.

  "Now, what IS it called, you know,” she circles her finger in the air, as if that will conjure it up in her brain, “... that mini guitar thingo."

  Shit.

  "A ukulele?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

  "I guess. Mini guitar works for me."

  "A guitar has six strings, a uke only has four,” I tell her.