by Daisy Allen
I take a breath, and shake my wrist. It does more harm than good. I lay my forearm back down onto the table.
Squeeze, you useless things, I curse at my pale, clammy fingers, squeeze the motherfucking ball!
They twitch, but barely move. Like they’re locked in place from months of being caged in a cast.
My index finger folds forward, and the others follow, awkward and gnarled. They almost envelope around the ball, but my thumb refuses to follow and the balls slips out through the gap across the table and onto the floor again.
“FUCK!” I yell, slamming my other hand against the table. “ARGHHH!” White hot heat sears up the inside of my hand and all the way up my arm to my shoulder.
But I barely notice it. My vision fogs up with anger, with frustration and I push away from the table and stand in the middle of the room and let out a scream.
This is not supposed to be happening.
The cast was supposed to come off and I was supposed to get to go back to my life.
This. This not being able to do the absolute simplest of tasks, and yet essential to everything that I am, was not supposed to feel like medieval torture.
“Jez.” In the fog, I hear her voice.
Dammit, I forgot she was here.
Why did I ask her here? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Jez,” she says again and I just want her to be gone. I don’t want her to see this.
“Go away, Noémie,” I say, my voice hard and harsh.
“No.”
“Just go,” I say again. “GO!”
“I’m not-…”
I spin around and she’s right there, and I lean in, my face pulled tight, my eyes wide. “I SAID GO! GO! I don’t want you here. Fucking GET OUT OF HERE!”
She flinches, her eyes blinking and I see her shoulders tense as she jumps. She steadies herself and her eyes flood with something… fear? Pity? God, no, please not pity.
God. What is happening to me?
I turn my back to her. “Just fucking go,” I say, tired. Resigned to this broken shell. “Can’t you see I don’t want you here?”
I close my eyes, my own breath, ragged in my ears. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even move.
Finally, I hear her sigh and her feet moving away from me against the vinyl floor.
I know I should apologize, but I can’t feel anything but the disappointment in myself crushing against my chest, leaving no room for air. I cradle my left hand against my sternum, like a wounded bird and wonder how to just disappear from here.
She’s gone. And there’s no longer a reason to be here.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Noémie
I stare at the wide expanse of his back, covered in a tight black T-shirt, like a shield. His shoulders hunched, his head bent, his arm folded, as he clutches at his own chest with his wounded hand. Every part of him shying away from me.
If you cracked open my chest at this moment, you would see my heart being fed through a shredder.
The pain that is etched all over his face is so raw and deep, it takes my breath away. I can't even imagine what he is suffering right now. Physically, mentally.
Yes, you do. My mind tries to tell me. But I know it's wrong. What I'm going through is nothing like this. Yes, I am confused, and frustrated and worried.
But I don't have this soul deep ache that he seems to be going through. And I don't even think I really understand it.
But I can see it in his eyes.
And I know that it's real for him.
And that makes it real for me.
I pivot on my heel and walk toward the table where Brian is sitting. He is watching Jez, but not saying anything. I wonder how many times a day he sees this.
What a job to have.
I walk over to the ball on the floor and pick it up and walk back over, to stand in front of Jez.
I reach up and place my hand under his chin, lifting his face up.
His eyes are shining. Wet.
And he looks surprised to see me.
I look down at the hand curled up against his chest. Pulling it away from his body, I slide the ball into it.
And I tell him what he knows but needs to hear again, "I am not going anywhere. You asked me here. And I came. And I’m staying. So, you can yell at me if you think that’s going to make you feel better. Personally, I think you’re going to feel worse about it later, because that’s just the kind of good guy that you are. But if you need to yell I can take it. What I can’t take is seeing you give up.” I take a breath, and continue, “You can do this. It's not going to be easy. It's not meant to be. I know you want to be healed and back to normal and to get the hell out of here. I get it. And I don't know what happened to you, but I know this - your bones don't fucking care what you want. You have to tell them. You have to make them. You can do this."
There’s a sharp intake of breath and the slightest shake of his head.
"Stop. We're not going to say or THINK the word 'no' for the next two minutes, okay? Just two minutes. Then you can complain and go back to being a whiny baby all you want. But just give me two minutes. Please. I’ll beg you if I have to."
His head changes from a shake to a nod.
"Now, squeeze your hand. Like you've done a million times before."
I don't look down. He lets me hold his gaze, and I can see the effort in his eyes. They almost glaze over with pain.
"N-..."
"Two minutes, Jez,” I remind him, as firmly but kindly as I can.
He holds his breath and I can see his fingers twitch in the corner of my eyes, but I won't look away.
"Fuck!" he says, and I can see the hope fading in his pupils, the light shrinking into a darkened abyss.
I push the ball away from his hand and it bounces on the floor. I replace it with my hand, sliding my fingers against his palm.
"Squeeze my hand, Jez."
There's a flicker of... something. Hope. Because hope remain when all reason is gone. It’s hope in his gaze and I see him steeling himself. In that moment, I know him. Know what motivates him, what moves him. Sometimes, someone needs something other than himself to care about.
I stare deep into his eyes, so he hears every word, feels it. "I'm scared Jez,” I tell him, “I've been in this hospital for a really long time. I was injured really badly. And I don't know if I'll ever get all of my memory back and I need you to squeeze my hand to help me feel safe. Please."
His face softens for the first time since he yelled at me, and then his brow furrows, his front teeth digging deep into his bottom lip. And suddenly my fingers feel warm, enveloped, squeezed.
"Tighter," I whisper, and my fingers are almost crushed in his hand. And then it's over. Brief, but it happened. His hand drops away from mine and he grimaces for a split second.
But he doesn't look away.
"Thank you," I whisper again. Pressing my hand to chest. It's lifting and falling with deep, deep breath.
"No. Thank you," he says. He lifts his hand to press against mine, pushing it harder against him, and now I can feel his heartbeat. "Thank you."
***
I come with him to his PT sessions the next two days. It's always an hour of intensity, and it's not always pleasant. I spend half the time trying to distract him from the pain, and cajoling him into trying. There are times I can see he wants me to leave, and times when I'm the only thing pushing him through. But he's making progress. Slow. Almost unnoticeable. But there’s progress. And it drains us. So much that as we return to our ward, we split, and I go back to my room and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
And then it's morning. There's no note waiting for me when I wake up, no flowers, no sign that he's come to see me.
But I am there, waiting at the elevator when it's time for his appointment again, like I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.
By the third day, he can almost make a fist again. Not for long and not as tight as it should be, but he can hold a pen in his hand, a
nd we celebrate by going down to the front desk and filling out a bunch of silly feedback forms.
"Tell them we want every Friday to be ‘dress up as your favorite Disney villain day’ for the doctors and nurses!” I squeal as Jez slowly traces out the words. I can barely make sense of it when I glance at it, but he seems pretty pleased with it, so I just fold it and slide it into the suggestions box.
“What next?” he asks, his voice calmer, but his eyes giving away his excitement.
“Let’s go look at the newborn babies and mess with the parents. Pretend we think our babies have been switched at birth.”
“You have an irrepressible sense of evil, don’t you?”
“It’s called cabin fever, baby.”
“You’ve got babies on the brain.” He makes the sign of the cross at me. I reach out and touch his fingers and then snap them back, hissing as if he’s burned me. “I knew it. Vampire by night… uke player… also by night. What the hell do you do during the day?”
“Wait for you to feed me, that’s what!”
“Ha, okay, it must be lunch time, let’s see what my friends brought me today. Probably my favorite since they’re still feeling guilty for having that intervention.”
“Intervention? What for?”
“Because I was being a whiny baby.”
“Ah. So, a valid reason for the intervention.”
“Hush, I’ll sic Buffy on you.”
We ride up the elevator and I pull a face at him behind the backs of the other people. He just shakes his head, but his face is grinning the whole time. The doors of the elevator open and there's suddenly the flash of camera bulbs in our faces.
Three, four, maybe even five or six people swarm into the elevator, crowding around Jez.
"Jez, Jez! How are you? Have you fully recovered? Are you really in here for rehab? When are you guys going back on tour? Do you know if the tickets holders are going to get their money back?"
The questions are constant and I can barely make out the words as I try to push through them, to get to Jez.
"Jez!" I call out to him.
"Stay back! Cover your face!" I can just hear his voice over the shouting.
I try to reach him. "What the hell is going on?"
"Fuck off, guys, get lost!"
There's the sound of a loud crash as I see a camera go flying over our heads and out of the elevator. A large, muscular giant is pushing through the people in the elevator, and I feel him grab my shoulder.
"Come with me, keep your head down."
"Jez!" I say, as someone pushes him into me. His face is red with anger, and he doesn’t even look at me.
"Get her to her room, and make sure she's okay. I mean it," I hear him say and he runs off into the direction of his room.
I turn back and there are two guys pushing the photographers into the elevator, the door closing behind them.
The big guy leads me into my room and closes the door behind him, with him inside my room.
I should feel afraid of him, but I’m not. "What WAS that? Who are you?"
"I'm Mike. We've met."
"We have?" I frown. Fuck, not him, too.
"Yeah, but it's okay. it wasn't that memorable. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" I throw my hands up into the air and look around, trying to make sense of what just occurred.
"The nurse will be here in a minute to check you out," the giant reassured me.
"I'm fine! I need to go see Jez." I make for the door.
He takes a step to the side, blocking. It's the first move he's made that intimidates me.
"Er, ma’am. You can't, he's... he's getting checked out as well."
"’Ma’am?’ The name’s Noémie. What the fuck was that? Were they paparazzi?"
He squirms, and I know the answer.
"But why would they be taking pictures of Jez?"
Again, he doesn’t say anything, like he's been trained not to. I have no idea what's going on and it’s making me anxious.
"Mike, I really need to see him.”
"Ma'am, he'll come and see you when he can. Now, I’ll be right outside, if you need something. Those people shouldn't bother you again."
I throw my hands up in the air again, an action of complete helplessness. I have my own body guard now? Seriously, what the hell just happened?
Mike leaves the room and closes the door behind him. As promised, he sits on a chair right outside, and I can't help wondering if I’m the prisoner or the guarded.
Either way, I don't think Jez is who I think he is. Then I realize, I don't really know anything about him at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN
Jez
"Dennis!" I shout. When I get into my room, he's there with the rest of the band. "What the fuck was that?"
My manager looks about as angry as I feel, and he throws his hands up in the air as he paces in front of me, his face turning a crimson red. "Sorry, we're not sure how, but the media got wind of where you were. Luckily, Emily’s editor called her to give her a head’s up that he’d heard murmurings. So we got here as fast as we could, we came off one of the other elevators just as they were crowding around you. We've got people posted downstairs now. If they look anything like a pap they won't be allowed up.”
"Fuck me!" I say, sinking down onto my bed. It's been three months since I've had to deal with that kind of ambush. I thought I was used to it, but the quiet of the hospital must have really decreased my tolerance.
"Noém-..." I start.
"Your friend is fine,” Dennis cuts in. “Mike is with her now."
I don’t even ask how he knows who I’m talking about. I know he just knows.
"Well, make sure he doesn’t scare her. He's the size of a fucking moose."
"She’ll be fine." And I know she’s in good hands. But it’s not her physical welfare I’m worried about right at this moment. I’m more concerned how all this must look to her. Why in the world would the paparazzi being looking for me?
"I’ve gotta go see her,” I jump back onto my feet.
Dennis holds his hands out, stopping me. "No, Jez. You can't. Just, wait a minute. We’ve gotta talk."
"What about?"
"About you being ready to leave."
I’m not quite sure I hear him right. "What?"
Dennis sighs and pats my shoulder. "Look, the doc is coming up to talk to you right now, and I think he's going to tell you, you're ready to leave."
"What? What are you talking about?" I’m praying so hard right now that I’m not hallucinating.
"Marius overheard the nurses talking about your room being free soon because you’re leaving. You can probably go home in a few days, Jez. Well, not home, but leave the hospital. We can talk about where you want to get settled while you finish your recovery."
Holy fuck. "I can leave?" I wonder how many times I’ll repeat it before I believe it.
"Yeah, man. It seems like it.” Sebastian comes up and gives me a wink.
"Oh my god." I can barely process the thought. "I can leave?" I repeat. "Holy shit, I can fucking leave!" I yell, raising my arms in the arm, and getting rewarded with a searing pull somewhere in my shoulder.
"Take it easy, man. You can go home, but you're not fully healed. But the important squishy stuff, your lungs and your internals all look good."
I can't help but scoff. Important stuff? I look down at my hands, they have a long way to go yet. It seems ungrateful to tell them that to me my hands, they’re the ‘important stuff.’ But it’s still good news all the same.
"Shit." I exhale.
"You ready to go?"
"I've been ready since the first day I woke up and saw your ugly mugs looking back at me with those teary puppy dog eyes. I think I even heard Brad praying at one point. So, when do you think I’ll be able to go?"
"I’m not sure. Last time we talked to the doc, he said he’d give you a few days’ notice, remember? So, I’d say, get your shit ready, it’ll probably be a couple more days yet, but def
initely by the end of the week."
"How do you feel about that?" Sebastian asks. "I mean, I know you've been here a while. Did that welcome from the poops, I mean, paps, make you happy to return to our world?"
And as soon as he asks the question, I realize, the truth is, I don't know.
I don’t know how I feel, because I don't know if I will be returning. With the way my hands are, I sure can't be performing in the near future.
As if he's hearing my thoughts, Seb reaches out and pats my on the hand.
"No rush, bud. No rush. We're not going anywhere."
And I know he’s trying to comfort me, but not for the first time, an overwhelming sense of guilt takes over.
"But that’s it, you have to! You can't just wait for me. You know...this isn't going to last forever, it took us months and years, all this time to build that wave. You guys, you're supposed to be riding it. Not be sitting in a hospital room watching soap operas with me while all our hard work goes down the drain. I mean, I heard them, the fucking paps, people want their money back cos we're cancelling tickets! That shouldn’t be happening."
"Whoa, dude, all that shit is being taken care of,” Brad reassures me.
"I…I don’t even know why we needed to cancel."
Marius frowns, looking at Brad and then back at me. "You mean, you think we should go on tour without you?"
"Well. Fuck, yes! Argh!”
"Dennis. I think the doc needs to check his brain again."
"I'm serious."
“Ugh, bloody hell. Are we really having this conversation?” Sebastian says, rolling his eyes. They are crowd around me, staring me down. "Listen up. It’s all of us or nothing. We said it when we started and we meant it."
"Maybe we were stupid."
"Smarter than you're being right now,” Marius mumbles under his breath.
"It's never been about the money, Jizztits. It's been about this." Seb gestures to our little group. "Always. And I don't need a big stadium to play my music. I have a fawning fan in Cadence. And I have you guys. And also, my rugged good looks, and gigantic dick. If we never go on stage again? I'm good. The reason we want you to get better so bad? It’s because playing music or not playing should be a choice you get to make, not have it made for you. So, if it's meant to be, we'll set the world on fire again. We did it before, we can do it again."
