Rocker Series

by Gina Whitney

  We sat around the back of a red brick building. I didn’t even realize we arrived at our destination until the door flung open and we ducked into the back door. We were met at the door by a man in Houndstooth checked pants and a pair of crocks. My father shook his hand firmly, and then introduced him. “This is Mario.”

  I shook his offered hand. “Thanks for your discretion. I appreciate it.”

  His eyes widened as he roved over my tatted arms and hands. “It’s my pleasure,” he said politely, gathering his hair into a small ponytail. I’ve seen this guy around. I know I have, but I didn’t have it in me to ask.

  We walked through the fast paced kitchen as staff continued preparing meals for the restaurant’s patrons. “Your table.” Mario pulled out both chairs at a white-lined table for two. It was just what I needed to straighten my shit out. The table was set just past the doors to the dining area next to the refrigerated walk-in.

  Mario left straight away, promising to bring water and appetizers when he returned. Again, I was grateful. I raised my brow, wondering how the old man pulled this off. “Friends in high places?” I gave him the same smirk he wore in the limo.

  He sat and draped the napkin across his lap. “Called in a favor.”

  I nodded, chewing on that thought. Guilt bubbled up my throat, presenting a sour taste. I wondered how many favors he’d called in for me in my short lifetime. How many debts he owed because of me.

  The chef brought over a basket of bread and plates of flavored olive oil for dipping.

  “So, what’s going on, son?”

  What isn’t going on is what I wanted to say, but thought better of it. I was in a rough way, and I wanted to lash out at someone. “I’m fucked up in the head, but you already know that.”

  He nodded and took a sip of his water the waiter had brought over. “What exactly is fucking up your head?” He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, showing me his interest in this conversation.

  I didn’t look him in the eye, but instead, trained my attention on the picture on the wall above his head. Ah, to be so pious…so devout, wisely using scriptures for deeper meaning. I ran my hand over my thickening beard. Fuck, I needed a shave. But I needed a lot of things. Clarity was high on the list. “Watching—no, hearing that machine stop beeping and the aftermath that ensued. It’s on replay, and I don’t know how to turn it off. I mean, I should be thankful. And I am—believe me. But fuck, I never felt anything so real in my fucking life.”

  He listened carefully, and a dark-haired waiter placed three dishes in front of us. “Enjoy,” he said and bowed, returning to his station. It smelled ridiculous. We had grilled vegetables brushed with olive oil, fried Calamari, and some tomatoes with fresh mozzarella. My stomach growled as I filled my plate.

  I took my first bite of mozzarella and identified something tangible. “It’s a physical pain. My fucking heart hurt.” I savored the fresh cheese on my tongue, but found myself rubbing the familiar ache in my chest.

  “You’re angry, and your faith has been shaken.” His eyebrows pinched together. “Did you pray?”

  “We weren’t church-goers.”

  “Doesn’t matter where you choose to worship. Now answer me. Did you pray?”

  I placed a forkful of eggplant into my mouth. “I did, or maybe it was more like spiritual Tourette’s. So I mostly cursed. Does that count?” The words I refused to say tumbled through my head. You almost let her die. As quickly as the thought entered my head, I forced it out. It wasn’t something I wanted to think about, yet it was on top of the pile of unbearable thoughts.

  “It’s grief, Abel. Your mind is still grieving the potential loss.” His voice was solemn as he spoke. “Give yourself permission to feel however you feel. It was a traumatic event for both of you. However, you were awake for it.” He ripped a piece of bread from the small loaf. As he buttered, he continued. “You have post-traumatic stress disorder…or PTSD.”

  “Great,” I said, dismissing his last statement while the waiter plated our lunch. We had filets with sautéed hot cherry peppers, and I was beyond starved. The appetizers barely curbed my hunger. I felt like a man that hadn’t eaten in years.

  “It’s triggered by experiencing or witnessing a terrifying event. It was both for you, son.” He confirmed it by looking up the symptoms on his phone. He began scrolling with his finger as I continued to cut into my steak, but listened anyway. “Okay, here we go… Symptoms include flashbacks, nightmares, and severe anxiety, as well as uncontrollable thoughts.” He locked the screen and placed his phone on the table.

  “Bingo, that’s exactly what the fuck I got. Now I have a name for it. Does it say how to get rid of the fucker that’s hitching a ride in my brain?” I asked and continued to think about what he’d said regarding PTSD.

  “My point is…you’re not alone. There’s help, and it doesn’t have to be drugs or groups. I know you’re spread thin with the band, Gia, and now Bella. I’ll make a phone call…get some more information,” he said; it wasn’t asking, but telling. My father was on it, and sitting with him here, I felt better having his support.

  “Thank you for always having my back.” And for the first time in years, he smiled at me—his son. Not the tatted up rock-star with piercings. I’ve grown a thicker skin having a heavily tatted body. They’ve become a filter in a way. A way to keep me real, and when it comes down to it, it allows me to see other people for how they really are. However, there’s a big part of me that needs to overcome my own judgment of people. But hey, I’m a work in progress. Live and let live and all that shit. At the end of the day, many people won’t get why I’d chosen to decorate my skin in colors, pictures, and words. But as I get older and wiser…I care less. The bottom line is: it doesn’t define me when they judge me…it only defines them.

  Fuck you, haters…suck my dick.

  “You’re my son. You can always count on me.” His smile reached his eyes, but he wasn’t done. “Before Gia, your heart was closed and it was protected from all risk, but the only thing you get from that is loneliness. Now, your heart is open, and you’re in love. So now, you’ll know joy and sorrow, passion and pain—and you’ll be a better person for it. In your past, you’ve self-medicated from the stresses of life. You know first-hand how that turns out—devastating,” he said, placing his napkin on the table. A usual sign he was tabling the conversation and we’d talk about something else.

  “I have some good news,” I said, finally wanting to share my excitement. “I asked Gia to marry me.”

  “I know. Italy, wasn’t it?” he asked, waving over Mario.

  “Yes. But, I don’t want to wait to have a formal wedding,” I said, playing with my lip ring.

  “So, this is about you?” His brows pinched in question.

  “It’s about us.”

  “Really? Are you sure about that?” he spat back as Mario brought two espressos with a rind of lemon.

  I nodded to Mario my thanks and waited for him to be out of hearing range before responding. “Completely and utterly positive. It’s the one thing I know for sure. I want to marry my girl.” I grumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Good.” He let out a deep chuckle.

  “What’s so fucking funny?”

  He regarded me with narrowed eyes. “You remind me so much of myself at your age. So stormy, so eager, so single-minded, but when you love, you play for keeps.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, well, excuse me if I can’t picture the stormy side of you.”

  “We share the stormy and dark. It’s who we are, who my father was, and his father before him. Some genes are just dominant. Nothing wrong with being self-assured and going after what makes you happy…whatever it is. Be it physical, spiritual, or mental.”

  We shared a laugh, and it was something I’d always remember. His ever-guiding hand taught, even when you didn’t know you were being schooled. I had to give it to my father. He was a wise fucker with some swag. All-powerful and all-consuming, and when I wasn
’t high, we were able to have a relationship.

  We left Mario’s place thanking him for a wonderful meal and the privacy he provided. He did us a solid. I also promised I’d come back with Gia, using the main entrance.

  On the way back to the hospital, my father finally brought up my mother. “You know your mother wants to be an active part in your life as a grandparent. Can we at least start to rebuild your relationship there?”

  “Why should I forgive all that she’s done? And what hope do I have that she won’t disappoint Gia and Bella…cause them harm down the road? Why would I take the chance with my family?” I asked angrily. I turned to face the window defensively. I didn’t want to ruin the time we shared and the effort he put into the afternoon with this shit—her.

  “Well, you can hold on to the anger and resentment, of course. It’s always your choice. However, if you embrace forgiveness, you move forward. If you think part of your bitterness in life doesn’t stem from your lack of relationship with your mother, you’re naïve.”

  I turned toward him to rail against my mother. But the frustration was written in the frown lines on his face, and it stopped me dead in my tracks. I had my feelings about it, and he had his. It was clear our emotions and thoughts rivaled each other’s. But who was right? Who was wrong? What if there wasn’t a clear answer?…

  I closed my mouth and chewed on what he said for a few minutes. Could I find forgiveness in the murky waters of my mother’s and my relationship? Holding on to that resentment kept the fires burning in the pit of my stomach. Kept the darkness alive. Was I ready to let some of that go? I didn’t know… “I will try to tolerate her, but I don’t know if I can forget, and therefore, forgive what she did. This is bigger than me, you know. What about Chance?”

  He frowned. “I know. We all live with demons, Abel. You should know that better than anyone. Are you arrogant enough to think that you’re the only one to be forgiven…judged less for your misgivings. Imagine your life without redemption…”

  When I was about to answer, the driver opened my door and interrupted my response. We both got out of the car, and my father opened the door to the basement of the hospital—the one we escaped from earlier. We took the same dark, quiet route through the underbelly of the hospital. I carried a small takeout bag of pasta and cannoli for Beauty that I grabbed before leaving, knowing she would want something better than bland hospital food to eat, while my father held something for my mother. I didn’t know if Gia could eat anything solid yet, but if she could…I wanted to be the one to give it to her.

  We approached the morgue’s window, and my father stopped short of me, causing me to nearly run him over. He turned to me with a grim but purposeful look on his face. My heart raced and pounded beneath the walls of my chest…sweat beads lined my brow.

  “How do you feel?” he asked with heavy emotion in his thick voice.

  “Not fucking good about standing here, that’s for fuck sure.” I struggled to spit the words out through my tightened throat.

  His head canted to the side. “Imagine not being able to hold your beauty. She almost ended up here.” He looked up and into the window of the morgue. A gurney with a white sheet over it rolled past the window and over to a table.

  I wanted to run, scream, and break everything around me. Him. I wanted to break him for doing this to me. My stomach started to churn my lunch angrily.

  “I’m trying to make an important point. She is alive, and you have all the dreams and possibilities still on the table. Best to remember how lucky you are, and not dwell on what could have been. Because it didn’t happen that way…at least not for you.” He motioned to one of the tables toward the back where a mother and father stood above the draped, frozen body of their child. I played with my lip ring…twisting and turning it, needing the pain. Their faces were marred with grief as he held his wife up, giving her what little strength I imagined he had. Fuck, I’m going to be sick. “Come on…” He pulled my arm and we continued back to Gia and Bella.

  When we arrived on her floor, I could hear Chance and my mother’s voice. They didn’t seem awkward or strained, but congenial. We entered the room. Gia was asleep, Mother and Chance speaking softly over Bella’s incubator.

  “Have a good lunch?” my mother asked and I nodded as my father handed her a bag of takeout.

  I raised an eye at Chance, silently asking if he was okay. He only answered with a nonchalant shrug.

  “We’ll be in the cafeteria and will be back soon. If you need anything, just text me.” My father grabbed my mother’s hand, and then they left without another word, my mom compliantly following.

  “Are you okay?” I asked

  “Babies have a way of bringing people together. I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to spend time with my niece because of her. So I chose to be the bigger person. I’m fine.” Chance smiled and went back to observing Bella. “I think she has your eyes, and definitely your head of hair. My god. She needs a stylist already. Who’s going to keep those locks looking lovely every day?”

  I chuckled. Only Chance would consider these things. He regarded himself as a stylist these days, so I knew exactly what he was getting at. “For one…I’m told her eyes could change in a few months. All babies have blue eyes as newborns, and her hair will most likely fall out. It’s baby hair.”

  “Shut the front door. She’s going to be bald?” His expression appeared horrified. “I’m sure there’s a product, or at the very least, some kind of baby extensions. No one likes a bald baby. She’ll look like Benjamin Button. Is that what you want? She’s going to be in magazines…” He continued to fret while I went to Beauty’s side, choosing to ignore his gay panic attack.

  Her face was peaceful and lovely and I couldn’t deny the need to kiss her lips, sucking her bottom lip into mine. She stirred softly, releasing a light sigh.

  “Will you please stop? That’s how you got here, and there’s a minor in the room. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to fondle her mother while she sleeps.” Chance rolled his eyes in disgust. “Ah, now I have to hold little Mia because she’s traumatized.” He lifted Bella into his arms and sat with her, patting her back in comfort.

  “We may need an order of protection against you. Are you going to obsess over Bella like you do everything else?”

  He glared at me and whispered, “Do you know she won’t even let me call her Bell-a? I’m the only one who calls her Mia. Always the outcast.” He let out an aggravated huff of air.

  “You’re not the outcast, but I have to agree with Gia. It sounds creepy the way you enunciate her name.” I smirked. “By the way, did you get over to the holistic place?”

  “What. Ever. And yes, I got all your disgusting voodoo shit. Do you really think Gia will drink placenta powered tea? Just saying it makes me gag.” He dramatically heaved, covering his mouth. “I can’t imagine preparing or drinking it. I’m all for being healthy and going the extra mile…but, really. I mean, really—really.” He snorted and continued talking to the baby.

  He had a good point. Beauty wouldn’t drink it. I’d have to disguise it somehow. “The doctor said it’s a natural anti-depressant and could be a healthy alternative if she’s nursing. And let’s talk about that extra mile you go on. Do I look like someone you can get one over on?”

  “How do you mean?” He drawled.

  “Sneaking treats to Gia when I specifically asked you not to.”

  “I can’t confirm or deny. But, I will say she threatened my life. Since I plan to live a long and healthy life, and hopefully have a family of my own, under extreme duress, I may have caved. But I’m not saying I did.”

  I shook my head and leaned down to kiss Beauty again. Her eyes fluttered in an effort to stay closed. I smiled at her attempt. “I can see you’re awake, my love.”

  “Am not,” she responded quickly.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, this is the part of sleep known as ahem. The step-sister to REM. Where you can hear a conversation, but bits a
nd pieces get omitted and you can’t fully wake. To the average person, it looks like you’re awake. However, the fluttering eyes is just an indication,” she said holding back a giggle.

  God, I missed her. I missed this. Her sassy-mouth, quick-on-her-feet, snarky responses. I had no choice but to seize her mouth. I closed my mouth over hers with an urgency that eclipsed the purely physical yearning. My body trembled, and I barely held back a quiver that ran through my frame as I crushed her lips. With a fierceness that pierced my heart, she melted against me, yielding. My dick hardened instantly, and all thought of where we were momentarily slipped away—desire the only thing left. My lips ravaged hers, claiming them and searing them with heat. It wasn’t enough, and I caught her moan with my tongue…lashing and tasting deeply. God, I wanted her now. Of course, I knew it wasn’t the time or place. I dropped my mouth to her neck, trailing frantic kisses up and down her sensitive skin.

  “Get me out of here and take me home,” she murmured breathlessly.

  “Where’s the eye bleach and ear plugs when you need them, Mia?”

  We both ignored Chance’s commentary.

  I drew back and searched her eyes questioning. Beauty, my beauty, was back and I felt closer to my old self than I had in a while. I growled and half-cursed…letting go of an agonizing groan.

  I barely paused when I heard, “Ahem.” My father cleared his throat, chuckling. “Someone’s enjoying his bride to be. Can’t wait another few weeks until it’s official?”

  “Wait. What?” Chance shouted, handing the baby back to my mother.

  “Yes, they’re pushing up the wedding date. And we couldn’t be happier. Bella will have security.” My mother droned, and it took everything in me to keep my mouth shut.

  “Was anyone going to tell me, or am I just on placenta duty?” He lamented and took out his phone. “You know I’m a miracle worker, but I still need time to plan.” His fingers furiously worked the keypad of his phone.

  “Calm down, party-pimp. We haven’t set the date. You’ll be the first to know, and he just brought the idea up. We haven’t had time to share.” Gia’s dry voice cracked. “Water, please,” she asked, and my father poured water from the pitcher and handed it to her. Chance held up his hand, as if to say…talk to the hand like a fourteen-year-old girl. His face never came up from his phone.