I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone

by Stephanie Kuehnert

  When she woke up, Tom let me go in first, mumbling something about seeing his grandfather hooked up to machines before he died, and needing to know how she looked before he could face her. I told him I understood, left him with the unopened magazine on his lap, and followed the gray-haired nurse down a long, white hallway, which twisted and turned into other long hallways. I tried not to notice the sterile, antiseptic scent or the smells of blood, urine, vomit, and general sickness that lurked underneath. I didn’t want to imagine Regan in the context of all this. Finally, the nurse stopped outside a room and told me Regan was in the far bed, by the window.

  I tried not to look at the other patient as I passed her bed, but I couldn’t help it. Fortunately, the sight of the girl was comforting. She wasn’t hooked up to any beeping, buzzing equipment; she simply slept, perfectly normal except for the hospital gown visible above the sheets. I took a deep breath, hoping Regan would appear the same way.

  As soon as I passed the curtain that separated the two beds, my eyes fell on Regan. She didn’t look quite as good as her roommate, but not as bad as I feared. An IV dripped into her left arm. The hospital made her seem smaller than she was, her body enveloped in the whiteness of the bed. Her face was pale, and deep circles surrounded her eyes, which she struggled to hold open.

  “Hey,” she croaked.

  I couldn’t figure out how to speak to her at first. I wanted to yell at her for scaring me and Tom, but at the same time I wanted to crawl into the bed and just hold her. Instead, I reverted to the sarcasm that I always used in order to keep from bawling. “Regan, we’re not famous enough yet for you to pull this rock-star-drinking-yourself-to-death crap,” I joked as I sat down at her bedside.

  She smiled weakly and squeezed her eyes shut. “I would laugh, but I think my brain would explode, my head hurts so bad.” She glanced away from me, back toward the curtain. “Is Tom here, too?”

  “Yeah, he is. We both … we both found you.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Regan cried soundlessly, tears rolling out of her bloodshot eyes and down her swollen cheeks. She lifted her right hand to rub them away, but they kept coming. Her nose started to drip, too. I reached behind me for the tissue box on her bedside table and handed her one.

  “Can you … ? What the hell happened, Regan?”

  She swabbed her face with the tissue, patting her eyes dry before she spoke and summoning a stony expression. “I had an abortion.”

  “I know. They told me that. But I mean, why didn’t you tell me? So I could have been there?” My face puckered, lips trembling at the thought of her leaving me out.

  The strength she’d drawn on when she told me about the abortion failed. Tears streamed down raw, red skin, and her voice cracked. “Because I haven’t really been able to talk to you since we moved here.”

  I felt like I’d been sucker-punched, and I’m sure I looked it. I was speechless; my mouth opened and closed several times, fishlike. I wanted to deny that our friendship had fallen by the wayside, but I couldn’t anymore.

  Regan reached for me and I let my hand fall like a stone onto the bed, next to hers. She wrapped her fingers around mine and squeezed them so hard, I would have cried out if my vocal cords functioned. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I shut down. I got freaked out, and I didn’t share it with you, or Tom, or anyone but Jose Cuervo.” She attempted a halfhearted smile. “I mean, it’s stupid. We got our wish, right? We got out of Carlisle, and the band’s really taking off. But it scared me to death. This city’s so goddamn huge, sometimes I feel like I’m just one of the hicks we made fun of at home. And I don’t feel like I deserve the success that’s been happening so fast. I’m not good enough. I don’t measure up to you.”

  “You’re just as good as me,” I finally managed, squeezing her hand back. I felt like an asshole. I’d told Johnny how great she was, but when had I last told her?

  Regan rolled her eyes. “Your boyfriend doesn’t think so. You’re the one that’s good. You are the band.” Anger seemed to be building within her, but then the tears were back again. “So I’m scared to move to the next level with the band, but I’m also scared to lose the band, and, more important, to lose you. I feel terrible, like I’m trying to cheat you out of your happiness. Rock ’n’ roll is your dream. And you put up with me when I fell for Tom; I should do the same for you. But Johnny’s different. He’s …”

  She was being so diplomatic. And I didn’t deserve it.

  “He’s Mr. Ambition,” I whispered, adding bitterly, “and just call me Mrs. Ambition because I must be pretty swept up in it if you thought I would ever, ever play music without you.”

  Daubing her eyes with a Kleenex wetter than her face, Regan implored, “Emily, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “No, Regan, be harder on me! Tell me I’m a bitch because I am. I saw you turning into a drunk, and did I bother to cancel rehearsal once and say ‘Let’s get some coffee and talk about what’s going on with you’? No, I didn’t. All I thought about was the next gig, or going home and getting laid. I’m such a shitty friend.” I sobbed so hard, I was surprised Regan deciphered my last sentence, but somehow she did. She tugged on my hand, drawing me into the bed beside her.

  “You’re not. You’re no worse than me. After all these years, I didn’t know how to tell you I was scared. We’ve never been the best at addressing our feelings. We’re both more …” She paused, biting her lip to find the right words. “Action-oriented.”

  She was right. Since childhood, the two of us had been a blur of activity. We weren’t the kind of girls who cried at sappy movies together. We discussed our love lives like jocks in a locker room, never stating how we actually felt about boys. Sure, one of us broke down sometimes, got upset, got hurt, got pissed, and the other one was supportive, but not in a “let’s talk” way. We’d just go to a show or write a song or get wasted together. As much as we shared, me telling Regan that her drinking had started to scare me or her telling me that our band’s success intimidated her was not something either of us could comfortably do. We let feelings become static in the background, slowly building like the feedback from an old amp that’s ruining the clean tone you want for the song. And the amp finally shorted out.

  I wrapped my arms carefully around Regan, mumbling into her tangled hair, “I’m so sorry.”

  She slowly turned onto her side to face me, pressing her forehead against mine. “I’m so sorry, too.” We kept going back and forth apologizing until her face went stony again, except for her lower lip, which quivered violently when she said, “I did the right thing, right, Em? I couldn’t have been a mother. Not now. No matter how much I love Tom. Someday …”

  Petting her hair, smoothing it against her tearstained cheek, I soothed, “You did the right thing.”

  “The way I was drinking … I wasn’t healthy. And if I reacted that way because of my fears about being a good drummer, imagine how far I would have run when I started worrying about being a good mom.”

  My hand stopped midpet; I visibly bristled at the combination of those words: “run” and “mom.”

  “Talk to me about it, Emily,” Regan urged, trying to summon me back to our safe place, but I’d snapped out of it.

  I sat up abruptly and glowered at her. “About what?”

  “About your mom. About feeling abandoned.”

  She’d turned into a shrink in that hospital bed. I got up, gingerly so as not to hurt her, but as quickly as I could. “I don’t feel abandoned.”

  Her arms remained outstretched, but I stayed out of her reach. “Emily, let’s be honest with each other. We’re not little kids anymore. We can stop playing tough. I mean, hell, look at me. Don’t you think it’s time to stop playing tough?”

  I stared at the IV dripping into her vein, her sallow skin, and weakened frame. “It’s not about being tough, and Louisa has nothing to do with this. I know I’ve done some rotten things since we moved here. Becoming obsessed with the band, with Johnny, letting him change
me ’cause it’s nice to have the rock god worshipping me for once. We can talk about those things, and I’ll apologize for the rest of the night, but …”

  Regan’s raised voice was ragged, her throat thick with phlegm. “Emily, please sit down and listen to me. I feel so bad for not telling you this. I need to tell you.”

  She was my best friend, and she was in the hospital, so I did what she wanted and returned to my chair, but even though she was crying again, I didn’t take her hand. I felt betrayed by her mention of Louisa at an already emotional time.

  “I’m shocked I didn’t get knocked up sooner. Like my mom,” she sniffled. “I’m a slut. Was a slut before Tom. But do you know why I slept around?”

  “Because you were bored?” That had been my personal logic.

  “Partly. But partly because it seemed expected. My mom got pregnant young, so obviously she was a slut. And everyone said my sister slept around, but she probably wouldn’t have even gone through that phase if it weren’t for Jeremy Pearson spreading rumors about her because she refused to sleep with him.”

  “Yeah … ,” I said slowly, trying to figure out where she was going with this. We’d discussed these things before. Regan was a keen eavesdropper; we learned everything we knew about boys and sex from conversations Marissa thought were secret. But I figured I had an opportunity to keep Regan from talking about Louisa, so I took it. “I hate Carlisle. Everyone’s so high-and-mighty about what a perfect little town it is, talking shit about our families, when homegrown, local boys like Jeremy Pearson—”

  Regan cut me off with a murmur. Staring down at the white sheet that covered her, she added, “And Eric Lisbon.”

  I blinked hard. “Eric … Louisa’s … Why do you keep bringing this back to Louisa?”

  Regan’s orange-ringed irises wouldn’t focus on me. She stared at the thick curtains, behind which night had fallen quickly. She paused and I hoped her voice would give out, because I knew she was about to tell me something about Louisa that I didn’t want to hear. “Because Eric’s name came up once.”

  She pushed herself up on her elbows and forced her eyes to meet mine. “Remember how my mom and Marissa used to have those fights all the time because Marissa was doing what you and I started doing at River’s Edge a couple years later? She was fifteen, I was eleven, and I used to hang out in our bathroom so I could hear my mom reaming her in her bedroom. Most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about. The time Eric came up was no exception, but even when I understood it, I didn’t know how to tell you.” Regan pressed her fingers to her temples and grimaced. “You see, my mom finally got through to Marissa when she mentioned your mom. She told Marissa not to get in over her head like Louisa had with Eric Lisbon. I don’t have all the facts—my mom was crying so hard I could barely understand her—but I think the reason Louisa left is because Eric Lisbon raped her when she was younger and she never got over it.” Regan’s eyelashes dipped down, her face tense with guilt.

  I don’t know what made me say it or even if I believed it, but I blurted out, “That isn’t true. You must have misheard. I mean, Louisa, she was tough, like us. If that happened to her, she would have survived it. Like you’re going to get through what happened today. My dad would have gotten her through it, like Tom’s gonna get you through this. And I am, too. Your mom and my dad, they would have taken care of her, like me and Tom’ll take care of you.”

  Regan looked doubtful, and clearly had more to say, but then Tom appeared, having finally gathered his strength to face her. He crawled into bed beside her, enveloping her completely in his arms. His hair, half blond and half brown, fell into his face. He’d been letting the bleach grow out. It really changed the way he looked. He wasn’t just this kid who Regan had a crush on anymore. She needed him and he’d been there for her in ways that I hadn’t.

  “I should give you your privacy,” I muttered. “Go tell Johnny what happened and that we’re taking some time off.”

  Regan looked up at me gratefully, but Tom’s eyes filled with concern. “Em, why don’t you wait for me? I’ll talk to him with you.”

  “Pffft.” I brushed him off. “I can handle Johnny.”

  Skepticism took center stage on Tom’s face. “He’s probably going to be pretty pissed we missed tonight’s show and didn’t even call.”

  “He’ll understand,” I insisted. “And,” I added with mild annoyance, “I can take care of myself.” The balance hadn’t shifted that much. Tom might have become better at taking care of Regan than I was—something I would have to work on—but there was nothing I couldn’t deal with. Just like Louisa, I reassured myself, mentally dismissing what Regan told me as I hugged her and Tom good-bye.

  However, when I finally left the hospital at close to midnight, I found myself sneaking into my own apartment in a way I’d never even snuck into my father’s house, because I knew that Johnny was definitely going to be mad, and I wasn’t actually sure if I could handle it.

  Relieved to find the apartment dark, I crept in hastily, shutting the door to prevent the hall light from leaking in and waking Johnny if he was sleeping. I closed myself into total darkness. Four steps in, Johnny growled “Emily!” from somewhere in the black abyss in front of me.

  Startled, I jumped, but quickly regaining composure, I scanned the room for the source of the voice. In the left corner, approximately where our bed was, I spotted the red glow of his cigarette. I waited for him to turn on the light, but he didn’t. “Regan’s in the hospital, Johnny,” I informed him without any hint of apology in my voice.

  “So that’s your excuse for not showing up, not even calling me to let me know that you weren’t intending to play the biggest show of your career. The one I set up for you, for us. I whored myself to get major-label A&R people to come …”

  I wished he could see me rolling my eyes at that one. He needed to stop acting like he didn’t want to be a well-connected rock star. And I had to stop allowing his ambition to take over my life.

  “I never asked you to do that,” I said. “In fact, you never asked me if that was what I wanted. But it’s really beside the point, okay? I watched my best friend almost bleed to death tonight. I just want to sleep—”

  “Ha!” Johnny scoffed. “What did Regan do this time? Get drunk and try to kill herself? I told you that she was dragging you down with all her crap. She’s a lush! What did you expect?”

  Seething, I kicked the bathroom door, pretending the cracking wood was Johnny’s skull. “Regan’s a lush? Jesus Christ, look who’s talking!” I ranted. “I’m sure you’ve got your bottle of whiskey right next to you. At least drinking doesn’t make Regan an asshole. Oh, wait … I forgot! The asshole-drunk thing is part of your whole punk-rock act, isn’t it, John?” I paused briefly. If I’d quit then, I probably could have left quietly, but I’d never been good at quitting while I was ahead.

  I stalked toward the glow of his cigarette, punting everything in my path for emphasis. “You are so fake. You bring me down here so we can be this perfect little punk-rock couple, another part of your image. Every day you remind me how good I am, how I’m gonna be such a big rock star, and you just want to help me. Bullshit! You’re just using me to get ahead. You created this buzz for my band and set up shows, which you so graciously let me headline because you think that if some big label tries to sign me, I’ll say, ‘Oh, you have to sign my boyfriend’s band, too,’ because I owe you for rescuing me from Carlisle and helping me make a name in the big city. I could have done it myself, John Thompson,” I jeered, emphasizing his given name because I knew how much it pissed him off. Since I’d dubbed him Johnny Threat, he’d all but legally changed his name to that moniker. I felt him sneering at me through the darkness, which enraged me further, so I continued, “Your band sucks and you know it. Especially compared to mine—”

  I stopped when I heard his whiskey bottle shatter against the wall behind me, sending tiny shards of glass into the back of my arm and splattering me with what liquor was
left in the bottle. “You asshole! You want to fight me, go ahead, but fight me fair,” I screeched, turning around and groping for the light switch.

  When I finally hit it, the blast of brightness from overhead momentarily blinded me. “Oh, I wouldn’t fight a girl,” Johnny mocked from behind me. The tone of his voice was low and even. He was not sloppy, goofy, make-you-laugh drunk. He was dark and bitter. “Besides, I know a way to hurt you worse.”

  “What are you talking about?” I whirled around to face him. He didn’t have to answer. He sat on our bed, still fully clothed in torn blue jeans and a sweaty black T-shirt that clung to his thin frame and muscled arms. He’d backed all the way into the corner, leaning against the wall with my guitar in his lap. The one my father had given me. “Where did you get that?” I demanded.

  “From the rehearsal space. After you didn’t show up at the venue when you said you would, I went looking for you guys. I noticed that you forgot this.” He drummed his fingers on the perfect blue body.

  I met his bloodshot eyes, such a stormy gray they were almost onyx. Red blotches covered his face, reflecting the mixture of wrath and alcohol. I stomped toward him. “Give that back!”

  “Why? You obviously don’t care about your music as much as I thought you did. So you must not care about this.” He hissed the last sentence like a snake, flecks of spit dripping from the corner of his sneer.

  I decided to try the calm approach because he was drunk, pissed, and he had my guitar—a very bad combination. “Johnny, you can think whatever you want about me. I understand why you’re angry, just give me my guitar.”