My body rotated to the door, and I almost fell from my bed.
Maggie.
She was standing in my hospital room, staring at me, with her hands wrapped around her body. Her blue eyes were bloodshot as if she’d been crying for hours, and her hair was pulled up into a messy bun. She never wore her hair up.
Then again, she never left home.
Was it a dream?
If so, I hoped not to wake.
I parted my lips to ask her what was happening, but my throat burned. It hurt to open my mouth. It hurt to move to my left and turn to my right. It hurt to breathe.
She gave me a tight smile and walked over to my bedside. Taking my right hand, she kissed my palm, and I shut my eyes. I kept trying to clear my throat to speak, but she squeezed my hand once, ordering me not to. So we stayed there, my eyes closed, and Maggie May holding my hand.
She hardly left my hospital room for days. When they offered her a visitor room, set up like a hotel, she declined, holding my hand tighter. She’d curl up into a ball on the small sofa each night and fall asleep. Maggie smiled at me daily, but at night, when she was one with her dreams, I’d watch her twist and turn, and sometimes waking in a sweat. Her demons weren’t gone simply because she left home—but she was trying her best to keep them at bay.
“All right, it’s about that time to get you up and moving around, Brooks,” a nurse said, walking into my hospital room one afternoon. I hated that time of the day. They forced me to walk around the hallways using a walker. Maggie always took the laps with me, and when my left side felt like giving up, and I’d start to fall, she’d leap over to help me, but the nurse ordered her not to save me. “You can come to support, but you can’t help. Don’t worry, I won’t let him fall.”
Halfway down the hall, my chest felt tight, and my breathing grew short. “Back,” I coughed out, my voice hoarse. I wanted to go back to my room and lie down.
“Nope, remember? We’re gonna complete a whole lap before—”
I slammed the walker up and down, my neck throbbing with pain. Back. Back. Back.
It was embarrassing, feeling so weak. My hand hurt. My side burned. My mind was a mess.
The nurse gave me a tight smile, before looking over at Maggie. “I think it’s a good time for a nap.” She winked at Maggie. Maggie frowned, and her worry was loud and clear in her stare.
I grumbled some more. We started back to the room, and after I was placed back into bed, Maggie grabbed a notepad and sat beside me.
You okay today, Brooks?
I squeezed her hand once.
Truth was, I was angry. I was angry at my management team asking what the plan was for the remainder of the tour—even though I wouldn’t be able to play. They brought up all kinds of different plans that included the guys touring without me, replacing me with another performer for a while, and having me hammer out my voice in intense vocal courses.
The scars on my body were nowhere near healed, and they were already treating me as if I didn’t exist anymore. To them, even after ten years of dedicating my life to them, I was nothing more than a paycheck in their eyes.
“We won’t do that,” Calvin argued. “We’ll wait until he’s better,” my best friend told them over and over again.
“Yeah. Without Brooks we’re literally just The Coo. And who the fuck wants to listen to The Coo?” Oliver said.
Rudolph hadn’t said much of anything. He hardly looked at me. I had the feeling he blamed himself for the accident. What I hated the most was the dark corner of my brain that sort of blamed him too. Each day I was becoming less and less of myself. Each day I was a little more bitter. I hated that Maggie sat there watching it happen, too. I hated that she witnessed my destruction.
When the time came for me to leave the hospital, Maggie and I sat in my hospital room while the nurse went to get a wheelchair. My parents had plans for me to come stay with them for a while. To get a nurse to watch over me, so I could focus on healing. But that wasn’t my plan.
“I’m going back to the cabin,” I whispered, because everything I said came out in a low tone. My voice always sounded hoarse whenever it came out, and I hated it.
Maggie arched an eyebrow.
“I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to sit with people’s pity. I don’t want that.”
No one pities you.
“Everyone does. They act like I’m deaf. I hear them. And they blame me, too. At least the media does. I don’t know. I just need a break to get away. To be by myself.”
I know what that’s like. To be in a crowded room where everyone speaks as if you’re a ghost. I’ll come with you.
I frowned. “No, Maggie. You have a to-do list to get started. I’m in no shape to be able to…” I sighed. To be able to have you. “Why does it feel like our timing’s always off?”
Her head lowered to her board, and she began to write as tears fell against her words.
Please don’t leave me again.
I lifted my left hand to console her and paused, looking down at my hand wrapped in a bandage. I wanted her. I wanted her so much, but I knew where my mind was. I knew about the panic attacks I had at night, remembering the accident. I knew about the panic attacks I had during the day, realizing I was the one holding back my band, disappointing my fans, losing promoters for our tour. Losing hundreds of thousands of dollars because of my idea to force myself out on a boat.
I didn’t want to leave Maggie May, but I knew I had to. She had a lifetime of her own panics. The last thing she needed while she was becoming better was to deal with mine.
“Guess who’s back? Back again? Cheryl’s back!” Cheryl hollered, walking into the house with two suitcases and dreadlocks. It had been a week since Brooks sent me home and gone up to the cabin without me. Everyone tried their best to convince him not to go alone, but he wouldn’t have any part of it. He had his nurses who checked in on him and cared for him each day, but otherwise, he was out on his own in Messa.
Daddy, Mama, and I sat down at the dining room table eating dinner as Cheryl came charging into our house, unannounced. Last I heard she was on some island with her boyfriend.
“Cheryl,” Mama said, surprised, but still happy to see her world traveler. “What are you doing here?”
“What? Can’t a girl come visit her family?” She pulled the chair out beside me and sat.
“Always,” Daddy replied. “But last we heard, you were deeply in love with a boy named Jason, and getting dreadlocks on some sandy beach.”
She shook her head. “True, that happened.”
“Where’s Jason?” Mama asked.
“Well, funny story actually. The woman who did my dreads ended up also doing my boyfriend, too.” Everyone’s faces dropped, and Cheryl smiled. “Aw, come on, now. No sad faces. You know what I always say, when life gives you lemons, find vodka.” She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “And find family, too.”
Mama shifted in her seat and looked at Daddy with sad eyes. Without words, they held a conversation, until her lips parted. “Girls, now that you’re both here, I think this is the best time for your father and me to tell you the news.”
I sat up straighter, and Cheryl did, too. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Your mother and I…we’re…” Daddy swallowed hard and gave me a tight smile. “We’re separating.”
What?
No.
“What are you talking about?” Cheryl questioned, confused. She laughed nervously. “Come on. You’re not separating. That’s ridiculous.”
“Well, it’s been a long time coming actually,” Mama explained with a shaky voice. “And now that Maggie has been able to leave the house, we just think it’s time.”
“It’s the best thing, really. For all of us,” Daddy lied through his teeth.
I knew he was lying, too. Because if he were telling the truth, his eyes wouldn’t have looked so sad.
After dinner, Cheryl came into my room, where I was lying on my bed, listenin
g to music on my iPhone. She lay down beside me and took one of my earbuds so she could listen, too.
“I’m twenty-seven years old, and somehow I feel like I want to become my angsty teenager self again, crawl into my closet, and listen to Ashlee Simpson’s Autobiography album over and over again, because my parents are splitting up.”
I’m twenty-eight and feel the same.
“How’s Brooks?” she asked, tilting her head in my direction.
I shrugged. He said he needed space, to be alone.
She nodded. “I get that. When you asked him for space, he gave it to you…so I understand you feeling as if you need to give him the same.”
We kept listening to the music, and Cheryl chuckled. “Remember when we were kids, and I said to you. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing with my life,’ or something?” She started giggling. “Ten years later, and the words still ring true.”
Even though the thought was depressing, we couldn’t stop laughing at it. Sometimes all a person needed to relax their troubled mind was their sister and some laughter.
Within seconds, we were listening to “Pieces of Me,” by Ashlee Simpson, rocking our heads back and forth. We listened to the album a few times, until our minds were back in our childhood days.
Whenever the song “LaLa” came on, we’d stand up and dance with one another. Even though I was proud of Cheryl for traveling the world, I would’ve been lying if I said I wasn’t happy she came home.
Even though Brooks asked for his space, I needed to remind him the same way he always reminded me that he wasn’t alone. I’d send him a text message each morning.
Maggie: You okay today, Brooks Tyler?
Brooks: I’m okay, Maggie May.
Then, a message each night.
Maggie: You okay tonight, Brooks Tyler?
Brooks: I’m okay, Maggie May.
Even though it wasn’t enough to make me stop worrying, it was enough to help me sleep sometimes.
The town of Messa was tiny. The lake took up most of the area. There wasn’t much to the place except a grocery store, a high school, one gas station, and a library, which were all lined up on the coast of the lake. It was all on the opposite side of Mrs. Boone’s cabin, though, which was even nicer. It kept me feeling more alone. I’d only traveled into town for food, then I came back to the cabin.
The only other place I’d found worth visiting was right on the outskirts of Messa—a bar.
It was a hole in the wall.
No one knew it existed, which made it perfect for me. It had whiskey, and pain, and loneliness wrapped up in its quiet walls.
I hadn’t stopped reading forums online about me. I hadn’t stopped watching fans turn against me, tagging me as a drug addict, calling me a liar and a cheater. They believed every lie the tabloids fed to them, turning their backs on me as if I hadn’t given them my all in the past ten years.
As if I were truly every negative word written about me.
I knew I should’ve stopped reading, but I couldn’t put down my phone or the whiskey. The comments from those who claimed to once love me stung more than they should’ve.
Just replace the druggie. It’s been done before!
My brother died from alcohol abuse. The fact that Brooks is so reckless is concerning. I hope he finds help in the rehab center.
He’s a disgrace to music. Millions would kill to have his life, and he just threw it away.
Piece of shit celebrity. Just another tale of fame going to a person’s head.
This is like his fifth time in rehab. Maybe it’s time to start realizing nothing’s going to change.
He’ll be dead by thirty, just like all the other ‘late and great’ drug addict performers.
I reached out for more whiskey as the words became engraved in my mind. There were supportive comments, too, but for some reason those felt like lies. Why is it that negative comments from strangers seem to hurt you the most?
“I think you had enough,” the bartender said sternly, a gentle undertone to his speech as he moved the bottle of whiskey farther from my reach. He had a silver, thick mustache filled with secrets, lies, and potato chip crumbs. Whenever he spoke, the mustache danced above his upper lip, and his words fell from the left corner of his mouth. Long, curly gray hair sat on his head, which he wore pulled back into a bun. An old man bun. The guy had to be over seventy, and he somehow seemed to be effortlessly cool, calm, and collected.
The complete opposite of me.
Each morning and night, I lied to Maggie when I messaged her back.
I shut my eyes and tried my best to recall the bartender’s name, which he’d told me hundreds of times during my state of drunkenness.
Kurt rhymes with hurt.
Lately Kurt was the closest thing I had to a friend. I remembered the first time I met him, two weeks ago when I walked into his bar. I’d been a mess for the past two weeks. The first time he met me, my shoulders were rounded as I sat. My arms were crossed and my forehead met my forearms where I proceeded to try to stop my memories in the corner booth of his empty bar. He didn’t ask me questions. He simply brought me a bottle of whiskey and a glass of ice that night—and the following evenings to come.
“One more,” I muttered, but he frowned and shook his head.
“It’s one in morning, buddy. Don’t you think you should get home, maybe?”
“Home?” I huffed, reaching for the bottle, which he refused to give to me. I looked up into his blue eyes and felt a tug at my heart. Home. “Please?” I begged. Begged—I begged him for alcohol. How pathetic. “Please, Kurt?”
“Bert,” he corrected, a grimaced smile.
Dammit.
Kurt rhymes with hurt, which rhymes with Bert, which is his name.
“That’s what I said.”
“Not what you said. Probably what you meant, though.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant, Bert. Bert. Bert.” How many times could I say his name before I forgot it again?
He sat across from me in the booth and played with the handlebars of his mustache. “What are you drinking to forget?” he asked.
I swallowed hard and said no words.
“That bad, huh?”
I didn’t reply, but I pushed my empty glass in his direction. When I went into the grocery store earlier that day, my face was plastered on magazine covers, speaking of a mental breakdown I hadn’t known I was having. Also, it turned out I was addicted to heroin, and I stormed out of The Crooks due to my addiction.
Then, I made the mistake of signing online and read more things about me. It baffled me how many of my fans fed into the lies.
So, it was easier for me to stay drunk.
Bert pushed my glass back toward me.
“Dick move,” I muttered.
Before he could reply, a group of drunken girls crashed through the front door of the bar. They were beyond wasted, loud, and all dressed in pink from head to toe. Except for one, who was in all white. Bachelorette party. Great. Bert stood up and headed over to the bar to help them all.
“Oh my gosh! This place is sooo adorbs.” One giggled.
“I can’t believe you found it!” another shouted.
They were on what appeared to be a treasure hunt, and one of their stops was a hole in the wall bar—perfect.
I melted into the corner of my booth, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.
They all hurried over to the bar, giggling.
“What can I get you, ladies?” Bert asked.
In unison, they shouted, tossing their hands into the air, “FIREBALL!”
My eyes shut, and I was back on that boat.
“That’s just because America’s Sweetheart Maggie May doesn’t speak. If she did, she’d say some poetic shit, I bet.” He paused, and his eyes grew wide. “FOUL PLAY! I mentioned a girl. I need a shot! FIREBALL!” He launched toward the bottle of Fireball, and as he moved, his body bent over, hanging from the edge of the boat, and I gripped him tight, pushing him back toward the
boat.
I shook my head. Stop. As I was moving across the booth, with every plan to sneak out of the back door, one of the girls spotted me.
“Oh. My. God,” she hissed.
I dropped my head to the table, and tried to act normal.
“Tiffany! Look, is that…?”
The blonde turned my way. “Oh my gosh! It’s Brooks Griffin!” she shouted.
All of the girls started screaming and rushed over to my table. I swore there were only a few at first, but my blurred version was confusing me more than normal. They were shoving their camera phones in my face, and I tried my best to push them away. Then, their questions and comments came flooding in.
“Oh my gosh, Brooks. I’m so sorry about your accident.”
“Oh my God! Did you lose your fingers?”
“Does that mean you can’t play the guitar anymore?”
“Are you going to keep doing music?”
“Can we buy you a shot?”
“Can we get a picture?”
“I love you so much!”
“Is it true about the drugs?”
“No! He wouldn’t…would you? I wouldn’t judge.”
“I smoke pot.”
“My cousin was hooked on prescription pills.”
“Brian?”
“No, West.”
“What happened with Sasha?”
“Did she cheat?”
“Did you cheat? I read an article about you and Heidi Klum…”
“You don’t know me!” I snapped, my hands forming fists. “Why the hell does everyone keep acting like they know me? On the news, the Internet, the tabloids,” I shouted, my throat burning as I hollered at the kids who weren’t trying to be offensive. “No one knows what it’s like to be me. No one knows what it’s like to not be able to do what you love. My life was music and now I can hardly talk. I can’t…no one knows…” I couldn’t talk anymore. I was drunk and my neck hurt. Too many words. Too many emotions. The girls went quiet, unsure what to do, what to say. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay,” one said, her eyes filled with guilt. “We’re sorry.”
The Silent Waters Page 22
