“Another Angel?”
“Well, we’ve already got two of those hanging around. How about Angelica?”
“Angelica Abby O’Hara Marshall?” she said and considered for a moment. “Angel Abby. Yes, that’s it. Good call, Q.”
“I love you,” he said suddenly and, when she looked up he saw she did glow, after all. “Mrs. Marshall,” he finished, and kissed her.
chapter 42
Shan had been fanatically cautious during her pregnancy, eating nutritious food, getting plenty of rest and exercise, which wasn’t always easy while they were touring, and committing to natural childbirth. She tried to do everything right, be an absolutely perfect expectant mother, even prayed to a god she didn’t believe in to atone for the methadone she was ingesting every morning.
At first she thought it worked, because the baby wasn’t born withdrawing. She was small, just over five pounds, but possessed a rosy skin tone once the ravages of birth faded. They were relieved beyond measure, but Dr. Taylor still advised keeping her under observation.
And, when Angelica was three days old, she began to scream. It was different from her usual crying, a jagged, pitiful, high-pitched squall. Then the tremors started, the sweating and diarrhea and vomiting. They moved her to the neonatal intensive care unit, where it was confirmed that she was suffering from methadone withdrawal.
She remained in the hospital for weeks after her birth, sequestered in the special section of the unit devoted to drug-addicted infants. It was a dark, somber place, quiet as a tomb except when one of the babies was crying, which was often, the shrill, piercing wail of the addicted.
“These newborns are hard to console,” one of the special care nurses told them. “They’re physically sick, like having a bad flu. You know,” she said pointedly to Shan. Quinn bristled, but Shan nodded meekly, her lower lip trembling. “They’re jittery and they generally don’t sleep well, either. They need quiet, a dark and calm environment, and they need to be held and comforted a lot. That’s what you can do for your daughter,” she added, to both of them.
So they did. They held her and soothed her and sang to her. Shan learned infant massage, stroking and rubbing the tiny body tenderly. She bathed her when she perspired, then swaddled her in soft blankets and rocked her, for hours sometimes.
Still the baby screamed. She screamed and screamed and screamed. It made Quinn feel like crawling out of his own skin, sometimes, but Shan seemed immune to it. She was tireless in her ministering and never once complained, like she deserved to pay penance for her baby’s misery.
It was an attitude clearly held by some of the staff who looked at her like she was scum. He’d expected better treatment, since addicted newborns were what the place specialized in, but he didn’t even want to imagine the things these people had seen.
Then child protective services showed up and it caught both of them off guard. Apparently it was standard procedure when it was established that a newborn had drugs in her system, but Shan was hysterical, even after assurances that their intention was not to take their baby away. They’d be assigned a case worker, though. Strictly routine, the investigator told them, but it would have been nice to have gotten a fucking warning.
Angelica was a fussy eater, which was usual for babies suffering from neonatal abstinence syndrome, and it was another blow to Shan when the same nurse advised against breast feeding. “There would be traces of methadone in your milk,” the nurse informed her, “and she doesn’t need that, not when she’s trying to detox. It’s healthier for her if she goes on the bottle.”
When Quinn consulted Dr. Taylor, he unequivocally disagreed. “That’s absolutely not true. Breast feeding is the healthiest alternative. It will give your daughter the antibodies she needs and it’s fine if there are minute traces of methadone in the milk. It might even help with the withdrawal.”
When Quinn communicated that information to Shan, she shook her head. “I won’t do it, not if there’s even the slightest chance that I’m toxic for her.”
Toxic? Christ. She was stretched tighter than a snare head and his role, he supposed, was to absorb some of it. He’d felt like he’d had quite a bit of practice with that, since she’d been as irritable toward the end of her pregnancy as the baby was now. At least then they’d been working on the new album—and fighting with her about the songs, yelling at her during the recording sessions was helpful, for him at least. It relieved some of his own tension and he knew Shan understood it. That was part of their relationship; it was what they did, and the normalcy of arguing over the work helped get them through that nerve-wracking time.
But now he had no outlet. She had him to take it out on and he could tolerate that, to a point. Patience wasn’t his strength, though, and before long he could feel the pressure building up to an explosion.
Shan had a room adjacent to the neonatal intensive care unit and she was at the hospital 24/7, one hundred percent focused on Angelica. She hadn’t touched her guitar in weeks and he thought that might have something to do with her anxiety, so the next time he went home he retrieved the Angel.
“Play to her,” he ordered and, when she did, it seemed to help. Whether it was a case of music soothing the savage beast, in this case a detoxing infant, or because it calmed Shan, which in turn settled the baby, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the music comforted all three of them. It was his turn to hold his daughter and he did it against his bare chest, skin to skin with a blanket spread over her back, something the charge nurse referred to as a kangaroo hold. Sometimes Shan was the one to hold her that way, nestling her between her breasts and singing with him while he played, but it really seemed that the music her mother made soothed Angelica best.
After nearly four weeks, Dr. Taylor pronounced the baby drug free and they were finally allowed to take her home. When they arrived there, Quinn had a surprise for them.
There was a bassinet for her in their bedroom, a pretty wicker and toile confection that was a gift from Quinn’s brother. She would sleep there at night, but Angelica had her own nursery, too, a corner room with north- and east-facing windows. Shan had put an enormous amount of care into its furnishings. No blithe pastels for her child, she decided, instead creating a warm space of earthy, restful colors, greens and tans and blues. An enormous coast live oak grew right outside, its gnarly limbs and dark green leaves swathing the broad windows protectively. Together with the muted green walls, it gave the room the feel of a haven in the trees, a peaceful, calming place for a baby whose road into the world had been a rocky one.
While she’d been at the hospital Quinn had added a few touches of his own: a high border comprised of musical notes, a beautiful layette that reflected the same, even a sweet mobile of musical instruments that played “Rock and Roll Lullaby.” Shan gasped when she saw it. “I hope you’re not mad,” he said hastily. “I know you put a lot of thought into this room, but she loves music, angel. It nourishes her, just like it does us, and she should be surrounded with it.”
When Shan turned, her eyes were shining. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s perfect. I love it. I just love it, Q…and I love you, too.”
He grinned, relieved. He was never quite sure how she’d react to things these days. Those damned hormones again, he noted as he lifted the baby from Shan’s arms and checked her.
“Dry,” he said, then tucked her into her crib. Once he had her situated, he bent to examine her. He did this often. He was enchanted with his child, so tiny and fragile, beautiful as her mother except for the blue eyes that were just like his own.
Those eyes were now closing and he felt Shan pressing against him. “Let’s make love,” she whispered. “Please?”
“Really?” He regarded her skeptically. “It’s a little soon for sex, isn’t it?”
“We can do other stuff,” she said archly.
She didn’t have to ask twice. They only made it as far as the hallway outside the nursery before he pulled her down on the floor.
Angie continued to be
a fussy baby, so they both spent a lot of time rocking and holding and singing, but Shan’s relief at having her daughter at home had done much to alleviate her distress. Their life returned to a semblance of normalcy.
Even normal felt strange to her, though. The beautiful house, her new family, her own status as a rising rock star and the seemingly endless stream of money—it felt like she’d somehow landed in someone else’s life. She was suspicious of her good fortune and reluctant to embrace it, but when she allowed herself to feel it she was happier than she’d ever been in her life.
Except for the days when the case worker visited, when Shan’s anxiety indicator shot up to critical levels. The visits angered Quinn, who didn’t understand why they were necessary. Their child was safe, loved, well cared for, and Shan didn’t fit the profile of a drug-addict mother. Except for the prescriptive methadone she never touched drugs of any kind. She wouldn’t let anyone smoke a cigarette within fifty feet of the baby, for Crissake. She was financially well off, gainfully employed, involved in a stable relationship—what was the fucking problem?
Quinn detested the case worker, an officious bitch named Carolyn Prout who seemed to hold a personal grudge against Shan. The investigator at the hospital had assured them that the visits were a precautionary measure and they’d likely close the case soon, but Ms. Prout kept scheduling visits. He spoke with their pediatrician, who told him that cases like theirs were common. Addicted mothers were considered child abusers, even in cases like Shan’s where the drug in question was doctor prescribed.
He even called Dr. Taylor, who was sympathetic. “There’s so much focus on perinatal drug use these days, such an increase in fetal alcohol syndrome, crack babies, and so forth, that a lot of people have adopted a zero-tolerance policy. They want to see the mothers off methadone, even though we know it’s often not possible or even advisable. There’s no point in trying to educate those people,” he added, “because, when we try, we hit a brick wall.”
Ms. Prout was clearly one of those people and it seemed to Quinn like Shan was being punished for getting help. The woman was mining for a reason to nail them, but after three months of visits to their pristine home, squeaky clean drug tests, and excellent reports from their pediatrician she reluctantly closed the case and they rejoiced to have an unsullied opportunity to enjoy each other and their child.
It was short-lived, as the release of their third album was imminent. It was highly anticipated, Cardinal having poured significant resources into the promotion of Quinntessence: Questions, and the band members were gearing up for the tour, another six months on the road.
For the Marshall family, the preparations were more extensive this time. Quinn was working with Jeff to secure another vehicle that didn’t need to be as huge as the tour bus, but had to accommodate the two of them, Angelica, Sugaree, and the nanny they were planning to hire. They were interviewing scores of people for that position, each of whom was rejected for one reason or another. Quinn was ruthless in his determination to unearth any flaw, but even the few who passed his muster were nixed by Shan.
“We need a special kind of person. Angie’s difficult, sometimes,” Shan said as they pored over yet another set of applications.
“She’s adorable,” Quinn said, bristling. “The most beautiful baby in the world.”
“Of course I think that, too,” she assured him, because he worshipped his daughter and refused to hear even the slightest criticism, “but she still needs a lot of comforting. I want someone restful and soothing, and very responsible. They need to like dogs, too,” she added.
The departure date was looming when Quinn struck on the perfect solution. He made some calls and, a few nights later, their doorbell rang.
“I have a surprise for you,” he told Shan.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” He took her by the arm, propelled her down the hall, and positioned her in front of the door. “I hired a nanny,” he said. “She’s here.”
Shan’s eyes widened and her face went bright red. “What?” But he’d flung open the door and her anger was throttled when she saw the bright white smile in the very dark face.
Shan’s mouth dropped open and she stared at Quinn. “You hired Oda?”
Oda laughed, a wonderful, deep-belly rumble that Shan didn’t realize how much she missed until she heard it, and it broke her paralysis.
“Oh, Q! You hired Oda!” she squealed, throwing her arms around her friend.
“You said you wanted somebody soothing, restful, and responsible, and who liked dogs,” Quinn said. “I thought it would be good if it was somebody who liked us, too. Besides, she makes a mean Bloody Mary.”
“And we both figured you wouldn’t have any objection to rooming with me again,” Oda added with a laugh. Shan hugged her again, beaming over her shoulder at Quinn. I love you, she mouthed and he smirked, clearly pleased with himself as he reached for Oda’s bag.
They had barely enough time to get Oda settled before it was time to depart. Jeff had engaged a luxury coach with enough sleeping compartments to accommodate them all on the odd occasions when they’d have to spend the night on the bus.
They set off on the road and the band was a little less enthusiastic than they’d been about their previous tours. Dan was never happy to be separated from Denise. Dave had just bought a house in the Hollywood Hills and grumbled about having to leave it. Ty was all hot and heavy with a model he’d begun dating and was glum about his new relationship being put on hold.
Shan was down, too, as they departed, even though she knew Quinn had made an enormous effort to make the trip bearable for her. Their coach was beautiful and she had her best girlfriend on board, not to mention her baby and her dog. They even had driver Fred at the helm, since he’d refused to give up his canine copilot.
The shows were just as packed as the last tour, especially when Quinntessence: Questions was released with great fanfare. Once again the media was everywhere and they were interviewed by Creem, Keyboard, and MTV, but the most exciting press by far was a cover story for Good Vibrations. It was one of the biggest music magazines in the world, second only to Rolling Stone in the United States. To be so highly featured, Lorraine told them, was a signal of impending superstardom.
During this tour, she’d arranged for them to be joined by Max Archer, one of Vibration’s top rock journalists. The reporter and his camera crew dogged them for more than a week, particularly Shan. Although she was uneasy at being the focus of such attention, she capitalized on the opportunity to cast some light on the challenges faced by female musicians.
“So you’re a rock feminist?” Archer asked.
“That’s not the point,” she told him. “Calling me that just makes me a nonman. What I’m saying is that the hard rock landscape needs to be wide open to everyone, not just men, because gender doesn’t have anything to do with making music. I’m sick of people acting like testicles are a requirement for playing a hot guitar lick.”
“Case in point,” he laughed.
“It’s about talent, not balls,” she said. “Right, Q?”
“Right,” Quinn said, but his smile looked forced.
They were in Houston when the issue with the story was messengered to them, arriving the day before it broke on the newsstands. When Quinn pulled it out of the envelope, Shan gasped.
The picture on the cover was of her, only her, clad in tight, faded jeans and a lacy tank, confronting the camera with a challenging stare, hair flying wildly around her face and white Strat shielding her body like a talisman. NO BALLS HERE proclaimed the caption.
“What?” Shan said. “That is so not the message I was trying to give! And where’s everybody else?” Dan didn’t reply. Dave shrugged and Ty looked downright annoyed. Even Quinn’s face was tight as he flipped open to the story.
“‘It’s no secret that rock music is under the dominion of men,’” he read aloud. “‘From Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison, and Led Zeppelin right up to today’s hypermasculine heavy hitters
like Guns N’ Roses and Mötley Crüe, the male mojo has been an essential ingredient in the hard rock crucible. But Quinntessence has changed all that. Their highbrow fusion of hard rock with a progressive edge, acid jazz, and hard-hitting blues delivered through the dynamic guitar stylings and silvery vocal chops of a supremely talented female rocker has birthed something entirely new, every bit as powerful and aggressive as cock rock, but without the injection of semen. All hail Twat Rock—the new sound of the nineties!’”
Quinn’s smile vanished.
“Twat rock?” he said.
He raised his head and looked at her. “Twat—fucking—rock?” he repeated in disbelief.
Shan just stared at him, speechless.
chapter 43
“It isn’t my fault,” Shan insisted later that night when they were in their hotel room.
“You spent the entire fucking week shooting your mouth off about how women never get a decent break in the rock world,” Quinn said. “It’s no wonder that’s what Archer zeroed in on.”
“It’s true,” she declared. “Haven’t you always said I should blaze a trail for girl rockers?”
“Yes, but not at the expense of the rest of your band. That article made it sound like we’re nothing but your fucking backup, for Chrissake!”
That wasn’t entirely true. The piece had devoted considerable space to Quinn’s virtuosity on keyboards, his flawless technique, and unique musical vision. Every band member had been singled out for praise; in fact, Dan’s expertly articulated drum syncopations were described as ferocious and huge, Dave’s inventive, grooving rhythm style was extolled, and Ty was pronounced a master of intricate jazz melody. The article was about Quinntessence as a whole, not just her, although she had to admit that both her musicianship and her opinions were front and center.
“Well, I’m the lead singer,” she said. “When they write about Guns N’ Roses, they focus on Axl Rose. With Nirvana, it’s Kurt Cobain. It’s what the media does.”
Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) Page 37
