Immaterial Defense: Once and Forever #4

by Lauren Stewart

  That thought disappeared as soon as we walked through it. Suddenly, everything was moving four times faster than normal—nurses power-walking, orderlies narrowly missing each other with their carts or freaky-looking machines.

  The smell would’ve made me want to vomit if I didn’t already want to for other reasons.

  As we walked through the ICU, I tried to keep my eyes forward and not on the curtained rooms on either side of us, some of them closed and some open. It was like I couldn’t trust Sam to take me to the right one, and there was a chance I’d miss Trevor completely. Sam stopped in front of a room with a nameplate that said 13B next to it. I swear to God, I’d never been as scared as Sam slid open that divider. Like we were on the wrong side of the shower curtain in the movie Psycho or something.

  Norman Bates wasn’t there, nor were any other scary creatures. In fact, the body in the bed, kept running by all the beeping machines around it, looked incredibly fragile. As if the stiff white sheets neatly tucked under both sides of him were all that kept him from falling apart.

  “Shit, Trev,” I whispered to him. Anything louder was too dangerous—I’d either shatter him or start sobbing. “What the fuck did you do?”

  Sam was close enough to hear me. “I thought he was just drunk, but then he collapsed and smacked his head against the floor. It was the scariest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Dec. I couldn’t catch him.” He lifted up his sweater, exposing a sling on his left arm that had been under it. I’d been too overwhelmed to notice his empty sleeve.

  “What happened?”

  “I tried to keep his head from hitting the floor. Broke a couple bones in my wrist.” His eyes glossed over. “Once the swelling goes down, they might have to fuse it together, man. What if I can never…play again?”

  “Don’t think about that now, Sam. Okay? One step at a time. Did they give you anything for the pain?”

  He nodded, his eyes never lifting back to mine. “The good stuff.” Well, that explained why nothing he’d said on the phone made any sense.

  “Listen, Sam, worrying won’t help anyone, okay?” Of course, in the history of man, saying that had never helped anyone either.

  I glanced at the hard metal chair next to Trevor’s hospital bed. I swear, whoever was in charge of buying those things had a masochistic streak. Why else would they buy something to make a paranoid, sad, and anxious person even more uncomfortable?

  “Sit down,” I said to Sam. “I can stand.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Dec. I…I feel like I’m going to lose it any minute. The smell…”

  I knew exactly what he meant. The air itself smelled ill, a mixture of too many conflicting scents—antiseptic, medication, sweat, and something like rancid baby powder. The heat only strengthened the nausea factor.

  “Do what you gotta do, man. You took care of him, got him here. I can take over.” Doing nothing productive. “Go take care of yourself for a while.”

  “You sure?”

  “Totally. Go. Get some rest. I’ll call you if—” I caught my slip a second too late—“when he wakes up. Come back this afternoon, if you want. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Thanks. Call me if anything happens, okay?”

  After I promised him that I would, he thanked me again for a reason I couldn’t fathom, shook my hand with his good one, and then left.

  I paced back and forth from Trevor’s side to the main hallway, hoping someone would be here soon to answer all the questions I needed to ask. How much they thought he’d had to drink, did they have to pump his stomach, when did they think he would wake up. I even considered looking up concussions online but knew it would only drive me into more of a panic.

  After a few minutes, I sat down, staring at the crooked line of Trevor’s heartbeat. I ignored the numbers next to it—I’d never been able to remember which one was important and what a normal blood pressure was.

  The heart rate line was hypnotic, something my eyes could follow even if they couldn’t understand what it meant. Something predictable and human that proved my friend was still alive. It was the only positive thing in the room, the only thing that gave me any hope at all, so I clung to it. An excuse to avoid looking at Trevor’s chalky complexion, the dark rings under his closed eyes, and the tube coming out of his nose.

  This whole fucking thing was like a bad flashback. Back when I’d been in a similar ER for a similar reason—because my best friend had given up. But the worst was the feeling of resentment I felt just looking at him. The anger…the hurt…the guilt. Was this my fault? Did my selfishness put him in here?

  My father—a great shrink who could empathize with everyone except his own son—would’ve told me that these kinds of feelings were totally natural and normal, but wouldn’t release me until I dealt with the underlying issues. Namely, that I took responsibility for other people’s problems and wanted to control everything around me. Then he’d also unhelpfully toss in the idea that I had a victim complex and really needed to work on it. But these things take time and work, so instead of being a loser musician, I should spend my time doing more self-contemplation and working on my id and superego or some shit like that.

  Things only got worse when the nurse showed up to check Trevor out.

  “When is he going to wake up?” I asked, moving out of her way.

  She looked at me warily as if I didn’t have a right to know. So, I took Trevor’s hand in mine, then looked at her again, my eyes pleading with her. A perk of living in San Francisco—people were used to gay couples. Hopefully, the nurse would assume that Trevor was my boyfriend or husband and tell me what she wouldn’t have shared with his best friend, family or not.

  She sighed before starting to check all the wires and tubes he was connected to. “I wish I had an answer for you. But any timeline we gave would probably be wrong. We’ll be here for him, monitoring his vitals, and doing all we can, but unfortunately, Mr. Finley has to do all the real work. He has a severe concussion, and his body is dealing with a lot right now. Plus, as I’m sure you know, a lot of damage was done well before last night.” She went to her mobile computer station and looked up something on the screen. “He’s a tough guy, though—I’ll give him that. Although, maybe you’ll be able to answer a question for us. The friend who came in with him didn’t know about it, and the hospital’s records don’t show any follow-up care he’s received after he came in for the initial diagnosis. So, what has he been doing for his pain?”

  “What pain?”

  “For his pancreatitis.”

  Pancreatitis? “Is that like appendicitis?” Painful but no big deal. He goes into surgery, they slice him open, cut out the bad bit, staple him back up, and he’s one hundred percent again a week later. Unless I asked the surgeon to cut off his balls while they were there. His punishment for putting me through this shit again.

  The nurse shook her head, pausing as if she were wondering how much she could tell me. “Trevor’s pancreatitis is chronic. For men his age, the most common cause is long-term alcohol abuse. Do you know how long he’s been an alcoholic?”

  It would’ve been easier to answer how long he wasn’t an alcoholic. “A while, I guess. He started drinking when we were fourteen or fifteen, but it wasn’t too bad until he was around twenty.” When she raised an eyebrow, I nodded. “It could’ve been worse than I thought, I guess. He’s always been good at holding his liquor.” As teenagers, I could keep up with him. Except that while he could still function well enough to fool my parents, all I could manage was aiming for the toilet.

  “We’ll keep watching his vitals and giving him fluids to rehydrate him, and there are some more tests we’ll need to run. But he’s going to have to wake up before we can find out how much neurological damage he suffered. And then we go from there. Thankfully, he’s young.”

  “And as stubborn as hell.”

  She smiled. “In this case, that will probably help. I’ll ask the doctor to come in to answer any more questions you have. But
it’s been a busy night, so I can’t guarantee how soon it will be.”

  Once she’d left, I sat back down. It felt even quieter now. Colder, too. I thought about what she’d said. Pancreatitis, a chronic disease that Trevor apparently had but hadn’t mentioned, caused severe pain that he hadn’t mentioned. Why would he have kept something like that from me?

  “Wake up, you bastard.” Even my whisper had an edge to it, hinting at the betrayal I felt. “You’re not allowed to die. You understand me? Not after all the shit you put me through. Not after everything we’ve been through together.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “If you make me go through all of this and then die, I will hate you forever. You hear me? Forever. And I won’t feel bad about it.” On a scale of one to a thousand, how bad was it to lie to someone who might be lying on their deathbed? At twenty-fucking-four years old.

  Jackass.

  I laid my head down on the bed, my arms resting between it and Trevor’s hand, hoping I’d feel him twitch or touch me. Hell, I’d even be happy if he smacked me. Because that would mean he hadn’t given up.

  I was a mess, reliving something I’d sworn to myself I’d never have to go through again. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the one who could keep that promise. The only way I could’ve was to have pushed Trevor out of my life, something I refused to do. Because I’d been so worried it would shove him into a depression so deep that it made him think this exact situation was the only way to deal with it.

  Losing someone is hard, whether they are ill or in an accident. But when someone is mentally ill and the loss is no accident, being left behind feels like the universe just wants to be cruel.

  But the truth was that I hadn’t lost my best friend. Not yet. And there was a chance I wouldn’t.

  “Don’t die, you shithead. Because…” Why? The only thing Trevor had ever really cared about was Self Defense. And I’d taken that away from him. I should’ve trusted my gut, known he was full of shit when he’d said he was okay with the band breaking up. If I hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t have spent the night partying as if it were his last.

  It couldn’t be his last. It just couldn’t.

  Maybe if he knew things would go back to the way they were, he’d wake up. “Because I changed my mind. I don’t want the band to split up. Yep, I want to give it one more shot.”

  I’d never bought into the idea unconscious people could hear the outside world before now. Now, I understood why people did—they needed to. I needed to. Talking to him was the only thing I could do to stop feeling so fucking useless.

  “Let’s do it, man. Do it right this time. I’m all in. I’ll fucking post on Instagram, talk to fans, wear as much leather as Doug wants me to. We can do it. Together.” I took a quick breath. “Plus, Sara and I got back together. I want to show her what it’s like to be on tour. I can’t wait to bang her on the bus, actually.” My laugh sounded ill. “But you’re not allowed to watch or listen. In fact, I regret mentioning it to you right now. Thank God you’re in a coma and can’t hear me.”

  I flipped from watching his eyes and his hands, looking for any sign he could hear me. “Unless you’re awake now. Are you, man? Are you awake?”

  38

  Sara

  After Declan had left, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was flattered that he trusted me enough to leave me alone at his place without warning—I’d be too worried someone would go through my drawers and find my vibrator or the stash of kinky erotica on my e-reader. Shockingly, I was completely comfortable here, even without him. Kitty was actually great company. She snored a little, but she was almost as good a snuggler as her dad. The more time I spent with her, the more I liked the idea of living like this. Just the three of us.

  Although, it was a little early to start daydreaming—Declan and I hadn’t even broached the subject of what would happen next. If he was serious about leaving the band and didn’t feel the need to babysit Trevor, he wouldn’t have to tour. And I wouldn’t have to either live on a bus if I went with them or worry about all the groupies that hit on him if I didn’t go.

  Around three thirty, I decided to go to my parents’ house, shower, and put on some makeup so no one would be able to tell how much crying I’d done over the last few days. If I waited until normal morning hours, my mom or stepdad would be awake, and I might have to talk to them. Or, knowing my luck, Cal would be there, asking Beatrice to make him something for breakfast.

  So, if I wanted to grab some stuff to bring back to Declan’s, or go stay with Andi and Hayden, now was the time to do it. Hopefully, I could get in, toss the necessities into a bag, and get out without having to explain why I was leaving and where I was going.

  On the way to my parent’s house, I considered calling Declan. Then I remembered that annoying hospital policy about not allowing cell phone use inside the rooms. So, I decided to wait a little while before calling him. Hopefully, he’d save me the trouble and call me as soon as he could, anyway.

  I asked the ride-share driver to let me off on the sidewalk to avoid waking up anyone in the house. Besides the sound of my key slipping into the deadbolt of the front door, everything was silent as I tiptoed inside.

  I took a quick shower, got dressed, and had just about finished packing when I heard a quiet tapping on my door.

  Shit. Please let it be Beatrice. Please let it be Beatrice. She didn’t live with us but started working sometime between when I got home from my longest nights of partying and when I woke up on my earliest mornings.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t Beatrice. It had been so long since I’d seen my mom without her hair and makeup done I almost didn’t recognize her. Her medium-length, fake blond hair was heading off in twelve different directions, and her pale skin made the half-circles under her eyes look like dark sides of the moon. She used the sleeve of her silk pajamas to brush the hair off her face.

  “Geez, Mom. Go back to bed.” Since my time was now up, I slung my bag over my shoulder and pushed past her, heading straight for the stairs.

  Unbelievably, she followed. “Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Sara Elizabeth Antonopoulos, you stop right there and tell me where you’re going.” She hadn’t used my full name in years. Especially considering how much she hated that I’d chosen to keep my father’s name instead of switching to Timothy’s when they got married.

  I spun around to face her. “I’m meeting a friend. Is that alright with you?”

  “This isn’t a hotel, young lady. You can’t just come and go as you please without sharing anything about what’s going on in your life. Where are you going in the middle of the night?” As if she’d ever cared before.

  “I know you don’t see many of them, but it’s morning, Mom.” I clenched my teeth together to stop myself from saying anything else. But I guess being treated like a child made me want to act like one, so I opened my big mouth. “Maybe the reason I don’t tell you anything is because I know you won’t listen.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  I sighed. “Nothing.” I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to leave. And the easiest way to make that happen was to humor her. “I’m going to Declan’s place. Okay? I’ll be back later. I don’t know when exactly, but I’ll text you this afternoon.”

  “We need to talk about Cal.”

  “Later.” Because nothing could’ve made me want to leave more than the thought of talking about Cal.

  “No, Sara. Now. God only knows what later means to you these days.”

  “Wow. Great way to make me want to stay and chat, Mom.”

  Either it was too early for her to pick up on sarcasm or too early for her to care. “Your father and I sat down to talk with Cal last night.”

  “Stepfather,” I said without thinking. Then the rest of the comment sank in. “What about?”

  “He told us some unpleasant things about you, things a mother never wants to hear about her child. Have you been spreading lies about him?”

  My bag sl
ipped off my shoulder and hit the hardwood floor. She jolted at the sound. I didn’t move.

  “What did he tell you?” I felt ill. Since our confrontation had gone so miraculously badly, I knew he hadn’t suddenly grown a conscience and told them the truth. Cal didn’t know what truth was. But telling them that I was the liar? How would stirring up trouble for me benefit him? I would’ve assumed he’d just keep his mouth shut.

  “Cal told us about the drugs, Sara.” Bits of anger, pity, frustration, and sleepiness all made it into her expression, leaving it unreadable. “If Declan has gotten you involved with something illegal, you have to stop seeing him immediately, Sara. Don’t let him take you down with him. Timothy and I are committed to getting you whatever help you need. Timothy has a good lawyer, and there’s rehab—”

  “Wait. What?” I backed up a second, unsure of what I just heard. “I don’t need help. Declan has been nothing but good to me. And he definitely isn’t involved in anything illegal.” Halfway through speaking, I got it. Cal was on the offense now. After I’d confronted him, he must have decided I finally had the courage to start telling other people. And if I were brave enough to tell them about the rape, what would keep me from telling them he dealt drugs, too? So, before the truth came out, he preemptively started covering his ass.

  “I don’t do drugs, Mom. Neither does Declan. And neither of us would ever sell them. I swear to you.”

  This time, it was easy to read her expression. She didn’t believe me. Again.

  Damn, my stepbrother was an amazing liar. He’d even thrown Declan in there to make me seem completely unreliable and untrustworthy. He used Timothy and my moms’ fears to guarantee they’d believe the worst about Declan and, by association, me. The wild, troubled daughter who was dating a member of a rock band would say anything to get out of trouble. Never leave a stereotype unturned.

  “No!” I shouted. No, he didn’t get to do that. “Everything Cal told you is a lie, Mom.”

  She stepped toward me with her arms out but not with any trust. “Honey, please—”