Wicked White
Page 4
I wish I still played to small crowds and lived in the land of obscurity.
Jane Ann whips her head back in my direction. “What in the hell were you thinking telling them you’re canceling shows? You don’t have that kind of authority.”
“But you just said that I could go after the show tonight,” I argue. “Why wouldn’t I tell them I’ll be gone for a couple days?”
She shakes her head. “I never said that you could go. Do you know how much money we’ll lose if you don’t show up at those next two shows? You aren’t going anywhere.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Jane Ann begins shoving me in the direction of the stage the moment Wicked White’s name is announced. “Now get out there.”
Flabbergasted and almost in a dreamlike state, I allow her to keep pushing me until I’ve got one foot on the stage. Tyler, Luke, and JJ begin playing the first song in our set list, and I stare at Jane Ann.
This woman isn’t my friend.
I turn and take in the faces of each of my bandmates one by one. None of them are my friends. They could give a shit less about me. I just told them my mother is sick and they all blow me off like my feelings don’t matter.
I thread my fingers into my bronze hair as it hits me hard. I hate these people just as much as they hate me, and I can’t be around them for one more second. I don’t care what I’m losing. It’s nothing compared with my sanity and the self-worth I’ll lose by sticking around and continuing to be used.
To make sure they get my message above the deafening music that’s playing around the outdoor stage, I raise both of my hands to the guys and flip them the middle finger before I storm off stage.
ACE
I stare at Mom lying in the hospital bed before me. Her hair has grayed even more than the last time I saw her, and the wrinkles around her eyes have deepened. I pull the chair up next to her and take a seat before holding her hand, careful not to disturb any of the tubes hooked to the IV in her vein. Her hand is cold, much colder than what it should feel like. There’s a white plastic tube coming from her mouth, and it’s hooked to a machine that forces air into her lungs.
Fuck. She doesn’t look good. The fact that she’s not woken up since they found her unresponsive yesterday scares the shit out of me. I don’t really remember my real mother. The state of Ohio took me away from her when I was six, and I bounced from home to home until I was twelve. No one wanted to adopt a little kid riddled with the damage a neglectful mother inflicted. It wasn’t until the state placed me with Sarah that I found a permanent home. She was the only person who took the time to get to know me. The only one who helped me overcome the coldness of the world by showing me that love did exist, because she loved me. She was the only one.
I wish I could help her—that I could take her pain away somehow like she did mine.
I thread my fingers into my hair and shove it out of my face. I’ve never liked my hair long, but Jane Ann insists that the long, golden-brown locks, along with my beard, are my signature look. She told me to never change it.
A graying-haired nurse with a few fine lines around her eyes walks into the room and checks all the machines, and then she turns her gaze on me. She frowns, and the sadness touches her eyes, making her pity for me evident.
“Are you her son?” she asks.
I nod, wearing that label proudly. “Yeah, I am.”
“They told me that you were notified. Did you contact the rest of her family?”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t have any. She was an orphan, so it’s just me.”
She grabs the other chair in the room and pulls it up next to mine. “I’m Joelle. This is the second twelve-hour shift I’ve spent taking care of your mother. She’s a fighter, but I’m afraid things don’t look so good. From the report I received, she was able to phone nine-one-one but wasn’t able to talk to the operator who answered. They’re figuring from that time until the paramedics arrived it was close to twelve minutes. We think she lost consciousness right after she made that call, which is a long time for the brain to be without oxygen, so the odds are really stacked against her.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly through pursed lips. “What happened to her, exactly?”
“Her dialysis port ruptured open and she bled out. She attempted to stop the bleeding, but it was so much so fast there was no way she could stop it on her own. We gave her a transfusion after she was revived in the emergency room.”
Tears burn my eyes before they leak out and spill down my cheeks. Joelle rubs my back in that caring way a mother sometimes does to comfort a child.
I wish I could’ve been there. I’ll never be able to tell her how much I loved her and how much she meant to me, and that I would’ve never amounted to anything if she hadn’t encouraged my love of music.
“It’s hard, I know,” Joelle says. “Tell her how you feel. Tell her that you love her. They say that the hearing is the last thing to go. I think she’s been holding on to see you before she goes. Say your good-byes and let her know that it’s okay if she wants to go because you know how much pain she’s in.”
Joelle pats my shoulder and stands, leaving me alone with Sarah again in the room. The constant beeps and rhythmic sounds of the ventilator are the only sounds in the room. I stare at Mom, lying there so frail, and begin crying even harder.
How am I supposed to say good-bye to someone who means so much to me? I took it for granted that I could come back here and see her whenever I wanted, and now it’s too late. This is it, and it’s not fair.
Jane Ann whips her head back in my direction. “What in the hell were you thinking telling them you’re canceling shows? You don’t have that kind of authority.”
“But you just said that I could go after the show tonight,” I argue. “Why wouldn’t I tell them I’ll be gone for a couple days?”
She shakes her head. “I never said that you could go. Do you know how much money we’ll lose if you don’t show up at those next two shows? You aren’t going anywhere.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Jane Ann begins shoving me in the direction of the stage the moment Wicked White’s name is announced. “Now get out there.”
Flabbergasted and almost in a dreamlike state, I allow her to keep pushing me until I’ve got one foot on the stage. Tyler, Luke, and JJ begin playing the first song in our set list, and I stare at Jane Ann.
This woman isn’t my friend.
I turn and take in the faces of each of my bandmates one by one. None of them are my friends. They could give a shit less about me. I just told them my mother is sick and they all blow me off like my feelings don’t matter.
I thread my fingers into my bronze hair as it hits me hard. I hate these people just as much as they hate me, and I can’t be around them for one more second. I don’t care what I’m losing. It’s nothing compared with my sanity and the self-worth I’ll lose by sticking around and continuing to be used.
To make sure they get my message above the deafening music that’s playing around the outdoor stage, I raise both of my hands to the guys and flip them the middle finger before I storm off stage.
ACE
I stare at Mom lying in the hospital bed before me. Her hair has grayed even more than the last time I saw her, and the wrinkles around her eyes have deepened. I pull the chair up next to her and take a seat before holding her hand, careful not to disturb any of the tubes hooked to the IV in her vein. Her hand is cold, much colder than what it should feel like. There’s a white plastic tube coming from her mouth, and it’s hooked to a machine that forces air into her lungs.
Fuck. She doesn’t look good. The fact that she’s not woken up since they found her unresponsive yesterday scares the shit out of me. I don’t really remember my real mother. The state of Ohio took me away from her when I was six, and I bounced from home to home until I was twelve. No one wanted to adopt a little kid riddled with the damage a neglectful mother inflicted. It wasn’t until the state placed me with Sarah that I found a permanent home. She was the only person who took the time to get to know me. The only one who helped me overcome the coldness of the world by showing me that love did exist, because she loved me. She was the only one.
I wish I could help her—that I could take her pain away somehow like she did mine.
I thread my fingers into my hair and shove it out of my face. I’ve never liked my hair long, but Jane Ann insists that the long, golden-brown locks, along with my beard, are my signature look. She told me to never change it.
A graying-haired nurse with a few fine lines around her eyes walks into the room and checks all the machines, and then she turns her gaze on me. She frowns, and the sadness touches her eyes, making her pity for me evident.
“Are you her son?” she asks.
I nod, wearing that label proudly. “Yeah, I am.”
“They told me that you were notified. Did you contact the rest of her family?”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t have any. She was an orphan, so it’s just me.”
She grabs the other chair in the room and pulls it up next to mine. “I’m Joelle. This is the second twelve-hour shift I’ve spent taking care of your mother. She’s a fighter, but I’m afraid things don’t look so good. From the report I received, she was able to phone nine-one-one but wasn’t able to talk to the operator who answered. They’re figuring from that time until the paramedics arrived it was close to twelve minutes. We think she lost consciousness right after she made that call, which is a long time for the brain to be without oxygen, so the odds are really stacked against her.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly through pursed lips. “What happened to her, exactly?”
“Her dialysis port ruptured open and she bled out. She attempted to stop the bleeding, but it was so much so fast there was no way she could stop it on her own. We gave her a transfusion after she was revived in the emergency room.”
Tears burn my eyes before they leak out and spill down my cheeks. Joelle rubs my back in that caring way a mother sometimes does to comfort a child.
I wish I could’ve been there. I’ll never be able to tell her how much I loved her and how much she meant to me, and that I would’ve never amounted to anything if she hadn’t encouraged my love of music.
“It’s hard, I know,” Joelle says. “Tell her how you feel. Tell her that you love her. They say that the hearing is the last thing to go. I think she’s been holding on to see you before she goes. Say your good-byes and let her know that it’s okay if she wants to go because you know how much pain she’s in.”
Joelle pats my shoulder and stands, leaving me alone with Sarah again in the room. The constant beeps and rhythmic sounds of the ventilator are the only sounds in the room. I stare at Mom, lying there so frail, and begin crying even harder.
How am I supposed to say good-bye to someone who means so much to me? I took it for granted that I could come back here and see her whenever I wanted, and now it’s too late. This is it, and it’s not fair.
