Sunday, November 27
(Kate)
My phone's vibrating across Keller's dresser. I blink the sleep out of my eyes and glance at the clock. 1:37 am. The ringing stops before I answer it, but once I have it in my hand, it vibrates insistently again. It's Franco.
"Hey, Franco." My tongue feels too big for my mouth, making my voice sound thick and slow. This new pain medication makes waking a slow process. As if consciousness doesn't agree with me. It's powerful shit.
"Kate. Sorry to wake you, but what in the hell is up with your boy?"
I pull myself to a sitting position and say, "What? What's wrong, Franco?" I glance at Keller sleeping beside me.
"Gus. The punk ass shows up yesterday afternoon at the venue fifteen minutes late for soundcheck, wasted out of his fucking mind. Then he disappears afterwards. We find him at a bar down the street and have to practically carry him out to get him back for the show, which in hindsight was a mistake of epic proportions. That show was a full blown shit-storm. He was so drunk he forgot half the words, he refused to play his guitar, he cursed at the crowd, and he fell down twice. It was fucking brilliant." The sarcasm weighs heavy in that last declaration. "Sure, he can perform drunk. He's done it a million times. But this...this was beyond fucked up. He's locked himself in the bus now and won't let anyone in. He won't talk to any of us. His phone goes straight to voicemail. What the hell happened in Minnesota? I've never seen him like this."
Shit. This is bad. I know that Gus shuts down when he's upset. The only people he'll talk to when he's like this are his mom and me. It's always been that way. I can't hold back the sigh.
"What is it, Kate? What's wrong? It's bad, isn't it?" The anger in his voice softens.
I whisper, "Yeah, hold on," as I slip out of bed.
Keller stirs in bed next to me. "Babe, what's wrong?"
I hold the phone away from my face. "It's okay, baby. I'll be back in a few minutes. I need to take this call." I put on my coat and boots and open the door to step outside as quickly and quietly as I can. It's freezing out here. "Okay, Franco. Sorry, I had to go someplace I could talk."
"It's fine. Sorry to wake you, Kate, but I didn't know what else to do. This isn't Gus. I'm worried."
"Yeah, me too." I take a few deep breaths before I speak. "I'm sick, Franco."
"Oh. Fuck." And then quieter, "Fuck." And then louder, "Please tell me the cancer isn't back?"
"It's back." I feel terrible saying it, like I've somehow let him down giving him the answer he didn't want.
I hear a loud crash like he's kicked or hit something followed by silence.
I continue. "Gus found out Thursday night. We spent the night at the hospital. He dealt with it pretty well until we dropped him off at the airport this morning."
"Yesterday morning," he corrects.
"Right, I guess it is Sunday, isn't it."
"So, what's the prognosis?" He sounds scared.
"Not good."
"Oh, Kate." And now he just sounds sad. "I'm so sorry."
Keller's voice breaks through the darkness. "Katie, it's freezing out here. Come inside and talk. You won't wake Stella. She's asleep on the loveseat."
My boots crunch against the snow as I walk shivering back toward the door.
"Listen, Kate, I gotta go. I may have to bust the goddamn door down on that bus."
I'm whispering when I step inside and Keller wraps his arms around me. "I wish there was something I could do to help you. To help Gus."
Franco laughs but there's only a hint of amusement behind it. "And there's the Bright Side Gus loves so much. We'll take care of him, Kate. You take care of yourself. Fight the good fight. Do you hear me? Fucking fight this."
I nod even though he can't see me. "Okay," I say, even though there's nothing to fight now.
"Later."
"Bye, Franco."
This is why I didn't want Gus to know. I've just become his downfall.
I text Gus immediately: Call me. That's an order.
My phone rings in my hand at 2:25 in the afternoon. I've been holding onto it for over twelve hours waiting for this call. "Hey, Gus. You okay?"
"I feel like Bruce Lee is battling Mike Tyson inside my skull." He sounds like he's on the losing end.
"Who's winning?" I have to try to cheer him up.
He coughs. I think it was supposed to be a chuckle. "Bruce is a fast little fucker, but Mike is fierce. It could go on a while, dude."
"Rough night, huh?" I don't want to chastise or nag. I'm sure he's heard enough of that already.
He sighs. "That's what they tell me. Though I beg to differ. I'd take a night I don't remember over the way I'm feeling right now any day."
"Gus, I'm not gonna get all sanctimonious on you, because that would make me the world's biggest fucking hypocrite, but maybe there's a better way to deal with all of this. Maybe a way that's more conducive to keeping the band afloat and the tour train in motion. You have to be able to function, dude. This is your dream, remember? Don't fuck it up." I can feel sorry for him, but I can't baby him. Coddling doesn't do anyone any good.
I hear the click of a lighter, followed by a long inhale and an equally long exhale. For the first time in my life, I don't have the heart to put in my two cents.
"I know, but this is all so fucked up. I'm sorry, Bright Side. I just don't know how I'm going to get through this. I don't even know how to begin to deal."
He sounds sad; it breaks my heart. "I wish you didn't have to. I'm sorry."
"Stop. Please don't apologize. You being sick and me worrying about it is not something you're allowed to be sorry for." Annoyance fades to an aching echo.
We're both quiet for several seconds. "You should write, Gus. Get it all out."
He huffs, and I know he thinks it's a bad idea. "No one wants to hear that kind of anger."
"Who says anyone needs to hear it? Just write the song for you. You can share it with me if you want. We could collaborate. Kind of a last hurrah. What do you say?"
"Is that a challenge?" He's thinking now. I don't hear concession yet, but he's thinking.
I know he never backs down when he's called out, so I bully him a bit. "Yes, it is."
"Aw, damn you, woman. You're evil, you know that?" I can hear his smile through the phone.
The weight's lifting off both of us. "So I've been told."
"Well shit. Nothing to lose, right? Maybe I will. Besides, my liver could use a rest. Just the thought of whiskey makes me want to throw up."
"It will help, I promise. I wrote a lot after Gracie died."
"You never told me that."
"That's because I never told anyone. I just wrote. Most of it's for guitar because I couldn't bear to play my violin. It's probably all shit, but that's not what mattered at the time. At the time, it was cheap therapy. And that's what I needed."
"Huh. I'd like to hear it sometime, what you wrote."
"Sure. Someday. Now go get some rest before your show tonight and promise me you'll start writing tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am." He sounds more like himself now.
"Do epic."
"Do epic," he echoes quietly.
"I love you, Gus."
"I love you, too, Bright Side."
"Bye."
"Bye."